saying goodbye

My grandmother is 97 years old. Over the past few years, she's been a little frail, but her mental acuity is astounding. She can recall a tale from 1935 and tell it with such stunning accuracy that it would make your head spin. She reads the newspaper every day, always does the word search, and knows more about the epic-romance-slash-mystery-novel genre than any person I've ever known.

On my birthday last year, the last day of December, her health made a turn. Her bowel had become convoluted, and she underwent surgery to fix it, as well as removing her gall bladder and appendix. Since then, she has spent her time either in the hospital or in a nursing home to "recover."

It looked good for a while, but now, everything is caving in at once. She has pneumonia, is in congestive heart failure, has open infections, and is so weak she can't even feed herself. My uncle, her caretaker, has told me to "brace myself" for the worst.

We were planning a trip to visit her this summer. We were going to drive to Arizona and stay with her for a week while my uncles took a well deserved vacation. It doesn't look like that is going to happen.

We went to visit last summer, too. We wore her out, taking her to the movies and shopping. We spent no less than a week bonding with my grandmother, yet somehow, the only photo I have to remember that trip is a picture of my grandmother admiring the lingerie in Lane Bryant. No family photo of us with grandma, no photos of my uncles and her. Just the lingerie shot.

My grandmother is dying, and I’m falling apart, crying every day. I never imagined it would happen like this. I imagined she would simply die in her sleep, happy and comfortable in her own bed. I imagined I would get a call one random weekday, letting me know that she was gone, and I would bawl my eyes out, and it would be over. I never imagined it would be this agonizing, drawn out ordeal. I can’t even talk to her on the phone because her hearing is so poor. I can’t even tell her how much she has meant to me.

I've never lost anyone in my family before, at least not that I remember. My mom's parents both died by the time I was 6, and my dad's father passed away long before I was ever born.

I'm trying not to fall to pieces. I love you Grandma. I wish I'd been a better granddaughter.

But we'll always have Lane Bryant.

dazed and confused: a closer look at denial and distress

I'm having an identity crisis.

Okay, well, technically, I've been having an identity crisis for well over a year now.

As I've grown up and am now pushing my extremely late 20s, I've dated a lot. With the exception of one boy I dated in high school and early college, I never really felt like I was in love with anyone that I dated. My relationships rarely lasted longer than 6 months. I just figured I hadn't found the right guy yet. I assumed when I least expected it, the right guy would take my world by storm, and I would just know that he was the one for me.

The right guy.

Last fall, I celebrated the one year anniversary of when my girlfriend and I first started seeing each other. I was leaving the karaoke bar where we were hanging out, and before I knew it, she followed me out the door and she kissed me in the parking lot. From that moment, I knew my world would never be the same. I fell in love, and it certainly happened when I least expected it. She took my world by storm, and somehow, I just knew this was it for me.

It still shocks the hell out of me, but here I am, madly in love with a girl. Friends have told me that I shouldn't be so concerned with the label, but I don't have a choice. Society labels me a lesbian. But I refuse to be one. I REFUSE.

I still think Matthew McConnaghey is the hottest creature alive, I still over-accessorize, I take far too long to get ready to do anything, and I refuse to leave the house without makeup. I've been to a Melissa Etheridge concert and felt so out of place that I wanted to cry. I refuse to watch the Comets or any other WNBA team. I carry purse with 18 kinds of lip gloss inside, and primp every time I use the restroom. Rosie O'Donnell still bugs me quite a bit, and uber-butch women creep me out a lot. And I certainly don't want to watch the parade of naked breasts that was installed on my screensaver by the somewhat butch Sponge of a woman who once lived in my guest room.

Part of my crisis also lies within the fact that I can never picture myself being with any other woman. I grosses me out a little. But then again, the thought of being with a man again grosses me out a little, too.

And of course, there's the fact that I cry each time I think about the fact that I'll never get to have that first dance with my daddy at my wedding, or have him walk me down the aisle. I'll never get to plan the soiree with mom, and fight over seating arrangements and invitations. (I know we've covered this before, but it's a biggie...)

It still shocks me to the core. I'm completely and totally in love with a girl, and I plan to stay in this for the long run.

But don't you dare call me a lesbian.

It's not a popularity contest. their voting by you're qualifications

Recently, I was nominated for my school’s teacher of the year. Not really a big deal, just someone else in the building must think highly enough of you to nominate you.

Although I had no delusions of winning, this being only my third year and first eligible year to run, I submitted my application for candidacy, complete with three very well written essays. My writing received compliments from many who read my submission. (As well it should have – I worked and reworked those essays until they met with my total satisfaction.) I was quite proud of the results, and despite my inexperience, the literary masterpiece held its own as it was posted on the wall with the other nominees’ submissions.

The eclectic crowd of contenders included my air-headed department chair (who turned in her application complete with grease stains), an art instructor, a health teacher, a literature teacher, a PE teacher, and the two language arts teachers who made it to the run-off.

Again I reiterate that I had no delusions of actually winning. (Despite what some might call my clear verbal superiority…) I must also mention that I am quite sensitive to the mutilation of the certain grammatical basics. For example, I cringe when I witness the likes of “your cool” or “it’s you’re turn.” It physically pains me. I’m also not rather fond of the “there, their, they’re” triple threat that baffles far too many of us.

In less than a week before the elections, one of the language arts candidates sent an email proclaiming “your the best.” I cringed and sighed, and tried to shake it off as what was hopefully a fluke. A few days later, the second language arts candidate sent an email to the entire faculty mentioning that “students should be in there classes” after a certain time. The author of the latter error ended up winning the honor.

Did I mention that they were language arts teachers?

I had actually decided to vote for the art teacher, as it is most likely he’ll be moving up to administration next year, and this was his last chance to win. (That, in addition to the fact that he’s a fantastic teacher, and goes far beyond the call of duty in his services for the school…) Ironically, shortly after I cast my vote this morning, he alerted me to the winner’s egregious grammatical error that I would find when I checked my email.

I knew I liked him. I’m glad I voted for the art teacher. If nothing else, at least he has his grammar.