A person who I want to thank, now, while we are here.

WARNING: Potential for discomfort caused from over-sentimentalism. Somewhat mature audiences only, preferably those in touch with their estrogen-infused DNA.

A piece of non-fiction.

People are different. Our personalities, experiences, motivations, and thinking are all unique so it should not be surprising to discover that one person’s grieving process may differ from that of another. However, many people judge and project their own ideas of how a person should cope with another person’s death, perhaps they do this as part of the grieving process?

The recommendations which turned into unveiled threats of both your and my dead mom’s disappointment did not go unheard. My grief was inconsolable and my crazy crying was not a means for attention. I was situated in the women’s lounge as far away as I could possibly get from..everything. Just let me go…just let me go home. I pleaded this to myself as I cried and cried. Annoying to so many, I know. “You should go and see her…”, “She would have wanted you to…”, “Make her proud.”

Shut up, shut up shut up. Please, just shut up.

Finally, after six hours of my sorrow being forced to show itself in an unfamiliar and unwelcome place, the deeply sighed, “Just go. What good are you here.”

Exactly. What good was I there. The religious ritual was not mine, will never be mine. The grief was suffocating and choking off all my energy and air. I had nothing left to give and not enough strength to share anything with these people in this place. The tsk-tsking, the sad sighs, the questions, the comments were all so unbearable.

I walked outside. It was cold and sunny and the haze of my grief lifted enough so that I was able to notice the person who had just arrived. He was dressed in a suit, as the rules dictate, and approached me easily. He didn’t appear to be taken aback by my startling appearance which I undoubtedly wore as I had sobbed uncontrollably for at least six hours straight. He walked up to me and said nothing, not one word. He simply put his arms around me and hugged me tightly and then mumbled a soft, “I am sorry, Val.” His comforting embrace caused the tears to start streaming anew once again, but it was okay as his kind gesture said more to me than any of the words spoken at me all day. I felt compassion, kindness, empathy and - could it be? - understood.

And so I write this, today, so many years later to say thank you. It meant a lot to me, obviously, as I recall it clearly this many years later.

Oh, and I write it now, because the person I described above is now my FB friend, so maybe he will read this, but not sure if he will remember it. Thank you, MC, for your kindness. I will never forget this simple, yet powerful, gesture.

reason to fear me.

Last year during the whole 6-06-06 (or 666) phenomenon I was introduced to the concept of the “mark of the beast”. As a horror movie fan, I had heard this term used, but never knew its origin. Wondering why some people feared a string of numbers, 666, I started reading up on it and came to discover it stems from some Bible (a collection of short stories written many years ago by various authors) passages.

“He also forced everyone, small and great, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on his right hand or on his forehead, so that no one could buy or sell unless he had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of his name. This calls for wisdom. If anyone has insight, let him calculate the number of the beast, for it is man’s number. His number is 666 (Rev. 13:16–18).

Instead of “or”, I have marks on both my forehead and right hand. He really got me good.

My right hand scar came when I was about four or five. I know I was quite young because while I was learning my right from left I would use the scar on my right hand as a tool to distinguish my right from my left. Actually, I still use it sometimes. Say I need to give directions and I know we need to turn “this” way, but can’t think of right or left, I will glance down at my hand and say “right, we need to turn right.”

My forehead scar came second, when I was six. It’s a heady reminder of the sad stitching skills of some ER doctor working in the middle ages. He probably earned his degree at some off-shore school where they practiced sewing up gutted fishes. What the hell did he care he was forever disfiguring a little girl wearing aqua blue, cookie monster pants. I can’t recall if the 6-inch cookie monster embroidery was on my left pant leg or right; I guess I must have forgotten to consult my hand scar to clarify. Thusly, the devil completed his marking of me at age six. He’s so poetic.

But wait, there’s more.

I have been seeing promos for Jim Carrey’s new movie and it looks good. But what actually caught my attention, was its title, The Number 23. 23 happens to be one of my favorite numbers. Sometimes numbers can even promote a light, pleasant feeling within. Odd, I know (odd numbers are so preferred over even numbers. Even numbers suck usually.) In any case, I decided to view the trailer for this movie and was introduced to a new concept. The number 23, divide 2/3 and the result is .666 (infinity). I happened to be born on the 23rd. So, what chance did I have as I bore the mark of the beast at birth?

Other signs:

- Not only is “evil” a part of my name, but so is “eviler”. “Valerie” possesses more evil than evil. (v-a -l-e-r-i-e)
- when I think of more I will add them.

After the episode aired, my dad earned celebrity status at his work. He worked for a top advertising agency in Chicago and had written a commercial which found it’s way into the Seinfeld show. In this particular episode, Jerry and a date disagreed over the appeal of a Docker’s commercial. Jerry found it incomprehensible that someone could like this commercial which featured quick camera shots of men’s pants while mingling at a party and began questioning the character of his date who did find it appealing.

The commercial created an industry buzz that pleased both the Docker’s and the ad agencies’ “people”. My dad, though, kept hearing Seinfeld derisively degrade the spot he created. The same sensitivity which helped him create excellent words of art also caused him to feel hurt by this “nationally broadcast criticism of my career work.” Although a fictional television show, he believed truth underlies words said in jest and imagined the Seinfeld writers sitting around discussing how much they disliked “that Docker’s commercial”.

My father’s reaction surprised me because I thought the point of advertising related to the promotion of a product. I never imagined he cared what people thought of the campaigns on which he worked, for he still had a job which earned him decent money.

But care he did. His confidence took a tremendous beating effecting both his work and personal life. Within a year he lost his job. He claimed he never liked the advertising field anyway, denouncing its focus on money and materialism. He said people kept telling him he couldn’t make money as a writer, that advertising would prove a more lucrative career choice. So he switched from an English major to a Communications major while in college. In an attempt to remedy what he perceived as a mistake, my father returned to his writing roots and penned poems for a living. But not a paid living.

I remember walking past his office one night and peaking in to see how he was doing. The lights were off and the glow from the computer screen tinted his face blue. I asked him how it was going and he turned slowly to look at me. I was struck by how sad he looked. He smiled lightly and said things would be okay. I recall thinking, so that’s what people mean by the phrase “sad smile”, it truly was a blue smirk.

Our family life changed dramatically after the “incident”. Although never banned from watching Seinfeld, it felt taboo to turn it on while my dad wandered the house. In a show of solidarity, we (my mom sister and I) silently boycotted the show. We never could have imagined the culture status the show eventually earned, so when people now say “You know in that one Seinfeld where he…”, I have to shake my head with an apology, “Sorry, no, never saw it.”

I now walk dogs for a living. After college I never seemed to click in any of my job roles. After my last job review where my then-employer believed my “passive-aggressive personality was creating a hostile work environment”, I quit and found refuge with the dogs. My current clientele never remark about my appearance after a sleepless night, refrain from talking negatively about me with each other as they drink from the fountain (at least I think they don’t), don’t grade me on how well I clean up their crap and almost always seem happy to see me when I come into work. I finally like having a job.

And this is my Blog.