By Susan Saraf

By Susan Saraf

Friday, March 29, 2013

Cans and Spring Cleaning

www.AnneAppleman.com 
I have this situation with my garbage can area.  We keep the cans by the back door,  for easy access.   The previous homeowners had put down slate secured in concrete and kept the cans on top of that.  I thought the concrete was ugly.  But I liked the slate.  I would free the slate by breaking up the concrete.  I kinda did that.  Kinda.  The job became a little much.  (All of my jobs are becoming a little much.) So I freed most of the slate, laid them back down in the dirt.  Then it was like putting together a puzzle and I hate puzzles so I tossed whatever I could down to make it somewhat level,  left a couple chunks still in the concrete and abandoned Project GC (Garbage Can.)

That was last year.

Spring has sprung! I got to cleaning up in the backyard and yet again returned to Project GC.  No better than how I had left it.  Now with a winter passed-  to my credit, (swipe tongue over lower teeth, pop suspenders) it has shaped up to be one helluvan eye-sore.

Last week, I put a square block of slate on top of the whole thing, ignoring the particular angles that shaped the perimeters, so it bled on and over the bricks.  It looked better, I convinced myself.  I went on with my life.

This morning I saw it for what it was.  A ridiculous aching mess trying to be an organized space.  (Is anyone drawing an analogy yet? This is profound, this is how we treat and create all of the eye-sores in our lives.) Looking at the square, I thought, "Now why did I put this here?" It makes no sense -still- I didn't want to pick it up.  It's heavy as a horse and dirty and wasn't I done with this already?! Didn't I solve this last weekend? When I put the fucker down in the first place? Well,  apparently not, because here I am, still giving Project GC the hairy eyeball.  Still mad at it.  I could leave it, turn my eye to focus on something else.  I don't want to do anything.  But I'll be back.  So I say to myself  "Self, now's as good a time as any."  So, I lift up the big slab and see the pretty slate in the ugly concrete that I never dealt with back when.  Plus, the mess now with leaves and other fall/winter crud underneath that.  "Ah, good over bad." That's what made me do that.  I thought I'd take some good and put it over the bad,  sounds about right.  It did look better, but it still looked horrible.

I realized.  Unless I take out everything and level the bottom and work with the slate to form the puzzle  or replace the whole thing altogether...it's always going to bother me.  Just like everything else.  Unless I clear it out from the foundation, it's never right.  That's a lot of work. WORK! The worst four letter word of them all.

This is the place in popular blogs where they ask leading questions like "What garbage are you dealing with today?" Here's my attempt-"Do you have anything that looks like dirty piles of crud instead of the good thing you aimed to create?" "Something that you wouldn't even want to show a picture of?" "Do you need to clean up your can area?"

* I love the word "cans".  "Can" alone is alright, but plural makes me laugh till I fart.  "Is there anything in your life that makes you laugh till you fart?"

Have a great week! Happy Easter and Passover and Spring Cleaning! 

Friday, March 22, 2013

Acid Jules

Song: Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic- Sting

"Mama, are clouds the sun's sheets?" Julian asked, looking at the sky.
The thinker at two

I'm on my way to his pre-K class -we're going to blow horns to celebrate his turning five before his actual birthday which falls over Spring Break.

He asked me about the clouds a couple of months ago.  His phrasing has become a perfect balance between far-out and fluid.  So beautiful, I remember his questions for months.  If he himself were aware of the metaphors he creates -he'd be writing for Poet Monthly, collecting monetary awards that I would encourage him to use toward a beach house.  For me:)



When he was about three- he would string words together in perfect pronunciation, confident as a a brick house in a pig story.  What any of it meant our best guess couldn't tell us.  We used to call it "Acid Jules".  His thoughts so random it was like listening to someone on an acid trip.  I couldn't repeat back what he said even 30 seconds later because there was no thru-line... he'd ask a question like, "Socks in the telephone bicycle cake sun crack? Yes? Mama? MAMA?! IS IT?" -it was so awesome I wanted to write it all down, but like I said- usually I couldn't recall it the way he said it.  Plus, he'd get so pissed off if I laughed-forget asking him to repeat himself- it was like begging to get my ass kicked.  I'd tell him,  sweetly,  "Jule, I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing with you." "I'm not LAUGHING MAMA!" he'd say.  He didn't understand.  I learned fast not to mess with the process.  I loved his ideas and I did not want my big gob getting in the way of hearing them.  I managed to get a couple down.  I dug them out of the "Notes" section from three phones ago. ( Incidentally, I retrieved it a moment before Henry, almost two, used it as a sponge this morning, soaking up all the water from the kitchen sink.  Lest I forget there are major benefits to growing up.)

Here's what I found:

"Color wheels are the same as dolphins right? Killer whales live on the top of the ocean with the waterfalls with the holes in the caves where the chipmunks go."

"The moons gonna come out the theatre show starts today TV starts next year." I must have giggled, "It's not funny Mama!! No it's not, it do's like that."

"Don't mock what you can't comprehend" 
There was also a slight bent toward ebonics. Everything was why do's it? It do's too, Mama.  Him being in the early developmental stage of understanding, of not knowing is the very reason he is able to speak his mind so plainly, so sure of himself.  I wish there was a way to hold on to that, but he's growing up fast, learning the "correct" questions to ask, the "normal" way to communicate and see things.  I hope he chooses to communicate them with his special twist, whether anyone's laughing or not.

I didn't understand the point of the words that Julian said when he was three, still sometimes says.  But I do get that being able to listen to the way his mind processes his new world around him allows me to see things in magical ways.  I appreciate his innocent heart and the frustration he feels when I can't understand.  I always find myself going back to all of those acting classes I took with my amazing teachers who would say, don't think! Just do and see what happens.  Sometimes what you create will be awful, or trippy nonsense, or if you can truly shut off the judgement and light shines on you at just the right moment- brilliant.  Sometimes it will just be, eh.  What is the worst that can happen?  The art is in the effort- to learn and still be free.  It was so hard to undo all that "right" thinking.  It's so fun that Julian's one of my teachers now.   I need so many reminders.  Being five is something to blow horns about.   "Every little thing (he) does is magic".  Except the yelling, that, I could almost do's without.
<3


Friday, March 15, 2013

Three Little Sail Boats

Last night I was sitting Shiva in the city for my husbands cousin, she had just turned 44 last week.  She was a beautiful woman and an amazing mother to her two children, a wife, a daughter, a cousin, a friend.  She suffered through a courageous battle with brain cancer,  finally succumbing a few days ago.  I don't want to use names because I in no way want to infringe on the familys' privacy.  Their story is a tribute to life and the courage it takes to have faith when it seems none can be found.

Being in this space I can't help but recall my most recent experience with loss- the loss of my father almost two years ago.  I went into what I would best describe as a trance for about two months after he died- the shock of sitting next to him in a hospital room filling out on a lunch menu what he wanted to eat -"Check Oatmeal, no jello,"  he said.  And then a week and a half later never being able to see him again.

About a month after he died- I was driving down my block toward my house, I saw a car and a familiar face in my rearview mirror.  I thought it was someone else but when she pulled in behind me I realized it was my friend.  She was bringing me a baby gift.  We hugged and laughed and she handed me a gift and then pulled out a baby romper hung in a dry-cleaning bag.  "Now it will get three uses," she said.  I stared at it- a beautiful hand-smocked sear sucker short sleeved white romper with thin periwinkle blue stripes and a peter pan collar- three tiny sailboats across the chest.  I knew I had seen it before, but I couldn't attach any memory to it.  She looked at me again, "Sue! This is the jumper! Don't you remember?" I couldn't remember.  But I felt such a strong attachment to it,  I needed to feel it.  Compelled, I tore the dry-cleaning bag a bit and touched it.  Still, I couldn't remember what it was about the romper.  She explained, remember you gave this to me when I had Andrew?  Yes.  But there was more and I couldn't figure it out.  I think I just went with nodding and pretending.  I got inside and hung it on one of the hooks by my back door.  Every time I passed it - it was as if it were calling to me to pay attention to it.  My mind was like working through sludge.  I had a memory in there and I couldn't get to it.

I went outside, it was a beautiful June day.  The reason so many people want to have their weddings in June.  Picture perfect.  I went over the rest of the conversation I had with my friend on the driveway.  "What were we talking about? Okay, I remembered giving that to her as a baby gift.  How old is he now? He'll be a year! This week. Crazy. Then basically we said goodbye.  Nothing there. Wait.  What was last June?  Oh My God.  The re-gift!  It all came back- raining down into my consciousness.

I was pregnant in April and had a miscarriage in June.  I was devastated.  The grief I felt was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.  So many women go through miscarriages, it's almost a natural part of becoming a mom.  I know there are women who have such a hard time getting pregnant they think they would just like the chance of a miscarriage.  I never expected the pain to be so deep.  When I went to the OBGYN that day and the sonogram showed no heart beat.  A part of me died with it.  At ten weeks along,  I had imagined holding that baby.  I loved that baby as much as my older two.  It couldn't be.  I wanted to know why.

Up until that point I had had an amazing relationship with God.  I relied on Him for everything.  Any problem I thought I had- I talked to him about, laughed with him (my God is funny!), went to him and I was relieved,  I considered and talked to Him like a friend.

June 9th- the day of the D&C operation, one of the nurses said the pregnancy test came up positive- there was some questioning going on between the nurses in front of me- as I lay IV- in- flat on my back in the gurney.  I began to believe for a moment that the baby was still alive- that the sonogram technician had made a mistake.  I wanted to cancel the surgery and get another sonogram.  My OBGYN was so frustrated.  She told me in a harsh tone-of course the test will come up positive-your body still thinks you're pregnant- I was holding up the whole team - another sonogram will take hours and we will have the same result.  She said she would run a test on the fetus and let me know what genetically happened.  I had a notion that my mind was playing tricks on me, I said okay,  I'll go forward.  I couldn't make sense of it and I didn't turn to God.  I turned my back and walked away.

When I got home I got the news that my friend had given birth to a son.  I found my favorite gift I had gotten when my second son was born- the romper with the little blue sailboats and found solace that her little baby boy would have it.  That life goes on.

The doctor called a week later and told me the baby had a trisomy on the 13th chromosome. The baby was "incompatible with life." I asked if it was a boy or a girl.  "Are you sure?" she asked.  I said yes. "Female," she said.  "Thank you," I said.

In a couple of months I was pregnant.  I struggled, scared for the first 14 weeks, thinking it would again disappear.  My husband, friends and my mom gave me support- it doesn't happen every time- I had two other shining examples currently running around the house! And they were right.  The baby continued to grow.  I was due April 29th.

By March my dad was in the hospital, for good.  No one can ever say for sure, but there was a feeling of that.  I went to see him as often as I could and talked to him as much as I could without crying.  I Googled "signs of dying" to see if he had the signs.  I came across a website that offered what to say to someone who is passing to help them feel peace.  That all the conversations they needed to have were had.  This sounded like good advice.  It's about him being at peace.  Armed with my new arsenal of 'peaceful passing' knowledge, I fired away. "Do you feel you've had a good life?" "Do you feel like you are ready?" I remember my mom sitting beside me glaring- strangling words out of the corner of un-parted lips, so my dad wouldn't hear her, "What are you saying?!" she said,"Stop. It." and then she smiled big in his direction, like it wasn't happening.  Then I asked another, thinking, "Don't worry mom,  I've googled, I've got this." "Is there anyone you'd like us to get in touch with? An old girlfriend?"  "Mom's my girlfriend." We still laugh over it.   We laughed about it again today.  The whole scene was so ridiculous.

Henry John was born April 26th, by cesarian section, no driving for me.  My father,  John, was moved into a nursing home that week,  he was doing well!  I remember not wanting to call him- I knew it was hard for him to talk on the phone and I didn't want him to waste his breath.  There was no rush.  I would bring the baby by in a couple of weeks.  I would talk to him then.  We would laugh together about the name.  I would say, Henry John, and he would say,  John Henry, the same way my mom said he corrected her when she told him the news.  And then he was gone.

And then there I was.  There we were.  A year later.  The heartbreak of the miscarriage an almost irretrievable memory.  Cradling my baby- who if had been a girl- would have had no need for a romper with three little blue sailboats- and what I believe was my fathers nod to me from above to keep faith.  A perfect circular reminder- hanging in torn dry-cleaner wrap on a hook in my den. We don't always know the plan.  There are times we won't feel there will ever be a way out of the pain.  The answers don't always come easy or in the time that we would like.  But they come.


I apologized to my good friend God for turning my back,  for ending my friendship.  He just laughed- it never ended,  I was always with you,  I'm with you even when your back is turned.  Even when you think your back is turned.  Aw, it's like we're that Footprints Poem,  I joked... so grateful for my three little sailboats...and the relief of faith inching back into my heart. 

Saturday, March 9, 2013

Tan Mom :)

Good morning!  Facebook.  I wake up this morning and I have two messages in my inbox- one from my sister and one from a friend. "Seriously...lol", says Peggy's and "r u serious? what r u getting ready for? the Spring Fling?", says my sister Kerry.  I am confused so I go to Facebook.

"Susan Saraf bought 3-6 sessions of Tanning Bed Sessions at (Somewhere in Lynbrook) from Groupon!"

I turned three shades of a red I would not like to achieve from my Groupon purchase- I am hoping for a bronze color not afforded by my Irish skin but attainable by a spray-tan.  I actually opted for the spray-tan not the beds. I am interested in being coated head to toe in chemicals to turn into a color not found in nature- not radiation.  There's a big difference.  And no, I am not crashing Garden City High School's Spring Fling.  I'm going to Mexico.  I thought it might be nice to get a leg up on my aging beach bod.  How embarrassing. And thank goodness for my wisenheimer crony's or I would have never known that my mid-life crisis was being PUBLISHED ON FACEBOOK! Lucky for me Groupon didn't have a deal on Botox. (I looked). Or boobs. (I didn't). "Susan Saraf bought 2 Double D's from a quack in Valley Stream!"

After I deleted the Groupon post and finished having my coronary - I started scrambling.  How many hours was the post visible on Facebook?  I think I fell asleep at about 11 o'clock.  I know I bought it pretty close to lights out.   So let's say 10:45pm.  On a Friday.  I learned of the horror at about 7 o'clock this morning.  That's not bad.  Who's checking Facebook in the middle of the night?  Besides those two clowns I mentioned above:D  I asked Danny to do the math, "It doesn't matter everyone saw it.",  he said. "That's hilarious." He was a big help.

The thing is...and a small part of the reason I didn't post my blog yesterday- aside from the small fact that I thought yesterday was Wednesday- and that I had nothing to write about- is that I don't know who "everyone" is.   Who is out there?  I average a bunch of views a week- (haha)- but only about 3-7 "likes" or comments.  Mostly, from my mom and family.  So...who's reading? Like me! Like me! Like me! Just Kidding, sorta.  I don't mind being your guilty pleasure - you perverts - I reason at least I have control of the content- and I can see the numbers.  On Facebook, we have no idea and now anything you do can be published.  I guess that's how all famous people feel, stars. Wait a minute. Oh my God! I'm a star! I feel just like the stars! Praise Jesus! It's a miracle it's happened.  Oh, forget all those heebie- jeebies.  Thank you Facebook for allowing me to have them.  I've arrived. Talk on!

Thumbs up to you.