It's St. Patrick's Day, or if you're a Rathunde kid, Uncle Patrick's Day. I'm not Irish, but I am a Rathunde, so I celebrate. I enjoyed corned beef and cabbage over the weekend, and tonight I will toast myself with an icy glass of Bailey's while I settle in to nurse my sore knee (overdid it at the gym, perhaps?) If you've a hankering for a smashing cup of Irish coffee, come on by. But don't pinch me, lest I be tempted to prove I am wearing green.
Don't Stop Believin', or really, I can dance
I wanted to curl up and go fetal at the gym last night. Ever have one of those days when your coordination seems to have up and left? That was me, last night. I looked a little cute, but I just couldn't get my body to follow the required moves. I couldn't stand to look in the mirror, because a horribly uncoordinated girl would've been looking back. I left class a little early, because I'd reached the point of diminishing returns. But I stuck around, went to Salsa/Funk, and rocked my white suburban ass. Holler.
Gone Again, or every spring I feel it
One month from today will be the five-year anniversary of Mom's death. It sucked. And every spring, I remember watching spring training baseball with her, planning to go to a game when the regular season started. Plans that never quite panned out; there were other plans, bigger plans, I suppose. So each spring as that day approaches, I think about the people who helped me survive that time. People who loved me from Oregon, Tucson and California, from Wisconsin or the far away land I know as Jacksonville. And yes, even the ex gets a wee bit of credit here; he was my rock at that time. He held me up when I really thought I was going to fall apart.
Do I still miss her? Yes, but not in the same way. I still grieve for the unanswered questions, but I am at peace knowing that I've had amazing people at my side all the way.
Golden, or has it really been 12 years?
Twelve years ago I was in New Orleans. That's right ... by a stroke of luck, St. Patrick's Day fell over Spring Break in 1997. It was my good fortune to spend this week with some of the finest people on the planet. It was their bad fortune to get Headcase Maggie for the journey. But some of the time ... most of the time ... it was awesome and nearly perfect.
We spent a few days in Memphis with Grandma Rice, during which time I had the only real argument I've ever had with Mike. I'm sure neither one of us will ever forget it, or the fact that it solidified us as brother and sister. That's when we became family. All too soon, our time in Memphis was over, and we headed for New Orleans.
It was magical. We stayed in this awesome little guest house, Mike, Rae, Andrew and I, right in the middle of the French Quarter. I was so unsure of myself back then. How sad at age 29? I doubted everything. But I had to live through it, and once the hangover subsided and my friends were still there, loving me ... it just didn't seem to matter. We explored the city. We drank hurricanes. We played catch from our balcony down to the street. We appreciated the psychedelic mime. We ate croissants and beignets and drank coffee and loved each other. One of the best weeks of my life, some of my favorite memories ever. Sometimes it feels like such a long time ago, but I can still smell the frying oil at Cafe du Monde. I can still taste the chicory. And I can still feel the love.
Unwritten, or sorry, I've got nothing more to write
It's not that life is boring, really. It's just that I don't have ten things that beg to be told this week. I figure four solid stories are better than ten that kinda blow, so I'm just gonna leave it at that. Until next time, gentle reader, this'll have to do!