I have a new laptop, and it has a Webcam. I have officially joined 2002.
For as much as it pained me to slap down a bunch of money on something that does not promise to give me a sizable tax break next year or, at the very least, a place to lay my weary head at the end of each day, I’m pretty stoked about my new computer here. I spent the majority of Saturday setting everything up, bookmarking all of my sites, organizing files, uploading software, bringing over all of my old files and cursing Vista.
My God. I have been attached to a computer like a baby to the breast since I was 16 and I have never encountered a piece of technology so outwardly hostile to the user. And I mean that with all sincerity. Vista could care less about the person using it and there is absolutely nothing redeeming about it. I’m not at all exaggerating, and I’m very thankful that I qualify for Toshiba’s free upgrade to Windows 7. That said, no, I’m still glad I didn’t buy a Mac. I’ve used them for years at work, and I just don’t like them. I am a PC.
We are still house hunting. Yesterday we revisited the home we originally fell in love with, and fell quickly out of love. It’s amazing how easy it is to break up with a house when you identify foundation and sewer problems. So we remain on the search for now.
We had a rough week here in the Smith house. Our work life was a bit more demanding that usual. This weekend we spent a lot of it outside, with a scotch or two, and a lot of good conversation with friends and loved ones. Sometimes you just need to not try so hard and just be. Now here it is Sunday, and my husband made me a pre-Mad Men martini, and I’m playing on my laptop – I have a new love of Mahjong – and excited about a story I’m working on this week at work and even more excited about the Vedic meditation seminar/class/meeting I’m going to on Thursday. Despite my lack of guilt over the conspicuous consumption I engaged in this weekend, I know there are healthier, regular practices I can engage in that can offset the need for overindulgence. At least a little.
In other work news, though, I’m excited to report that Scott was promoted to Editor, Director of Content for Playboy.com. His job really is to read the articles. I could not be more proud of him, and it’s a wonderful testament to his talent and overall awesomeness. I remain absolutely in awe of his abilities. Especially after the week I had.
The demands of the week meant that I was officially preoccupied enough to not be completely mired down in the anniversary of my mom’s death. It was on Thursday, and it marked 20 years since she was killed in a car accident in Palos Heights, Illinois. She was 40, and newly engaged, and we’d all sort of hoped things were turning around for her. But God had other plans, as He so often does, and they weren’t meant for her here. Kate Shea and I remain convinced that the good fortune and grace we’ve been blessed to have are a direct result of Cathy nagging The Big Guy on a very regular basis, and while we’d exchange everything we have to have her back here, our faith tells us that things are as they are supposed to be.
But I will tell you this: it’s been 20 years, and despite a few very solid memories, it doesn’t feel as though she was a real person, or someone I knew, let alone my mother. This is the sorrow that adults who lost their parents at a young age carry. It is hard to mourn someone who you know meant the world, but for whom you have only a limited recollection, if any at all.
I’m going to cheat a little and cut and paste something I wrote four years ago, simply because it remains true. I imagine it will remain true every year from here on out:
“Ever since she died, or, rather, ever since mom being gone, really gone for good, felt incredibly real which was more like 15 years ago, I’ve spent the weeks leading up to her anniversary as though I thought something was going to happen on it.
Maybe I always suspected that on that day my heart would weigh a little heavier and so I trained myself to carry it.”
But I suppose it never has. My heart is as heavy as it has ever been since she’s been gone. If I had to guess what’s responsible for my forgetting, I would say that I’ve probably just gotten used to the weight by now. It took 16 years, but there you go.”
Recently it struck me that I am of an age where I have friends who are my mother’s age when she died. Some are even a couple of years older. I’ve had to stop myself from saying to these friends, “Hey! My mom was 40 when she was killed in a car accident!” I would wager that such a revelation wouldn’t be too welcome. It’s all so matter-of-fact to me now, death, her death, that is, that I forget that people flinch when you roll “killed” or “died” off of your tongue as easy as “apple” or “lightbulb.”
It’s an acquired skill, not one I recommend practicing of course.”
None of this is my way of saying that I am not somehow saddened by this day. Not at all. I am drinking whiskey on the rocks and listening to the “Garden State” soundtrack, crying a little and wondering about Cathy, as I do nearly every year. But I’ve just gotten used to it.”
I came to a place two years ago regarding who my mother was that, thankfully, still rings true today:”
“We are all the trips to the library for stacks upon stacks of books. We are the Wham! and Madonna albums that no one else in the third-grade class owned. We are the supplier of every junk food imaginable for the best slumber parties. We are Archie comic books and Teen Beat magazines bought during every trip to the grocery store.”
We are the loud, raucous laughter of approval.”
I don’t remember anymore what my mother’s voice sounded like. But I remember her laugh. I would be sadder about not remembering the sound of her voice if I couldn’t remember her laugh.”
I hear it every time I find something funny, and open my mouth, and let it roar.”
I miss you, mom. I hope you’re doing OK. Wherever you are.”
