A Reason to Look Forward to Mondays

I've got a new addiction: Brotherhood 2.o.

These two brothers are working on a very unique video-blog project this year in which they alternate communicating with each other via 3-minute video segments submitted to their blog, "Brotherhood 2.o." They started on January 1, and intend to continue during the entire year.

They are absolutely hilarious. I mean, these guys are so funny!

I spent an evening catching up on the segments I missed, and now fully intend to continue checking their site on a daily basis. The only downside is that they take the weekends off, so now I'm finding myself looking forward to Monday with an enthusiasm that I had not known before.

Please check out the "In Your Pants" segment. After watching, you, too, will have trouble looking at book titles without snickering. I turned around and found these titles from my own shelves to be side-splitting.

• Stupid White Men (in your pants)
• Second Helpings (in your pants)
• Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase (in your pants)
• The Client (in your pants)

See? Even now, I am laughing uncontrollably.

Because Every Good Funeral Needs a Little Family Dysfunction

The dysfunctional members of our family had the idea, following Mom's (my grandma) death: "Let's just wait until Dad (my grandpa) dies, and then we can have a memorial service for both of them."

Um, no.

We decided to press on and hold a quiet, family service that Dad could attend, right there at the nursing home. My mother's older brother goes ballistic, under the impression that we're holding some sort of religious ceremony, and pulling Dad in unwillingly. We persisted, and had ten family members (including Dad) sit around a table and pass photos around, and share some select stories, while a reverend friend provided a little structure and words of hope.

Four family members were not present.

The most difficult parts of our memorial were when Dad would interrupt the reverend, asking, "Did we lose Jane?" "When did she die?" or "Was she sick?" During the fifteen minute gathering, he asked us a variation of these questions three times.

Even though it was difficult, it still feels critically necessary to hold some sort of memorial service after someone dies. I mean, even the dog of some families gets as much recogntion that he existed, that he was loved, and that he'll be missed. We owe our grandmother at least as much respect.

This part of the family that was not present did invite the nine of us (minus Dad, who cannot easily be transported) over to their home for appetizers and drinks following our nursing-home-service. We would then pile into cars to drive to the cemetery to see where Mom would be resting.

It took us by surprise, then, when we pulled up to their home, to find them already in their car, with the engine running, waiting for us to arrive so that they could pull away for us to follow them straight to the cemetery.

Dysfunctional observation #1: We thought we were being invited inside.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that we would actually be inside their home, surrounded by all of the items of value that formerly belonged to Mom, they decided that rather than scoop up all of the loot and shove it into the closets, it would be better to skip the indoor festivities and head straight for the cemetery.

Dysfunctional observation #2: Most families greet each other in person, especially when a death has occurred, or a great amount of time has lapsed since the last visit.
Hypothesis: Upon realizing that greeting each other in person would likely result in the inevitable show of affection such as hugs or handshakes, they decided to stay safely locked in their vehicle.

Dysfunctional observation #3: The two grown grandchildren were not present during the visit to the cemetary.
Hypothesis: Who knows? Had a headache? Washing their hair?

After visiting the cemetary, we were on to the restaurant, where we would have a big dinner, just like a normal family. Except when we got there, we were surprised to find that we were alone, and that our hosts had not yet arrived. When their daughter (one of the missing grandkids from the cemetery) walked in to see all nine of us, sitting there, she said, "Where are my parents?" We answered that we didn't know, so she turned around and walked back out the door.

Dysfunctional observation #4: Most people greet their family with a minimum of: "Hello."
Hypothesis: Hates us.

About fifteen minutes later, in she walks with her parents. The remainder of the night was blissfully uneventful, although by then I had consumed one very strong Bloody Mary, so who knows what I might have missed.

Maybe they're right, maybe we should have saved ourselves the pain and misery and waited until Dad died so that we wouldn't have to endure each other again.

Messy, Complicated, and Emotional

I lay on the bed, pressing my fingertips to my eyes, but feeling some tears slipping through, anyway. Binta comes in.

"Why are you crying?"

"I feel sad."

"Why?" (always why!)

"I miss somebody."

"Who? Uncle Derek?"

No.
Yes.
I don't know.
How can you explain any of this to a 4-year-old? Finding out that my tiny, fragile, 90-year-old grandma (Mom) died peacefully in her sleep was sad news. It was also a relief. She will no longer be in pain or feeling miserable. We were all expecting this. This was supposed to happen.

However, this loss triggers my emotions, and I suddenly find myself re-living parts of my initial grief after losing Derek. These two losses couldn't be more unlike. Grandmas are supposed to die. Twenty-six-year-old brothers aren't. Experiencing death again causes the two to be related. And when I find myself grieving, I find I can't distinguish one from the other. Yes, I'm crying because I miss my grandma. But I've been missing her for several years, since her health and her mind started to deteriorate. And now I finally have the closure and the permission to publicly miss her. But I find that I'm thinking of Derek, and reminding myself that at some point, I'll be by myself.

We visited Dad (grandpa) yesterday, and when my mom asked him how he's doing, he answered:

"Oh, not too good."

"Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"Bring Jane back."

Again, the messy mix of emotions. It hurt to see Dad so sad, aching for his wife of 68 years. But it was also relief to know that his mind was lucid enough to be able to understand this news from several days ago, as well as retain it.

Dad asked how old he was, and we told him that he was 91. He looked at me and asked who I was. I told him, and he told me that I looked old, not like a little girl. I laughed and told him I just celebrated my 33rd birthday on Monday. I'm not the little girl he remembers.

That evening, while buying a bottle of wine at the store, the clerk looked at me and asked if I was over 21. I know I should be flattered for being mistaken for being so young, but in light of what the day had been like, all I could do was to force a smile, and assure him I was.

Some Assembly Required

alternate title: Two O'Clock AM on Christmas Morning

My first great idea was to get the substitute Little Mermaid Kitchen. My second great idea was to have it all assembled for her by Christmas morning. That idea was brilliant.

When it was sometime in the afternoon on December 24, that is.

By the time it was 2:10 AM on December 25, it was just plain moronic.

When I got Binta to bed at around 9:30, after firing off all of the "Santa will pass you by if you're not asleep" threats, I had only to wait until about 9:45 to hear her deep, regular breathing drifting out into the hallway. My cue to get crackin' on the kitchen.

The box, deceptively large, contained approximately 1,000,000 pieces inside it. That is, of course, an angry exaggeration. What it contained were ten "sheets" of plastic pieces, all connected with the plastic "webbing" that must be twisted to detach the 7 - 10 plastic parts per sheet. There were about 10 larger pieces that I added to my stack of materials. That gave me just over 100 pieces of plastic, all labeled with clever names, such as piece AA or PR.

By 10:40, I was ready to start constructing the play kitchen. I scanned the family room, now entirely covered in plastic parts. I had the first realization that my brilliant idea was going to be costly. Well, this was actually my second realization. To be honest, I knew I was in trouble the minute I opened the box.

The directions, of course, were challenging to work with. In an attempt to reach all parents, both English-speaking and non-English speaking, the toy company had printed the directions with minimal words, using drawings and sketches only. In effect, getting through to none of the parents at all. I kept reminding myself: "I have a masters degree. I can do this."

I kept working at a serious pace, ignoring the raw, tender spots on my palms from using the screw driver too many times. I took a break only to consume Santa's cookies and milk. I kept focused on my objective, jumping at every little sound that could be Binta, rising from her sleep and catching me red-handed. But she didn't.

As the project neared completition, I was directed to place two AA batteries into the range. Immediately after doing so, I bumped the button, triggering loud sizzling and boiling noises to erupt. Attempts to silence the toy by re-pressing the button were not satisfied. The noise continued and cycled through again, for each desperate, panicked push. Even swearing at it didn't help. In the still, quiet evening, the noises ricocheted off the walls of the family room like the roar of a jet airliner. I glanced down the hallway, certain that I would see Binta walking towards me. I would have preferred having her walk in on me having sex than being caught with the disassembled kitchen sprawled out in front of me, wearing a milk moustache and having cookies on my breath.

She didn't wake. I continued on, finally finishing at around 1:30. The problem now facing me was to complete the wrapping, which I accomplished in record time.

At 2:05, I began the clean up process - disposing of all the plastic "twigs" from the webbing, unused scraps of wrapping paper, and the store bags and receipts. I stepped out into the backyard to dump the large cardboard box, and when I turned around, I saw Binta rounding the corner.

She was completely groggy, and hadn't seen a thing, although I had already prepared my lie: "Santa already stopped by, and he was just so busy with all of the other toys he had to deliver, that he asked me to finish putting your kitchen together for him." I carried her to the bed, and she instantly fell asleep again.

I collapsed in my bed, trying calm my racing heartbeat from too many shots of adrenaline in the past 4 hours. I discouragingly counted on my fingers the five more Christmases I'd be put through this tribulation.


Just a few hours later, she was opening her present. She was thrilled with the kitchen. She tried out all the sound effects (which strangely sounded so much softer during the day), opened all of the cupboards, and prepared "snacks" for us to eat between opening other presents. She reflected on what a great job Santa's elves had done, building her kitchen.

I thought back to those five Christmases I was dreading last night, and already regretted that there wouldn't be a hundred more to enjoy.