The Story of Geoff: Ch. 1

                                                    Chapter 1: Memory

The Story of Geoff: Chapter 1

The Beginning of the End

It's funny how music brings you back. Back to memory. Back to feelings. Feelings you may not even want to recall. Funny may not even be the right word here.

I recall the song played on my phone alarm years ago. A melody really. A symphony. A violin with piano notes sprinkled throughout. It was sad. Sad because it woke me up, sad because of how it sounded, sad because of the season of my life in which it played.

I was living with my boyfriend Geoff, in Matunuck Beach, Rhode Island. We had a cozy off-season beach rental just a few steps away from the oldest Irish pub in the smallest state of the Union. This was our treasured nook. We'd spent seven years since meeting as teenagers in college, pursuing degrees, and entering the work force to get to here. And here was it.

Here was a dead end road at the edge of nowhere, but it was our nowhere. We had friends from all corners of the country come to visit during each of the three off-seasons we stayed in this cottage we called home. We chartered a deep sea fishing boat on Memorial Day Weekends when they visited, had cookouts, played horseshoes and board games, and drank beer. Geoff told hilarious pee-your-pants stories that always made someone spit out their beer or choke on it. Somebody always drank too much and threw-up or woke up with a mystery bruise, or both. Somebody else would inevitably fall asleep in an awkward location like outside in a lawn chair with a cooler cover as a blanket. Memories were made on these weekends. And the following year we'd point fingers and laugh about these memories made the year before.

When the off-season ended, usually the first week of June, Geoff and I moved out of the beach house and into his parents' vacation home in Wakefield, about 5 miles away. His mother was a teacher and his father was retired, so they spent summers with us. They were like my second family, Geoff's mom and dad and sister, who attended URI. For the decade Geoff and I dated, I spent more time with his family than I did with my own.

Guy and Barb had two Schwinn bicycles leftover from the 70's - a green and a yellow - a his and a hers - that Geoff and I would ride through the South County bike trails each of the three summers in RI we spent there. It cost $50 a year getting them tuned up at a local bike shop, and they rode like the wind. My yellow bicycle was one of the hardest things to part with when the relationship ended. I really loved that bicycle. I wish I had known the last time I rode it that it would be the last time, so I could have made a mental note to stand up on the pedals going downhill a few extra seconds, and savor the breeze in my hair, and take the long way home instead of a shortcut. Stuff like that. I don't even remember my last bike ride now.

Geoff and I made it a priority to check out every pub, bistro, brewery, and wine cellar in the state of Rhode Island when we first moved. So at least three or four nights per week, we went out. We drank. We ate. Financial hardship put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship. It only took three years of bliss to do that. It was a vicious cycle that crept us into debt, as I secretly activated new credit cards that came in the mail, and used them to ease the pain of not having money with spending money we didn't have.

But in-between the visits from friends and family, and between bike rides to Narragansett Beach and sea-glass beach walks along Matunuck and bar outings, there was misery. The silence in our evenings spent at home was punctuated with thoughts of would-be chatter of little children, had I had them, having reached the age of 29. But I'd been turned down for every public sector education job I applied for, about 50 jobs, during the entirety of my 20's, and had resigned to babysitting and substitute teaching and cleaning houses. Evenings spent at home pondering my would-be life away, particularly between the months of November-March, felt as dull as the overcast ocean sky. It never changed color during these winter months, just different hues of grey, although there were moments each day that light would peak through around noon, but I was usually too sad to notice.

Going out with Geoff at night was virtual Vicodin for wintertime. Alcohol and good food made all our problems disappear, at least for a couple hours. Everything was alright at the end of the day when the sound of conversation and laughter was all around. All was well within my soul. A burden was lifted. We needed this and I justified it not so much for me but moreso for Geoff. He worked hard - going into an office and staring at a computer screen all day for some boring marketing company.

I sat home and wrote beautiful sad songs on my Yamaha Portable Grand keyboard, often ignoring incoming calls to substitute teach, snoozing and sleeping through my sad violin alarm melody when it played. Geoff and I had separate bedrooms because he liked to be up late on his computer and was sort of a slob. I kept my room neat. I also liked to be sprawled out when I slept. I woke up earlier than him too. I had an 8 a.m. babysitting job on Mondays and Tuesdays in Snug Harbor and sometimes cleaned a house in Saunderstown on Wednesdays. But this was small beans compared to his very important 9-5 desk job that brought in double my salary, and health benefits to us both.

My real responsibilities came at night. I felt my duty was to make Geoff feel comfortable and happy when he came home from work, as I grew up watching my stay-at-home mom prepare dinners and keep a tidy home. She played church songs on piano and sang loud hymns to the Lord. She invited over guests and planned wild birthday parties for my father, sister, and I. She always put herself last. Our home was always lively, though after bedtime I'd hear her cry. I didn't know what my parents argued about but as I grew older I suspected it was due in part to her own self-inflicted last place taken in the family line.

Geoff would question my spending whenever I ran errands. I tried to minimize my grocery shopping and keep the fridge bare, apart from some beer and eggs and cheese and bread. If I spent too much money on food, there would be a verbal altercation. It wouldn't last long however, as Geoff could never stay angry for long. He would grow bored easily though, especially in the long silent evening hours of winter, and so when I didn't have a dinner to prepare, I would take him out and use a credit card. He was always up for that.

That was my biblical duty, I decided. Proverbs 14:1 says "The wise woman builds her house..." and I suppose since I could not force marriage and children on Geoff and build our home to accommodate Geoff's needs, and tidiness didn't impress him, I could resort to taking Geoff out to a place where the hustle and bustle and chatter of others would make us feel alive. The atmosphere of a new restaurant is intoxicating. We didn't drink heavily. Often we found a coupon online and printed it out. We'd anticipate the new sights and sounds and flavors on the drive, and just get out. It was great. Out of the empty cottage we'd go. We didn't have cable. This was our stimulation. Our drug. Our therapy. I'm telling you, I justified this tedious spending habit to a T. This was my way of showing Geoff love. Being a good woman, partner, and friend. I could deal with the debt and collection calls later. I didn't care about all that. I cared about Geoff. I loved seeing him smile. I loved hearing his stories and jokes. What did he read on The Onion today? I loved how he made me laugh. I loved how he twisted his thoughts into words and how he craved me physically after an evening of conversation. How we spooned and shared a bed on these nights as well.

But suddenly one day three years later I wasn't happy anymore. We'd been together a decade. He'd recently proposed. It was the craziest thing. I'd never considered my own feelings maybe until one day I noticed. I noticed they were gone. I gave the ring back. And seven years later, I still grieve this man who is still alive. Whom I still love. And this is where I take you back, reader, to the beginning of the story. The story of Geoff. And how it came to unfold that I let him go. For Richard Bach gave us the famous quote, "If you love something set it free; if it comes back it's yours, if it doesn't, it never was."

The Beginning

"Let's try to sneak into Roomers tonight! I have just the right outfit to wear and what you're wearing is perrrrfect, HA!" My friend Rachel snickered and slapped my ass as she finished wiping down her last table and pocketing a large tip, surely made by flirting with her customers, a group of four muscular hockey players who were competing in this weekend's Can/Am tournament, one of many in the seemingly endless winters Lake Placid, NY has to offer.

"I'll meet you at your place when I'm done and we'll see, I don't know."

"Don't be such a pussy!" Rachel made some cat noises and clawed her right fingers down my bosom, making me feel slightly uncomfortable. She counted out enough tip money to make the sous chef cry and then skipped out the door and across the street to her second story apartment to prepare for a night out dancing.

Rachel was only fifteen at the time, but was a figure skater with a scholarship to attend a boarding school in Lake Placid. Her four brothers also attended the National Sports Academy with scholarships to play hockey. She was the middle child and somewhat of a tomboy when it came to athleticism, but strikingly sexual. Her body was extremely curvy and she knew how to move it both on the skating rink and on the dance floor. Whenever I was with her, men flocked like baby birds.

On this particular night however, I got held up on my way over to Rachel's apartment. I got stopped by the pizza delivery guy. He wanted to introduce me to his friend.

"Erin, hold up. This is Geoff. My friend who goes to St. Lawrence with you."

I walked over to the pizza delivery guy and a few other workers gathered outside the restaurant and we all talked for a few minutes. Geoff shook my hand. We exchanged information about our college schedules and first impressions of SLU.

"Geoff this is the hot phone girl I've been telling you about."

"Brett you told him I was a hot phone girl?"

"Well you answer the phones, and you're hot."

Geoff's pasty Irish face turned beet red. It was funny. I blushed too. Geoff was pleasantly awkward and had a strangely deep voice. He chose his words carefully when he spoke. Everybody in the huddle stopped to listen when he did. It was cold out and our jackets were all touching, about five of us bundled together, a short and strangely intimate wintery evening conversation.

"Maybe I'll catch you at school when next semester starts."

"Leaving so soon?" Brett asked.

"Rachel wants to try to sneak into Roomers." I whined.

"That girl's only 16!"

"She's 15, don't tell Mr. Mike, or she'll not be able to waitress anymore -"

"Holy shit! -"

"Yeah, she has a fake ID, she's gonna use color pencils on mine, I dunno -"

"Well good luck, are you working tomorrow?"

"Next weekend."

"Okay let's do something, let's plan a trip to Montreal sometime, Geoff's game for that, right Gayward?"

"Umm, yeah, sure, Montreal, sweet."

"Bye guys, nice meeting you Geoff." I ran across the street, my legs shivering, as I had a short skirt on and it was probably twenty degrees out.

I wondered if Geoff noticed how nice my calves were. I always had nice calves. I'm sure he noticed. He got to see much more than my calves a few months later anyhow.

Sick Spaghetti

Two weekends after meeting Geoff, Brett organized a group trip to Canada, where 18- and 19-year-olds could drink and be irresponsible. Not that we weren't already doing that on weekends in Lake Placid and during our semesters spent at college, but now we could do it somewhere else and feel even cooler about it I suppose.

Geoff borrowed his father's Ford Expedition and Brett drove his Toyota 4runner and altogether 7 of us drove to St. Catherine Street in downtown Montreal and rented two adjoining hotel rooms. I had money saved from answering phones at the pizza place, Rachel had money saved from waiting tables there, and of course Brett delivered pizzas, and as it turned out Geoff worked at the bowling alley next door. It was like we were all meant to be friends. Geoff and I were still on winter break from college and this would be a time to really get to know one another before getting back to school.

As soon as we arrived at the Marriott, Rachel disappeared into a crowd of sexy men (and perhaps women) with whom to co-mingle in the hotel lounge. She returned the next day when we checked out and Brett delivered her safely back to boarding school.

The day and evening spent on St. Catherine Street was a blur of clubs and lights and drinks. One of our friends, Liam, disappeared into a strip club and didn't answer his cell phone well into the next day, hours past checkout. Geoff and I had to leave without him, to get Geoff's dad's car back on time, but Brett and the others stayed and recovered Liam from a waffle joint where he was treating two bouncers to brunch as an apology for his lewd behavior the night before. Apparently he'd touched a stripper inappropriately during a lap dance, but was forgiven when calling his doctor for a verbal doctor note explaining his condition, one in which he had some sort of inability to control hand movements when aroused. Liam also had ADHD and Tourette's Syndrome, and left me perplexed beyond explanation after our first year's worth of conversations, but I came to appreciate him as you might an eighth wonder of the world. He was a hoot and was always included on outings with Brett's circle of friends. Believe it or not, Liam went on to law school and now has his own firm in Lake Placid.

But during this Montreal overnight trip, Geoff and I were strangers. We mingled in the group, and probably liked one another but were shy about it for the most part. It was upon checking out, that Brett took it upon himself to invite everyone besides Geoff and I to carpool with him, leaving Geoff and I to drive back together. That great big SUV and just the two of us.

Now I don't remember my phone number some days or even my age all the time, but I remember that car ride well. I remember the first impression Geoff left on me when we had that first alone time together. That vibe, if you will. How easy he was to talk to. How comfortable I felt with him. I could have sat and taken a road trip across the countries of Canada and the U.S. combined in one big circle only stopping for food and use of the bathroom. His energy was so content, so balanced. He had good taste in music and wanted to make sure I liked what he was listening to as well. Once in a while he turned the music down or off, and just let a stillness set between us.

He was a boy raised with manners and was full of stories yet dispersed them with silences and pauses, as to not talk my ear off, though I craved at times he would. All this in a drive of under two hours.

When we reached Plattsburgh, Geoff suggested stopping at the mall to stretch our legs and get a bite to eat. I excitedly obliged, saying I wanted Chinese in the Food Court, and hopefully they'd have free samples, though I'd be buying a meal anyhow.

Much to my dismay, he wasn't a big fan of Chinese. I think he got Burger King or Pizza, I can't remember. I purchased a plate of chicken lo mein with two sets of chop sticks and encouraged Geoff to try using chopsticks with me. I showed him how to hold one like a pencil and pinch the other. He adamantly refused. I insisted he give me one good reason why he so refused to try lo mein (I even said he could avoid the chicken meat if he thought it might be cat or dog meat), and he finally told me this:

"Lo mein just doesn't look right. It looks like spaghetti that got sick. I just can't do it. I'm sorry."

I processed what he said, and started to laugh. I had some lo mein in my mouth, and it started coming out of my mouth. I could barely swallow all of a sudden. Then I thought of what he said some more, and decided I could not eat anymore of this sick spaghetti either. To this day, I cannot eat lo mein. Geoff ruined lo mein for me, forever.

That was the first time Geoff made me laugh. It was such an uncontrollable laugh, and his words left such a marked impression on me. This is when I believe I fell in love with Geoff. The sick spaghetti comment. A decade later, after I'd left Geoff and began mourning the loss of him, I wrote a poem one day, and a line came out of that poem that gave me some clarity about love. And that line was this: "A man who makes you laugh - hold onto that one like a shadow at high noon."

On the day I left Geoff I didn't know the reason I left, but in the days and weeks and months and years that passed after leaving, clarity came. It was like taking steps backward from a mountain until finally you see the whole thing for what it is.

One of the reasons I initially thought I left, is that I thought that fundamentally, a partnership needs a stronger foundation than good sex and laughter at the end of the day. A good partnership needed financial stability, a strong parallel faith in God, and a coming together on politics.

No, I've had to step back even farther. And I see a bigger picture now. A healthy partnership comes with a significant other who makes you smile, makes you cry, and makes you laugh. A lifetime partner makes you feel alive. He makes you want to wake up in the morning. He makes you want to take on a new adventure each day. He simply makes you feel. That is what love is. I know that now. I see it. I had to walk far, far away to learn that.

Our First Time

For the life of me I can't remember when Geoff and I were officially a couple or when our first kiss happened or when we first held hands. But as most couples have a hard time forgetting their first most intimate moments, I will never forget ours.

It happened in his dorm room at St. Lawrence University, Whitman Hall, second floor, close to the balcony. He had a single room, nothing fancy, but it was all we needed to get the job done.

I'll spare the details meant only for he and I, and just say that we exchanged those three special words that come with any promotion of relationship. I said them first, and asked him not to reciprocate, since I was just sharing how I felt. I loved him.

But he couldn't resist, it seemed, to say them back. And after saying them he went to the opposite end of his room, only 15 feet away maybe, and turned off the light, so only his computer monitor shed a dim glow in the center of the room, and our dark bodies - his standing at one end and mine lying atop the bed at the other, waited for each other like weak magnets, controlled only by our very weak momentary willpower, as he pulled off his t-shirt, baring his soft and boyish skin.

I wanted to touch it. His chest and stomach. Shoulders and back. He had no hair there at all. I found that extremely sexy. I'd brought a night slip to his room and planned this out, and had changed into it somehow as sort of a surprise for him. I was ready to give myself to him and take him into me. He would be my first, though he didn't know it. I had let him think he was my second, since I was shy and a little embarrassed at my virginity, being a sophomore in college and all. He was a freshman and had let me know in not so many words, that he was not a virgin. But I believed I was the first girl he loved, and that's all that mattered. I loved this boy, this Geoff. I believed I would marry him someday, probably soon after we graduated college, if not the day after! We would have children soon after that, buy a house, land jobs, and live happily ever after. This was the man of my dreams, and he was about to make love to me.

When it was all over, I replayed our lovemaking over and over again in my mind throughout the night and throughout the next day, sometimes inadvertently squealing aloud to myself. I was just in a tizzy. My stomach was in knots. I was beyond infatuated. I was intoxicated with this Geoff and with how his body had moved with mine. How he'd looked into my eyes while we moved together, how he'd been somewhat shy and sensitive to how I felt while we moved and shifted and took our time feeling one another out. I'd never known sex could be so beautiful and non-awkward and slippery and feel-good. It surpassed any experience I went on to have at college, any high or buzz or anything. This one takes the cake. My first, with Geoff.

We went on to explore this newfound passion for each others' bodies for a decade and it never grew dull, though no experience ever quite lived up to that first one. We did grow a little self conscious as we put on weight over the years, but I never stopped loving his skin or how he felt inside of me. He had a gentle rhythm and we rocked just right together. Even after a decade, we were still exploring new ways to please one another, though I was a timid lover and Geoff's appetite for sex grew as his appetite for food did and I felt diminished in my capacity to please him as the years went on.

The Bird

College didn't end with wedding bells and baby diapers. We did however inherit a bird. Not the animal kind. It was a human bird. Let me explain.

We decided to settle down in Saranac Lake, where Geoff's parents lived and where each of us worked. I was a substitute teacher and Geoff wrote for the Adirondack Daily Enterprise. So we did what any normal couple fresh out of college would do. We rented a house and lived together, and sublet an extra room to a stranger.

Now let me say, this stranger was not creepy but he was strange. He was such a strange bird, that we actually called him the bird. He was perched atop the house. As close as one could be to living on the rafters and tile, this bird resided.

His real name was Jason, and that is what we called him to his face. We only called him bird behind his back, as to not be mean. He lived on the third floor of our A-frame abode with a bird's eye view of Bloomingdale Avenue's railroad tracks in downtown Saranac Lake.

Our first impression of the bird was that he looked extremely malnourished, or perhaps he was naturally just a small boned person. His head was particularly tiny, and we sometimes joked that he had a bird-brain.

Jason worked at a factory one hour away, and was up before the crack of dawn. Hours later when Geoff and I awoke, we'd commend the early bird for catching his worm.

"The bird has flown," Geoff remarked one morning.

"I'm surprised he gets up that early when he stays up so late playing guitar," I commented back.

"Yeah wasn't that Free Bird he was playing last night?" Geoff joked.

"Haha. He's free as a bird. He ought to find some other birds to play with too. Start a bird band."

"Birds of a feather flock together."

"Oh yeah, I've heard that before. I think a little bird told me that."

Geoff and I laughed.

The bird brought us lots of laughter.

Geoff brought me lots of laughter. The bird could have brought me lots of strife. He was a stranger living in our home and tried to hang out with us sometimes and it got awkward. But Geoff always made the bird feel comfortable and had a way of excusing us from the social scene when he felt I needed my space.

Geoff had a way of spinning things - situations - to make them laughable. He made life colorful. He colored my 20's with bird jokes and good music, interesting films and comedians, YouTube videos and Onion articles, music festivals and outdoor adventures.

He also invited his friends into our lives. Not just the bird. The bird was not actually our friend. But we had other friends I would not have had without Geoff. One of those friends being Liam. Liam and Meredith and Gigno and Titus, just to name a few. There was also Brett and Melissa, who we matched up after meeting Melissa in Rhode Island. They now live out West together. Meredith lives out West, too. In fact, everybody has moved on with their lives it seems. Everyone except for me. I live with my parents and blog and take medications that supposedly treat mental illness.

Geoff is a writer too, and has moved on relationship-wise. I can't picture myself ever seriously settling down with another person. Even though six years has passed since our break-up at this time of writing (2017).

Love doesn't pay the bills. Not having money pulled the last Jenga block out of our relationship. It became the source of stress for so many other issues that would have been non-issues otherwise. We'd not have been arguing about how messy his room was, for example, if we'd had the money to own our own home, with a master bedroom with furniture to put all his clothes in drawers and closets. We'd not have been arguing about late night boredom if we'd had money to afford cable at the beach-house. We'd not have been arguing over how fat we were getting if we weren't so depressed. Poverty is depressing. Debt drained the luster out of our everyday life. Hence, the drinking.

When we argued it was only when we were sober. I'd go after him only verbally, but with the accuracy of a peregrine falcon diving after it's prey. I'd use such intentional effort to strike with accuracy, a target which was somewhat already dead. Geoff never wanted to argue. He would sit motionless and silent, save for apologizing for whatever he did or did not do wrong, until my rant was over.

Geoff never reciprocated a provocative word to me in all our decade together. He did frown upon spending money on groceries. Beer and eventually lemon vodka became a daily necessity for Geoff. Comic books and Magic the Gathering cards became a weekly expense. Geoff liked to spend money but our fridge was always bare.

But Geoff had a way of soothing me, making me feel like everything would be okay, even when I sensed it wasn't. He offered foot rubs almost daily. Alcohol calmed me, too.

But my resentments built up over the years. Day by day, little by little, comments would escape my lips until it became a daily ritual to emasculate him verbally.

Until one day I arrived at the point of forgetting who it was that I fell in love with in the beginning. I found myself at a somewhat literal dead-end road of feelings. And so I ran away.

Funeral Celebrations

So I had this thought that somewhere in the world there must exist this cool tiny country or village where funerals were joyful, not sad. Celebrations of life, if you will. A place where even mothers who lost their young children could devote a short period of time, an hour or two, to holding hands with neighbors and friends and relatives. In this obscure village they would laugh as they remembered through stories and pictures they told with sticks in sand, the child who had passed, as they embraced one another.

It would only be after this period of celebration that the body, placed in it's box, would be presented for burial.

I attended a funeral three weeks ago. Two parents had lost a son, two siblings a brother. The family called the service a celebration of life. The casket was in the room, but a PowerPoint photo presentation and guitar player and accompanying bass guitar, singers, and story-tellers comprised the centerpiece.

An earthquake happened in my body that day, and I was shaken.

One by one, family members and friends shared stories about this young person who had passed.

I'd brought Kleenex, but apparently not enough.

I'd worn sunglasses, but apparently they weren't too sagacious because my mother ended up handing me more tissues from her purse as well.

Eventually I got up and grabbed a box from the next aisle over.

When story-time was finally over I was grateful. I couldn't bear it anymore. But I went home feeling changed and grateful for the experience. Lots of people were moved, from this funeral celebration service. I decided I'd blog about it.

I Googled it to start, funeral celebrations, and was disappointed. I read a lame article on Business Insider that some weirdo yuppie with purple hair surely wrote, which categorized five types of funerals in five major countries. Boooo. And that feminist-economist-slacker-writer-wannabe probably charged a day's wages to BI and got paid $500 for her posed labor.

But what I really wanted Google to tell me, and I went 17 pages deep! was whether this cool little tiny village really existed where people didn't automatically do something sad or bizarre like eating someone's burned bone ashes. Can't there just be a celebration of someone's life? Can't we just honor a person for having lived?  Isn't talking about the deceased and giving one another a hug a normal thing? Can't all cultures agree on that?

Are people typically sad all around the world at funerals? Can you tell me that Google? Instead of throwing up this BI BS?

Are we supposed to be sad? Would the person who just died have wanted us to walk around in black dresses and suits and hang our heads?

What if something amazing just happened earlier that day and someone happens to be really happy? Is it okay for someone to be really happy at a funeral?

Are we allowed to stay home if we feel too upset to go? How much emotion is it okay to show?

I've been wondering about why I cried so much at that funeral celebration. It was kind of ridiculous, honestly, how much I cried. I just had a storm brewing inside I guess. Emotions are like the rumbles that happen way deep down at the ocean floor, but sometimes those rumbles cause shifts and all of a sudden the sea comes tsunami'ing out.

I won't be talking to my family about how I want my funeral to pan out anytime soon, but when my uncle passed away three months ago, he had every detail of his funeral worked out. He asked his youngest of three daughters to officiate the service, too. She did a great job, really holding it together. I don't know how she did it. I bawled when I watched the video. She had this beautiful glow. It made me wonder at the gratitude for her almost 35 years shared on this (somewhat still) green planet with her dad. The same amount of time I've had with mine. How lucky I am to have my father here still.

Death certainly puts things in perspective for those of us who are still living. It makes us hold each other a little more closely. Even for those of us who don't really hug. I'm holding my family closer in my heart and thoughts this holiday season for sure. It seems that death this winter has been all around.

I wasn't very close to my uncle. He was hard to be close to. His wife and daughters were the only ones he really let in.

He was a very tall man. I remember looking up to him, literally, from a very young age, and I never stopped. He pastored a church and was a true bible scholar, but also a man of very few words, ironically. Uncle Royal. Uncle Ironic. He seemed to do plenty of speaking in his final months, finely crafting his funeral service. Every t was crossed, i dotted. He and his daughters sang hymns during the final days of his life spent in hospice care, and my aunt shared pictures through email with my mom and I. It's hard to even write about this. Something about old Christian hymns, and going to meet Jesus. There's something so powerful in that.

His funeral service was not quite a celebration. But it was not a sad event either. It was upbeat, formal, and at times, entertaining! It was an honorary service to the Lord. Royal had picked out hymns, scriptures, and a blue grass gospel video, all honoring the Jesus he preached about for over 40 years.

Maybe not everybody wants people to make a big fuss over them when they die. And I for one don't want to even talk about it. Well, that's kind of hypocritical to say. But I don't want to even think about it as far as my own funeral, at least not yet. But I think it's good to think about in general terms, anyhow. It's good that we can explore different models of how to let go here in the liberal Western world, where anything goes. We're not bound by tradition, although some people still are, and there's comfort in that to some extent. I hope we continue to break away from traditions that don't serve to better us, however, when it comes to helping us grieve in healthy ways.

Cookies

So I'm living at home with my parents and baking cookies. That is my life now. It's been reduced to butter, flour and sugar. Pretty much.

I don't know what to blog about anymore. I thought maybe there would be a story in this baking of cookies, but there's not. And there isn't much else, either. I just bake cookies. Everyday. And tape labels onto bags. I feel kind of like a one-woman factory.

I indulge in cookie dough, and this is a problem. I've gained 20 lbs in the past 2 months, though I'm only back up to my original 125'ish weight, so I can't complain. Yet. But what if it's another 20 this Fall. And by winter I'll just commit health suicide. I'm already beginning to not care anymore. Not about being healthy, not about being skinny. It doesn't matter.

The cookie dough also inhibits my ability to do a 3rd annual FaceBook bikini picture this summer. If I do one, I might just let it all hang out, belly and all. I'll slouch a little. Not shave my armpits for a week before the shoot. And lift my arms while squatting, sumo style. It could be funny.

Who have I become?

I didn't even go outside today. I did briefly, to get something in my car, and it was hot as hell, and I was thankful for my parents' dark shaded home, which kept somewhat cool, though I slaved over a 400 degree oven all day, and got about 50 brief facial steams in opening the oven and bending my entire upper body impatiently into it's belly when retrieving cookie pans.

I played with my dogs - 3 miniature schnauzers. Two are puppies and recent additions to my parents' home. Elmer (the boy) and Dutchess (the girl). With our third dog Brody, these names match in first letters to my names. Erin Danielle Boyea. Elmer Dutchess Brody. I think my parents subconsciously gave these dogs these names because they love me more than my sister.

That was a joke. It's just a neat coincidence. But I do think my parents love me the most.

They have to. I bake them cookies (and many other things) everyday. I vacuum. I play with the dogs. I get the mail. I do the dishes.

My mom gets mad at me though when I outscore her on Dots on her iPad. She hasn't figured out how to predict where the dots will fall to make a square.

I guess that's it. I'm still watching Bob Ross on Netflix. He makes me feel calm. The anxiety comes at night and I'm tired of running away from it. I sit through the cold sweats and focus on paint. How it all comes together in a picture. I contemplate the beauty of life for those who find and master their gifts.

I looked up Bob Ross the other day to see how old he is. I guess he died in '95. Some form of cancer I think. Maybe from all the paint fumes. I don't know.

I thought I'd be playing music this summer, but the cookies took over. Until my administrative leave paychecks from my last job suddenly came to an end 2 weeks ago. I won't be able to purchase ingredients to bake cookies much longer. I'm already giving away more cookies than I sell from each batch. If I'd known my paychecks would abruptly end I'd never have invested in starting this cookie baking business. I'd have let my paychecks go into a savings account. Lord knows how long I'd be able to survive on a couple thousand dollars. Now I have to survive on zero dollars and the good grace of my parents. Thirty-four years old and this is what my life's amounted to. Zero. It's tough being out of a job with no pay. It's tough having seizures that come about now whenever I get upset. I'm afraid. I'm depressed.

For my thyroid readers, my June levels were TSH .008, up from .002 in March. But I saw an endocrinologist who said my PCP should not have decreased my thyroid medication by so much, and she is now increasing my dosage slightly and taking over my thyroid care. Summer and winter dosage requirements might differ based on my history, I realize. I'm lucky to have insurance that affords me a specialist visit like that. Hopefully my former employer won't cut out my health insurance while I'm on this suddenly extended and now unpaid medical leave. Hopefully life gets better. It has to.

That's it for now. Goodnight.

Nostalgia

My pain hits me sometimes, like a whip, it stings inside.

I miss the old, the old familiar, the old nonsense and pointlessness. Everything unmeaningful. It's meaningful now.

I miss the now, stuck in the then. The world screams light-waves but I can't hear.

I miss the sound of your voice and of your laughter. I miss your smile. I miss the shenanigans and the dull but somehow exciting bar-talk we shared when the day was far away.

Night owls. Passing souls. Strangers sharing a breath of time together, and it ends.

I miss feeling nothing. That was something. Something special indeed.

Netflix Doc Reviews 4: The Fundamentals of Caring, Prescription Thugs, Being Ginger, Meet the Patels, Full Metal Jacket, Where was God?

1. The Fundamentals of Caring

Okay, it was a film, not a doc. A Netflix original film, to be exact. But I wanted to share it because it featured a main character who was a jerk asshole teenage boy confined to a wheelchair. His new caregiver had to have a very intimate care-giving relationship with him. It was extremely well written, lighthearted, and thought-provoking. Everyone should watch it! 10/10


2. Prescription Thugs

Umm, we have a different war than terror to fight in this country, and it's against opioids and amphetamines. Holy crap. I can't believe the creator of this film was allowed to exploit the pharmaceutical companies so freely. Bravo Netflix. I learned a lot. I also have more compassion now for people who rely on pills for pain or whatever. Former drug dealer Chris Bell is ballsy and he keeps it real. 8/10


3. Being Ginger

Did I review this one before? I watched it back in January. Anyways, I guess there is racism against redheads in some parts of the world. It's acceptable racism, which is strange, as I've never thought of red hair as a thing that constituted much of a difference between another person and myself. I mean people die their hair purple and pink now. Are strawberry blonde highlights really a thing to fear? Apparently so. Strange film, although there is a cute love story tied in, as the redheaded director tries to find a girl who will go out with him. He is cute, but struggles immensely.  6/10


4. Meet the Patels

I watched this when I was going through my internet dating phase and meeting Indian men over a year ago. I became intrigued with their culture. The producer of Meet the Patels, an only child in an Indian family of 3, films his parents as they discuss their views of marriage and life. They are a very cute family, worthy of having a reality show. I'd like to see more footage of this family if Netflix has more in the future. The Indian dad was especially funny, and I actually felt when the documentary ended, that I'd lost a friend without being able to properly say good-bye. I must have this Indian dad in my life, at least cybernetically. 9/10



5. Full Metal Jacket

Again, not a doc, but someone suggested I watch it, and let me tell you. The first 20 minutes terrorized me. I felt like I'd been to boot camp and war thrice over by the end of the film. It was an extremely disturbing psychological story of what a soldier goes through.  10/10



6.  Where was God? Stories of Hope After the Storm

This was rather depressing, so I'd suggest watching this alone if you don't like getting emotional around others. It starts out kind of sad but then there are moments later on that pull your heart apart. It's about families torn apart by the Oklahoma tornado of 2013, which collapsed an entire school house. Anyways, it's not too graphic, and there are moments of the film showing how the tragedy brought a community closer together. 7/10

Netflix Documentary Reviews 3: Holy Ghost, Dope, Furious Love, Fuller House: Season 1, Bob Ross: Season 1, My Beautiful Broken Brain, The Genius of Marian, Finding Vivian Maier, Janis: Little Girl Blue

1. Holy Ghost

This documentary followed a former member of heavy metal band Korn in his spiritual walk today. Mostly, he tells people about Jesus and tries to pray for them. There were a couple of other dudes praying and healing people, too. It really fascinated me, but then I read one distinct negative review on Netflix (even though the documentary had an overall 5/5 star rating), and it made me question everything I just saw. I've posted the negative review below, and you can watch the film and decide for yourself. 8/10

2. Dope

A fun ghetto film. Not a documentary, but I needed to include it. It's about a modern day black nerd, who dresses like Fresh Prince, but lives in the ghetto. Imagine Will Smith, as a smart and responsible teenager, growing up in the projects of West Phili. The film was well-directed and scored, and fairly well written. I just liked the concept for the character most of all. Though rated R, it seemed appropriate for the whole family.  7/10


3. Furious Love

This was kind of similar to Holy Ghost, but not quite as captivating, so I'll give it a 6/10.


4. Fuller House: Season 1

Also not a documentary. But so epic I must review! Lots of laugh-on-the-inside moments. Give it a few episodes, and you'll be hooked for the season. I was surprised to see how well the roles of DJ and Stephanie Tanner were played. Nothing was awkward. Not even the fake audience laughter following Kimmy's dumb attempts at attention, though she seems to have given up her crush on Uncle Jesse. She has a child, and is recovering from years of drinking and drugging, so she's grown up a bit, too. Rebecca and Jesse share some very wet kisses (that was as close to awkward as it got), and of course, Jesse plays his "Forever" song (yeah, that was pretty awkward) toward the end of the season. They really hashed out a lot of old memories though, yet not many visual flashbacks. Maybe they weren't allowed to use old footage for copyright issues. "Michele" did not re-join the cast, and other characters make comments about her disappearance, in one instance saying she can't join them because she is too busy "running her fashion empire." 9/10


5. Bob Ross: Beauty is Everywhere, Season 1

Wow this was a trip. Back in time, and out into nature. His paintings really come to life in front of your eyes in like 20 minutes. It's so amazing. Now kids can pause and play to prepare their palettes and practice their brush strokes. If they're painting for real and not using computer painting software. Ross often takes a moment talk about nature and animals. On the first episode, he shows baby squirrels suckling from a bottle, that he prepared for them after they lost their mother! It was nuts! I wish I could own one of his paintings, really. That would go on the bucket list for sure. 10/10

6. My Beautiful, Broken Brain

This was a legit documentary. This girl had a stroke and lost the ability to do certain things. She had to learn how to do basic things all over again. It was scary (she was only 34!) and touching. 9/10

7. The Genius of  Marian

A son films his mother after she is diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I felt the film was too slow paced and boring, and it was poorly edited, and also a little invasive and exploitative. But anyways. It's there on Netflix. Maybe it could help somebody who is struggling with losing someone they love to this disease.  6/10

8. Finding Vivian Maier

This nanny whom everyone knew as always walking around with a big camera around her neck, finally got exposed, long after her death. Her pictures are so amazing, I must give this film a 10/10.

9. Janis: Little Girl Blue

Such a sad story of Janis Joplin, but this film brings her back to life, and humanizes her in a way no other media has. Great footage, and some very intimate interview segments with Janis and those closest to her. This is a story worth watching. 8/10

The world is going to end

I'm not a big Joyce Meyers fan but I went through a season in my life where I watched her shows all the time, and I remember one thing she said that stuck in my head. She said there are people who claim you can't believe in something you can't see. But we believe in gravity, and black holes, and fortune-telling the weather, because we see the evidence of their existence.

The world is so screwed up! Up is down and left is right and good is bad and bad is AWESOME!

I was at a music festival about 10 years ago and there was a table set up in the tent where people buy bongs and stuff and these dudes at one table were offering people 50 bucks to get a chip inserted into their finger. They were testing out tracking software in humans!! It scared me but other people were in line to get their fifty bucks.

The government is trying to inject us and infiltrate our minds with all kinds of crap. People at this festival were too messed up to even probably remember having the chip implanted in them.

So sad. I realize there are wild conspiracy theories out there. But the bible's predictions of the final days are happening right now. People are deceived. And those people may think I'm deceived. In fact, I hope they're right, and I get to live a nice long happy life, but in case that doesn't happen, I want to know I shared what was on my heart with people while there was still time.

I'm scared. I don't think it matters who the next president is. Nobody's gonna fix this country or this God-forsaken world. We are doomed.

I'm part of the mess too. I buy clothes made by Asian slave children. I buy gas at Mobil sometimes, who is a sponsor of Planned Parenthood. I waste gas letting my car run for an hour some mornings when it's really cold, or just driving around for no reason, when people's heads have been chopped off for the sake of oil.

I spend money at McDonald's and put sheer crap in my body. Crap made by the young teenagers who work these jobs to buy themselves clothes and gasoline. Indentured servants worked for 7 years to own land. I worked hard in college for 6 years to rack up an $80,000 debt that with interest is over $100,000.

I make barely $40,000/year, and a third of that goes to taxes, health insurance, union dues, and a couple other things. That leaves 28. Subtract 6 for rent and 6 for food/gas. That leaves me about $16,000 to try to save toward a $100,000 house and an $80,000 student loan. But then even that 16 disappears. I don't know where it goes really. Let me think.

tithe/charity                                  $5000 
gifts for people                             $2000
impulsive clothes shopping          $1000
meds/vitamins/herbs                     $1000
car insurance                                 $600
phone                                             $600
netflix                                            $100

Okay, so I guess I could be saving about $5,000 or so each year. Then I could maybe put a down payment on a house in 10 years, when I'm 45 and too old for any man to love me.

But maybe if I have a nice house he will.

I watched a documentary called Freedom to Fascism recently. It made me realize I was a deceived slave, tricked into thinking I'm free. But I'm not. I may as well go live in North Korea.

I went through the drive through again yesterday and bought another sundae with extra hot fudge. It was late and dark and I should have gone to bed instead. What a loser I am. I just wanted it so bad I couldn't think straight. I ended up making an obnoxious effort to get it. In my mouth. Now.

I digress. I haven't had another grand mal seizure since September. The seizure medication seems to be helping. Go figure. I was wrong about healing myself through nutrition and wishful thinking. I have this strange feeling like everything might start coming together soon. Maybe it's a 7 year cycle thing though. I'll turn 35 this August.

My seizure medication was expensive when I started taking it - $144/month through Rite Aid. And that was the generic! Then I switched to Walmart and it was $75/month. Then I made some phone calls to my HR department and found out I was mistakenly never mailed my prescription coverage insurance card, good for CVS pharmacies only. Now I use CVS mail-order scripts and pay $15 every three months and the seizure meds are shipped to me.

I'm considered an epileptic now. I was approved for free rides in a handicap van. Sunlight makes me dizzy so I'll have to start using that as the days get longer and brighter.  I was told I wouldn't have to pay a fee. My blind friend Josh uses the same handicap van but it's not free for him. He has to pay $4 per stop.

Yes, the world is going to end.

I hate the word epilepsy. Instead of studying this unique gift I have to travel in and out of consciousness, they call it a disease and make me pay for medication to make it go away.

My pastor here in RI cites research studies in his sermons sometimes that support what the bible teaches about how to live our lives and treat people. At my first AA meeting I was told that in order to overcome addiction, I had to believe in God.

And it's in the big blue book an old man gave me at my first meeting, when I was 7 days sober from alcohol, probably for only the second time in my entire adult life. A lady sitting next to me pulled a gold coin out of her pocket, and slipped it into my hand. The coin said 24-hours-sober. When it was my turn to share, I was really honest with the group. I told them I wasn't really an alcoholic, but was there to watch and learn.

Which I was and did.

I never even decided to quit drinking. I just decided I might not want it anymore, when I woke up from a grand mal seizure last September. And I still haven't gotten a craving.

I've gotten bored though, and that's dangerous. Blogging, sleeping, and cleaning incessantly have ironically kept me pretty sane. Having a full-time job helps, and part-time friends, and lots of alone time with Netflix and something I'll call Lilo. I'm not always looking happy. But I still have joy inside somehow.  I'm more content on a bad day single than I ever was on a good day with my ex.

I had to be alone with myself. I had to get to know me. Focus on my own flaws. Learn to be gentle on myself. Learn to love myself and treat my self with kindness. I think that's how I justify eating McDonald's sundaes sometimes. 

My RI pastor cited a research study that showed married couples who waited for marriage before having sex reported being happier overall after 20 years and again after 40 years of marriage, compared to couples who didn't wait for sex. The ones who waited also had a lower divorce rate.

I haven't seen or dated anyone seriously in the past 5 years. It will be 5 years this April since I left my past life. And since then the remembrances I tried to cling onto. All gone now. I feel like I can breathe again.

The guys I met on a dating website last Spring were all losers. Except one guy named Steve. He is the one who encouraged me to go to AA meetings when I decided to give up drinking. He must have known how hard it would be, even for the occasional social drinker.

My landlord was the biggest loser of all. He finally installed a CO detector 2 weeks ago, though I started mentioning it almost a year ago. The old one kept beeping. I'm limited to a small space heater and a gas kitchen stove and the entire shared third floor wreaks of propane. I try to open windows sometimes but he checks on the house, since he pays the electric bill.  He even walks into my room some days, maybe to check on his hidden cameras, I don't know. I'm creeped out though. I told him I'd be out by the end of June.

Whatev. I needed a cheap place to move into fast last spring and he offered to help. Beggars can't be choosers.

My 96 year old grandmother is still living with my parents temporarily while her frozen pipes problem is being fixed. They had to take out her entire dining room ceiling. I hope the carpenters moved all her nice rugs out of the construction zone and kept dust out of the other rooms by hanging up plastic over the doorways. I hope they aren't getting her nice hardwood floors all scraped up with salt that sticks to the bottom of work boots in winter.

Grandma speaks highly of those handymen however. Grandma. She will probably outlive us all.