memory

The pink taffeta dress I’ve been wearing for the last 13 hours has been hung in my closet. I am standing in jeans and socks in the middle of the family room, yelling at my cousins and trying to pick up random bits of food, paper plates, blankets, pillows, and clothes from all over the house.

The year is 1988. It is the late night of my sister’s wedding day. Our house is filled to the brim with Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and other visiting dignitaries. My parents aren’t yet home from the church – they stayed behind with a few others to finish the reception clean-up.

I am quite literally LOSING MY MIND with the mess, with the disruption, with the chaos, with the sheer number of people in every room of the house. I can’t believe how messy and out-of-control everything is. I can’t believe that I’m the only one who cares enough to try to PUT SOME DISHES AWAY ALREADY. And I say as much, to some passing cousins. They are smart. They do not engage the RED FACED WHIMSY. They go upstairs to find an unoccupied television.

My Aunt Chris walks in, me mid-meltdown. She quietly ushers me into the front hall bathroom and shuts the door. I feel like a caged animal. I pace the bathroom. She stands there, blocking the door. I yell. I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS THE HORRID SHAPE OF THE HOUSE!!! WE MUST CLEAN!!! WE MUST GET THINGS IN ORDER!!! I continue with more yelling. More exclamation points than I’ve ever used. Aunt Chris is something of a master drill sergeant. She does not engage the RED FACED WHIMSY. She pulls me to her shoulder, to her chest. She forces me into a hug. She begins to rock side to side, back and forth. She tells me over and over and over that things are going to be okay. This is when I start to cry. She tells me that I’m not angry about the messy house or all the people in the house. She tells me that I miss my sister and I’m worried that everything is going to change. She tells me that it’s okay to be mad. She tells me it’s okay to be upset about the differences that are going to come. She tells me that I’m not losing my sister. She tells me that I will see my sister again and we’ll have fun and we’ll still love each other and it’s all going to be okay okay okay. It’s all going to be okay.

blog bleurgh

I know that the entire universe is into blogging and everything, but it still weirds me out when I access the site of someone I know in a brick and mortar way (I love this term from Swistle) who has not personally invited me to their blog. It doesn’t make any sense, I KNOW. I should offer the caveat that these are MY ISSUES and MY ISSUES ALONE, unless, of course, you’re just as freaky as me. Rest assured that I welcome any and all visitors here to The Creamery, regardless of how they found me. I love it when I hear from people, period. I know that there are a lot of lurkers out there – and on many blogs, I’m totally one of them. And I don’t have a problem with someone lurking all the live long day. I guess I do sort of HOPE that folks will come out of the dark at least once in a while to comment and show themselves and let me know that they think I have a beautiful, sparkling wit and they just can’t start their day without reading something from here. Or, you know, whatever they’d like to say.

The point is that we write and we share publicly for a REASON and if anyone doesn't want to be public, they can certainly hide their blog or make it invitation only or whatnot. Seeing as I'm not one of those private-y people, I take what I get in terms of visitors.

As far as my weirdness goes, I have this entirely peculiar and funny feeling about reading the blogs of brick and mortar friends when they don't know that I know that they're there (Are we following me? I'm not sure if I'M following me.)

Case in point: Recently, via the site of someone else I know, I stumbled upon a couple of blogs that belong to brick and mortar folks. Folks that I know – folks that I see on a regular basis – folks that I’m friendly with, but not friendly enough to be all – HEY HI I FOUND YOUR BLOG AND I’M NOW OFFICIALLY LOOKING IN ON YOUR LIFE. WOW. THAT STORY ABOUT THE MEXICAN RESTAURANT? I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ATE THAT ENTIRE BURRITO. I wouldn’t ever say this or any amalgam thereof. Instead, I just go around not saying anything and feeling like a Grade A Prime STALKER. Why is it that I feel this way? Do you go through this ridiculous weirdness? Is it really JUST ME? Why do I feel more comfortable commenting on the blogs of people who I’ll never conceivably run into at the grocery store?

I can't decide exactly what I want to do about this development.

So far, here are the ridiculous and nonsense rules I've made up for myself - keep in mind, as stated before - these are TOTALLY MY RULES FOR MYSELF. I know that there are a lot of you out there (I flatter myself – okay, there are a handful of you out there) who check in on me from time to time here at The Creamery, and you don’t follow Whimsy’s Rules for Weird Blog-Type Stalking In The Case Where It’s Someone She Might Run Into At Random. And that’s okay. As for me and my house:

-- If I keep looking in, I have to comment.
-- I can't wait too long to comment because there is a directly proportional relationship of HOW LONG I WAIT TO COMMENT to LEVEL OF WEIRDNESS. i.e. The longer I wait, the weirder it gets.
-- There are only certain types of comments that I deem to be acceptable for Opening Comment behavior. I have to introduce myself and let them know how I found their blog.
-- I do not out myself as a fellow blogger. If they want to follow a link from my profile or whatnot, that's totally fine. But otherwise it feels dumb.
-- Commenting in any form must be done with extreme caution. It feels very much like I'm butting in on a conversation between close friends who are clearly happy with their group. They have not invited me in. Do I really want to stick my nose in there?
-- Until some form of Cordial Connection has been made with the blog author, I can't comment too much, for fear that they're sitting back at their computer thinking DUDE THIS GIRL IS TOTALLY STALKING ME AND READING ABOUT MY LIFE AND I MIGHT SEE HER IN THE BATHROOM AT CHURCH OR SOMETHING AND THAT WOULD BE VERY CREEPY.
-- Under no circumstance do I discuss details about blog entries when I run into them in the bathroom at church. Or anywhere else for that matter, unless it is TOTALLY APPLICABLE. (Which, by the way, never happens.) This rule, in and of itself, is fraught with issues because how strange is it that I'm commenting on their entry about dog spit on Tuesday and then I see them at the grocery store on Friday and I don't even MENTION the dog spit? See - it's just dumb.
-- The only escape from the rule above is if the blog author brings up the blogging to me - and then we can talk about things in relative ease. It just can't be me bringing it up.
-- If I choose to not comment at all, I have to stop myself from visiting their blog.
-- Then the question becomes: Do I really WANT to visit their blog and read about dog spit? Will this make our brick and mortar relationship weird? Will it change things in a way that makes it embarassing to see them in a public setting?
-- Perhaps I should forget about these new blogs altogether and just go back to reading the stories of random (but TOTALLY FUNNY and TOTALLY WONDERFUL) strangers.

With all of this said – and these particular neuroses shared – what would you do? Do you visit the blogs? Do you comment? Do you mention it when you see them in person? And hey – even if you have no advice to give, I’m officially declaring that you delurk, just for today. Show of hands, tell me you’re here. I DARE YOU.

Now I'm going to take a nap. I'm very tired.

strange attractors

Things continue to roll in the Whimsy universe, as they are wont to do. I've spent a few nights on my own in the past week, with Chip taking care of family business with his siblings and whatnot. His mom lives nearly 2 hours away from our place. Last night was one of those times of swinging singlehood – only without any WILD partying or eating popcorn for dinner. Instead it was me helplessly pacing the fabric aisles at Joann’s, stressing an indescribable amount because I couldn’t find just the right shade of fabrics for the Bean’s bumper pad and crib skirt-thing (Why the HECK do they call it a “dust ruffle”? I don’t even WANT a ruffle of any kind – I’m going for one of those flat panel thingies.). See, I haven’t gone off the deep end and done any sort of themey thing in Bean’s room, but I do have these beautiful Sam Toft prints that I love. And they’re done in these great chartreuse greens with lots of cream and yellow and amber and I could just eat them up. We’re hanging them in Bean’s room. So that was the starting point: those colors. From which I then jumped to doing her bedding in some really nice celery greens with a contrasting gray-slate-blue and a tiny bit of red, because her dresser is red and this sentence is way too long and drawn-out anyway blah blah blah… yes, my child’s room and the run-on nature of her bedding. So. I never found what I was looking for at Joann’s and I spent an HOUR there – I swear, I not only saw people leave for their breaks, I saw them come back. I picked up and put down the same bolts of fabric 42 times and then I finally decided to just STOP THE MADNESS ALREADY and escaped, feet swelling painfully over the straps of my mary janes.

When I finally got home, I was tired and hungry and a teeny bit grumpy. I grabbed some food from the fridge and went upstairs to numb my brain with some television.

And THIS is where we reach the point of this post. I watched TLC all night. Like, from 7pm until nearly midnight (I was brain dead tired, but couldn’t go to sleep… miserable). I watched Jon and Kate Plus Eight, and then some show about that family with 16 kids who seem very sweet but also strange… like the mom’s hairstyle (specifically, the whole bangs area that encompasses an entire front SECTION of her head – complete WITH WINGS) waits until she’s asleep so it can escape from the house and forage for squirrels and hedgehogs to eat IT IS THAT BIG AND INSANE. I was very concerned to note that this hairstyle seems to be perpetuating itself in the other 5 daughters. The baby is young enough to not yet HAVE any hair, but it’s only a matter of time before that monstrosity begets itself another follower.

Anyway, this is what I watched for nearly five hours. It got me thinking about other stressful or emotionally challenging times in my life, and the weird junk I've watched on television. I'm convinced there's a link.

A couple of years ago, when a very dear aunt was ill and then passed away - I spent the entire weekend watching High School Musical on the Disney channel. I’m so serious, and I can’t even BELIEVE I’m telling you this. I don’t think even Chip knows. (Hi honey – please say you still love me.) I don’t know why I did it. Or why I committed the act more than once over the weekend. Do I even have to qualify this and tell you that it was seriously AWFUL? That I was never once entertained by it? That to even call it “acting” is sort of offensive? That I was, at the time, a married 32-year-old woman without children, and probably the only person in my particular demographic that wasn’t being PAID to watch it?

There have been other times, too, when I was drawn to something specific and inexplicable. When my cat Stella was hit and killed by a car, I watched Star Trek: The Next Generation for WEEKS. When I was going through a bout of depression, I watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the FX network every night. (This one only mildly qualifies as a strange attractor because I LOVE BTVS. I own every DVD. I can sing along to the musical. If you have a beef with Buffy, you have a beef with me. Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy, is a genius and I have an issue if you say otherwise.) The key is – I hadn’t watched Buffy before things got bad and weird, and suddenly I couldn’t get enough of it.

So last night I watched five hours of The Learning Channel, complete with multiple episodes of Jon and Kate Plus Eight (holy COW that's a lot of little kids and Kate seems mildly... off-putting); Little People Big World (I'm sure the dad is a lovely person and a great father but he strikes me as the type of guy who is all dreamdreamdream and forces his wife Amy to do a heck of a lot of workworkwork to make up for his laziness); and the crazy family with 16 children. I was perfectly content. And I don't know why.

What's the strangest TV you've found yourself watching? COME ON - BE HONEST. Join me in my I WATCHED HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL AND THEN I WATCHED IT AGAIN AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS STUPID T SHIRT. Have you noticed that you watch odd programs when your life is less manageable, or is it just me?

. . . . . . .

Thank you to all those who have been commenting and emailing. Your thoughts and wishes and prayers make a huge difference.

Chip's dad passed away on Friday evening. He was surrounded by his family. We will miss him terribly: his love, his kindness, his sense of humor, his patience, his service, his great love for God and Jesus Christ.

We know we'll be seeing him again - and for this we are profoundly grateful.

the current

Long before Bean, long before Chip, even long before The Minions - I used to run. I know, I know - if wee little running Whimsy could just SEE my Nerpa-shaped body now, right?


One of my favorite running destinations was Sunset Hill Park. I lived close by, and I could do the 5-mile loop pretty easily (she remembers wistfully, as she is currently out-matched by a single span of stairs on the state ferry system). My favorite part of the run was the destination, of course. A tiny sliver of grass and a handful of trees perched on a bluff overlooking Elliott Bay and the distant Olympic mountain range. It was always such a welcome pause to stand at the edge of that cliff and look out over the water toward the mountains.


On a clear day, Elliot Bay is nothing but a sparkling blanket of deep blue-gray, stretching out out out farther than you can imagine – to the right, to the left, out out out to meet the Olympics. Occasionally I’d spend time studying the water moving 300 feet below – see the varied currents colliding against one another. I liked to focus my eyes to one wee spot, watch the lines of water cris-cross one another until it seemed impossible for a boat to navigate that watery chaos.


One day I stopped looking at any specific point on the water and let my eyes drift back and back and back until I was seeing the whole water – the whole view in unfocused simplicity. It was only then that I realized there was a grand pattern, a grand scheme to the water that created one whole current. There was no chaos. There was no struggle. There was only a beautiful curving swath of water following itself out to sea.


Tuesday morning found me thinking these thoughts. I was reflecting about Life in General and how it can seem so crazy, so convoluted, so compromised. I wanted to step back for some clarity, to see the grand scheme (even for a moment). Instead of a minute of quiet, I got a phone call.


My father-in-law had suffered a heart attack.


The past few days have been strange. They ahve been stressful. They have been exhausting. They have also been savagely beautiful.


This blog is my own, and I try very hard to respect privacy of those around me, unless they’ve given some kind of permission to be stripped right here on the old internet (Chip: this is you – don’t you LOVE ME?). Sometimes when something is happening in a family unit, it’s hard to identify where one person’s experience ends and another’s begins. So it is with illness and hard times. I am sharing my thoughts about this, not because I want to bare anything private about my family, but because this thing is also happening to me, and there are precious few things in my life that I don’t write about. I feel a compelling need to tell you what I’m learning to make it real.


I can only imagine someone else's pain, but I know my own - and I know it well enough to say what I've said before: pain transforms us in ways we can only imagine. Pain and sorrow carve deeply into our souls, making ravines and vast valleys that we can later fill with joy and laughter – and even sometimes tears.


I will not say "do not weep" for not all tears are evil.


The beauty of these last few days is the kind of transforming pain that gives someone a new face. That teaches us that holding on and letting go each require a different sort of strength. It must be hard to be the one who is leaving, but I think it’s even harder for the ones left behind.


Perspective is a gift we only touch for a second. We cannot hold it in our hands like a butterfly or a fragile bird. We are given that second to look out over the patterns of our lives and know that there is always movement – and if we trust, we’ll know that the seemingly meaningless eddies of chaos and turmoil serve a greater purpose. We can allow our days to stretch out out out into the greater ocean of heaven, of the universe, and know that everything is going to be okay.