friendship – sparkledame

Grief

“Can a person die from grief?”

“No. Plus, don’t even think about dying. I already have three mini urns on my mantel, there is no room for a fourth.”

“You’re not getting my ashes. I’m having myself turned into a pod, then planted in the forest.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“It is, I read about it in The New York Times.”

“What will I have to remember you by if I don’t get your ashes?”

“You’ll have my vintage purse collection.”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’ll leave notes in each purse. So you’ll have little memory prompts like, ‘remember when we were Goth for six months in high school and our boyfriends were brothers?’ The notes will help you with your dementia.”

“I don’t have dementia.”

“Not yet, but you’ll probably get it.”

“What a lovely thing to say, thank you. Honestly though, what is up with you and your grief? You’re literally cloaked in it. It’s like a sad girl perfume that you spray on each day. And you spray on so much – like the cosmetic ladies at the mall used to do in the 80’s. It turns people off:
So some of your people died.
So some of your people are currently really sick and are probably going to die soon.
You are alive, you have to live.”

“Do I though? What if I’m just tired and kinda over it all and I just want to take a permanent nap. I should be able to decide my own fate.”

“First of all, if you kill yourself I’ll never forgive you and I’ll haunt your decayed pod in the stupid forest. Second of all – the whole point of life is that we don’t get to decide our own fate, life just unfolds. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get smashed by a dump truck tonight. Or, maybe you’ll live to 103 in a cottage by the sea with only a sprinkling of arthritis. Girl that’s the wild ride of it all, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t control everything.”

“I am a bit of a control freak.”

“Ya think? Maybe you should go do that ketamine therapy, they just opened a swanky clinic near me.”

“That sounds dodgy.”

“It’s not, it’s legal, I read about it in your precious New York Times. Plus their office is really chic, like a minimalist-artisanal vibe. And the doctor who founded the place is hot. Dream-boy hot. Do it! Do the ketamine and shed your sad girl scent. I honestly can’t take it anymore.”

“Okay, okay, you made your point. I get it. My grief spiral has become unbearable, I’ll deal with it.”

“That’s my girl. Now let’s get back to people watching and being snarks. Like what is that woman even wearing on her feet?! They’re kitten heels with a super long toe. Ugliest fucking shoes I’ve ever seen.”

Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.

Tiny Homes

My friend lives in a tiny purple house.
She’s always there with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, saying something sarcastic and tossing her head of dark curls back as she laughs.

Her tiny house is kind of like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle, with that circular couch covered in velvet pillows. Except her cushions have needlepoint cases – which she made herself – that say things like, “Fuck You Very Much.”

Because my friend is so tiny she can no longer wear her favorite silver rings, so I wear one of them every day.

I miss seeing her in person, I’m too big to fit into her house. But every night before going to bed I look at her – her house is on my corner table – and I say something like:

“Hey, I miss you. In the few months since you’ve been gone the world has become an even bigger shit show – really, everything is fucked.”

Sometimes I think:
What if I open her I Dream of Jeannie purple house? Would she come swirling out in a plume of pink smoke?
Then she yells at me:
“Girl get it together, I’m not fucking swirling out, I’m DEAD, remember?!” And a Smiths song blasts at full volume:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die

I yell back:
“I know you’re dead I’m not an idiot, Jeeze Louise. I remember our last conversation. You were crying while telling me how much pain you were in. I said let me talk with your doctors you need more pain meds. I don’t want you suffering.”

The last thing you said to me was:
“My nurse is here, I gotta go. Love you.”
And I said:
“Love you.”
Then two days later you were dead & before I could say “pouf” you were cremated.

I don’t think I’m going to sprinkle you anywhere. I’m going to keep you on your little alter: there’s a photo of us together, a lovely painted postcard that I took from your office, some rocks from the beach outside your house and a few other mementos.

I like looking over at you. We can chat anytime.

Photo Credit: Pinterest, Country Living Magazine

80’s Girl

You are cordially invited to
Mary Ellen’s
Dancing Down Memory Lane Party
Location: High School
Time: 1980’s
Attire: Goth, Punk, Mod, Preppy, New Romantic, Madonna, Jock, Hippie or Burnout
Please RSVP by calling 613-722-8181
Leave a message on the answering machine.

SLAVE TO LOVE
The first boy I ever loved in a truly, madly, deeply way was Luigi. He smelled like Ivory soap. I wanted to delay going to University for a variety of reasons, mostly because I didn’t want to leave him. But my parents were terrified that as the first born I would be setting a horrible example if I didn’t go directly – Do Not Pass Go – to school. So I spent weeks and weeks listening to Bryan Ferry’s “Slave To Love” while crying. And I mean crying. Luigi was the love of my life and my parents were tearing us apart. I mean true, we weren’t officially “a couple,” but still – he smelled like the love of my life. On the four hour drive to Toronto to drop me off at my dorm, I barely spoke two words to my parents; they were destroying my life after all.

THE GLAMOROUS LIFE
I think it was Grade 11 when a few friends and I started a group called “The Glamorous Girls.” It was a tongue in cheek thing, there were no clique-y rules or mean girls. But, we did each wear an oversized faux gemstone ring, bought from those small coin-operated machines at the grocery stores. Our theme song was “The Glamorous Life” by Sheila E. We danced and vogued – before we knew what vogueing was – and for a few months it was a wonderful bit of lightness, a salve to soothe the sting of high school’s cuts.

HOW SOON IS NOW?
Nothing says teenage angst like a messy bedroom with mood lighting. I had a hanging lamp over my bed and if I was really in the depth of misery, I would swap out the regular lightbulb for a red one. Then I would put on my giant headphones and listen to The Cure’s “The Hanging Garden” or “How Soon is Now?” by The Smiths. I remember one night feeling so, so horrible but I didn’t understand exactly why; I just knew that one girl was making my life miserable. Looking back it’s very clear that I was being bullied, (a term not much used in the 80’s), by a schoolmate who was jealous of me. She was controlling and manipulating, undermining me every chance she had. That particular night ended poorly, with me attempting to dull my pain by dying my hair a hideous shade of drugstore burgundy.

Years later when I lived in Los Angeles, I ran into this girl (now woman) at a dog park. I remember saying to my husband: “we need to get out of here immediately!” and so he and I and our Corgi fled. Talk about triggering. The next day I received a friend request from her on FB which I quickly declined. HELL NO.

WILD HORSES
When I went to high school we had to do five years – FIVE! Grade 9-13. By grade thirteen I had just had it, I was so over school. I knew I had to keep my grades high, so I was strategic about how and when I skipped classes. But I would guestimate that I skipped 1/3 of my final year. My friend Ali – who I still talk with every few days – and I used to play hooky together. We hung out in her super cool bedroom, which she had covered in tin foil a la Andy Warhol’s Factory. Drinking her mom’s boxed Pinot Grigio, we would smoke cigarettes and complain about the boys in our lives, all while listening to The Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” on repeat. David Bowie was also on heavy rotation and I remember us dancing to “The Jean Genie,” spinning faster and faster to release the pressure valves of our psyches.

RELAX
I grew up in Canada’s capital city, Ottawa, which is right across the river from Quebec. Back then the main clubbing area was in Hull Quebec and it was owned primarily by the mafia. The owners didn’t care that we were fifteen with fake ID, in fact the Hull police would let the bouncers know when they were going to raid their club and the bouncers would kick us all out before the cops arrived. It was a system that worked for everyone.

I remember dancing to Frankie Goes To Hollywood’s “Relax,” while wearing my Madonna style, pointy-toed buckled booties. The band’s original video for the song, which was pretty explicit, played on a giant screen. After twirling the night away, a friend and I went to a diner with a super sketchy dude who claimed to be in the mafia. Of course that became the story at school on Monday morning: we had met a real life mafioso.

BREATHE
Michelle wore long swirly skirts, armfuls of bangles, big turquoise rings and cowboy boots. She looked straight off of an album cover from the late sixties/early seventies. She had transferred from a different school so we only met in our final year. She introduced me to vegetarian food, herbal medicine, Isabel Allende’s books and Kate Bush. But she wasn’t just a granola-beauty, she had a bit of a tough vibe too. I felt like if anyone tried messing with me she would fend them off with her heavy silver jewelry – like a bohemian Wonder Woman.

Lying on the futon in her attic bedroom, we listened to Kate Bush’s song “Breathe:”
Out, in, out, in, out, in
Breathing
Breathing my mother in
Breathing my beloved in

Dreaming about our futures and talking about guys and asking just how many rings was too many to wear? Laughing loudly as we crunched organic corn chips and salsa. Michelle was an only child and I had two crazy brothers, “the boys” I called them, so we imagined being sisters: two big haired girls, one blond, one brunette. Breathing life into each other. And thirty-five years later we still are.
Out, in. Out, in.

THE END

LOL. I think this was Grade 10 & I was wearing a 2-piece matching set ~ blouse & “trumpet skirt.” And of course teal eyeliner! I still have the skirt b/c I’m a fashion hoarder.

A few good tunes from my high school years:
1) Smooth Operator by Sade
2) A Blister In The Sun by The Violent Femmes
3) Borderline by Madonna
4) Raspberry Beret by Prince
5) The Tears of a Clown by The English Beat
6) Lips Like Sugar by Echo & the Bunnymen
7) In Between Days by The Cure
8) Town Called Malice by The Jam
9) What Difference Does It Make by The Smiths
10) Cloudbusting by Kate Bush

JLo Glow

“You know when you cut open an orange only to realize it’s one of those dried out ones with no flavour?”

“Ya,”

“That’s what I feel like. All my juicy-juice goodness has dried up. I hate being middle-age,” Donna said.

Becky sighed:

“You’ve always been like this. Remember your 25th birthday? You had a meltdown and claimed your life was over and that you had nothing to show for it.”

They laughed.

“Ok, but back to my orange analogy. I could get fillers or Botox, but really I’m looking for ways to get my inside juicy self back.”

“Why don’t you go on a wellness retreat and have an affair.”

“Umm, because I’m married. That’s the worse advice ever, you’re nuts.”

“Affairs at wellness retreats don’t count – just like Vegas, but with green juice. Plus, I read that affairs can actually rejuvenate women better than Juverderm.”

“Very funny. I’ll never have an affair and not because I’m a perfect upstanding citizen. But because I have terrible taste in men. I would end up sleeping with someone completely deranged: the kind of guy who drives a mini-van even though he doesn’t have a family.”

“Oh those guys are creepy. And what about the guys who keep freezers in their garage? Never trust a man with a freezer in his garage.”

“Totally.”

“It’s true that you used to have bad taste in men, but then you married Jack and he’s a decent guy – you could have done a lot worse. Remember Melissa James from college? She just found out her husband has a whole other family. Can you believe that?”

“How do people have the time and energy to keep secret families? Jack and I can barely handle one teenager and two cats. Honestly, I don’t think either of us could pull off an affair, we’re too tired. Even before the pandemic we were burned out. Now it’s a miracle if we’re able to stay up late enough to watch an episode of The Crown.”

“That’s sad,” Becky said laughing.

Donna continued,

“I just watched JLo’s Instagram reels and she is the juiciest fifty-two year old. She literally glows from within. She has this light, happy, sparkly vibe. I bought her entire skincare collection.”

Becky started laughing harder:

“Stop it, I’m gonna pee my pants.”

Donna stretched out on their blanket:

“I forgot to put on sunscreen today,” she said, surveying the park.

“Oh who cares – so you get a few more age spots. If you get enough age spots they’ll blend together and you’ll looked nicely tanned,” Becky said.

“I’m so glad you find me amusing.”

Becky passed a peach scented gum drop to Donna.

“Is this candy or an edible?”

“It’s an artisanal CBD edible. You should see the packaging – so chic. I read about them in Vogue.”

Donna popped it in her mouth.

“Delicious, thanks.”

“Okay, now back to your problem: You need to start putting yourself first. You still make breakfast every morning for your husband and teenage son – like a freaking 1950’s housewife.”

“It’s just this little ritual we have, it’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet, it’s pathetic. Take that morning time and spend it doing something you like. You love reading those alphabet thrillers. So start your mornings with coffee and a book, the guys will survive without bacon and waffles.”

“I don’t know, it’s like this family bonding time—”

“Is it really though? Aren’t they both usually on their phones?”

“Well, kind of, but—”

“I think that you not feeling your juiciest is partly because you let people take advantage of you, including those who love you. Start making yourself a priority or you’ll become resentful. And nothing ages a woman more than resentment.”

“Wow, you’re fired up this morning. I feel like I have a bitchy life coach. Ok I’m doing it. Starting tomorrow the boys are on their own for breakfast.”

They lay in silence for awhile, enjoying the sunshine and light breeze.

“And a yearly girls trip. We should start doing a yearly girls trip. No partners, no kids, no pets.”

“Jack wouldn’t like that, he doesn’t like me travelling without him.”

“Too bad. You deserve a yearly getaway without any mothering or wife-y duties, that’s not a big ask. You’ve really given away a lot of your power, it’s upsetting. If you want JLo’s juicy vibe you’re gonna have to reclaim your damn power – that’s her secret, not her skincare line.”

A few minutes passed and Donna kicked off her Birkenstocks.

“You’re right, I have given away a lot of my power and it’s a sickening feeling. But because I’ve given away so much of it, it sort of feels impossible to get it back. Like I don’t have enough power to get my power back, if that makes sense.”

“It makes total sense. But I know you can do it. And unless you want to feel like a dried out piece of orange for the rest of your life, you have to do it.”

Becky reached out for Donna’s hand:

“I hope I’m not being too harsh, I just love you so much.”

“I love you too babe. And isn’t my hand soft? It’s JLo’s body moisturizer.”

Photo: Jlobeauty.com

You Can Call Me V

“Excuse me, but can I help you over the snowbank?” I asked the elderly woman wearing a lavender parka.

“Oh thank you, this weather is impossible. How am I supposed to run my errands? Apparently it’s all because of global warming, but who knows. I mean how do you ever really know something for sure?”

“Here, let me hold your hand.”

“You’ve got a grip like a large man, did anyone ever tell you that? It’s a good thing, it’s a compliment.”

“Oh, well, thanks.”

“My name is Vivienne, but you can call me V. What’s your name?”

“Mary Ellen. It’s a pleasure meeting you V.”

“Likewise. It’s not every day that someone asks if I need help. Apparently global warming has erased everyone’s good manners too. The world’s gone to hell in a hand-basket, but what are you going to do? I mean you either kill yourself or you just get on with life, those are really the only two options.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

Well this lady is a character

“Today I need to buy a few groceries. Then I’ll bake cookies – I always bake cookies on Thursdays. I have to call Deloris and Maude, they’re my last remaining friends. We check in on each other every day to make sure no one bit the dust overnight. Thursdays I also clean my bathroom. I have a maid who comes in once a month to give the house a good scrub, but I also like to clean. I never want to be one of those sad old ladies who lives in filth.”

“You have a busy day ahead of you. What kind of cookies are you baking?”

“Jam Thumbprints. Have you ever had them? They are incredibly tasty. Very nice with a cup of tea. I eat 24-36 cookies a week, depending on the recipe. Last week I made pecan sandies and the week before that it was gingersnaps.”

“I don’t see how you’re going to get on the streetcar safely with all this snow, why don’t I stay here with you until it arrives,” I suggested.

“That would be wonderful, I love to chat. It gets lonely living by myself. My kids drop by once a week, but I don’t care for them much. That’s a horrible thing to say, I know. But at my age there’s no point in mincing words. My son Lenny is an absolute failure and he’s chubby too. Three marriages, three divorces. But thank god no kids because he would have been a dreadful father. He’s one of those men who a certain kind of woman always likes to take care of? Do you know that type?”

“Actually I do. My friend Melissa is always dating those kind of men. Maybe she’ll marry Lenny.”

“HA!” chuckled V.

“And my daughter is the corporate head of something at Loyola Bank. I honestly don’t think she has a soul. All she cares about is making money. More more more. I think she’s after my house. This neighborhood is considered trendy now – that’s what I read in the weekend paper. Hipsters are moving here, whatever they are—”

“That guy next to the mailbox is a hipster,” I whispered to V.

“The one with facial hair and jeans that are skinny like tights?”

“Yep.”

“His pants are ridiculous, how does he even get them on? Anyways, the point is that I think my daughter wants to tear down my house – HER childhood home – and build a McMansion as soulless as she is. But she’s in for a big surprise: when I die the house is being donated to The Women’s College Hospital. I’ve already got all the legal documents drawn up, my neighbours are both lawyers.”

“Wow. That’s a surprise all right. I think it’s wonderful that you’re donating your house to the hospital, they do excellent work. You haven’t mentioned your husband, did he already pass on?”

“He didn’t pass on, he died. He died fifteen years ago that bastard. He promised me he would always be by my side. Every night I spray his pillowcase with Old Spice, it was his favorite. And I talk to him before going to sleep. I mean obviously he doens’t talk back, but it calms me. I probably sound like a whack-job right now, but it’s the truth. What about you Mary Ellen? Do you have a husband or what is it a…a partner? Or maybe a wife? I shouldn’t leave anything out. I try to keep up with the times you know, I have a subscription to People Magazine.”

“I have a partner, his name is Jared. He’s a hospital administrator.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

“Honestly V I have no idea.”

V laughed loudly.

“What do you do for a job?”

“I decorate people’s homes.”

“Oh you’re one of those creative types.”

“Yes, I am. Look – your streetcar is almost here, I’ll help you on.”

“Stop by sometime for a cup of tea and cookies. I’m just up the street at 15 Greenwood. You’ve probably noticed my house before: in the summer my tiny lawn blooms with hundreds of cosmos, they stretch out over the sidewalk.”

“Oh your flowers are amazing! The cosmos look like tall skinny colorful people who are having a wild party! Give me your hand V, let’s get you on this streetcar.”

“Thank you. Don’t forget to come visit me. I’ll give you cookies to take home to your partner too.”

“I will V. Safe shopping today.”

“Look, the hipster is getting on the streetcar too. I’m going to sit next to him and ask him about his pants.”

I watched as V sat down next to the skinny jeans guy and he turned and smiled at her. She was hard to resist.

Photo: Artist Louise Bourgeois photographed by Herlinde Koelbl. NY Times