March 17, 2012

Paper Please

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I hope it doesn't make you uncomfortable to talk about 'girl things'.  Because I'm going to tell you anyway.

I'm pretty sure at THE very moment the sailor started talking about me having a baby, I went into menopause.  How many people can tell you down to the minute when they entered menopause?  It's like my reproductive system heard him, slammed on the brakes, seized up, and died.  I started forgetting things because my head started swirling a lot.  Then I started getting hot flashes complete with sweat.  And I don't sweat.  My mood and emotions went crazy.  Crazy I say!  Damn hormones.

Or maybe it was just anxiety.  No, probably menopause.

As I tried desperately to sleep the night he asked me to have his baby, I began to have a heart attack.  Full blown cardiac arrest, massive coronary.  My chest hurt SO badly and I couldn't breathe.  At all.

Or maybe it was just anxiety.  No, probably a heart attack.

Today I proposed he come stay the summer with me.  I'm waiting on a response, but I think maybe I should give you my username and password for my email because I am about to be in NO shape to read it.  Not because I'm celebrating St. Patty's Day.  No, if I live I'll be slinging the beers instead of drinking them in a few hours.  But because I'm having a stroke.  I can feel half of me going numb, and I'm pretty sure I can't speak or walk.  All I can do is beg for help with my eyes.

Or maybe it's just anxiety.  No, probably a stroke.

It is nothing less than a miracle I have survived this week.  I just wish I had objected to the plastic bags at the grocery store.  A paper bag to the face would likely save my life about now.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 16, 2012

Clear Blue Easy

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

You're probably wondering how I responded when the sailor asked me to have a baby with him.  After telling him I had my tubes tied five years ago and some awkwardness, we still decided to think about the options.  I told him to google it and email me later and I would freak-out and obsess over it do a little research and think about things.

When I wrote to you yesterday, I really didn't know the right answer.  But after a visit to the shrink, multiple discussions with each of my friends, a lot of googling, a call to my OB/GYN, some soul searching, and a baby that projectile vomited in front of me at the grocery . . . I decided babies are for other people - not for me.  Not for us.

I haven't broken the news to him yet.  It truly was a pleasure just to be nominated!

I have no reservations about sharing my decision with him, but I am a little nervous about what I'm about to propose to him.  I shouldn't be, but I am.  I wonder if this is how he felt.

He's currently a teacher.  I'm going to ask him to come and stay with me this summer.  If at any time either of us decides it's not working, he leaves - no hard feelings.  But . . . We just may find neither of us want him to ever leave.  Then we work on our next big plan.

Wish me luck.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 15, 2012

Oh Baby

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

Remember the sailor?

Seemingly out of the blue, I received an email from him last Friday.

Him:  There's a movie out called 'Friends with Kids'.

(I hurriedly go watch the trailer and freak out a little - or a lot - for a million reasons.)

Me:  I got asked out on a date tonight.

No response, so I try again.

Me:  I told him to ask me again on Tuesday.  Did you take a date to see the movie?  Maybe mine will take me.  Looks intriguing.  But if this is some sort of metaphor, we need to put on our big boy and girl pants and talk about it.  If so, call me.  I'm not going anywhere until at least Tuesday.

Him:  My cousin is getting married and we're having a bachelor party this weekend.  If I survive, I'll call you.


Me:  It's Wednesday.

He called.

He asked me to have a baby with him.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 7, 2012

What Are You Drinking?

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

I had to get a jobby job job.  Seems this non-profit business can be less than profitable and there are always WAY more expenses than cash.  I just need a little walking money to keep my hooptie running.  So I'm slinging beers.  And I LOVE it!  I rarely drink, hate beer, don't know a damn thing about wine, and couldn't mix a slippery nipple if my life depended on it.  But that's our little secret, Tom.

The only thing that matters is my passion and personality and great hair of course.  It certainly doesn't hurt that I can bullshit with the best of them.  And flirt.  And listen.  Oh!  And I'm funny!  Some may call me quirky.  Even a little ditzy at times.  But definitely charming and brilliant.  Sometimes cocky, but more often confident.  I even had a little 'experience' from 15 years ago.  Plus I used to run two continents for a fortune 500 company.

It only makes sense that I'm the best damn bartender there ever was at this pub place that serves a lot of beers.  This is the kind of place beer snobs thrive on.  And I don't know a thing.  Not a damn thing!  But I always start with an introduction:  (hand outstretched)  Hi!  I'm Edie, but you can call me the new girl.

And then . . . Whether someone wants a lager, an ale, a stout, an IPA, a wheat, or a porter recommendation I just give the same answer:  Have you tried our Kentucky Bourbon Ale?  Some cock their heads, but most have not tried it, so I give them a taste and 99% of them buy a very expensive, very small glass of it.

Who's a beer snob now?!

I don't know whether people think I'm an idiot or an even BIGGER beer snob who just trumped them. But they tip me well.

You want a what?  A black and tan?  Ok, but I'm going to make it a little differently than you've ever had it but I will use black-ish and tan-nish colored beers.  Trust me?  And they do . . . every time!  It may look nothing like a black and tan and taste like nothing you've ever had before, but you will love it.  And pay a lot for it.  I promise.

If nothing else, I will just look awkwardly cute while I pull on the tap.  Or the keg.  Or whatever that big beer handle spout thing is called.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl

March 5, 2012

There's a Smoking Section in Heaven

Dear Tom Selleck . . .

For months now, Granny has been given days to weeks at the most to live.  She is strong and stubborn and if we're being honest, a bit of a drama queen.  Much like yours truly.

She hosted a dinner party last night and I was on the very exclusive guest list.  Mind you she has been bedridden for months and while there have been small rallies, she has clearly been declining.  I had visited last Monday and she was barely responsive.  She had not eaten since the previous Thursday, had some nasty bed sores, and I was sure that would be the last time I saw her alive.

Throughout all of this I have kept my emotions in check except when I'm alone or with my closest friends.  It's how I roll.  On Monday, I could barely hold it together long enough to get out of the door and cried in sobs the whole ride home.

And then I got a text at work on Saturday, inviting me to a dinner party Sunday evening.  Certainly this was some sort of bad joke.  In my head I imagined her barely and deliriously squeaking out the idea of having a few people over for dinner and my aunt going into 'make it happen' mode.  The thought of standing around Granny's deathbed with divided plates and red Solo cups, making small talk and corny jokes is not my idea of fun.

And then I got a call from my cousin, Granny's favorite and mine too.  She had talked to her on the phone!  The weird just got weirder and was about to get even weirder before it was all over.  Apparently all of the bed sores were gone when they bathed her, she was no longer on oxygen, was eating better than any of us, and was thinking and speaking clear as a bell.

She remembers very little of the last two months, including her favorite grandchild being by her side 24 x 7 for 10 straight days.  We can't blame morphine because she's refused to take anything stronger than an extra-strength Tylenol.  She's pissed because she's living with my aunt and no longer has an apartment or any belongings . . . because she gave everything away to us already.  It's as though she's been asleep and just woke up with one other little quirk.  She sees and talks to dead people.  Especially my dad.

Needless to say, I couldn't wait to get to the party and pump her for information from the other side.  I was still hesitant to walk through the door, having NO idea what to expect after what I had witnessed earlier in the week.  And there she sat . . . watching NASCAR, talking, joking, laughing . . . same old Gran!  My mind was blown!

Of course I hugged and kissed her and told her how much I love her!  But did she know some of us already had memory bears made from her nightgowns and sweatshirts?  There were plants and flowers sent in her memory?  We had her funeral planned and her money spent?  Was she just fucking with us?!

While everyone around me acted as if this were any other dinner party, I took the opportunity to ask Granny the tough questions starting with . . . Are you or were you just messing with all of us Gran?  Which is it, were you fake dying or are you now faking getting/being better?  She didn't know what had happened, just that "no one should ever tell her she can't do something!"

Then I went in for the kill.  (pun intended)  So Gran . . . I hear you talked to my dad.  And as if we were talking about the corn pudding being served in the other room she said yes!  The clarity in her eyes and tone of voice took my breath away.  I had to know more.

She told me for over a week now, every time she closes her eyes my dad pops up and they talk all of the time. She described him in great detail, wearing his old blue shorts and faded blue t-shirt, barefoot, his long skinny legs crossed, sometimes sitting in a lawn chair and others in a rocking chair, and get this . . . smoking!  She told him he wasn't allowed to smoke up there and he told her 'the head angel lets him have one a day to make up for all of the distress he lived under while here on earth'.

We didn't get much past that before someone asked her what else she wanted to eat.  She tried to tell me more later and again, someone interrupted wanting her to tell old stories, reminisce.  Yet again we tried to talk about it and others wanted to sing, laugh, talk about her getting better.

What the fuck people?!  I know they heard her!  I don't understand how someone can have a front row seat to death and dying, to communicating with the other side regardless of what you believe, and completely ignore it!  How often do we get the chance to ask about what else is out there?  To only have one degree of separation when communicating with our loved ones who have already passed?

With everyone pretending Granny isn't seeing and talking to dead people, I knew I wouldn't get all of the answers until we could be alone.  So I kissed her before I left and whispered in her ear that I believe her 100% and to tell my dad hi and that I love him.  She knows I talk to him everyday, so he would already know I love him but it would be really cool if she could tell him for me.  I told her I knew he was waiting for her and that I hope we can talk more about it when not everyone is around.

She squeezed my hand, kissed me, told me she loves me, and looked at me with those eyes that know ALL now and told me she'd tell him and we'd talk about it later.

I called to check on her today and she couldn't wait to tell me she told him!  As always, he popped right up last night and after she talked to him about me he said, "That's my girl!"

I believe her 100%.

true story.

Edie B. Kuhl