Something momentous happened on Wednesday.

I turned 23.

For the 10th year in a row.

(::giggles::)

To be honest, I was dreading my birthday this year. With all of the events of this summer, I was just not in a celebratory mood. A few friends had asked me if I wanted to go out and grab a birthday drink, and I promptly turned them down. The thing was, I just wasn't sure how I was going to be feeling. And the last thing I wanted to do was schedule a big night out only to have me crying uncontrollably and completely ruining the whole thing.

(The Strip lights have been hard to look at lately. My dad loved the Strip, and on the night we were at the Cosmopolitian with Uncle Jay, I had forgotten about this until I was comfortably laying in a chaise lounge by the pool. One glance at the Paris and Bellagio signs and I melted into a puddle of Kim. Not good. Kind of makes for an awkward night for everyone involved. Especially when I forget to wear waterproof mascara.)

So I made the decision to avoid the Strip at night. Except the next General Membership meeting for Junior League was being held at the Foundation Room at Mandalay Bay.

At night.

On my birthday.

And I had to speak for my committee.

Really?

It was kind of one of the those one-two punches where I was like, "How am I going to get out of this one?" but kept coming up with no answer. I had missed the last GM in June. I didn't want to send another proxy.

And so I sucked it up, gave myself a mental pep talk, and declined every invitation to celebrate my birthday that night. Because who knows how I was going to feel? I figured I would just keep my head down and go to bed early. No harm, no foul.

Besides, my dad has always sent me flowers on my birthday for every year I've been alive. He never missed a year. Ever. The idea of not getting flowers because of my dad's passing was like a total sucker punch, right in the gut. that took the wind right out of me.

Quite honestly, if the opportunity arose, I would have cancelled the whole day altogether.

Instead, I woke up on Wednesday morning only to find my forehead wrinkle to be bigger and deeper than ever. (I've been talking about my forehead wrinkle forever; it's the one right between my eyebrows. If I could, I would Botox that sucker into oblivion.) And on the morning of my 33rd birthday, my forehead wrinkle seemed to be mocking me, making it known that I wasn't getting any younger and future would be filled with fancy creams and injectables. Yay. Break out the balloons.

I was incredibly grumpy by the time I poured myself my first cup of coffee. Brian brightened the morning by giving me three of my favorite cupcakes from my favorite bakery (Retro Bakery!) with candles in them. Scotty sat in his chair, clapping and shouting, "Cupcakes! Cupcakes!" The gloom from the rain and my giant forehead wrinkle seemed to feel a little less heavy, though I wasn't sure what I was going to do all morning.

By 8am, I had my answer.

A loud knock on the front door revealed my very silly friend Deana, thrusting a giant cup of Starbucks coffee in my face, shouting, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" Her kids were in the car, Courtney was on her way over, and according to them, I was off for the morning. They had booked me a mani-pedi at the local nail place, a blow-out with my stylist, and were on Bear-duty for the rest of the day.

Me? I was speechless.

Let me tell you, that forehead wrinkle didn't seem to be that big of a deal at this point. Ditto for the rain.

With a little convincing, I managed to stay for a bit of a play date with the girls (presents! Cards! Coffee!) and then head to the gym to get my miles in (this marathon isn't going to run itself.) Then it was back home to feed Scotty, put him down, and oh yeah, did I mention they had called the sitter to come an hour early, allowing me to make it to my hair appointment on time?

By 3pm, my nails were polished ("Ibiza" by Zoya on the toes, "Second Honeymoon" by OPI on the hands) and my hair was a bouncy, shiny cascade of curls. I joined Deana while she was getting her haircut, and the two of us sat there, sipping Pinot Noir and giggling. We changed into our nicer clothes for the meeting and headed to Mandalay Bay. I felt like a saucy, glammed-up version of my normal self. The shiny, Spanx-d kind.

Dawn, Deana's co-chair and a member of our provisional class, met us in the parking garage, with Popcorn Girl popcorn for me (swoon!) and champagne for all of us. Seriously? I felt like I was back in college, without a care in the world, as I sipped my Vevue Cliquot, except in college, there was no expensive champagne, no Cole Haan kitten heels, and no leaning against an adorable Mercedes convertible in a giant casino parking garage. But you know what? If this is what 33 looks like, count me in.

The meeting went great, I managed to not vomit on the microphone or trip over my new handbag (a birthday present from Brian, what I can only call "The Purse that Will Never Be a Diaper Bag," since all of my other purses seemed to have morphed into matchbox car-carrying, diaper-stashing bags.) I don't know if it was all the champagne, but I couldn't stop grinning. Even the sight of the Las Vegas skyline, lit up against the night sky, did not upset me. I felt great. I felt happy. I felt...excited.

And so five of us headed to Fleur for a quick birthday dinner after the meeting, and surprisingly, my heart did not hurt a bit. There were no tears on the horizon. Nancy purchased a mini-bottle of Vevue Cliquot to split (again, what is up with all of this great bubbly? Where has it been all my life?) and just as the croque monseuirs were arriving...

...so did a certain silver-haired Bravo TV Top Chef judge and contestant.

Be still my beating heart. It was Hubert Keller.

If you've read this blog, you know that I've been talking about Chef Keller for years. YEARS. And there were a few near missed for he and I over the years. The one time Brian and I were there for dinner, and he was there, but did not approach our table. Or the other time we saw him getting out of the parking garage elevator with his wife and we waved but he didn't hear us. Or the many, many times I've attempted to stalk him at the Burger Bar with my cute, camera-ready child in tow.

And then on all nights, with absolutely no pre-planning or pre-thought on my part, he just walked out of the shadows and up to our table and asked us if we were enjoying our meal.

I have no idea what my face looked like, but everyone started laughing hysterically at me. Apparently the first words out of my mouth were, "Hubert Keller! I LOVE YOU!" and I popped out of the booth and started vigorously shaking his hands.

Yup, that was me. Cool as a cucumber.

Thankfully, he was very good-natured about it and posed for a few pictures. (I even managed to touch his little ponytail...it's as soft and beautiful as he is.) He came back to our table a second time and asked if we had ordered dessert yet. Sonnya told him it was my birthday and without hesitation, he told us he would be happy to have our server make us Fleur's signature dessert, a fogado, tableside. I also told him we had an empty spot if he wanted to join us, but he politely declined.

Bummer.

Honestly, it was such a great night. It was so overwhelming and wonderful and exciting. The a fogado was made with liquid nitrogen (a nod to Richard Blaise, perhaps?) and was totally delicious. It reminded me of Ireland. I don't think I stopped talking about Chef Keller the whole night, either. I was still talking about it by the time I arrived home and Brian greeted me (Dawn had texted him a picture of the two of us.)

Amazing? Absolutely. And the whole day - not just the Hubert Keller part - was perfect, start to finish. For what could have been a really tough day, I'm happy to say my friends made it into something extraordinary. And when I woke up on Thursday morning, I didn't even notice my forehead wrinkle, mainly because the laugh lines around my mouth were so much deeper.

But those are wrinkles I will gladly take.

This entry is dedicated to my mom and my sister.

Because I'm a fall birthday, I started high school at the tender age of 12. While this is an awkward time for most, I was no exception. Braces, glasses, weird hair, and hand-me-downs from my sister did nothing for me. My hot-mess geek status was magnified by the fact I tested out of most of the freshman-year courses offered and was subsequently sent to live among the sophomores. And these sophomores, who hailed from nicer, more affluent suburbs than my own, were smooth, polished, and well-spoken.

It was a disaster, to say the least. And a total nightmare for 12-year old me.

The worst was study hall. Two sophomores by the names of Tim* and Ken* took great pleasure in torturing me for 42 minutes a day. I saw them during 3rd period Geometry and both sat behind me during 4th period study hall. Maybe it was my appearance or maybe it was my age, but they believed I somehow held all the right answers in math class and therefore they had the right to want/need/demand my homework.  Constantly. When I refused, the teasing started.

Like any good bully, they lived for my reaction. It went from mild teasing in study hall to actually seeking me out between classes. They liked to yell my name, watch me blush, and use all kinds of play-on-words with my last name. My heart sunk every time I saw these two. It was like the Gruesome Twosome and I hated their very existence.

Something clicked in my brain, however, when freshman year ended. Relieved to be away from them for summer break, I spent my time earning money by transplanting plants and flowers out of my grandma's garden and mowing lawns in my neighborhood. I earned enough money to purchase contacts. A week late, I got my braces off. My mom paid for me to have a nice haircut, and I started paying attention to the way I dressed.

Now, it's not exactly the stuff that romantic comedies are made of. There was no montage set to music and I certainly was no glamour-puss at the end. My appearance made me simply more accepted in general society and no longer a fashion pariah. But the best was returning to school in the fall and seeing Ken and Tim's faces the first time they saw me. Oh, they still teased - but the teasing took on a much more gentle, almost flirtatious tone.  They weren't jumping out at me from dark corners and cackling my last name for all to hear. And by my junior year, there was no more teasing at all. Just nice smiles and sheepish grins. There was loose talk that both wanted to ask me to prom, and though it never materialized, it was delicious and satisfying and still makes me smile to this day. 

Boo-ya.

I learned an important lesson at an early age:

Living well is the best revenge.

After the disaster that was our wedding in 2006, similar feelings of despair flooded me. I was simply in shock that everything I had worked so hard to do - 22 months worth of planning and tens of thousands of dollars of our own money - was destroyed at the hands of one person in the span of several moments. What was worse was that person took no responsibility for their actions, offered no apology, and actually had the nerve to attack us - again and again. What happened next can only be called the Greatest War Fought Over Email ever, and it tore me apart. I started having panic attacks, I had trouble sleeping, and began to fear for my physical safety. I lived in my head most of the time, wondering when the next howler would arrive in my inbox, and it was torture. Pure torture.

After about seven months of this, again, something clicked in my head. I just got fed up with feeling afraid. I told myself I can't let this person ruin my life or my marriage, and while I can't control their actions, I can control mine. So I quit my government job, repainted our entire house, and opened a private practice. I started working less, cooking more, and enjoying life again. And as I reminded myself during the entire year that was 2007...

Living well is the best revenge.

Now, I'm in a similar place. I thought I was doing okay after my father's passing, but I happened to notice at the gym the other day that I was going twice as fast - at a higher resistance - on my elliptical than anyone else around me. Where was this frantic, frenetic pace coming from? Why was I pushing myself? What am I running from?

It made me think about the last two months. I've had this insatiable urge to purge everything from our house. I want to clean every single closet, organize the garage, and ensure there is not a single weed in our lawn (a futile effort, I'm discovering.) No fork is out of place, no hanger is turned the wrong way, and by god, every label will be facing forward in my fridge. (which is cleaned and polished, thank you very much.)

Ditto for Junior League work. Every day during nap time, I throw myself at the computer and work for a solid two to three hours. I don't want to stop. I want to create a fantastic newsletter. I want to increase community awareness for our projects. I want to make others proud, and in doing it, I'm logging about 15-20 hours a week. I'm exhausted, cranky, but something inside of me is pushing me to go further.

(I'm sure my committee members are just delighted to read they are part of my latent grief reaction. Sorry, ladies.)

When it comes down to it, I'm pushing and pushing and pushing myself because of one reason: I'm pissed off. I'm mad at the Universe. I'm mad that my dad was only 60 when he passed away. I'm angry that forces beyond my control saw it fit to take a kind, loving, generous man from his family while other douche-bags walk around, totally healthy. I'm pissed that my mom is suffering. I'm angry that there are no easy answers to any of this.

In short, I'm just plain old pissed off.

Hell, I painted my toes blue. A tribute to my dad, but also a proverbial middle finger to the Universe. You want to take my dad? Fine; I'll rebel. I'm not going to conform and be appropriate; I'm going to paint my damn toes blue.

(Yes, I recognize this is a very quiet, very geeky way to rebel. Next, I will likely get a tattoo or something. Except I hate tattoos, so that will never happen.)

Most mental health professionals would tell you that anger is the processed carb of emotions - it's quick and easy, but in end, you are left still hungry and vaguely unsettled. I get it. I know there is a short shelf life for this behavior. But at the same time, as I looked around the gym that day, I started tallying up what I've done in two months. I've lost eight pounds. The newsletter is on par to be a great publication that may hopefully increase community awareness of our projects. My house is a testament to organization.

So really, it's not all bad.

Because if the Universe wants to take my dad, I'll fight back.

Living well is the best revenge.


*real names; I will not protect the guilty

Yesterday I painted my toes blue.

Because I can.

Because I wanted to.

Because blue is my dad's favorite color.

And because every time I look at my feet now, I smile.

(Ironically, my dad was never one for painted toe nails. If he were here now, he would pronounce my toes the ugliest things ever, and why do I do these things to myself? Knowing this part makes me just chuckle more.)

I haven't written much lately, and it's because I just don't have a lot to say. I want to talk about the terrorist toddler stand-off between Scotty and I yesterday (I won), but it seems out of place. And then I want to mention the fabulous Annual Spa Day that is on the books for tomorrow, but I feel weird talking about happy events. It's all normal, I understand, but it just seems inappropriate right now. (Like Bachelorette and True Blood reviews are appropriate, I know. But it's easier to talk about something that isn't about me, you know?)

So in an effort to write, I came up with a Cliff Notes version of how to handle a person who has recently experienced a loss. Many people have commented to me that they "don't know what to do" at a time like this. Well, me too. So here's my advice. Take it with a grain of salt, or take it to heart. It's your call. And please feel free to let me know if I missed anything.

        HOW TO HELP A FRIEND WHO RECENTLY EXPERIENCED A LOSS

1.) ACKNOWLEDGE IT. This sounds basic, right? It's shocking to me how many people have failed to acknowledge my dad's passing. I'm not judging them - not at all - but am simply more confused by it. As a dear friend and fellow psychologist recently told me, "Not everyone is comfortable talking about intense emotion." Excellent point, Dr. Leah. And if you are one of those people who would rather bypass the topic the than talk about it at length, be prepare for a confused reaction. Because if your friend has recently experienced a loss, trust me, talking about something else will not distract them. All they are thinking about is their loss. And until it's acknowledged, it kind of hangs in the room like a heavy cloud. Mention it, give them a hug, or just a smile; I promise the other person won't melt into a puddle on your carpet.

2.) OFFER YOUR CONDOLENCES, BUT DON'T EXPECT TO CHEER THE PERSON UP.  It's a noble cause, I know, to want to make the other person smile or laugh in the face of grief. But it's sometimes just not possible. It's great to be a good friend, but part of that friendship is the respect is allowing the person to be with their grief. They won't grieve forever, and eventually, your friend will return to their usual emotional state. But if you try to force it, it just gets awkward for everyone.

3.) TRY NOT TO SOUND LIKE A HALLMARK CARD. Remember, this person is your friend. Saying things like, "May the loving memories live in your heart for the years to come" is rather poetic, but kind of generic, too. Be real. The grieving person is looking to you for a kind word and maybe a shoulder to cry on, not poetry. If you can't think of anything else to say, just tell them something nice about them - "You're strong, you will get through this" or "I believe in you."  Two of my favorite comments from the wake were from two of my dearest friends, and they were silly, sincere, sweet comments - which is exactly like Liz and Krista. One was about my dress and the other was about my hair. When you're in the middle of crappy stuff like death, it's nice to be told, "Your hair looks fabulous!" even when it may not be 100% accurate. (Midwestern humidity, anyone?) The point is, both comments made me smile - sincerely - and that was really helpful.

4.) IF YOU KNEW THE PERSON, OFFER A STORY OR MEMORY OF THEM. I cannot emphasize how helpful this is -- whenever I received messages about my dad on Facebook or in person, it really does help. Perhaps one of the most startling aspect of the wake was the group of men who came up to my sister and I and offered different stories about my dad at work. When you are faced with the magnitude of this kind of loss, those stories are priceless. Even if it's a insignificant memory to you, it won't be insignificant to that person.

5.) SOMETIMES, LESS IS MORE. We're all guilty of putting our foot in our mouth at some point. And when you are trying to comfort a friend, it's easy to go on and on without thinking. The only problem is that the more you say, the more apt you are to say something really hurtful.  At the tale end of a long, heartfelt speech, I heard, "At least he didn't suffer" and I almost lost my shizz. Because sadly, that statement is totally not accurate. In fact, that statement brought back the entire week we spent in Indiana, with all of the doctor appointments and long moments in the house, and the look on my dad's face when Kelly and I left for the airport. He did suffer. He knew what was going on. I asked him if he wanted to see a video of Scotty, and he said no. He knew. He was dying and it was too painful for him to see what he was going to miss out on. (okay, now I'm crying.) It's a stupid, insensitive statement that brought up a ton of pain and hurt, and the problem is, that person couldn't take it back. So, just be thoughtful, especially if you choose to comment on stuff you don't know about. It's better to stop talking and offer a hug or squeeze on the shoulder than to venture into unknown verbal commentary.

6.) DON'T TRY TO MAKE IT BETTER. It is what it is. We've all seen "The Lion King."  I get the whole 'circle of life' thing. Children are supposed to bury their parents. Dying is part of the whole living gig, and while it sucks, it's not exactly avoidable. A grieving person will come to terms with what is going on, but trying to cheer them up is a futile endeavor. Along the lines of #5, telling someone, "At least he is not suffering anymore," is just as craptastic as thinking he didn't suffer at all. Let's just avoid the whole suffering conversation, okay? Ix-nay on the uffering-say. Thanks.

7.) ASK WHAT YOU CAN DO, AND THEN FOLLOW UP. The days leading up to all of the ceremonies are chaotic with phone calls and appointments, and the two day of the wake and funeral are overwhelming and exhausting. And then - poof. It's all gone. Things get very, very quiet. So if time permits, don't just acknowledge the family directly after the loss, but follow up with them, too. We received a million offers of help in the week following my dad's death, and I'm terribly worried that my mom's phone has stopped ringing. So call, email, and make sure you continue to be a good friend to the person.

8.) IF YOU CAN RELATE, PLEASE SHARE. As I mentioned earlier, losing a parent is akin to being inducted into a new club. And I started to see the world as two groups: people who have lost a parent and those who haven't. All of a sudden, that first group seemed like a safe community, and maybe one that could offer some much-needed advice or support. I wanted to hear about other friends' losses, and my friend Courtney, mom to Carson and Sam (Scotty's on-again, off-again girlfriend), suddenly became my oxygen. Everything from her experience with hospice care to funeral arrangements, I wanted - no, needed - to hear how she got through it and what it was like for her. Aside from being a good friend, she became an invaluable support and comrade in loss. Thank you, Court.

8.) GIVE THEM SPACE.  Your friend isn't going to be your "normal" friend for awhile. Experiencing a loss creates the "new" normal - i.e. things will go back to routine, but don't expect your friend to be totally the same person. They want to get back to normal, too, but it feels weird. As yet another brilliant psychologist friend (Dr. Jill) mentioned to me, grief can be disorienting. It's like you forget about the loss during a conversation or TV show or movie, only to remember it and be brought to Earth with a sudden, unexpected thud. Give your friend space to be disoriented, uncertain, and off-kilter.

I hope this helps anyone reading it. I know I have greatly appreciated all of the kind emails, Facebook comments and messages, and comments on this blog. It has made this tough time that much easier, and I cannot thank you all enough. 

Twenty days ago, my plane touched down in Chicago.

Fifteen days ago, I hugged my dad good-bye, told him I loved him, and told him to "fight the good fight."

Fourteen days ago, he entered the ICU due to high blood sugar and vomiting.

Eleven days ago, he passed away peacefully at the age of 60.

Seven days ago, my mom, sister and I attended my dad's wake and met with all of the people who's lives had been touched by my dad. It was beyond humbling, to say the least. I don't know when a child gets a chance to see their parent in a different light, except in this type of situation, and it was so wonderful to meet the people he worked with, hear stories about my dad as a supervisor, or a friend, or a cousin. The man I called "Dad" wore many hats and he wore them all well.

And six days ago, I eulogized my dad at his funeral. Below is the transcript of what I wrote. I'm publishing it for two reasons: 1.) My heart is not in writing right now, and I think this sums up what I feel right now, and 2.) because of the ending. If you'd like to do what I suggest, please let me know. I know my family would appreciate it.

                                                ***********************

On behalf of my family, I’d like to thank all of you for being here today.

Last week, I started to get really sad. Knowing how sick my dad was, I realized it was unlikely he was ever going to see the Cubs win a World’s Series in his lifetime.

And then, I realized that is probably true for all of us.

(note: okay, so this was supposed to be a joke. However, essentially no one laughed. I personally still think this is funny - mainly since the Cubs are going to be terrible for a long, long time - but according to Brian, my official eulogy commentator, he felt no one really laughed because they weren't expecting something humorous. So either, in my first attempt at stand-up, I bombed. In a Catholic Church. Good times.)

My dad was many things – an avid Cubs fan. Mostly a Bears fan. An occasional Colts fan. Before he retired he was a supervisor, a co-worker, a mentor, and an occasional pain in the butt. After he retired, he was a golfer, a napper, a world traveler, and still, the occasional pain in the butt. He was a husband, a father, and most recently, a grandfather. He was a perfectionist, a fair man, a humble man, a proud man and loyal to the core. You always knew where you stood with my dad.

My dad was a proud, quiet man. He was a perfectionist to the end, and if you had the honor of calling him a co-worker, you know what I mean. He knew how to get things done, and they had to be right. He instilled this belief in my sister and I at a young age, and to do this day, I can still his hear voice in my head: “Measure twice, cut once.” But what he was really saying was, “Use caution. Be thoughtful. Do it right.”

My dad didn’t like to make a big deal out of his accomplishments. He was probably the handiest guy I’ve ever known. He literally hand-crafted softball trophies from the machine shop he worked at, with precision and skill. He built desks for my sister and myself growing up to make sure we had the necessary tools to succeed in school. He whittled pens for us and even built our kitchen table. Most recently, he took great pride in building beautiful wooden toys for his grandsons.  He was amazing, gifted, and incredibly talented. We used to joke with him that his mustache always had a constant dusting of sawdust in it. But I can tell you, I can’t smell sawdust without thinking of my father.

One of my favorite stories about my dad’s abilities came when my parents were building their current home. He had grown accustomed to going to the lot after work to check out that day’s work. One night, as he was repairing some dry wall in a closet, another workman stumbled upon him. He looked at my dad and smiled and said, “You still here? Yeah, I know – from what I hear, the owner is a real task master. You better do that right.” My dad just smiled and nodded. His expectations of others were well known.

My dad was the hardest working man I know, and he provided for his family. He often worked double shifts, and yet remained one of the most generous people I know. I remember when I was in 6th grade and still riding on my pink Huffy bike. I had just been to the park and was mercilessly teased by the other kids for my bike, just as kids are prone to do. When I came home crying, my mom shrugged and said to let it roll off my back. Not my dad, though. He didn’t want me to feel badly, and so on his suggestion, we went out that night and bought a sleek black ten-speed. Those kids in the park never said a word to me again, and I know my dad was pleased. While he was gruff on the outside, it pained him to know one of his girls was hurting. He wanted the best for us and was so proud to be able to provide.

But probably most of all, my dad was a loyal man. He was loyal to those he loved.  I don’t know many things for sure, but I know this: he loved my mom. A lot. And without fail. Their 37-plus year marriage is a testament to loyalty. It’s a marriage many aspire to but few meet. Christmases at our house always ended the same way: a special gift for my mom, usually hidden, and often times, jewelry. I’m not sure who was happier – my mom receiving the beautiful gifts, or my dad, for having selected something he knew she would love. It was sweet and touching.

Over the last few days, many people have asked me what they can do to help. I thought about this and came up with an answer. So listen closely. First, I’d like you to go home today and turn on the Cubs game. Open a beverage of your choice, preferably an MGD, because it’s cold-filtered and everything else would give him a head-ache. And then I want you think about the man that was my dad. Think really hard. And come up with a favorite or memorable story about him. And when you’re ready – whether it be in a few hours or a few months, I’d like you to share that memory with my mom, and perhaps my sister and I.  Because if you believe like I do, that the best way to honor a person is to remember them, than share that memory. And that way, my dad lives forever, both in our minds and in our hearts.

Thank you.

                                                ***********************

It's been eleven days since my dad passed, and I still can't believe it.

I don't get it. I can't get it. My mind will not process this. It just won't. I feel like I've unwillingly and unhappily joined a club I don't want to be a member of - the "I've Lost a Parent" Club.

I want to resign my membership.