My Hero

We just celebrated my Brother’s official last day in the Army.  We went to a nice place for dinner, a family favorite, (the kind of place that you can wear jeans or really get dressed up).  Mom warned me as I was getting dressed that Gabe was going to wear his Class A’s one more time (that’s Army for dress uniform, for those of you not in the know).  So I quickly rethought my jeans choice (even though this is Colorado and you can practically wear jeans to a wedding) and put on a little dress. 

It had been awhile since I had seen him in his Class A’s.  He had much more bling on his chest then the last time.  Plus, he had his pants tucked into his boots, indicating that he’s airborne (a paratrooper).  He looked so manly.  Sometimes that’s weird for me as the big sister.  It’s like, “Holy cow, we’re old.”

We had such a great evening.  Eating delicious Cajun food.  Visiting.  Enjoying each other’s company.  Laughing.  Teaching the ones under four feet tall manners (especially Arthur).  We played “Who are they and why are they here?” With every table we could see.  Hilarity always ensues.  My favorite was the two that were scouting out sites for the Honda Redwing Convention.

My niece kept going around the circle and asking if we wanted to hear a story.  You can’t say no to the adorable three year old.  It starts with “Once about a time…” (instead of “upon,” so precious)  She is the princess.  An evil dragon is down the stairs.  Then, her brother comes and kills the dragon and saves her.  She moves on to the next person and tells the exact same story (word for word), all the way around the table.  Her brother is always her hero.

I know just how she feels. 

Our "Troop."

I finally got him to smile.

Isn't she lovely?

Shrimp!

"Once about a time..."

The little family that's sacrificed so much.

My turn.

The pants tucked into the boots.

He is so brave.  He has made so many sacrifices.  He is home and safe.  I am so thankful.  He is my hero.

The Baby of My Dreams

This has been a hard few days.  I’ve really been grieving.  Not only the loss of my husband, but also the life that we had planned.

The summer before Sawan died, I was working on getting in shape, trying to get my body prepared for a pregnancy.  I had quit smoking that March, and was walking up to five miles a day, trying to take off the “quitting smoking” weight and also, I just wanted to be in the best athletic shape possible when I got pregnant.

I was emotionally ready to get pregnant that spring, but Sawan had been slightly dragging his feet about it. We had been planning, but he wasn’t quite ready for me to “pull the goalie” in terms of birth control.  I (somewhat) patiently spent the summer talking him into it.

I was too stressed at work, so we decided to try to sell the salon.  By the end of July, miraculously, we were under contract.  It was going to be perfect.  We were going to be out of debt and I was going to stay working there as a contractor with a flexible schedule.

Sawan had been unemployed, but had decided on a new career, and was in real-estate school, which was only a three week ordeal, and he would have flexible hours which would allow for fishing and helping out with a baby.  Everything was falling into place.

So during what I was calling our “Enchanted Summer,” where he had all kinds of time, being unemployed, we walked.  It was the first time in our marriage that he had been home every night, since he had always worked in restaurants.  We walked all over the nearby neighborhoods.  We found a little neighborhood restaurant with an amazing greek salad and walked there a few times a week.  And we talked.  We talked and talked and talked. 

We talked about our family.  We chose names.

If he was a boy, he would be Wyatt.  Either Wyatt Gabriel or Wyatt Jerry, the middle name being after my brother or my dad.  We called him our little cowboy.  Wyatt Nail.

If she was a girl, she would be Yelena.  It was always my favorite Russian name, I loved the way it rolled off your tongue, and it’s the Russian form of Helen, his mother’s name.  She would be Yelena Leslie, her middle name after my mom.  We would call her Lane.

One night that summer, after walking past hundreds of clean, neatly manicured, perfect yards, there was one that was utterly cluttered with toys, and the stoop had a half eaten happy meal strewn all over it.  It was so out of place and comical.  Clearly the kid had had a busy day, and no one had gotten to it yet.  Sawan tried out our name.  “Wyatt, get out here and clean up your toys!” he mock-yelled.  Yep.  That name will work.

The baby thing had begun to feel so real.  We had named it.

During the first few days in August, I came home from a trip and we had a major conversation about having a baby.  But this time was different.  It started out as an argument about something else, but then it totally changed.  I wasn’t convincing.  I wasn’t begging.  I wasn’t trying to manipulate.  We just talked it through.  And in the end, he said, “Let’s start trying September 1.”  I made a bunch of phone calls, to make sure my health insurance covered maternity, to the doctor to see about the birth control reversal.  My dreams were just within my grasp.

But Sawan died on August 24.  In a lot of ways I feel like I lost Sawan, but I lost Lane and Wyatt, too.

I think that’s why Mother’s Day is especially hard. 

This year, I decided that I needed to do something.  I had thought about going up to the place where we had buried one of Sawan’s fly rods, and doing a little memorial for the baby of my dreams, too, but then I wouldn’t be able to see it often.

So instead, I bought rose bushes, to go in my front garden.  I’ll get to see them everyday, and I think their flowers will cheer me up.

One of the two pink climbing rose bushes

Mom's House

This is my first chance today to post this, but I had been planning for months, since I wrote it in my writing class (about a place that we’re nostalgic about), to put this up on Mother’s Day. 

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  You’re the Best Mom ever.

Mom’s House

There is nothing like my mom’s house.

I’m thirty-three years old.  When I’m sick, I still just want my mom.  Why is this?

There is something about her house.  There’s something about the way that her laundry smells.  Even though I buy the same laundry soap, it smells fresher and cleaner at her house.  It’s not just lavender, or fresh breeze; it’s somehow magically always the same smell regardless of what kind of detergent she buys.  It’s the smell of her, like summer, and childhood, and comfort and softness and sweetness all rolled into one.  The sheets are better.  They’re softer.  They feel like a feather brushing your cheek.     How is it that my mom magically gets softer laundry than the rest of us?  Is it that she really uses vintage sheets on her bed, that have been washed so many times, and the pillow cases (pronounced “pill-uh” in this household, the way Okies have said it for generations; every time I hear her say it I can see the old tintype photo of my great grandmother) touched by so many cheeks, from wrinkled, to fresh and new-born still needing fluffing, or is it that she buys a high thread count and they would be soft on anyone’s bed?

The TV is strangely better at mom’s house.  The remote control is a magic wand, a transporter into a different world.  There are better movies at mom’s house.  How is this possible when I have the same cable package that she does? 

Is it her generosity?  Is it that she will go to the store and get you anything you will eat or drink when you’re sick?  She offers sprite.  When you’re sick, that’s what you drink.  It’s always better with a straw, and the bendy kind is even better.  At mom’s house there’s always a bendy straw, just like there were when you were little.  It makes drinking at the bedside easier, but it also brings comfort in the nostalgia.  Plus, somehow everything tastes better with ice and a straw, the chinking in the glass like a time machine back to days when mom could make everything better.

Is it the way that she touches your forehead?  The way that she intuitively knows whether or not you have a fever, like she has a built in thermometer in her fingertips?  Is it her offer of a cool, wet washcloth for your forehead?  On a fevered brow, the washcloth, wet simply from the bathroom tap, feels icy, like the only exposed area on a blustery winter day when you’re all bundled up and only your eyes are uncovered.

I think maybe it’s not mom’s house at all, but the love felt there.  The fact that she loved us so well then, that she loves us so well now.  What is it about mom’s house that’s so amazing?  Well, clearly it’s that mom is there.

My Inspiration

Yesterday, I found out that Vidal Sassoon died.  He was one of my heroes, in a big way.  He had a profound influence on my own career, and on my entire industry.  I had always hoped to meet him one day.  It saddens me to know that now that that will never happen, but he certainly lived a full life.

The following is something that I wrote for my writing class earlier this winter/spring, the assignment was to write 500 words about someone who inspired me.  I thought now would be a good time to share it.

 Vidal Sassoon: My Inspiration

I wanted to be a hairstylist my whole life.  I remember watching the commercials for Vidal Sassoon hairspray when I was little, with the perfect bob that swung from side to side, and thinking, “I’m gonna do that.”  I didn’t want to be the girl (although I wanted that hair); I wanted to be the stylist.

When I began my career, I had a pretty clear image of what I wanted to do.  I wanted it to be glamorous. 

I got one of the most sought after jobs of my classmates, working for Heinz Schaeffer, the European uber stylist.

A week before I was to start, I took a vacation to LA, and my goals solidified.  What I really wanted to do was hair for the movies.  I could have my name in the credits.  I could be a member of the Academy.

 I began doing the things that I felt would prepare me.  I excelled at styling, I could blow dry the curl out of anyone’s hair.  I built a portfolio of editorial work.  I was published in Passion Magazine (the industry’s most prestigious publication) at 22. 

Then, three and a half years into my career, my boss thought I should get a little bit of “ongoing education” at the Vidal Sassoon Academy in Santa Monica.  It sounded fun, and I loved LA.  He didn’t have to twist my arm.  I thought this would be a great way to “network” anyway, to maybe get some connections for going out there to work at my dream.

But, after a week at the academy, everything had changed for me.  Vidal Sassoon had changed my life.  I was fascinated with his story, and it changed the way I did hair forever.

Vidal Sassoon first started changing the world in the sixties.  It was the age of roller-sets, Beehives and Bouffants.  He looked at the women in salons and realized that the only people with good hair were the ones who could afford to go to the salon and have their hair done once a week.  This didn’t seem right to him.  He began to ask questions.  “What if we taught women how to do their own hair?”  “What if we cut hair to work with the natural texture, rather than fighting against it?”  They say that he started a revolution.

Because the industry is so different now, it’s hard to fathom what a difference he made.  But let me put it to you this way:  Without his ideas, we wouldn’t have the hand-held blow dryer.  We would all still be the women in beauty shops, getting our hair set once a week under the hood dryers, sipping pink lemonade.  He changed an entire culture.

And I no longer want to be a hair stylist to the stars.  I want to make real people beautiful, and teach them to love the hair that they have.

Beer in Heaven

April 14 is an important day to me.

Sawan was a recovering alcoholic.  On April 14, 2004, he decided he wasn’t going to drink anymore. 

I wouldn’t meet him for another year and a half, but that decision was so powerful.  It made him the man that he was.  It showed me so many things about him.  It took courage, it took tenacity, it took commitment.  It was such a big part of shaping him into the man of my dreams.

I often wonder what he was like before.  I wonder if I would have fallen in love with him had I met him before he stopped drinking.  It’s one of those silly things that we would talk about sometimes, knowing that we had been in some of the same places at the same times, but didn’t meet.  Knowing that we had actually lived within a few blocks of each other, and probably ran into each other at the grocery store, but never knew it. 

He went to meetings, less and less frequently as time went on, but he told me he always counted fishing as attending a meeting.  It was a spiritual thing to him, fishing, and apparently was part of him “working the steps.”

In AA, they call the day that you stop drinking your “birthday.”  We celebrated it as such.  Our first year together, when we were only dating, I made us a picnic that we took to City Park.  Not just any old picnic, but with fried chicken and potato salad that I had actually cooked.  It was a little breezy, but he wished he had brought a fly rod to teach me to fish on the little lake there.  We dreamed about getting a dog.  We walked around the park and talked for hours.  It’s one of my favorite days with him.

He had five years and change under his belt when he died.  It would have been eight today.  I’m just so proud of him.

There are some days that I can talk about him and our life together matter-of-factly, and then there are some days that when I talk about him, it just makes my face leak.  Today is one of those days.

Most of the time, he acted like it wasn’t hard anymore, like it didn’t really bother him to not be drinking, but on a hot day, like on the beach in Mexico, or after doing manual labor stuff for me at the shop, he would tell me that he craved beer.  Man, I hope there’s beer in heaven.

Opening Day, the Report

I had a great time at Opening Day, even though the Rockies lost (7-0 yikes). 

I saw lots of “local celebrities” and did lots of people watching.  I bumped into a few friends, and several texted and we met up for quick hugs and “Go Rockies!” before the game.

I only cried a little.  I keep concentrating on the fact that I loved baseball before I loved Sawan, so even though baseball makes me miss him, I choose to continue to enjoy it.  I kept having the thought that 50 years from now I wanted to remember that I was there with my Dad, who is probably my favorite person to watch baseball with.  Even though this isn’t the way that I thought my life would go, these are the best circumstances, now, that I could be in, and in the moment I want to enjoy it, not be wishing my life away because I miss my husband.

This season Coors Field had made some upgrades to the scoreboard; I can’t quite say that they were improvements.  There’s so much going on that I find it hard to read.

There were also new cans/bottles for the Coors light that they sell when the Beer Man comes around.  This, however, I can say was an improvement.  It was like an aluminum bottle.  It was a can/bottle hybrid.  A ban.  Or a cottle.  It stayed colder than the old plastic bottles, and had a wider opening.  They were pretty cool. 

Still no decision on the Pretend Rockies Boyfriend.  I did see Dinger, though, and he kissed me on the cheek.

So altogether, it was a fun day.  I’ll count that as a win!

With Mom and Dad in the front office.  Right as we were taking this picture the Governor walked through the lobby.  He didn't mention why he hadn't called me to have me cut his hair.

Opening Day!

I am really looking forward to baseball starting.

Today is the day!  It’s finally here!

Sawan and I always called Opening Day “Christmas” and bought each other a present (I know, nerdy), and I have continued the tradition by buying myself my own present.  I bought a hoodie from the Victoria Secret Pink MLB collection (Finally, they’re starting to realize that women are sports fans, too!  Dream job #2, if I couldn’t be a hairstylist, would be to design women’s fan apparel.  For real.).

As today has approached, I’ve felt slightly nervous about it, I feel the way I feel about any holiday: excited that it’s coming, determined to have a good time, and sad that he won’t be there to enjoy it with me.  My goal for this season is to be able to sing “Take me out to the ball game,” even if I cry.  I might not try for it on Opening Day, but this season, baby.  I can do this.

The first game Sawan and I went to together was Opening Day 2006.  We sat in the Pavillion, the seats that are in the outfield, just below the scoreboard, and I cheered extra loud for my favorite player, Matt Holiday.  He asked if he was my “pretend Rockies boyfriend.”  (“Yes,” was the answer.)  The term stuck, and every year my sisters and I would choose our Pretend Rockies Boyfriend. 

When Matt got traded, I changed to Ryan Spillbourghs.  He just got traded in the off-season, so now I have to choose another one.  I’m not sure who I’ll choose this year, as our roster reminds me a lot of the line-up from the movie Major League.  We’ve got to be the laughing stock of Major League Baseball, with the world’s oldest pitcher making the team.  I should just choose Dinger (that’s our mascot, the dinosaur, for my non-Denver readers), probably.  Hopefully he’ll never get traded.  But then, he doesn’t play outfield, and clearly I have a soft spot for the outfielders.

So, I’ll keep you posted on what I decide.

GO, ROCKIES!

Ellie and I on Opening Day last year.