They say that death comes in threes. I guess they're right.
Last week I wrote this:
And I'm feeling numb. Although I haven't seen Mike in nearly 5 years and I haven't spoken to him since before I moved to Chicago, I'm still feeling shell shocked. For obvious reasons, but I also am coming to a realization (after speaking with a close friend who had put her mother in hospice care two days ago) that I've reached that age when my peers and I will start to lose our parents.
A week after Mike passed away my friend called and told me that her mother couldn't fight anymore. This is one of my closest sister-friends. Of the two closest sister friends who are both pregnant sister-friends. The one who's carrying my godbabies (by the by she's having twin girls).
Then just when I thought my heart was as heavy as it could get, I got a call today from the other sister-friend. She went into labor early and her baby boy didn't make it...
My heart is aching for my sisters. Keep them in your prayers.
I've never written about Mike before. I actually didn't really think of him that often, but he was still a huge part of my life, my upbringing and what makes Alice Alice.
Mike was my stepfather. Not my mother's new husband, but my sister's father who was with my mother from the time that I was a baby until I was about 15 years old. They were what we old school Pennsylvanians call Common Law married (although the state stopped recognizing it in 2005). He helped my mother raise me as his daughter, when my own father was off fighting his demons while still respecting that he could never really replace my biological father. Strangely enough he and my father had a great relationship with neither feeling threatened by the other. (I sometimes refer to my mother as a "pimptress" because of her ability to have all of her men get along)
Mike was in no way a perfect man and he began to fight his own "demons" that eventually led to the dissolution of his and my mother's relationship. He wasn't always the best provider, but he was a protector of sorts. He was the person who carried me to bed as a child when I would fall asleep on the sofa while watching Rags to Riches. Mike was the person who kept us safe when parts of South Philly was going through race wars in the late 80's. He was the one who taught my brother, sister and me what it meant to be chivalrous and that I'm to expect a man to always walk on the outside and open doors for me (something that I still take quite seriously. I will totally dump you if you don't know how to walk down the street with me).
When he and my mother split it was understandably traumatic for my family, but because of his impact, my siblings and I still maintained a relationship with him. My brother died a few months after they broke up and Mike was there to support and grieve with us. A few years after that Mike moved in and had two children with some woman who felt threatened by the bond that he and my mother once had. She told him that my sister (who was 16 at the time) was no longer welcome in their home (because this grown woman thought that my teenage sister was "plotting against her"... totally NOT the case, but I digress) and she told Mike that she would take his sons away from him if he continued to bring his daughter around. Mike, still fighting his demons and proving that he was less than perfect actually told my sister that she wasn't allowed in his home, thus ruining their relationship. He hurt my sister and she loathed him and refused to speak to him for more than 15 years. My mother wasn't that jazzed about him either and with my brother gone, I was his only connection to his former family. We wouldn't talk that often, maybe once a year, but we still maintained a bond.
Suddenly a few months ago Mike was coming around more often and my sister decided to let go of the hate that she harbored for so long. She still wasn't ready to go back to life circa 1991, but she would at least talk to him. Then yesterday my sister called to tell me that Mike was dead. He was sick and no one knew it and he died in a suburban Philadelphia hospital.
And I'm feeling numb. Although I haven't seen Mike in nearly 5 years and I haven't spoken to him since before I moved to Chicago, I'm still feeling shell shocked. For obvious reasons, but I also am coming to a realization (after speaking with a close friend who had put her mother in hospice care two days ago) that I've reached that age when my peers and I will start to lose our parents.
And I'm not ready.
I talked to my mom after I hung up with my sister and she's feeling pretty numb as well. Although she's happily married and had general ill feelings toward Mike because of how their union ended, she still loved him and has some good memories stored within her. I called my father to let him know because I knew that he would hear it through the grapevine. He was in the supermarket at the deli counter at the time, so telling him was reminiscent of Jackie telling Auntie Barbara that her dad died:
And since yesterday I've just been processing it all. Crying as I think of the good times, laughing when I think of the good times and overall, just processing...
Coat the inside of a chilled martini glass with the vermouth and pour it out. In a cocktail shaker, mix the triple sec, absinthe and vodka over ice and shake it, don't break it, get on the floor butt naked. Strain into the martini glass, garnish with an orange wheel and enjoy!
NuNu and I have plans to go see Alvin Ailey when the company comes to Chicago in a few weeks. It was his idea - with my very strong subliminal messaging of course. I was thinking about what I wanted to wear and if this justified a small shopping trip, when it dawned on me that including this year, I've always gone to see this show with a man that I currently and will forever loathe. Well, that's not exactly true - my father took me once, but other than that I've been once with the Loser (those who remember him from my past life know who I'm talking about) and once with the Liar. Should I be afraid of going to see this show with NuNu? What if this is an omen that I will hate him one day as well?
I started writing this a few weeks ago then I got super busy and well you know how it goes. It turns out that the Alvin Ailey Touring company is cursed. The night NuNu and I were set to see the show, he never showed up. Like just didn't. We talked from our respective jobs that morning and hammered out the pick up time and everything. Then he failed to show up. He sent some sorry ass text message and later claimed that it was something with his son and having to go to the emergency room, but he was posting on the Stalkers Wet Dream Facebook mere minutes before and after his "sorry babe" text (and posting stupid shit, like Ice Cube videos AND he does not have a smart phone...). So fuck him.
Die Hard(today's recipe is from drinkspub.com. All of this healthy eating is getting in the way of my mixology tasting)
2 oz Everclear® alcohol
1/2 oz vodka
2 oz grapefruit juice
Put your shakers away kids! Stir all ingredients together in an old-fashioned glass 1/2 filled with ice cubes, and serve. (you can definitely tell that this wasn't my recipe. The directions have no pizazz)
My first apartment was on the third floor of a beautiful brownstone. Laundry was in the basement, and worked on an honor system - you drop a buck in a basket whenever you washed and dried. Because of its' proximity I actually hated doing laundry and worked it out so that I'd only have to do it about 1-2 times a season.
I r e a l l y hated doing laundry.
Then when I moved into the house, I bought a washer and dryer that made the task of laundry more convenient. I returned to the land of "foundation garments" and all was well with the world. When I moved to Chicago into the first condo, it came with one of those all in one washer/dryer dealies, so I sold my washer and dryer and went to town on the new one.
Now in my new place, I don't have a washer and dryer in my apartment, but it's literally right outside my rear entrance, so it sort of feels like it's in my unit. So much so, that I often run in and out of the laundry room in the buff to add bleach and/or retrieve a small load. The other tenants have to enter from outside, so I'm really hoping that no one catches my early morning streaking.
This washer and dryer are coin operated - cheap, just a dollar - but it's quarters only. This poses a problem for yours truly as I hardly ever have any cash on me, forget about case quarters (Case quarter. That's old school speak right there). So this morning I threw a load in while I performed my morning constitutional (hint: it ain't the walking one) and much to my surprise chagrin I didn't have enough quarters to dry my load. I ended up laying everything flat around the apartment and over the shower door, but I also vowed not to deal with that foolishness again.
This is what fifty bucks worth of quarters looks like
I went into the bank and exchange 5 crisp10 dollar bills for my little jar of goodness and convenience. I'm sure that teller wondered if I was planning on hauling gold from the Federal Reserve Bank in about 20 dump trucks, but she smiled as if she too had been at the laundromat without the necessary two bits.
Mix all ingredients sans the cinnamon stick in a cocktail shaker over ice. Shake it like your hands would be shaking if you were meeting the President of the United States. Strain into a martini glass and lean the cinnamon stick inside the glass for garnish and enjoy!
Remember that driving gig? Well I had the pleasure and the incredible honor of driving in the motorcade of the one and only President Obama, aka Mr. President, aka El Capitan, aka the Cinnamon Prince when he was in Chicago a few weeks ago! And I met him! And it was awwwww-some! So how did someone with a shall we say "questionable" driving history get to drive all through downtown, up and down Lakeshore Drive, to his house (and actually down the street vs just 500 feet away like all of you regular folk) with total disregard for all traffic laws and with a police escort?
Because I'm made of awesome sauce and you're not.
Well you may be made of awesome sauce too, but your sauce won't be quite as awesome as my sauce until you have a friend who calls you one night and asks you to drive around town with the President of these here United States.
Get your game up, kids.
So... how was meeting Mr. Obama you ask? Great and nerve racking all at the same time. Nearing the end of the night after he finished a speaking engagement at Navy Pier, he came out to shake our hands, thank us for our service (because you know that this was a volunteer gig. We're talking about the gub'ment here) and to take some photos with us (there were 7 of us). And let me tell you - our President has some serious swag. He has this effortless "cool" about him and as he strutted over to me - yes he struts, not walks - my heart was in my chest and I was trying not to smile too hard as if meeting dignitaries was a regular occurrence for me. I was as poised as possible as he shook our hands and asked our names, and considering that one of the other female drivers totally forgot her own name, I think that I did well.
It was a truly amazing experience and they actually asked me to do it again last week but I had some can't miss meetings that kept me from being able to put the pedal to the metal for the Leader of the Free World again.
I wasn't able to get very many pictures, but here's a few of the helicopters arriving and departing from Soldier Field. The ones that we took with him will be mailed to us (and yes I'm checking the mailbox daily).
Check out the secret service and bomb sniffing dogs
Military helicopters filled with important guests and reporters
Mr. President's helicopter that brought him from Air Force One
