I have spent the day cleaning.  That healing kind of cleaning where when I’m done cleaning, not only is it clean, but it’s arranged in a way that is pleasing to my eye and nourishing to my soul. 

Yeah.  THAT kind of cleaning.

I have one single resolution this year: Live Better.  I like that kind of resolution.  There are lots of caveats and ways to measure it.  Maybe I’ll only Live Better if I get my mantle cleaned off.  Maybe it will take losing 75 pounds.  Maybe it will take painting the rest of the kitchen in a color I actually like.  Maybe it will take running a 5K.  Maybe it’ll be writing here more often.  Maybe it will take having more money in the end of the bank at the end of the year.  Or maybe it would just mean going through a year without major loss.  See?  Easy.  Fulfilling.  In more ways than one.

So I’m starting with the mantle.  The bookshelves.  The kitchen.  My office.  The things I see daily. 

And maybe when I find somewhere to put all those extra plates we got for Christmas (We didn’t ask for plates.  How did we end up with PLATES?  Cool plates, but still, whuh?), I’ll head to Sherwin-Williams and snag a paint chip whirlymagig thing. 

Dude.  See?  Already I am Living Better.  I just learned something!  It’s called a fan deck!  Awesome!

Resolution achieved. 

Now.  What to do for then next 361 days.  Hmmm…maybe I can Live Even Better.

I am a magnet for weird things.  Honestly.  Strange things happen to me.  Things that don’t just happen to people.  Of course, that stops with things like, I dunno, the lottery which might actually be helpful, but at least I have stories to tell.

Example:

I am bound and determined this year to get my Christmas shopping done early.  I’m tired of the crunch, I hate the crowds, and I’d like to have presents ready to go under the tree as soon as the tree goes up week after next.  Because, you know, no Christmas trees until after Thanksgiving ‘round here.  My brain would explode.  I also noticed last night that my favorite pair of jeans, the jeans I practically LIVE in, had not one, not two, but THREE holes in the crotch.  Yeah.  The last wash was apparently one too many.  So a new pair of jeans was in order before we head to Mississippi for a few days.

Two plus two equals a trip to the mall.

The G and I trekked up to the mall in town with an Apple Store (Christmas presents, I swear) and both Belk *and* Nordstrom who seem to alternate carrying my jeans of choice.  We lucked out on a fantabulous parking space.  I was hoping that was a sign that it would be a good trip:  We’d get what we came for and The G would be well-behaved.  Signs are good.  I believe in signs.

Belk was the first stop.  After chasing the right department over three different floors with no success, we made our way to the back exit of the store that dumps out smack between Nordy’s and Apple.  Along the way, I was accosted by no less than FOUR people wanting me to snort the newest Vera Wang fragrance.  Since this is the first time in *days* when my nose has been clear, I shook them all off, hurrying The G through the gauntlet of holiday displays, spritzers, makeover chairs, and people simply loitering about among some low buzz about a model search. 

As the store opened back up into the mall, I couldn’t help but notice an enormous photography backdrop setup.  Curiosity getting the best of me, I lifted my chin to try to see what was going on, the modeling buzz still floating around.  In the midst of it all stood one of my friends, a local photog who’s taken The G’s pictures before and done a bangup job, her camera slung over her shoulder.  Well, now, I can’t walk on past without at least speaking, and she wasn’t shooting, so I waltzed up to her and said hi.

The next thing I know, the two reps from the modeling agency are talking to her about my kid.  The guy, whose name I didn’t immediately catch, had her repeating lines from a Smucker’s Jelly commercial.  And then The G’s being plopped in a make-up chair and having her picture made.  And I’m handing over to buy the stinkin’ Vera Wang perfume because of the deal with Belk and this model search or whatever and legality and legitfulness and whateveromgwhatisgoingon????.

All I was thinking was, “Thank God I gave her a bath and washed her hair last night.  And at least she’s not dressed like an orphan today.”

My friend kept saying how unusual it was for the president of this company to take such interest on site and yadda yadda.  I have to admit, it was all a bit overwhelming, but The G was having a blast, hamming it up until the cameras started at which point she started doing some weird fake smile thing but, hey, fun, so I was humoring her.  As we were leaving through the folks who were now standing around watching my baby girl have her picture made, it was whispered in my ear how promising this might be. 

As we went on our merry way to the Apple Store, lunch, back to Belk to pick up a package I’d left there, and then for a stop to see Santa…again…I started thinking.  What was the name of the company?  Was it actually a legit thing?  I mean, I know my friend’s daughter’s into modeling, but was that *her* agency or was my friend just doing photos for someone else?  Dangit, I wish I didn’t keep confusing the name of that company with the name of one of the old companies on Days of Our Lives.  Why didn’t I pay more attention?  And what was with the blasted fake smile??

We got home and I hopped online.  Hi.  The agency?  One of The Big Ones.  The guy?  The President of the local affiliate of that NYC agency.  Dude.  Possible college tuition?  Also, the fake smile?  101 fever.  GEE, FUN!

Who knows.  There are no guarantees.  This guys sees *thousands* of kids like mine each year.  Even if it doesn’t pan out, at least I have a story for a few days.  But I can’t help but think about how easy it was.  How it all just *happened.*  And my ever-present belief in signs.

...it has been far too long.

My grandmother died.  There are stories there, but not for right now.  Oh, not that I’m not ready to talk about it.  She died 12 days after my last post.  We did make the trip to the music festival, my mother even tagged along.  We were standing in Battery Park in NYC when we got The Call.  Mom flew back.  She was at my grandmother’s side in plenty of time.  I got there the next day.

Aside from that, it’s been a quiet few months.  Well, as quiet as football season can ever be around these parts.  And when the mountains decide to start falling down, it makes things a little more complicated, adds a little more travel time, but c’est la vie.  The Appalachians are always slip-sliding a few rocks around.  After a while of making the trek between hither in the Carolinas and yon in Tennessee, you get used to having to detour every now and again. 

I guess the biggest developments are personal.  I’ve rededicated myself to getting this weight off, doctors be damned.  Working out harder, South Beaching more dedicatedly, adjusting my internal voices, turning out certain external ones.  And I’m trying to be more social.  Are you ready for this?  I went to a TWEETUP the other night.  And it was fun, the meeting of new people and the camaraderie that has continued over Twitter in the days since.  I’m finding that I like stepping out of my bubble every once in a while.

Now if I can just rededicate myself to housework and learning to cook.  Those will be my next major feats.  Must make life better for Hubby and The G if I’m going to start making it better for myself, right?  At least I’m starting to feel like I’m capable of doing that again.  Was dicey for a while there.

But hey.  Maybe I’m back.  Or maybe I’m getting ready for another hiatus around here.  Yet again….

How exactly does one pack when one has hopes of going to a music festival yet simultaneously expects to be going to a funeral instead?

We’re losing my grandmother.

There’s no other way to say it.  Actually, yes, there is.  We lost her a long time ago.  Dementia is a cruel fate.  It starts with forgetting to put the raisins in the fruitcake.  Then it progresses to misunderstanding intentions and forgetting basic facts.  It moves on to the inability to make rum cakes at Christmas, and eventually, in the blink of an eye, to phantom saddle bags left by nonexistent visitors.  Finally, it’s talking to long deceased love ones and suddenly not knowing how to suck through a straw.

Of course, as my brother says, the straw bit proves my grandmother is a die hard Alabama Crimson Tide fan:  Auburn fans never forget how to suck.

You know, it seems all there is lately is death.  My aunt, my husband’s grandmother, my psudo-grandfather, Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett.  My in-laws are in the hospital more than they’re out these days.  I think we recently lost a fish, even.  You live your life trying to be positive, but at every turn, it’s reality.  It’s bad news.  It’s Walter Cronkite.  It’s allergies and the immediate fear that, oh God, is The G going to get pneumonia again?  For the sixth time in a year?

There are deadlocks and deadlines.  Deadweights and more deadlines.  Dead air and dead ends and did I mention the deadlines?  Drop dead deadlines, even.  They begin with ‘dead’ for a reason. 

Death.  Death death death.  Man.

And somehow it all comes down to this.  The deadlines have passed kicking and screaming.  I’m looking at a monumental road trip to Yankee territory as my reward.  Music and Broadway.  Joan Baez and Pete Seeger.  Arlo and Judy.  Allison Janney and Bret Michaels.  And yet, The Grim Black Being still looms.

Hospice has made a guess.  It’s sooner rather than later - much so - but surprises do happen.  Surprises.  We’ve used all our miracles on this one. 

Am I selfish to say I’m sick of the death and dying that keeps interfering with my living?  And am I horrible to ask you to pray, hope, whatever you do that it will be sooner rather than later?  I think we are all silently ready for It to be Over.  My grandmother included.  It’s been a very long, very hard road.  She’s been praying for relief from this life for months.  Years even.  She never wanted to live like this. 

Our Father, who art in Heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
Please take my nana to Heaven.

I’ve started meditating.

So much has happened since the last time I visited this place.  Funerals, illnesses, food allergies, declines, good stuff, bad stuff, horrifically-embarrassing-and-yet-I-still-compulsively-tell-the-story stuff.  But that’s the news I bring to you today.  I’ve started meditating.

No, not like that.  It’s not a prayerful meditation, although I guess you could look at it as such.  It’s dryly referred to as “Clinically Standardized Meditation” and was recommended to me by my therapist.

Oh yeah, I’ve gone and gotten one of those, too. 

I’ve started meditating.

It’s a few minutes a couple of times a day, just me and my nonsense mantra quieting down my overactive, never-shuts-up, dude-there’s-a-serial-killer-in-the-next-county-and-I-swear-that’s-him-at-the-door mind.  My therapist finally recommended it after about three sessions of me coming up with more and more complex, creative, far out ways for our recent trip to London to culminate in absolute disaster and probable apocalypse.

Hi.  We had fun in London.  We didn’t die.  We didn’t even get slightly wounded.  Except for my pride, but, eh.  That’s par for the course.

I didn’t start meditating until we got back.  I should have started before we left, but there were far too many things to wring my hands and worry about to bother with trying to get my brain to shut the hell up already.  Seriously.  Somebody has to think of these worst case scenarios so somebody is prepared to deal with them.  Otherwise we are all going to die.  Don’t you see this??!!??!

Turns out, luck was on my side.  And not Michael Jackson’s, apparently.  The King of Pop is dead, long live The King.  So sad.  Tragic, really.  Shocking.  Surprising, though?  Not so much.  It happens.  And sometimes you expect it and sometimes you don’t, but when it happens, there are times when you kind of shrug and say, “Wow.  Can’t believe that happened.  But I can completely believe that it did.”

So I’ve started meditating, and you know what?  It’s better than the anesthesia that supposedly killed Michael.  I’ve only started to poke at the iceberg with a stick, but I can already feel the hardness, the stress, the tension, the worry, the on-edgedness cracking.

It’s very very nice.