Dear Grandpa

So. My grandpa died the other day. Or, my grandpa croaked the other day, as I’m sure he’d prefer we’d say it. I mean, he’s been prepping everyone for this day for as long as I can remember. But that doesn’t make this any easier. It sucks and I hate it.

I hate that he’s not here anymore. That he can’t call me to remind me to switch my clocks forward in the spring, even though my phone already does it for me. I hate that he’s not here to correct my grammar. To improve my vocabulary. To tell me hey is for horses. I hate that I can’t bring him egg salad sandwiches on Easter, and sit on his couch and tell him about my latest adventure. I hate that I can never again sit across from him for lunch at Red Rock Cafe. And I hate that there are people in this world that will never know him. I think that’s the worst part. Yeah, that’s definitely the worst part.

I hate that he’ll never write me another letter - written in a black felt tip pen, on yellow legal paper, important facts highlighted with red stars and hearts. That I never told him how special those letters were to me. That I’ve kept every single one of them. I hate that I have a letter here, a letter that I wrote, that my grandpa never received.

The evening of the 26^th was a rather restless one. Unable to sleep, I awoke before dawn with the urge to write my grandpa a letter. I’ve received weekly letters from my grandpa from the moment I left home six years ago, so in his declining health it seemed only fitting that I returned the gesture. I had written one previously, just a week before. But this time, when I set out to write, yellow legal pad in front of me, black felt tip pen in hand, all that came through me was grief. Not wanting to be overly sentimental (my grandpa was never big on that), I struggled with words. I shared with him my latest ventures, how festive my house was for the holidays, and how ready I was for a vacation from work. All the while trying to avoid the elephant in the room. But I never got to send it. It’s sitting here, on my nightstand, addressed and ready to go, but that’s as far as it’ll get. Later that morning, my grandpa passed. What initially started as cancer in his brain shortly took over his whole body, and then took his life just days after Christmas.

It only really feels real when I stop. When there’s nothing left to distract my mind. When something reminds me of him. The smell of tic tacs. A Brooks Brothers polo. A felt tip pen. It’s when I stop, that it hurts the most. My throat tightens. My eyes blur. And my jaw quivers. That’s when it’s the worst. Don’t get me wrong, my grandpa lived an incredible life. He traveled the world, raced fast cars, and had great loves. He leaves behind a great legacy, Napa is better because of him – there’s even a building with his name to prove it. The world is better because of him. An outstanding man, he sets the bar high. So high, I doubt anyone can fill his raggedy old topsider shoes. I just wish I had appreciated that more while he was here. That I would have smiled in the candid photos that were always his favorite to take. That I was more proud than embarrassed when he insisted on pulling in to the jock lot to pick me up from cheerleading practice. That I made more time for phone calls and lunches. So I guess if I could write another letter, that’s what I’d say. But I think he probably already knows, you know? Grandpa’s are smart like that. At least mine was. And he hates when I say you know. My bad.

Man, that was depressing. And long. Sorry about that one. I swear I’m usually not such a Debbie Downer. In fact, something cool happened today that was anything but depressing. Actually, it was the opposite of depressing. It was uplifting. I practiced yoga this morning guided by intention. Don’t ask, I saw a flyer for it and it sounded cool. And I’m an easy sell. The idea was to close this year in peace, and set your intention for the new. Um, hi perfect timing. We began the class with a piece of paper, a pen, and a prompt. I began to write. Part one was to ask. Ask for what you want. Part two was to act. And part three was to feel gratitude for whatever the outcome. We folded it up, set it under our mats and meditated on it throughout our practice, only to rip it up at the end, freeing ourselves of the past year.

You guys, my mom is probably dyinggg as she reads this right now. She’s tried to hammer this into my thick skull for forever. This is, like, her dream for me. It’s totally her mantra. I bet she’s read this at least seventeen times to make sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her. But it’s true, Mom. I did it.

I asked for peace. I know, I know. So general, but hear me out. I asked to be at peace with my grandpa’s passing. For patience and understanding because I know the process is tough. I asked for the strength to be okay. To be happy without him here. I think I could probably make that happen by giving myself a little grace. By being patient and trusting myself, and knowing that I can let my grandpa live through me. And for that, I’m grateful. 

Pins and Needles

some may say i have a low tolerance for pain

I feel like the second the leaves start to change – it’s go go go nonstop until they start to bloom again. I mean seriously, it’s like Halloween*, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years all happen before I can even catch my breath. I’m usually not a big fan of the winter months – I look like a drowned rat in the rain and I absolutely loathe being cold. But this year, I’m totally embracing it. So much so, that it’s exhausting.

Feeling a bit rundown, I decided to head to an acupuncture clinic. I know. But it’s Los Angeles after all, so give me a break. And I saw it on Groupon. Okay, and maybe I’m not the biggest fan of regular medicine. Not like modern medicine in general or anything like that, just that I don’t necessarily like taking DayQuil, you know? So I threw on some fringed boots and an organic cotton top, grabbed a kale juice and headed to The Emperor’s College in Santa Monica. Sometimes even I can’t believe how ridiculous I am.

I have this very serious condition I’ve diagnosed as I freak out in any kind of medical situation and hold my breath, thus causing my pulse and blood pressure to go totally bonkers syndrome. I don’t know if the medical community recognizes it yet. I think it has something to do with the way doctors give you verbal feedback so you know they’re listening, without either confirming or denying your very serious concerns. Saying hmm interesting when I tell you I’m afraid my arm will need to be amputated due to excessive pain in my right pinky finger does not put me at ease, doctors of the world.

After some poking and prodding and a lot of deep breaths, my medical intern told me I had low blood sugar, my kidneys were stressed, and my liver function was low. I believe this is what the medical community would call a Hot Mess, as the result of a Long Weekend. So I reclined on the tables and held my breath. Needles were pricked, for lack of a better term, in my big toes, the tops of my feet, sides of my shin, thumbs, hands, wrists, earlobes, and one in the very center of my forehead – for relaxation, obviously. And I’m happy to say it worked. My thumbs kind of swelled and my right big toe is still tingling, but I think it worked. After a short liver detox with herbs like milk thistle and something called Yin Qiao San I’m feeling better than ever. Yeah, I don’t know what the last one is either, but the doctor prescribed it to me so it must be good, right? Right.

*speaking of Halloween, did I ever show you my costume? We were Toddlers in Tiaras. Not photographed are our white ruffle socks and tule skirts. I mean.

Bullshit.

my sister and i on thanksgiving.

So I completely neglected Thanksgiving. Not like in real life. But like I haven’t told you all about it. It was probably a lot like yours. I went home. I went to local bars the night before. I saw everyone I have ever seen in my whole life. All crowded in to one place. This place being my favorite Chinese takeout restaurant in downtown Napa that let a bunch of rowdy kids take over their dining room and continued to sell us beer far longer than they probably should have. The next day, I had dinner with my family. A delicious dinner, thanks to my dad. Only one person stormed away from the table and I think only two people cried. Basically, a total success.

I thought about doing some cheesy post about all of the things I was thankful for, but I decided against it. Honestly, I was over it. And I was being a brat. Like, you know when you don’t like someone, and suddenly everything they do annoys the shit out of you? That was me. Except it wasn’t somebody, but everything. I was super mad I had to fly back to Los Angeles early the next morning. I hated my new haircut. Seriously hated. I was frustrated I had to give up my bed for houseguests. Guests that happened to be my aunt and uncle. Anyone who has had family stay for an extended amount of time should instantly feel sorry for me. Right? And yes, four days count as an extended amount of time. It’s nearly an eternity. It felt like it, at least. I wanted to stomp up and down after my downstairs neighbors complained I live like I’m in a dorm room. Umm rude. And I had some choice words for the woman who snaked the last spot in a packed coffee house parking lot. Basically, a lot of bullshit.

Seriously on one, I headed to Goodwill the other day in search of costume materials for a rather creative holiday party. Out of habit, I asked the man behind the register ringing up my old levi’s how he was doing. He responded with fine, and asked me the same. I smirked and said it was early, that I couldn’t complain yet. He looked at me and said, I bet you could. Everyone can complain. It’s whether or not you choose to. And I instantly felt like an asshole. Ironically standing in Goodwill. Hating my awful bangs. And feeling like a total asshole. So remember when I said I opted out of doing a super cheesy post about how thankful I am and blah blah blah? Yeah, I guess I totally lied. Because I guess everyone goes through bullshit. But that’s all it is. And we can complain about it. Or not. So maybe I should stop complaining. And swearing, for that matter. Sorry, Mom.