Tonight I went to Kelly’s Christmas choir concert. I was harried and tired and really didn’t want to go much, save for getting to see the Spawn of my Loins belt out her croaky sicko alto voice for all to truly heart like nobody’s business and cough all barky-like for our personal enjoyments, but I went. Who could resist something like *that*?
And who could resist the insane amount of fun to be had sitting on butt-killing bleacher seats listening to high school choirs and bands attempt to murder various and sundry Christmas songs? I was all a-twitter (and I don’t mean I was Twittering, although I did manage to Facebook a note or two, my bad).
FTR, Let it be known I am not the biggest fan of Christmas, and this isn’t entirely because I am Pagan. I have many reasons to explain why I am a Grinch-incarnate, none of which I shall go into here and now, but suffice it to say, I could do without this once-a-year Bacchanalia of over-spending and mourning of the lack of presents.
Come on people. Think about it. Do “things” really matter all that much? Ask anyone who has lost a loved one which they would prefer: a Wii, a brand new Audi, or their mom/dad/child/sibling back in their arms and sitting around the kitchen table bitching about the price of eggs in China.
I rest my case.
So off to the concert I hurried. There I sat amid my redneck country neighbors. I arrived just in the nick of time for the start. The concert choir began and I found myself truly in awe of the sounds emanating from that stage. Those kids were stunning, complete with Dickens-onian caroling costumes. As a singer myself, I must say, I was impressed.
Choir after choir got up there until it was Kelly’s turn, and after listening to her for weeks on end go on and on complaining about how EVERYTHING IS GOING TO SUCK AND OMG I DON’T WANNA GO AND OMG IMMA SCREEEEEEM!!!??! I was blissfully shocked at what I heard.
It was beautiful.
It was awesome and breathtakingly beautiful.
That’s all I can say.
Her 9th grade choir sang “Carol of the Bells”, which K stressed the most over. Now, I have performed this particular song myself and can personally attest to how difficult it can be to sing, mainly because there is simply *no* place to get a breath in! But they did it like true pro’s. Afterwards everyone in the audience stood up and clapped and hooted and hollared and did their best pig “SOOOOOIIIEEEE!” calls, ’cause hey, it’s Winfield, after all.
At the end of the concert, when everyone thought it was over and a lot of people were 
(rudely) leaving and most folks were putting on their coats, they had all of the kids from the various choirs come back onstage, including the (awesome!) band kids.
Suddenly the lights were turned off and there in the darkness a lone girl began to sing “Silent Night”, holding in her hand a lit candle. As she sang (in German, no less), the light was passed to right, then to left, and shared on down the line. As each candle was set aflame, that person began to hum. Harmonies and melodies swelled, the darkness grew brighter, until each candle burned, every voice sang out (including some in the audience), and the place was Who-ville all over again, save for the Roast Beast.
This Grinch’s heart “grew three sizes” right then and there. I’m glad it was dark so no one would see the big sloppy tears spilling over from my eyes. I wanted to hold up my cell phone like a lighter at a rock concert.
For that one beautiful moment in time, everything was right with the world, and the better part of Winfield — in all our sucky glory — sat watching something special unfold before us.
Ask anyone there and they will prolly spit their tobakky out and tell you “Yup, it sure was purty, all right”. But we all know what went down there this evening and I can vouch for the fact that it was something really special.
I drove home while Kelly chatted up a storm beside me and I listened and smiled and nodded and felt all warm inside. Sometimes? Yeah. It’s good like that. Those moments don’t come along every day, ya know, so I was lapping up that “mommy/daughter sharing time” like it was mother’s milk laced with Jameson whiskey. Heh.
All in all, it was a wonderful evening, to say the least.
But tonight is Solstice, Yule — the shortest day and the longest night, the promise of growing light and sweet springtime ahead. It is “Mid-Winter” ~ not The First Day of Winter. It is *our* night of celebration and joy. The Holly King has been vanquished, and the Oak King is victorious. And just for tonight? I realize I am happy.
The Light is returning, in so many ways.
Blessed Be.
…if you have 8 minutes to spare and watch, there is also an explanation of our Yule celebration — don’t miss reading this person’s wonderful thoughts on “why we just all need to get along”
******************
Silent night, Solstice Night
All is calm, all is bright
Nature slumbers in forest and glen
Till in Springtime She wakens again
Sleeping spirits grow strong!
Sleeping spirits grow strong!
Silent night, Solstice night
Silver moon shining bright
Snowfall blankets the slumbering Earth
Yule fires welcome the Sun’s rebirth
Hark, the Light is reborn!
Hark, the Light is reborn!
Silent night, Solstice night
Quiet rest till the Light
Turning ever the rolling Wheel
Brings the Winter to comfort and heal
Rest your spirit in peace!
Rest your spirit in peace!
She came out of the bathroom tonight in a fit, claiming there was someone who had grabbed hold of her hair while she was in there. In the tiny bathroom. With the locked door. With no window.
“Someone” grabbed her hair, she insisted, and was sure of it. She was scared to death.
Now she says she won’t go back in there. To the bathroom.
“Are you going to pee in the yard now?” I said, half joking, half meaning, mostly encouraging her to do as mommy does when the water gets cut off. Worry seems to be my constant state these days, but I was attempting to make light of it all and talk her down from her scary horse.
“NOOOO!” she screams. “Of course not! But there was someone in there, I know it!!”
I look at her with her brown eyes rimmed with the messy eyeliner she didn’t exactly clean off entirely during her shower and she is sitting there on the couch with dripping wet hair and clasping her face in her hands and I know that she truly believes whatever she thought just happened? Just happened.
“I’m going CRAZY!” she insists. She buries her face again in her hand again, massaging her brow.
I try to reassure her but all I can think about is how she couldn’t sleep that one time not long ago when she thought the tree outside might break through her window and “get her” and how she stayed awake all night and wouldn’t venture to even wake me up to tell me she was scared.
I want to hold her but I remember how she can’t stand being touched (at least not by me, anyways) and I am left feeling helpless and I don’t know what to do. Every fiber of my being wants to scoop her up and embrace her, but I know she would only freak out if I did.
So I tell her everything is gonna be ok, and I do that lame-ass thing I always do when I just can’t cope anymore:
I walk away.
Bad Mom Me, I walk away.
Then I wait. I wait until I know she is sleeping out in the living room on the recliner which is where she wants to be right now as for some reason she feels ok there and I tiptoe out and sit next to her.
I touch her hair, her hand, her leg, being ever so careful not to disturb her hard-won slumber and awaken her demons.
I smile. She looks so small, so precious, like my little baby I once squeezed out of my body.
And she looks so…
Normal
She looks like any other 14 yo girl asleep in anyone’s Mid-Western small-town living room.
And therein lies the pain.
Ah well.
Who needs “normal” anyway?
Little Miss Shay
Some of you may remember that way back in July we acquired our sweeeeet lil’ black Lab, Mz Shayneequa (as Kelly dubbed her, but we just calls her “Shay”).
She was small and cute and ever so precious and she coyed us into bringing her home and allowing her access to our body parts and bathroom flooring.
We were so naive back then. Tsk tsk. Such fools we were.
Little did we know.
It wasn’t that we weren’t aware she would get bigger…and larger…and bigger (did I say “bigger”? I meant HUGE!). But I don’t think that in a million years any of us fully grasped the possibility that she just might suddenly morph one day into a Vorpal Puppy, capable of horrors no one could have fathomed.
So imagine my shock when I stumbled into the loo this morning and beheld THIS lovely sight…
'dis the corner of my bathroom, sans most of its linoleum
It looked as though some primal beast had been locked in there for days with only its instincts and a seriously sharp set of teeth to help it to escape to the safety of the Front Yard Where The Pit Bulls Taunt And Roam Free.
I was aghast.
Wait, that’s not quite the word for it.
It’s more like,
“HOLY CRAP! THE DOG IS EATING MY BATHROOM AND EVERYTHING IN IT!!!!!!! WTF?!1!!?”
I do believe that accurately describes my reaction, pretty much. And I do think I reacted rather tamely, FTR. Considering that the ex had just awoken me at the craptastic hour of 5:30 am to beg me to come get him and take him to work as his car would not start in the single-digit cold, well then, yeah ~ I was being pretty tame when I kicked some Vorpal doggie butt out into the dark frigid morning and proceeded to scold the beloved hell outta that bitch (hey, I can say that, because she is, after all…a female dog, right?).
I was decidedly Not. Amused.
The anger in me only proceeded to grow when I noticed the chewed-up door bottom…
damn...it's not like we don't feed her! WTF?
…aaaaaaaandddd….
….the chewed-up vanity……
Yeah.
Nice.
Oh well. I never liked that vanity or that flooring or that door much anyway.
::sigh::
MRRREEEEPP!!! MREEEEP!!! MREEEEEEEP!!!! RUN!!!!!
Dammit, you cannot have her, you dark light, and no *capitals* for you, lest I name you, you evil thing, and allow you to breathe in any more of my life force than I have already let you inhale!
So I tell you this with the utmost of venom: She is mine. MINE, I say! And you had best look elsewhere to feed.
Take note… there is nothing for you here. You, with your madness and your black cloak, all poised to steal her away from her beautiful self. How dare you. How DARE you! Don’t you know that she is loved and wanted and perfect and sacred and how in the hell did you ever think you could take her away from me, hmmm?
But somehow you managed to do it. Somehow. You managed to do it.
You insidious bitch.
Move along now, then. This Mother Tiger stands careful watch over her youngest, and I warn you she has claws, the pain of which you do NOT want to experience.
(Trust me. You don’t. I promise.)
Just let my girl be, can you??? Can’t you just put her back in the original upright position and back on that very normal teenage merry-go-round we all once rode so everything will be OK? Can you do that for me? Please? PLEASE??!?
Because this mental illness shit is just too much. I can’t deal with it. I’m scared and worried and terrified and overwhelmed and dealing with my own demons in the meantime, so yeah…
LEAVE HER ALONE! I say! LET HER BE!!!
Find some other helpless soul to devour.
Find someone else to haunt, to taunt, to eat up from the inside and make her spew her venom over those who love her without any thought to all the hurt it causes each and every one of us when it happens.
Find someone else. Please. Find another kid who isn’t mine. I am begging you. I am in tears. I am pleading. I can’t do this! I just can’t…do…this. Please don’t make me do this. I am so afraid. So lost.
Does that make me a bad person? Does it? Perhaps it does. But in the cold early morning after a night of blood-letting I just want it all to stop and go away and I want to wake up happy for once. Is that too much to ask?
So you? Possible Schizophrenia? You can go away now. Probable Bi-Polar? I am SOOOOO totally *done* with you!! Definite Anxiety Disorder? Well, we are old buds (“Hey, ASS!”), but your time with me is up now, so mkay — “Buh-Bye!!”
I am tired. So tired.
All the days and weeks and months and years of this shit get jumbled up together in my head and they all land in the tarry morass of the fact that, in the end? It just might *not* be all ok. And that’s scary in so many ways I would really rather not imagine.
I am coming to the slow, sinking realization that there just might be no “fixing” of Kelly.
There is only acceptance and measured coping ~ the first of many steps on that very long Yellow Brick Road as we tip-toe through the poppies in The Dance Where We Try To Get Her Meds Right.
I wanna go home where it’s warm and safe and fuzzy.
But my ruby slippers seem to be broken.
What a wonderful Caturday evening I got to spend playing guitar with an old friend whilst seriously boring his wife and getting to meet his beautiful family!
Life is good. It truly is.
And here is a crappy caricature to prove it…
Oh, and Rex? You’re welcome for me giving you long hair again ::wink::
L to R: Bren, Kelly, Joshua, Me (notice how cute I made myself!, cuz yeah, I ain't nowhere that darling!), Rex, Rex's wife C, and their daughter J (who is way more pretty than I could *possibly* sketch!)
When I was a teenager I used to get THE most HORRIBLE period cramps (I know, I
for those of you who do not know, these boxes were the size of the Empire State building, I kid you not ~ and the pads weren't much smaller and they had to be worn with an elastic belt....good times...good times...
know…TMI right there in the first sentence…you’re welcome). It was so bad I would be doubled over in pain and suffering every month from the time I was 12, even to the point of vomiting my lunchtime baloney sandwiches at school. My mother never understood this, as apparently she had never experienced a single cramp in her entire life and she believed that I was being over-dramatic (what? me? no way!).
This is why I am firmly convinced my mother is an alien – I mean, come on! woman! NO cramps ever? You are surely not a mammal from this particular planet.
Anyhoo, one morning found me hurling in the bathroom during that tortuous first day of the Monthly Gift Which You Can’t Return. I hadn’t had the time to close the door before puking my guts out, so my mom had the lovely sight of me blowing chunks in her red velvet wallpapered brothel-esque bathroom with the fluffy white towels hanging up which no one was ever allowed to touch. She looked at me in disgust, not so much because I was puking, but because I just might mess up her perfect bathroom.
“Aw Gawd!” she growled, puffing frantically on a her cigarette (which made me wanna puke even more). “What’s wrong with *you*??”
Gee, mom. Thanks for the sympathy for your only child.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just pregnant” Even though it wasn’t true, that’s what I *wanted* to say, just to spite her and make her spit nasties of her own, but I knew that wouldn’t go ever well…much. ::snort::
So I said, “Mom! I’m sick! I got my period and I don’t feel good!! Pleeeeeeeassse can I stay home and go back to bed??!!?? I feel awful.” <<<<<insert more retching here>>>>>>
She sighed the sigh that only a harried mom trying to get out of the house for work and having to deal with an exasperating child could sigh. “No way. You are GOING to school! Just take one of my painkillers and you’ll be fine. They’re on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet on the left. Little yellow pills. Now quit your complaining and get. to.school!!”
And in a cloud of smoke, she hurried out the door. I was left with no other choice but to clean myself up, brush my teeth, and get it together. Because gifted kids are never supposed to get sick, let alone *ever* have silly periods that make them barf, right?
Dutifully, I opened the vanity chest, and there to the left – just like mom said – were two medicine bottles. I grabbed the first one I came to and opened it up. Yuppers, “little yellow pills” all right. Super. I had no idea what I was supposed to be downing, but “mommy said so” was enough for me and I had hopes I would be feeling fine in no time.
So I took one. And just to be sure, I took another one.
Then I got dressed, padded myself up, stocked my purse, grabbed my books, and drove myself to school (In retrospect? That is the scariest part of all!).
As I was driving I started to feel woozy and time seemed to slow waaaaayyy down. I figured it was the combined result of regurgitating my breakfast and feeling generally lousy all over. Par for the course once a month for me, back in those days. But I pushed through it, and when I got to school I put my stuff in my locker and went to class like a good little girl.
Ten minutes into Sr. Mary Luke’s American History college credit class I felt the room spinning and everything started to look like they do in fun-house mirrors. I tried to focus my eyes but I couldn’t, and the next thing I knew I was face down on my desk with a bloody nose and Sister in her penguin outfit standing over me asking the same damn thing my mom had gruffly asked me earlier that morning, only without the cigarette:
“What’s WRONG with YOU???!!!” I am very sure she held a ruler over my head as she said that.
“Huh???” I looked up. I couldn’t see too well and there was blood trickling down my face. So the good lady did what any nun would do ~ she admonished me for fainting in her class and sent me off alone to find my way to the nurse’s office.
When I got there I told the nurse what had happened and she had me go lie down. Several hours later I woke up feeling a whole lot better and a bit on the giddy side. I remember moving in and out of consciousness, but I also remember that damn! I sure didn’t have any more cramps, and I was definitely ok with that, even though my nose hurt. Ouch.
Around 1pm they finally got a hold of my mom at work (oh, the days before cell phones!). She asked me what in the HELL was going on and I told her how I had done just what she said, and took those “little yellow pills” as she had directed me too, but then I didn’t feel so well and passed out in class for some reason. I had no idea why, and see, Mom? I TOLD you I was sick!!!!
On the other end of the phone I could both feel and hear the gathering panic of a mother who was quickly realizing exactly what had occurred.
“Which pills did you take?” she sputtered.
“The little yellow ones, Mom, just like you said!” I’m sure I was shhlllurrrring my words.
“*Which* yellow ones?????”
“I don’t know Mom, the little ones. In the bottle on the top on the left.”
“Where they round like an ‘M&M’?” I could tell she was starting to freak out.
“No! They were funny-shaped and they had a ‘V’ on them!” I whined.
“How many did you take???”
“Two. Why?” At that point, I just wanted that day to be OVER already! Couldn’t she see that??!!??
:: very. long. pause ::
“Put the nurse on the phone!” she demanded.
A couple more hours later I woke up, not even realizing I had fallen back to sleep, and the nurse directed me to get my things and leave as it was 3:30pm.
Back to my locker I went, grabbed the books I hadn’t touched all day, put on my jacket and drove myself home ::shudder::
When I got there my mom was waiting, and I seriously thought I was in a bundle of trouble, for whatever reason. She was standing in the kitchen, looking at me all seriously like, with two pill bottles in her hands. I was still unsteady from the day’s events and really wanting to go my room and snooze some more, but she had other ideas.
In one of the sweetest, un-angry mother voices I have ever heard her use, she sat me down at the table and poured out the contents of the two medicine bottles from the upstairs cabinet. I looked at both, and realized *each* contained “little yellow pills”, but with a very big difference.
“This” she said, as she held up a happy yellow candy-shaped pill, “Is what you *should* have taken. These are Advil, a painkiller.” (FYI in those days Advil was a prescription drug.)
She went on.
“This is what you *did* take. This is Valium, and you are lucky you didn’t kill yourself driving.”
I looked at her and she looked at me and I could tell she just couldn’t kick herself any more than she already was for being so hasty and vague about exactly *which* pill I was supposed to ingesting.
Slowly it dawned on me what I had done. We looked at each other and then we laughed. We laughed a lot, but I was probably laughing more because hey, I was on drugs!! Woooo-hooooo!!!
She hugged me, and sent me up to snooze it off some more. Later she made dinner, and didn’t bitch once about having to fix rice for me instead of potatoes, and steamed broccoli just the way I liked. After that day, she never, ever, EVER gave me shit over my awful period cramps again.
And the next month when I puked, she even held my hair. Afterward, she put the Advil *right* in my hand, kissed my head, and sent me off to school again.
Because gifted kids? Yeah…
But I appreciated the thought 
Redemption is a beautiful thing, but it does have its drawbacks; it does something to a girl. It makes her want to send emails and chat with old friends on Facebook. It makes same said chick wanna pick up her rotary cell phone and make calls to alla way in the past just so she can hear the sound of certain familiar 15-year-old voices again. It drives her crazy, and as we all know, it’s a *very* short trip into that celebrated “Wilderness of Nutty Old Ladies With Way Too Many Cats.”
Damn you, Redemption! Damn you. Moon was crazy enough already. Why did you hafta intervene in her perfect little flood-ridden, redneck-infested Old Monroe life with alla your cute pictures and hair band photos? Why, oh why??
But you did. And by doing so, you took this lil’ Moon and turned her upside-down and inside-out with the silliness and wonder of a collective past and dumped her right in the middle that freshman hallway with all those ancient, hot, sticky feelings she thought she had safely quarantined in her heart. It really threw her for a loop. She could barely find her way into work some mornings. The incessant 70’s music playing on her inner jukebox and visions of flowing feathered locks dancing in her head were quite distracting, I tell ya’.
::sigh::
Anyhoo, after the initial amazement of it all settled down, Rex (not his real name) suggested that mebbe he and I should meet up for old times’ sake, as friends, of course.
Queue freak out on my part, and here’s why: While I sooooooo very much wanted to see Rex again, I was petrified at the thought of him beholding my saggy 
40-something body in all its sucky glory when I knew he still had an image of me in his head from way back when I was a blonde (ewww) and still wore a size 1 — especially since I discovered he is “A Gym Guy” and pretty much rocks his middle-aged bad-ass self, judging from the pictures he posted on Facebook…not that I looked, or stared, or drooled, or anything like that…I’m jes’ sayin’.
Add to that the Broadway thingie and you can see why I was intimidated! Wait, what? You didn’t know that Rex was a Broadway star too? ::shakes head:: Yuppers, the man is amazing.
So I did what I do best. I panicked. I hemmed. I hawed. I wrote bad checks to The Universe in an attempt to purchase my old body back, alas, to no avail.
Seems they don’t let you do that. Who knew?
Meanwhile he and I chatted a bit on the phone, exchanged a couple emails, and I got more comfortable with the whole idea of coming face to face with a whole lotta baggage (I’ve always had very scary ugly plaid luggage). We spoke to our respective spouses, got our permission slips, and despite my self-conscious protestations, curiosity prevailed. We agreed to meet up for coffee, a bagel, a bowl of borscht, a rousing game of Mah Jong, mini-golf…*anything*, basically, just to get together again and mutually see if we both still existed for real and all that.
So one fine evening Rex drove up to meet me at my job after I got off work.
Can we say, “Moon had a very very loooong and apprehensive day?” If any of you has ever been 14 years old before and about to meet up with your past, I’m sure you would feel the same way – take bets, even, on whether he would show up or not. And jes’ so ya know? Thanks for the support, bitches, srsly! ::wink::
When at 6 pm that evening Rex phoned to say he was waiting for me outside, I shrieked like a groupie at a rock concert and proceeded to tell my blinking co-worker what I was about to do. I didn’t wait for a response. I figured it was now or never, took a deep breath, tousled my red curly hair, applied no make-up whatsoever (save for a few stray sparkles, of course…*all* Goddesses sparkle, doncha know?), threw on my black leather jacket and ambled out with the jauntiest of airs into what, I did not know.
My suspense was short-lived, happily.
There was Rex, standing against his black Night Rider car in the mid-November moonlight in his skinny jeans and button-down blue shirt looking not one second older than the last time I had seen him and yeah, a whole lot cuter even (as if that were possible). It was “Sooner or Later” all over again. I resisted the urge to drop my bags and run over to him, but I was cool, like “Hi there! Wassup?!”. I smiled the goofiest grin I could muster up, then reached up to hug him as thirty years melted away into a big gooey puddle right there on my employer’s parking lot.
What a moment. I will never forget it. The weird thing is that for a split second I thought I saw my 14yo self watching me from behind the bushes like a stalker.
Screw her! I thought. It’s Moon’s turn now, and YOU, Little Girl, are waaaay too young to be hanging out with a 45yo man, even if he *is* Rex, so go away child!
::snort::
Anyhoo, Rex and I decided it might be fun to go to Dave & Buster’s, which is a place kinda like
our paltry haul of 24 tickets
ChuckE-Cheese for grown-ups, but with better food, and oh, beer! Yummy. We sat, we chatted, we talked each other’s ears off (ok *I* talked *his* ear off) and then we went to play games…very badly it would seem, because 24 tickets is all we could manage to amass.
There was Skee-Ball (’cause this is what old people do in their free time, apparently), and Rex shot some hoops after we scared off the kids who were attempting to impress their girlfriends (hey, it’s fun to frighten children…I excel at it).
Then there was the fun-ass snow-rider-thingy that blew cold air into my face in a feeble attempt to make me feel like I was riding an *actual* snow-rider-thingy where the seat vibrated and got me all hot and bothered like crazy (no comments from The Peanut Gallery, please…I’m sure you KNOW what I mean, so let’s not go there, mkay?).
Later we drove collective video-game Ferraris, during which time it was agreed neither one of us should never be allowed to drive *actual* Ferraris, yo? and made a pact with fist bumps.
We laughed. We laughed some more. We laughed so much virtual milk came out our virtual teenage noses. And smiling? Was definitely part of the evening. And laughing. Did I mention laughing?
After a while we realized it was getting late, so we decided it was time to venture into the Dave & Buster’s “store” to see just what we could buy with our measly, but hard-won, pathetic tickets.
Apparently? There was nothing we could afford there…
We couldn’t get these pretty pink kitty wallets – not that we wanted them, but I couldn’t help thinking about Joshua and his Hello Kitty fetish and how much he truly needs a new billfold, and hmmm, wouldn’t he LOVE one of these…dear man that he is.
Then there were the giant gummy bears we also couldn’t afford…
who NEEDS this much gelatin? honestly!
- Nor these…because everyone needs Dave & Buster shorts, right?
Ah well. We had set our sights low anyway and were about to leave empty-handed, but happy, when the dear little hot blonde girl at the counter took pity on the pair of us amid the squealing throngs of ‘tweens and twenty-somethings who were doing just as much goofing off as we were, but with a lot less grey hair.
“Psst! Here! Now you have 50 tickets!”, she said, as she giggled and worked her magick on The Ticket Machine.
Sweet!
One problem — 50 tix wouldn’t buy us much either. The only thing we found we could get was this…
Behold "The Kazoo of Destiny"...hermetically sealed for your protection, of course
How awesome, I thought. I NEEDED a kazoo!
The Gods had spoken, and so we left with our prize. We walked out to his Night Rider car and with a click of his magick clicky thing the doors flung open, we got in, and he returned me to my awaiting Fabulous Petey back at work.
When we got there, I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want that night to end, but I knew that, alas, it must. We hugged, chatted, and made tentative plans to get together to play guitar.
Could Moon’s life have BEEN any more awesome at that moment? Nopers…it couldn’t. Getting back together with an old friend AND getting to play guitar with him in the near future? Yes. It was all groovy and tingly like that.
As I drove away I caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of 14yo brown eyes with waaaay too much blue eye shadow glaring at me from the back seat like Basement Cat from, well, the basement. She had short blonde hair, shiny braces, and I couldn’t help noticing the scent of Love’s Baby Soft permeating the car.
“So!” she said, smacking her Freedent gum and cocking her head at me all jealous like. “Didja kiss him? Didja KISS him?? Hmmm?? Because, hey now, you KNOW he is MINE!!”
“Aw girl, settle down,” I said in a soothing tone, even though my voice was trembling. “It’s ok! Nothing happened! Hey, why don’t you come sit up front with me, wouldja? And we’ll work this stuff out. No need to argue. I’ve missed you, hon!”
At that, she scrambled right over the top of the front bucket seats as I motored up Hwy 79 and she buckled herself in next to me for the ride. I looked over at that little girl I used to be as she flashed her metal smile back, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the beauty and absurdity of everything as we talked all the way home.
Life is strange like that. And we are all just teenagers inside.
You see, All These Things make us who we truly are, and they will never be erased or forgotten no matter how many years have passed. Nor should they be.
And it truly *is*? All Good.
Happy Thanksgiving, Rex. You rock. Thank you.
The End
It’s been a long day. But I can’t wait to share. She is…beautiful and nothing more needs be said…
Happy, joyous, and free….
Ah Facebook. How do I lurves thee? Let me count the ways. For so long I resisted your wiles, as you cooed and courted me to hop on that giddy hayride. Was it the promise of marshmallows by the campfire or the fact that just about everyone I know had been enticing me to join like a drug pusher in a schoolyard?
“OH COME ON! Join! You’ll LOVE it!!!!! We can be friends!! It’s FUN!”
As I have discovered, resistance to this is, apparently, futile, and so one particularly dreary evening I found myself sitting in front of the glow of my trusty Franken-Laptop and creating a Facebook profile. These things are very exacting, so I made sure to do it correctly:
Let’s see….Goofy picture albums with obligatory kids pix and the cute puppy dog?
Check.
Clever “About Me” blurb?
Check.
Got some friends on board who actually know me IRL?
Check.
Silly nonsense updates that are guaranteed to make all both of my friends LOL?
Check.
Kewl. Good to go. And with that, Da Moon had gone like sheeple to the slaughter of the last failing remnants 0f her proud analog self. Time to sit back and watch the friend requests proceed to roll on in. Right?
Uhm, yeah. That didn’t happen. The silence was deafening. But Analog Girl piped up with better ideas. Before long, she was busy dialing that Rotary Cell Phone of the Universe (no, this really exists…really!), searching for various and sundry long-lost peeps just to see if they even existed anymore and, hey, could she give ‘em a wassup????
She was on a mission. It was shocking. In a frenetic tizzy she typed in the name of every single person from her MIA past she could think of, including the little boy she had a crush on in second grade (who ended up friending her back, BTW). She dialed up her high school boyfriend/s, her BFF from way back when, some “gifed” *sic* kids she hadn’t been able to find when they had their 25th year reunion, and few bloggy celebs she had never met.
And then? She got in her head to dial up Rex (not his real name).
Type-ity-type-clicky and there he was blinking back at her across thirty years of time, his hair a bit shorter but his eyes a bit wiser with a beautiful family and a lifetime of experience in tow. Analog Girl pondered the wisdom of hitting that “friend” button, but she did it anyway. She’s kind of a rebel like that.
A few days later she received a reply back. Surprised beyond all belief, Analog Girl responded with another email. Several chatty exchanges and catching up ensued. It was all so sweet, and she would be lying if Analog Girl said she wasn’t more than mildly thrilled and turning into 14yo mush at the thought of it all. Dairy Queen parking lot make out sessions are difficult to forget, it seems. She nearly got a nose-bleed from that most serious rift in the space/time continuum.
Some mornings later, a very sleepy Analog Girl allowed Digital Moon to take over, and she opened up her cell phone email first thing after opening her crusty eyes to find these precious, long-awaited words from Rex:
“I have remembered the crappy way I handled the situation…it remains with me as one of those awkward learning experiences.
I am sorry.“
Right then and there the wound Adolescent Moon had let fester in her heart was bound up, healed, and made all better with those three words - “I.Am.Sorry”. The tears she had cried for something which had happened so long ago, but which was still so fresh in her soul even after thirty years…were dried at last. She didn’t even know how heavy the burden was until the day she lay down that teenage baggage. Weird how these things happen. ::sigh::
Analog Girl? Definitely knows what she is doing sometimes. Digital Moon? Should trust *her* more often. (((((Analog Girl)))))
Next up: 30 years later and a crappy kazoo (part VI, but hopefully not the final chapter 
ever…)
So, everything was going well with Rex and me. We were smooching, we were fondling…we were doing things I would seriously whack my son upside the head if I found out he had done such things…and all was right in the world.
And then…
I dropped “The L Bomb”. 
I nibbled his ear, groped places I shouldn’t have, looked fondly into his eyes and said:
“Oh Rex..I *love* you!!!…
….with all the longing and angst and romance my jail-bait self could muster.
And he? Said nothing.
::Tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet::
Can’t you just *hear* those crickets?
“I…I…I…gotta go to the bathroom,” he said, with the look of a deer caught in the headlights, and he abruptly pushed me away. I stood up to let him leave, bewildered over what had just occurred. Apparently in those days I was just too blind to recognize a *major* teenage faux-pas when I saw one. Or had committed one. And committed one? I definitely had done that.
Gahh…
My girlfriends who had gone to the dance “stag” as a group came over to console me. Together we sat holding hands and commiserating over *stupid boys!*. Rex kept himself scarce after that, and I was left to sit it out with my home girls until it was time to leave.
I don’t remember whether he gave me a kiss, or even a hug goodnight. I really don’t. I *do*, however, remember my hot face when I tried to say goodbye but he wouldn’t turn around to even look at me. We walked out, climbed into our respective parents’ cars and that was it.
When I got into my mom’s VW she was all like, “Hey! Did you have good time!??” I wanted to scream at her about how pissed I was, but I wasn’t about to engage in conversation right then and there, what with her looking at me all happy and proud-like over my first date completion. So meekly I muttered, “Yeah….”
Heh. If only she knew.
The streetlights streamed by as they had on the way there, only in reverse. I stared at my wrist corsage, sniffed the heady scent of the carnations, bit my lip, and muttered some patronizing thoughts and redundancies to appease my beaming mother. It’s not like I was gonna say, “Oh yeah Ma! We had a real great time feelin’ each other up and examining mutual uvulas!”
Knowing my mom? I don’t think she would have been pleased. Not in the least, as I am completely certain she and The Virgin Mary were in cahoots together.
Once I got home I ran inside, dashed upstairs, washed my face, turned on the local Top 40 station, put on my headgear and cried myself to sleep. I was sure I had just effed up everything in my life simply by being in love.
A looooong Sunday followed. Really long. A really, REALLY long Sunday…
Monday came. Heretofore ever to be known as “Awkward Monday”. It was like the virginal teenage version of “Hey, I went home with you last night, but for the LIFE of me I can’t remember your name!?!”
All together now: “AWKWARD!!!”
I spotted Rex (not his real name) in the hallway early that Monday morning. Just the thought of his kisses not two nights before and the scent of his Old Spice cologne had me all in a tizzy, and more than a little freaked out about how to approach him in real life. I didn’t know what to say; I’m guessing neither did he. I was mad, hurt, lost, confused, terrified and embarrassed all in one fell swoop, but what else could I do?
I knelt down by my art locker, which just happened to be next to his. I looked at him with with giant doe eyes brimming with tears, about to say The “L” word again, and then he looked at me and said something I will never forget…
“Just leave me alone.”
That’s when I heard my heart get run over by a semi right then and there on Eichelberger Street.
Rex shook his pretty feathered hair, got up, and walked away down that freshman hallway and out of my life. I stumbled away in tears to my next class. I went on to hold that dagger to my psyche and let that wound fester there for longer than I would ever care to admit.
Eventually I found another boyfriend, and then another one, and then another, and another. I grew up, got married, had a family, and spent a lot of years discovering “Who I Really Am.”
Rex and I met up again several years later when we were both nutty 20-somethings. He was playing in a band at a party I was at and I was chasing after some other guy. It was a weird night. I wore a leather miniskirt and he sported a guitar and a couple of groupies. We mutually snubbed one another, I think. I might have snubbed him *first*, just to get back, but I am pretty sure he barely knew I was there. Suffice it to say it was all about as awkward as that original Monday, only on a Saturday and with bigger hair.
Anyhoo…
Thirty years passed.
*Thirty years*
Then?
Enter Facebook.
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