girlgangs: (Default)
2016-02-11 09:12 am

fathers, be good to your daughters: pt. i

My dad phoned me last night to tell me that he's having surgery on the ulnar nerve in his left arm a week from tomorrow. He's been experiencing numbness in his pinkie and ring finger, and could lose the use of his left hand altogether if he doesn't get it sorted out; and he also told me in his direct, matter-of-fact way that he could pass on the operating table.

Some people might get indignant on my behalf, or assume my dad is being dramatic, but he's worked in hospitals for years and, in his own words, he's "seen it happen time and time again."

The truth is, I appreciate his honesty, even if it's a very scary thought. My dad and I have grown closer over the last ten years than I ever believed was possible, and I feel like he's trying to do one of the many things he should have done when I was a kid: prepare me in case things go awry.

I promised him I'd call next Thursday evening, before his surgery the following afternoon. I told him I loved him. I'll tell him again.

Irony of ironies, the episode of Skins I watched immediately after we hung up featured a character's father dying out of the blue.
girlgangs: (geeky)
2016-01-23 03:01 pm
Entry tags:

iconography.

Hey, gang. I've got an icon community up and running over at [community profile] partyfoul. After D&D, I'll unload the rest of my old icons so I can get started on new batches.

Have a request? Leave me a comment here. In the meantime, tell your friends, tell your friends' friends, and tell your friends' friends' pets!
girlgangs: (pedal)
2016-01-23 10:26 am

goodbye, norma jeane.

As some of you already know, my Mazda died suddenly, though not unexpectedly, Tuesday the 12th. It had a whole spectrum of things wrong with it, but official cause of death was low pressure in the fuel pump. After eight long days of being at my mother's mercy for rides to and from work, I reached the next hallmark of adulthood by buying a newer, sexier car.

Still, I'm gonna miss my little heap of garbage on wheels, which I dubbed Norma Jeane for her champagne-colored paint job.

I bought her outright at age 18 from the owner of a scrapyard who had initially purchased her for his wife, but she didn't like the color. When you're that young, you're so proud just to have a car that it doesn't occur to you to be self-conscious about how old or busted-up it looks. (I remember all of my friends drove used, slightly battered cars that had a lot of character back then.)

Norma Jeane was present for all of my giddy highs and sobbing lows. But my fondest memory will always be driving from Augusta State, which I briefly attended in 2005, back home to Savannah for weekend visits. Those were the first long distance trips I'd taken by myself, and they were blissful. Lengthy stretches of road hemmed by wildflowers, charming little country towns with a single thoroughfare, very busy intersections, the corniest mixed CD imaginable, and Norma Jeane with me through it all.

Eleven years later, she finally gave out on me. Not with a bang or a whimper, but with a chassis-shaking putter. Honestly, I don't like to think about where she's logically headed next. I just hope there are wildflowers along the way.