It may look like just an ordinary table. Sadly, some may think it ugly. Both couldn’t be further from the truth. What lies buried deep within the wood are years and years of memories. Of laughter. Of love.

Once upon a time, this table was the only table in my grandmother’s modest little apartment.

If you’ve read my “Yup, I’ve Got Boobs” (http://lifeinmonkeyland.blogspot.com/2009/10/yup-ive-got-boobs.html) post, you have caught a small glimmer into the awesomeness that was my grandmother. Her and my aunt were the first and only real strong female role models that I had growing up. Whenever I look at my family and wonder how I fit in, I think of them and it begins to make sense. She was also the only grandparent I’ve ever known.

Grandma passed away December 30th, 1999 of Pancreatic Cancer. Fuck you very much again Cancer. I remember someone looking at me and saying “Awww she just missed seeing the new millennium.” She was the feistiest 85 year old you would have ever met and I know exactly what her response would have been “New millennium, same shytting thing.” Someday I plan on writing a series of posts on her. Not only because the stories are great, but because they need to be preserved so I may hand them down to the girls and they can hand them down. To listen to them tell their children how great grandma rode to work on the back of a Harley and made the best Matzoh Ball soup ever is something I hope I live to hear.

Someday. But not today. I don’t have the strength in me today to open that all up. This last year has been one continual fight against the very type of beast that took my grandmother and my aunt. And it has gotten overwhelming. There have been days where I am so tired I just want to curl in a ball and cry. But then I think of them, take a deep breath and think “I’ve got this.” I miss them both so much.

Today I stood in the pouring rain, holding the door open as my parents brought it out of the back of their minivan. As soon as the first chair came out, I caught my breath. By the time the table came out, the lump in my throat was huge. I kept trying to swallow it, hoping the rain would help me wash it down. I haven’t seen it since before she passed.

Now it sits in our home where our memories, our laughter, our love can be added to those already within it. Its mere presence has already brought me comfort. I want to hug it, to sit at it and lay my head upon it… listening for her voice, smelling for Matzoh Ball soup.

To many it may look like a simple table. To me it is a piece of my grandma.

Who loses their journal during a move but has every cable and cord wrapped, organized and labeled? That would be me. My journal is where most of my posts stem from. I have many that I want to put up now that we’re all moved in to our lovely new digs. But, goofy me can’t find it. So, you’re getting one pulled fresh from my sleepy brain. (Well, it was fresh Thursday night when it was written.) Courtesy of an Office Max legal pad from 2005 (as dated by the state hearing screen card from my lilest monkey’s birth shoved in the back of it) and the pack of papermate pens I happened upon while searching for something to write on.

Despite the bliss of a bit of closure to a month of much hell in my life, today I am deeply saddened by the loss of John Hughes. No, I did not know him personally. But, the mark his work left on my life and who I am can not be denied. I don’t idolize celebrities and I damn sure am not going to be the crazy chick tweeting about wanting to join him in the afterlife. I am, however, going to give him a lil blog love. I wouldn’t be me without a lil babbling side note in a post and would hate to let anyone reading this who knows me down. It will be short, it will be sweet and it may piss some off but here it is:

I firmly believe that we should mourn the loss of John Hughes on the same level as that of Michael Jackson. In reality, part of me wants to say more than, but who am I to pu tone person’s life above another’s? Yes, as an entertainer MJ was an inspiration for some. His musical catalog, however, was not exactly life changing. While Thriller was fun, grounbreaking and will remain a classic, Hughes gave strength to the underdog, love for the geeks, helped a world understand what it was like to be a teenager and The Breakfast Club should be mandatory viewing for all as it contains one of the single most important lessons we should all learn in life. Will they fill a stadium for Mr. Hughes, hell even a theater, and televise it? Probably not. That, my friends, is a damn shame and breaks my heart.

While I was not even close to a high schooler when the bulk of his greatest hits came out, my sister was. The soundtracks to his movies became the soundtrack to my life. Bits and pieces of each of his movies have been found in my memories, gift wrapped lovingly and stowed away to hand down. From my Duckie who used to ride his 10 speed past the ad agency I worked at in high school every day to me sitting on the floor with my old sewing machine whipping up my prom dress (no, it was not pink, but close). Hell, I even dated a guy named Blaine. While my underwear was (to the best of my knowledge) never up for viewing, the science team appearantly had a bet going where $10.00 went to the first one of them I actually touched while we were at the State Science Finals. I had agreed to fill in for one of the team after they came down with chicken pox or some such thing. I was the Genetics ringer. Also, the only girl. That day is a whole nother blog though. I think you get what I’m laying down here.

John Hughes Rocked. In a BIG fucking way. For the memories, the lessons, the Duckman, the misfits, the no more yanky my wanky the Donger need food, the rise of the science geeks, the stand of Cameron, the hopes we’d all have an Uncle Buck someday, the understanding of a generation, the love. Thank you just doesn’t seem to be enough sir.

I leave you with my favorite moment of his…

Dear Mr. Vernon,

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us… In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…and an athlete…and a basket case…a princess…and a criminal…Does that answer your question?…

Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.

Not unlike myself, our living room furniture is on the chunky side. Also, like me, it puts the omf in comfy. After I finally got the ex to vacate the last dwelling, eldest monkey asked if we could rearrange the living room. Slightly odd request for a two year old, but my monkeys and I are slightly odd.

So, I left the big ole wompin’ couch where it was and pulled the loveseat to the center of the room. Then, I pulled the chaise lounge thingie (which just sat in a corner usually as yeah, I’m not the hoity toity loungie thing type) up against the loveseat until it formed a ginormous square roughly the size of a queen size bed. We then all piled on it and snuggled down to watch The Muppet Movie. During the opening Rainbow Connection, the edlest one and I decided to name our new creation “The Island of Love.” It seemed quite fitting.

The Island of Love has since moved with us. Guests that visit for the first time look at us with a mixture of confusion and “wow, they really are kinda nuts” until they park their judgmental tushies on it and feel the love. I fear a day when it will have to be separated. No matter how crazy or rough our lives get, The Island of Love is our safe haven. It’s our fortress of fun, our wealth of woobiness, our sanctuary of snuggle, our lush landing of love.

And we, as you know, are all about the love.

woob ⋅ie /ˈwʊdi/ Show Spelled Pronunciation

  /ˈwʊdi/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [woobee] –noun, plural woob⋅ies

This is a phrase used often by me for decades now. It stems from the movie “Mr. Mom” wherein the little boy’s security blanket was referred to as his “woobie.” That which is considered woobie is a totally personal thing. It will vary gianormously. Essentially, it is as follows:

Something or someone that is sooooooooo comfy that it feels like a warm, safe hug.

A woobie could be a blanket, a sweater, I have “Red Woobie Slippers,” a person, hell even a cup of really good hojicha. If it makes ya feel squishy, it’s woobie. If you want to wrap yourself in it and snuggle down forever- woobie. If the mere thought of it makes you smile and sigh- woobie.

It is important to note that while they say that matters of the heart bring about the harshest karmic payback, I firmly believe that stealing another person’s woobie will bring about a karmic bitch slap of equal or greater proportion.

Everyone needs some woobage in their life.

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