The universal truth of blogging is that nothing interesting will happen for wayyyyyy toooo lonnnnnng, and then too many interesting things will happen to easily fit into one post. So saddle up, internet, and away we go.

I saw my dad’s ghost at a concert last Wednesday evening.

MITIGATING FACTORS:

–It was twilight.

–The cover band was jamming ‘80’s B track, using a cello and violin in lieu of traditional synthesizer, so everything would be familiar and then careen wildly into something unusual. Like one of those weird dreams where everything from your childhood is slightly fucked up, but in an interesting way.

–While staunchly rejecting my ‘80’s childhood imaginings of what I’d be like in middle age on the levels of 1) big hair 2) shoulder pads and 3) white jumpsuits, I must admit that I have FULLY EMBRACED the glory of white wine spritzers. Television taught me this was a drink made up primarily as a vehicle for SNL to mock middle aged ladies. But I made one as a joke in June and it is now my go-to drink. I fear I’m one step away from Reunite on Ice*. At the park, I’d had a spritzer. MOOD:

*I had a babysitter who faithfully watched The Young & The Restless every afternoon, and would let me watch instead of making me do my homework on the condition I promise not to mention we were both slacking off. We both got busted when I thoughtlessly belted out the Reunite song at dinner and Mom asked me where I’d heard it.

Ref:

Shortly after, we had a new babysitter and  I never found out if Nikki and Victor worked it out. Sad outcome for everyone! I spent most of my childhood fairly sure Reunite was a technical prerequisite to sex and entirely sure that if I didn’t have ice in my wine, I would never achieve true adulthood. And if you think that’s horrible, let me also tell you my mom used to put TAB in my baby bottle lonnnnnngggg after I could drink out of a cup (but prior to my Y & R watching days), and I would shake the bottle and let carbonated saccharine spray out of a rubber nipple into my gullet as I watched Scooby Doo. Enjoy!

AND NOW BACK TO THE STORY.

On my way to the bathrooms, sidestepping picnickers in the twilight and happily buzzing with familiar music and good weather and a bit of alcohol, I saw him. He was walking away in that no-nonsense, got-somewhere-to-be way he always had.

I knew it couldn’t be, but it also seemed entirely possible it was him. The best I can explain is that feeling when you have lost a child in a crowd. In the moment they reappear, you are so relieved you can breathe again. And then the shock of fear/anger when realize what you almost lost. Like DON’T YOU EVER SCARE ME LIKE THAT AGAIN.

I followed him for maybe fifteen seconds. Instead of suddenly realizing it wasn’t him, the dad-ness kind of faded away, the kilter of his body Keyser Soze-ing until it was just some old fart walking away from me.

Keyser Soze-ing reference link (because the dillweed who put up this video won’t let me embed) and obvious spoilers for THE USUAL SUSPECTS, but come on, it’s been like ten years.

Below the edge of his baseball cap, the inch of wispy auburn hair showing changed to thick salt-n-pepper a redhead like my father could never grow, and I knew it wasn’t him. Or at least, it wasn’t him anymore.

Anyway, the whole thing took maybe 20 seconds.

Yosemite

Middle did the straight up coolest thing and invited my family to Yosemite this weekend. She did all the work: reserved the campground back in March (that thing where you perch at your computer, waiting in line at a chance for a campsite, and they are sold out in ten minutes, so do your best, sucka), planned, purchased and made all the food for both our families, and basically told us to show up and enjoy.

Middle also invited our mom to go with us, but my mother got sick and cancelled. Middle’s husband woke up the morning of the trip not feeling great, and Middle was like, “Tough. Get in the car. We’re going.”

By the first evening, both her husband and one of her children were running a fever. We were all supposed to stay until Sunday morning, but by Saturday afternoon, they’d decided to go home early, leaving us alone. I think Middle was mortified, as though her big plans to host a vacation had been ruined.

But here’s the thing: Especially when you have young kids, doing anything extra can overextend you into catastrophic collapse in a hot minute. I suspect that on some biological level, small children and exhausted husbands note your higher than normal levels of energy and are all, “I gotta suck up that surplus while it’s available, because if Mom starts caring about one more thing, I will have one more thing competing with my future resources.”

Being even more snarky, I’d say kids go out of their way to punish you for taking on new responsibility. They (probably) can’t control wonky gut bacteria that makes them spike a fever and puke their lower intestines out on your hiking boots, nor would they want to if they could. But I am saying maybe on some humanly subconscious level, the microbes that live in your intestines and control you like the Illuminati controls the media are all, “DANGER LEVEL 5: Mom’s got extra energy and she’s diverting it away from us. MAN THE TORPEDOES. REGAIN ALL HER ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY.”

But that’s what made the whole thing so beautiful and awe inspiring. Middle’s no dummy. I know she must’ve known the risks of planning, catering, and hosting a weekend. I bet she, too,  harbors secret suspicions on the parasitic nature of small children and sometimes husbands.  She did it anyway. On top of all the daily stresses of her life she was all, FUCKIT, I’M GONNA SHOW THESE PEOPLE A GOOD TIME.

I was so filled with pride for her. She gave us this amazing gift and showed us this legit wonder of the natural world, bought with fevers and stress, and paid by her joy of living her best life.

Yosemite was completely amazing: waterfalls were running in August, everything was green and beautiful (see August: WTF?) and the weather was 70’s perfect and breezy (WTF, maybe I’m belaboring this, but August in California probably should’ve been a Dante reference point for levels of Hell. Instead, it was PERFECT).

Also, crowded like Disneyland:

On our last morning, we hiked to Mirror Lake.

On our way back to camp, we saw bears! An adult and two cubs. Not more than fifteen feet away, crossing the path. Here is some very bad video. The shadowy movement mid-right hand side of the screen at the very beginning is a cub walking along a log. I don’t know why the video is so short; it felt like I was filming for at least five years.

Mom

As mentioned, Middle invited Mom to come as well, but my mother got sick. Which is to say, she called me a day ahead of the trip and said,

“So I knew my ear was giving me trouble because when I woke up, it stuck to the pillow. But I didn’t really feel pain, and I never run a fever, and I hardly look in a mirror, so I didn’t really think about it. But you know, I was sleeping a lot. That should’ve been my clue. Anyway, I went out to lunch with Middle yesterday, and mentioned it, and Middle took a look and insisted I go directly to the doctors. When I told her it wasn’t bad, she made me look at my ear *embarrassed laughter* Have you ever seen when boxers get cauliflower ear? Well my ear is completely deformed, and the side of my face swollen up. I really look terrible.The doctor took me in that afternoon. She said, ‘why did you finally decide to come see me?’ and I said, ‘my daughter insisted.’ And the doctor said, ‘well, let your daughter make decisions about your ear, and if she says to come back, you come back!’”

I really don’t know what to do with this, internet. Middle mentioned on our trip that the first year following the death of a spouse is statistically dangerous for the surviving partner. I started to write that this made sense to me, because Dad would’ve made Mom go to the doctor, and without him around, she just didn’t pay attention. But I’m not sure if that’s true, as my dad wasn’t playing his A game that last year. Maybe at least with his doctor’s appointments, a medical professional would’ve asked Mom about the freaking cauliflower ear. But between this and the shoulder injury, it definitely seems like in the aftermath of taking care of my dad, my mother is physically deteriorating. Maybe on some primitive level, we are all still those children who, into the vacuum of an adult’s extra free time, fall the fuck apart and demand attention. Only in this case, my mom is both the child and the newly free adult.

And now for some fun

This Lizzo Tiny Ass Desk Concert

All these Lana Del Rey Videos set to ‘90’s movies are like taking a dip in a flavor called Gen X anxty teen.  There’s literally a dozen, but upon embedding them, realized a shit ton of ’90’s movies have problematic sexual storylines, so here’s one and I guess if you like it, go spelunking. They all come up in the side bar as suggestions. Omigod, I just explained Youtube to you. I’m officially a wine spritzer drinking middle aged mom. Send help.