Well, you have to admit – when I fail, I fail big.

I forgot about blogging somewhere between preparing for Thanksgiving dinner (which included my brining a turkey and making homemade pumpkin pie…take THAT, Martha!), four days of single-parenthood while my husband was visiting with my brother-in-law, putting up the Christmas decorations, the Ohio-State Michigan game and four nights worth of overnight guests (and I know they’re reading this, so I feel I should say that I LOVE having them here…really…*waves* *blows kisses*…I enjoy their company and it forces me to clean, so bonus) (except I didn’t get to enjoy their company because all I did was clean, so bonus negated).

There’s always next year, right?

Plus, I kind of have an addictive personality and I have been desperately trying to focus my addiction on exercise and nutrition. *gnaws kale* With the exception of a LOT of beer over the past few days, I didn’t go overboard. If you count the beer, then I went overboard and nearly drowned. The good thing is that I had enough empties to build a raft. I blame football.

Although I let my blogging slide, I still made it to the gym twice over the weekend. Excuse me while I puff up my chest. Now, excuse me while I stop puffing up my chest because it hurts my pecs too much.

And, it’s nice to have the Christmas decorating finished. We put everything up the day after Thanksgiving and it all comes down the day after Christmas. My daughter’s birthday is at the end of December, and because she gets completely cheated out of birthday presents each year, it’s the least we can do to make sure there isn’t a lit tree trying to steal her birthday cake’s thunder.

So yeah, I failed at NaBloPoMo, but I win at decorating, sore muscles and beer drinking.

Which, clearly, makes me a winner.

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I don’t have a title for this post, because this post isn’t going to say much and if it does, it will be incoherent. Fair warning.

It’s been a pretty messed-up week, with my cousin’s death, my son being bullied, the craziness of the election, and realizing that my patience and tolerance-levels have come to an abrupt halt.

One good thing is that I’ve found the need to kick and hit things, so I’ve ended up at the gym four times this week. Unfortunately I found myself in the cabinet tearing into bags of chips with more frequency, too.

I can tell you that I’ve seen a lot of changes in myself recently; some good, some bad, but all growth and possibilities and dealing with pain just makes the possibilities even better.

Through the craziness, one thing is clear; I have great friends and a wonderful family. I have fabulous readers, many of whom I’ve never met, who reached out to me to say they are here. It makes my heart hurt in so many lovely ways.

And, knowing that people are (mostly) kind? That is what gets me through to Day 9.

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A few weeks ago I found out that my cousin was very sick. We are the same age (which is to say pretty young…ahem), so it was shocking to find out that cancer had been ravaging her body and taking a silent toll. Within a very short time, we went from being ready to help her with her fight to realizing that there wasn’t a fight to be had.

This afternoon I went to say goodbye. I parked my car and took a long, heavy-footed walk through the hospital; the kind that makes you feel like the corridor is shrinking around you and all the people you pass are going about business that has no place being had when someone you love is dying.

Her ICU room was full of friends and family and we took turns stroking her hands and holding cold washcloths to her hot skin. We laughed, we told stories about her 80s hair, we cried and prayed. I looked on while my aunt told her it was okay to go.

I watched her husband take her face in his hands and kiss her forehead. Today is their 9th wedding anniversary and he made sure her wedding rings were in a bag, tucked under her hand; too swollen, now, to wear them.

Although my heart is heavy and my mind is fuzzy, I am coherent enough to realize that I was given a gift tonight. It was a privilege to be there in that room with so much love and be with her before she leaves this earth. You know how everyone always says that life is precious? It is. When you see it at its last, it’s like a big, neon, “LIFE IS PRECIOUS” sign in front of your face.

Because you aren’t likely at someone’s bedside, I am flipping on the neon sign for you. Hug your loved ones, tell your friends you love them, don’t put off anything.

Live.

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My dad had a friend named Squirrel.

Well, he wasn’t really a friend, but rather an acquaintance from the bar my dad went to after work sometimes. Squirrel was a slurring, drunk man, though probably not as much in real life as he is in my memory. In the far reaches of my mind he is the wobbly pharmacist from It’s a Wonderful Life, stumbling and spitting his words in my grandma’s kitchen one cold Christmas Eve.

I know for a fact that he stammered, because one of my cousins compared his speech to the lyrics of the Chaka Khan song playing every hour on the pop-radio station that year. Not the part where she croons, “I feeeeel for you,” but the part where Grandmaster Melle Mel raps, “Chaka, Chaka, Chaka Khan…” Squirrel could have probably been an 80’s star if he had only had the right management.

I was a young teenager when this odd, little man stood on the white, tiled floor next to the butcher block where the Christmas ham was perched. It was the same place where my grandma spent hours rolling out dough and cutting noodles by hand. She had no dishwasher, no air conditioning and no counter space, yet she never failed to have supper on the table. I have of all of those things and still don’t always make an evening meal.

But, it was never about what she didn’t have. What she did have, and what that house held, was immeasurable kindness and love. Squirrel, weaving inside the circle that my cousins and I had created around him, was there that Christmas Eve because he likely didn’t have anywhere else to go. My dad made sure that he wouldn’t be alone. Though, at the time, I saw this drunk man as uproarious entertainment, I see him now as a symbol of everything I’m proud of.

Sure, we probably handed him egg nog and rum when he didn’t really need it, but we also gave him warmth, food, and a rapt audience for his grand tales. We gave him a room to dry his boots, a place to laugh and feel part of a family, if only for an evening.

I can’t tell you what I got for Christmas that year. I don’t remember how many presents were under the tree or if my stocking was full. What I got was a fond memory and the sense that I need to give something back. I’m not talking about money, because I don’t have a lot of that. What I really want to do with my life is give people a place to dry their figurative boots.

But, first I have to get this Chaka Khan song out of my head.

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