L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

Back in the halcyon days of Saturday Morning Cartoons, ABC ran these cutesy little PSAs during commercial breaks designed to teach children useful life lessons like how to choose healthy snacks, brush their teeth properly, or dispose of bodies without leaving evidence.

Okay, maybe not so much on that last one.

The host of these PSAs was Timer, some kind of jaundice-y looking globule who liked to sing and dance while wearing silly accessories (but no clothes).

I loved “Time for Timer” breaks. They were funny, short, and always had a catchy tune. But my favorite was the “Hanker for a Hunk o’ Cheese” song. I don’t really know why, but sometimes I’ll still catch myself humming this strange, silly tune. Thankfully, no one has caught me doing this. Yet.

I’m a nerd. There’s really no denying this truth. From the roots of my red hair to the tips of my hipster Docs, I. Am. A. Nerd.

And I’m okay with this. I’m not just “okay” with it, actually. I revel in it. There is something liberating about being apart from the masses, liking what you like for reasons other than this popular person or that trendy person approves. It’s no surprise, I’m sure, to hear that I’ve never been all that good at fitting in with others. I’m okay with that, too.

So when I saw a copy of Ben Nugent’s American Nerd: The Story of My People sitting in a remainder bin at the local Borders a while back, I knew this was a book I needed to read. Honestly, though, I assumed from the whimsical cover that it was going to be a funny, self-deprecating memoir in which Mr. Nugent waxed poetic about his nerdy adolescence.

Instead, what I got was a a rather fascinating sociological examination of the history of…the American Nerd (der!), from etymological discourse on the actual word to the earliest appearances of the now widely accepted visual and descriptive caricatures of a “nerd” (think bespectacled with physical weaknesses and antisocial behavior disorder).

The second half of the book is a series of case studies, if you will…discussions on accepted nerd “categories”: D&D nerd, hipster nerd, debate team nerd, etc. Interspersed are vignettes either from Nugent’s own adolescence or from those childhood friends who shared his nerdy penchant. Don’t be fooled, however, into thinking that this is the part of the book that will appease those needs for whimsy and fluff.

Honestly, these glimpses into the nerdery of time past are oftentimes bleak and in some instances rather upsetting. The humorous, Falstaffian nerd ideal put forth by movies like Sixteen Candles or Revenge of the Nerds is a false one, indeed. Though one might grow to appreciate and enjoy not fitting in as they get older, truth is it’s quite awkward and unpleasant during those years of soul-scarring adolescence. This is most definitely reflected in this part of the novel.

Final Verdict: I’m hanging on to this one for now. As I mentioned already, I had originally assumed that this would be a light, fluffy read. I was hoping for light and fluffy. What I found instead was a provocative (if slightly biased by his and friends’ experiences) examination of the history of American nerdery. I don’t quite think I was completely up to the task of absorbing such a serious work at this point, but what I was able to absorb impacted me significantly. I believe there is something to be found in a second reading at some point in the future.

So big and thick, no room for a stick.

Oh, those were far more innocent times when we could sing that tune and not feel like we were offering ourselves up to some horrible fate just for the crunchy-coated goodness of a Klondike Bar.

Actually, who am I kidding? I always giggled at the Klondike Bar theme, my filthy little mind titillated beyond comprehension by the subliminal meanings behind it all.

Heh. Titillated.

See? Filthy, filthy Loba.

Honestly, though, there was a time when I would have done quite a bit for one of these tasty treats (nothing too filthy, please; I was just a kid when these commercials first aired!). Not so much anymore. Ice cream just doesn’t excite me the way it did when I was a wee pup. Now if Klondike were to come out with a rum-based concoction guaranteed to knock me off-kilter, then we might have a different story to tell right now.

For now, though, here’s a Klondike Bar commercial perfectly suited to my literary tastes…and strangely and sadly relevant in light of Gary Coleman’s recent passing. It’s quite a bizarre commercial, actually.

Oh, and don’t worry…I don’t expect any of you to tell me what you’d do for a Klondike Bar. I already suspect I know what some of you would do…naughty little denizens…

After struggling through two back-to-back book bummers, I decided to dip once more into my stash of reliable literary sorbet: Star Trek novels. Well, maybe not reliable (I’m still pissed off at Peter David for Before Dishonor), but quick and relatively brainless.

So, have I ever mentioned before how much I love the Trill? I think, after Bajorans, they’re one of my favorite Trek aliens. Maybe not in execution, which was always somewhat spotty (no pun intended), but in concept. I mean, think about it: It’s an entire race of people who at some point in their cultural evolution decided that, if they could just figure out some way of inserting giant slugs into their abdomens, they would finally be complete.

I’ve seen my share of slugs and snails before, but never once have I had an overwhelming urge to ingest one. Okay, maybe the ones sauteed in a nice butter herb sauce…but I don’t think that’s quite the Trill way of symbiotic bonding.

That’s one of the things that I always wanted answered about the Trill: How exactly did this symbiotic relationship begin? Who was that first Trill who went back to his or her peers and said, “Hey, I’ve got a great idea! You know those big slugs that live in those milky pools underground? Call me crazy, but I’ve got this hunch that one of those in my gut would be AWESOME!”

Maybe I’m just thinking about this too much. But it’s a bizarre thing to contemplate, to be sure. And not something that has an obvious answer. Maybe that’s why no one ever tried to answer it on any Trek series. It’s right up there with the question about how the Trill hosts/hostesses went from have lumpy foreheads to looking like Famke Janssen’s character from “The Perfect Mate.”

[For the record, Terry Farrell actually did test variations of the original Trill headpiece, but TPTB hated every attempt to make her an "attractive Trill." Don't believe me? Go to Memory Alpha's Jadzia Dax page and scroll to the bottom. And never doubt Loba again.]

And don’t even get me started on how the Trill couldn’t use transporters in their TNG appearance while Jadzia and Ezri were beaming fools on DS9. Actually, there’s such an overwhelming amount if incongruity between the TNG Trill and the DS9 Trill that I might injure myself trying to figure it all out in the scope of this one post.

But yet again I’m derailing myself by my own insurmountable nerdiness.

Back on track: The Lives of Dax is just as the title indicates: a compilation of stories that give tiny glimpses into the lives of each host to carry within them the symbiont known as “Dax.” The book is broken down into a chapter apiece for each of Dax’s hosts: Lela, Tobin, Emony, Audrid, Torias, Joran, Curzon, and Jadzia (yes, even bad boy Joran gets his own chapter). Plus, there’s a chapter at the beginning and at the end for Ezri.

I always took slight umbrage at Ezri. Really, I took umbrage at how Paramount so royally screwed over Terry Farrell, and Nicole DeBoer’s presence was just a constant reminder of that bit of underhandedness. But that’s a rumor for another mill. Ezri never got a chance to develop properly on the show, but I’ve read books that deal much more adeptly with her character. Her portions of this novel are equally well-played, as are most of the other hosts.

Admittedly, some of the storylines were predictable. We get more about Torias’s shuttle accident, young Sisko’s first encounter with the “Old Man,” Joran’s homicidal side, etc. Standout stories were the ones for Audrid and Joran, ironically the two written/co-written by S.D. Perry, my new Trek author crush (take that, Peter David!). Biggest letdown for me was probably the Curzon Dax vignette. Happily, Jadzia’s story was unexpectedly strange but still satisfying.

Another bonus from this compilation are the appearances of others from the Trek universe: Odan, Leonard McCoy, Kathryn Janeway’s admiral father, Ben Sisko, Vic Fontaine, and a surprise appearance by a TNG alien species seen only once…but in a menacingly memorable episode.

Final Verdict: This solid offering, released as part of a DS9 10th anniversary celebration, definitely gets to stay. It was a wonderful way to wile away some time away from reality. Plus, you’re never going to hear me complain about getting to spend time with the lovely Dax. I just have to remember to keep it away from salt. So no margaritas. And no more bad slug jokes. Honest.

[Loba Note: This is another post that I started a while ago and have just now finished.]

Maybe mystery novels simply aren’t my cup of tea. I know I’ve read them before, but I also know that I can’t tell you anything about any of my previous attempts. And now, here I sit, trying to figure out a nice way to state how much I disliked yet another mystery written by Tana French. This time, as I mentioned when I reviewed her first book, In the Woods, I read her follow-up, The Likeness.

As I pointed out in my review of In the Woods, my major hurdle with that book was that I felt that French, while an admirable word nerd, didn’t create what I felt was a believable male protagonist. To me, the emotional damage from his past that so thoroughly distorted the logic of Detective Rob Ryan was unbelievable and instead came across as a veiled attempt by French to somehow exonerate herself for any failings to write convincingly from the male perspective. So what started out as an enjoyable and engaging mystery soon began to unravel into a tangled mess that left me feeling unsatisfied and disappointed.

And yet there was enough glimmer of hope in one of the secondary characters, Detective Cassie Maddox, that when I learned that French’s follow-up novel was all about her, I decided I’d give French another chance. After all, this time she’d be writing from the female perspective. Something better suited for her perhaps?

Perhaps not. Detective Maddox, just like her former partner Detective Ryan, is prone to making some of the worst decisions I imagine possible for someone who is supposed to be trained to be smarter in situations like the ones posed in this novel. I’m by no means well-versed in what makes a police detective great at his or her game, but even simple civilian me was left mouth agape at some of the things Maddox did throughout this story.

Oh, and let’s not forget the story itself. Though intriguing in concept, it was a situation that I found did not bear the weight of closer examination at all. Maddox is called back to undercover work, where she started, when the murder squad discovers the body of a woman who not only looks exactly like Maddox but has been living under the name of Maddox’s last undercover persona. Maddox is assigned to go undercover, to live with this woman’s four friends, and try to discover the truth of her murder.

Marinate on that idea for a moment. Maddox is being sent in to try to convince four people who shared an intimate friendship (and possibly more) with the person she’s now tasked with impersonating. Her only guidance regarding the personality of this dead woman and the relationships she shared with these four individuals are some videos saved on her mobile phone as well as information that police were able to gather from other friends and acquaintances.

I’m a mimic. I always have been. I love to impersonate voices and accents. One of my favorite accents to impersonate is a Cockney accent. When I was younger, I was actually bold enough to fool a few Americans into believing that I was from England. I’ve never fooled an actual English person. Why? Because they’re English and able to pick up on nuances and differences that I’m not at all privy to…because, sad though this truth makes me, I’m not really English.

Now imagine me going to London and trying to convince a group of English people that I’m really one of them after watching a few EastEnders clips on YouTube. Think I’d be successful? Think I could keep it up for several weeks? Truth is, I can listen to the Slater sisters call each other “stroppy mare” or “dozy cow” all day long, but that’s only going to get me so far in my impersonation. What about all the other details that I’m missing? How quickly will they become obvious to someone intimately familiar with the language?

See why I simply couldn’t suspend my disbelief for the duration of this novel? This very, very long novel. I could believe the coincidences of the story’s setup. I could even buy the concept at first. But the implementation of the plan in all its clumsy, drawn-out execution was just too much. Plus, to make matters worse, the four friends Maddox was sent in to fool were all English majors. I can assure you, denizens, if there’s one thing English majors excel at more than anything else, it’s in picking apart the details of any situation like wild dogs picking apart roadkill. They would have sussed Maddox out at about half past immediately.

Of course, this would have greatly decreased the length, which might not have been all that bad, actually. I think the story lost me about halfway through. I forged ahead only because I’m stubborn and secretly optimistic that even something bad has the potential to improve. Or maybe I’m just a literary masochist. I don’t know.

In the end, I was possibly even more let down by this book than I was by French’s first novel. Perhaps it was because Cassie Maddox was one of the few redeeming qualities of the first novel and the only reason that I decided to read the second novel. To then watch this character devolve in similarly frustrating and unbelievable ways as Rob Ryan did in the first novel was more than I anticipated or desired to witness. My dissolution regarding French and her abilities as a storyteller is now complete and I can say with all honesty that not only will I not be returning for a third taste of French’s offerings, but I also feel somewhat soured to the whole detective/mystery genre at the moment.

Final Verdict: Not only will I not be adding this one to my collection any time soon, but I will also definitely be releasing the first novel to that great thrift store in the sky. As for my attempt to crack into the mystery genre, if anyone has any suggestions, I’m all for them…but as of right now, I’m really not feeling the mystery vibe.

Star Trek Über-Geek Cred in 3…2…1

You have no idea, denizens, how nerd-melty this makes me. I kid you not when I say that I have wanted a pair of Dr. Selar’s ears since I first saw the good doctor on the TNG second season episode, “The Schizoid Man.” Seriously. Not just Vulcan ears. Not even Mr. Spock’s ears (and I love Mr. Spock!). They had to be Dr. Selar’s ears. Like I’ve said before, I’m persnickety.

I always thought this was just going to be another one of my sad little geek dreams, kind of like owning one of Dr. Crusher’s lab coats or somehow obtaining one of the scarves that hang from Steven Tyler’s microphone stand (okay, that’s a completely different type of geekery…but it’s still one of my obsessions).

Then Mirror Universe things occurred in my life and I found myself standing on the precipice of Ultimate Geek Attainment. And I took it. Grabbed it with both hands and ran. Didn’t look back once.

So, yes, these are actually a pair of the ears that the beautiful and talented Suzie Plakson wore as Dr. Selar. I think they might even be the only pair left. They’re at least the only pair from Ms. Plakson’s personal collection. As is the photo of her as Dr. Selar, reading an issue of Omni magazine. Cute, no? The letter on the left is a lovely vignette that Ms. Plakson wrote about the ears. No, you can’t read it. Loba must keep some things to herself, you know. Oh, and this awesome custom framing? I can has amazingly talented aunt who does things like this for her geeky niece? Yes, please.

And there you go. Ultimate Geek Attainment. F.T.W.

To be honest, I’ve been off my game for so long regarding the lair that I wasn’t even sure if I was going to do a Flashback Friday this week. Then the unfortunate news from yesterday regarding Rue McClanahan’s passing provided me with the prompting I needed.

I adored The Golden Girls. No, correction. I adore The Golden Girls. I’ve said it many times before, but it bears repeating: This is one of a select few sitcoms from my childhood that I can still watch without wanting to wretch from the cheese overload. True, it’s got ample slices of cheddar and Swiss spread throughout its seven seasons, but there’s something more that makes it palatable. This show, with all its overtly 80s style and fashion, is timeless in wit, in topic, in humor.

And how the stars aligned so perfectly the day they were casting these roles that we were gifted such an amazing ensemble! Bea Arthur, Estelle Getty, Rue McClanahan, and Betty White made Dorothy, Sophia, Blanche, and Rose not just hilarious but real. You believed that this quartet could actually exist, that they were going through the same things that the rest of us were going through or were destined to go through at some point. They were just doing it with way more humor than the rest of us (and way larger shoulder pads, too).

This show was also a standing weekly ritual in our house. No matter what else was going on, every Saturday night my parents and I came together to watch the latest episode. And we always laughed (sometimes I would even get caught laughing at jokes that my parents thought would be too “grown-up” for me to understand; awkward way for my parents to keep track of how quickly their little girl was growing up, fo’ sho’).

Dorothy was my favorite. But that’s almost like saying air is my favorite of the things I need to survive. I loved them all almost equally. It’s just, I think I’m a little more like Dorothy than any of the others (Prophets know I’m nothing like Blanche). Although I have my fair share of Rose moments.

It’s strange and most definitely depressing to think that a show like this would probably never be able to exist in today’s television market. We’ve become a society that not only doesn’t respect age, but shuns it and any who dare to show its signs. How else can we explain why people willingly get a paralyzing toxin injected into their faces? Where would the Golden Girls, with their love of cheesecake and their discussions about menopause, fit in among the anorexic plasticized perfection of those Desperate Housewives or the McDreamies and McSteamies and McBoobies of modern prime-time television?

There is a shimmer of hope. Betty White, now the Last Girl Standing, has been enjoying a resurgence in popularity recently, with several appearances in movies, that wonderful Snickers commercial, and even the honor of becoming the oldest SNL host in the show’s 35-year history. She continues to prove that humor and grace are supremely more beautiful than cheek implants, tummy tucks, fake tits, butt lifts, or whatever else the Hollywood elite are doing to keep people from noticing that their talent, just like their beauty, is skin-deep and thoroughly unconvincing when examined closely.

So, there you go. Flashback to a favorite sitcom from my youth and another glimpse at the vitriol that roils just beneath the placid surface of Lake Loba. Bonus! Want another bonus? How about a few show clips and bloopers? Not only are they funny but they show a quartet of women who were able to laugh at themselves and each other and who genuinely seemed to like each other’s company. That’s not just golden…that’s priceless.

[Loba Note: I began writing this entry almost a month ago and finally finished it today, so please forgive any lapses in memory or uneven pacing.]

John Forsythe, forgive me for what I’m about to write.

What in the name of all things angelic was I thinking when I bought Charlie’s Angels?! Better yet, when did I buy it? I don’t even remember seeing this movie for a first time, let alone having it register enough in my mind that I would willingly purchase it. To be honest, I’m mildly concerned that I have no memory of seeing the film or buying the DVD. I’m usually frighteningly good at remembering when and where I buy things. This? Not a freaking clue.

Truth be told, though, I’m a huge Charlie’s Angels fan. Old school Angels, that is. Kate, Jaclyn, and Farrah. Sabrina, Kelly, and Jill, those three little girls from Charlie’s “once upon a time,” with their feathered hair and super-70s…everything, really. It’s silly and fluffy and packed to the bikini line with cheesecake of all varieties. But it also got those three “little girls” out of their pearls and kitchen aprons (and subsequently into far, far less) and into a realm that was once a bastion of boys-only-ness. Yes, they were sex kittens (who hasn’t seen that Farrah poster, eh?), but they were also proof to the girls of my generation that yes, Virginia, there can be more to life than finding the perfect apple pie recipe (ooh, I’m going to get comments on that one, aren’t I?).

Besides, what is there not to love about this?

[Loba Pop Quiz: Can you guess which Angel is my favorite? I'll give you three guesses...]

So what about this movie then? What about it, indeed. There’s really no point in discussing the plot. Whatever predictable, poorly written (a total of 18 different writers purportedly hacked away on this script; 18!!) crime-capery plot you can imagine, you’re probably pretty close to being right. Nothing deep there.

What about the cast? Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz, and Lucy Liu play Dylan, Natalie, and Alex, the newest Angels to join the Charles Townsend Detective Agency. I don’t really know much about Liu beyond the fact that apparently she and Bill Murray, who played Bosley in this movie, shut down production for a day with a rip-roaring argument. Other than that, she didn’t really make much of an impact on me as Alex. Diaz? Though there are times when I find her delightful (The Mask, There’s Something About Mary, and Shrek come to mind), truth is I find her taxing after a while. No one human being should be allowed to be that perky and bubbly for such an extended period of time.

And Barrymore? As much as I admire and respect how she pulled her shit together and came back from the precipice of drug-induced disaster that so many other child stars have tumbled over, I simply did not buy her in this role. She wanted so desperately to be sexy and smoldering. But with her cherubic face and Cindy Brady lisp, she’s always going to be (to me, at least) trapped by her own adorableness. Even when she’s reveling in a little on- or off-screen badassery or naughtygirlness, it’s with heart-dotted Is and a cutesy giggle that makes you want to hang from the monkey bars with her and trade friendship bracelets that you made at summer camp.

[Okay, maybe that's just me on that last one.]

The rest of the cast is rounded out by Tim Curry, Sam Rockwell, and Kelly Lynch as well as Crispin Glover playing a character surpassed on the creep-o-meter only by his turn as Willard, the rat wrangler. Glover was probably the most perfect casting choice in this movie, actually, but I think that’s just because he plays creepy/crazy better than anyone else. Curry, however, was severely underutilized, especially for an actor of his level of awesome. Rockwell was entertaining as always, but his character was surpassed only by Lynch’s in villainous predictability (oops, gave that one away, didn’t I).

But is my biggest gripe about this movie the fact that it was so by-the-numbers predictable? No, not really. I’m sure if I went to my DVD shelf right now, I could pull at least five movies that were just as, if not more predictable than this one. Maybe it’s all the reverential references to the original show that grated on me. Or maybe it was the mixed message that little girls can be total badasses and do anything they want…but they’re still going to have to dress like hookers when they do.

Not that I’m in any way disparaging those who practice the world’s oldest profession. Or ignoring the fact that the original Angels probably wore far less far more frequently than Dylan, Natalie, and Alex. But…I don’t know. It seemed more expected back in the day. With this movie, it felt misplaced and false. Not to mention ridiculous. Again, that’s a word that I expect to be associated with 70s TV shows. I guess I didn’t want such huge helpings of it with the movie remake. Or maybe I just didn’t want a remake period, and nothing they did was going to please me. I’m persnickety that way.

DVD Special Features: Yet again, I’m astounded by the plethora of special features on another 10-year-old DVD. First, we’ll get the obligatory commentary track out of the way, this one featuring director McG and director of photography Russell Carpenter.

I desperately wanted not to like McG. Really it’s because of his nom de directeur. Loba doesn’t trust people who don’t go by their real names. However, he and Carpenter make a great team and present a strong and enjoyable commentary: lots of background information, lots of tech talk, and lots of fun tidbits. Plus, McG’s excitement is infectious and Carpenter’s knowledge holds it all together when the excitement isn’t quite enough. I still don’t think much of McG’s oeuvre, but really it’s not big enough to make a final ruling on his abilities.

[Wow, did that sound dirty or is it just me? Just me again? Right.]

Also on tap are deleted and extended scenes, which again I think are a bit of a waste. Still haven’t seen anything from this portion of any DVD that didn’t deserve to be cut or edited in the first place. The outtakes and bloopers are fun; however, you’ll have already seen them all if you make it to the end of the movie and watch the credits. Of course there are music videos (McG was the director, after all). Videos for Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women” and the Apollo 440 remix of the Charlie’s Angels theme are included here. Meh on both videos. I’ve seen better. I’ve heard better as well.

We’ve also got a heaping helping of featurettes: on McG (lots of sunshine pumping all around in this one), the wardrobe (because, you know, it’s important to look sexy when you’re straddling a torpedo while trying to reprogram it), set design, the martial arts training of the Angels, and the wire work that was involved. You know what? I think that’s one of the things that irritated me the most about this movie: the obvious wire work. It’s not like they left the wires in or anything, but every time the actors were doing something while fitted up with wires, you could instantly tell. It always looked to me like they were in some sort of slow-motion suspension…deep sea Kung Fu diving until the fast-paced editing kicked in. And that just ruins all chances of suspension of disbelief (as if this movie had any chance of that anyway). Besides, if I want to watch a movie with wire work, I’ll watch it done right and pull out my copy of The Matrix. More black leather in that one anyway. Black leather, FTW.

The DVD also includes talent files, production notes, and theatrical trailers. It’s also old enough that it still mentions “animated menus” as a special feature. I only mention it here because I think the opening menu animation was my favorite part of this movie. Yes, I know exactly what that says about this movie. Here, watch this teaser trailer. The beginning of this, with the one man breaking into the three Angels is what they used as the opening menu animation. Excellent bit of CGI there. Also, this teaser trailer is pretty much all you really need to watch in order to get the full movie experience: pretty actresses pouting their lips and doing high kicks (don’t forget to flip your hair, Angels!), and Bill Murray being silly (okay, Bosley, you can flip your hair, too).

Final Verdict: Sorry, Charlie, but I’m going to have to let your Angels go. I enjoy silly and pointless as much as the next movie geek, but there’s something so offputting about this movie. I’m still not quite sure that I’ve even come close to explaining myself on this one…but something about this movie really, really turns me off. Maybe it’s the music video-style pacing. Maybe it’s the jumbled pastiche of ripped-off tricks from other movies that McG attempted to make fresh for the millionth time. Maybe it’s just that, while I don’t mind sexy, I think I prefer sexy and substantial. And this movie is about as deep as Justin Bieber’s kiddy pool.

Whatever the reason, time to say goodbye. And don’t even think for a second I’m giving the sequel a chance.

The radio traffic reporter called me “honey bunny” this morning.

Okay, not me specifically. It was all part of her goofy on-air banter, her way of making her usually dismal news to us groggy Beltway commuters a little less soul-crushing. As much as I loathe my commute, I always love listening to her.

Truth is, the traffic report is pretty much all I can stand listening to anymore. Everything else sounds jumbled, confusing, off-key. Podcasts wash over me, the words trickling through the cracks in my concentration and flowing away without leaving any trace of their passing. Music? Dissonant and irritating, like pebbles stuck inside my shoes.

So I drive in silence most of the time, and I keep my brain from straying to places I’m not yet ready to go by watching the world as it zooms past Sammy’s windows. This morning it was all the joggers. Like the lovely older Asian man who jogs with the precision of Swiss watches. It’s not just his predictable punctuality but his movements as well. Strides perfectly measured, syncopated arm swings, even the towel always tucked around his neck seems to flop in pre-planned rhythm.

Or the gaggle of college girls crowding others to the side as they dominated the sidewalk, trotting along like sun-dappled mares with their upswept ponytails swinging in hypnotic unison.

It’s enough to make me wish once more that I jogged. Only problem is that my knees and back used to play softball in high school. I suppose the rest of me played as well…but my knees and back still remember those years the most. Still feel those years.

Sometimes I miss playing softball. I’d like to think I was good at it. I won a few awards from those years and when I was finished, I’d made it to shortstop, which I’ve been told is a pretty important position. Really, though, I played because it was in my blood. One of the first gifts I remember receiving was a whiffle ball and bat set and a little lefty glove from my three aunts, two of whom played on various softball teams for most of my childhood.

And then there were the hours that my mom and I spent playing catch. Even when there was very little else we could do together without tempers and tensions flaring, this was our oftentimes silent truce. I can still see our gloves in the hall closet, her full-sized righthander’s leather glove with my little pee-wee league lefty glove nestled inside it.

I remember how, for my birthday after the first year I made the school softball team, she had my dad drive her all over the place (this was well before the days of Sports Authority or Modell’s), trying to find a new lefty glove for me. She wanted to make sure I was ready for the next season, ready with a grown-up glove to finally replace the one I’d been using since 2nd grade.

I can still smell that clean, new leather, still feel the supple give of the grain as I slipped my hand into the glove for the first time. I stopped keeping my glove in the hall closet. Instead, it stayed in my room, usually with a softball tucked into it to keep its shape. I’d oil it regularly and often sit in my computer chair in the evenings, absentmindedly tossing a ball into the glove as I watched television. During softball season, I was very rarely without that glove on my hand.

It was around this point that my mom stopped wanting to play catch. My throws, even when I tried to moderate them, were too hard, too fast, and she was too proud to admit this. So she simply stopped playing.

I remember not long after I moved out, I was visiting my parents and needed to look for something in the hall closet. I happened to look down and there was my mom’s glove, still sitting at the top of the junk bucket, empty except for the dusting of cobwebs across the ball pocket. Too many years had passed by that point, but I still remember wishing that I’d had my glove with me, that we could go play catch once more.

I never saw her glove again after that. I’m not sure what happened to it after my parents moved a few years ago, although I strongly suspect that my dad might have tossed it during their pre-move cleanout. He views sports equipment with a special disdain usually reserved for politicians or fundamentalists (not hard to imagine I’m his daughter, eh?).

Perhaps I’ll ask him where her glove is next time I visit. Perhaps by then I’ll be back to listening to music and podcasts. Perhaps by then even innocent random observations won’t lead me down the very pathways I’d been trying to avoid through the observations. Perhaps.

Wherever you are, you will always be in my heart. –Mohandas Gandhi

It feels like whole galaxies separate me from this first day back at work and the last time I was here. Sitting in my boss’s office a little more than a week ago, saying words that I had refused to say to her before that moment. Refused to give them voice, because speaking them made them real. And making them real meant there was no return.

My mother is dying.

I don’t even remember what else I said to her after those four words. It’s all wiped, bright and blurring as a camera flash. All I remember from that moment on are snippets. Driving home to pack. Gassing up Sammy for the 5-hour drive. Halfway absorbing podcasts before switching over to music because none of the words I was hearing made any sense anymore.

Walking in to my parents’ bedroom and seeing someone lying in the hospice bed who didn’t look at all like my mother. Not at all like the woman I’d just seen that previous Monday, who even in her steadily diminishing state, had held on to me with a strength I didn’t expect. Held on like she was never going to let go.

I didn’t recognize the person in the bed. Worse yet is that she was already too far gone to recognize me. I talked to her, but she only stared through me, stared at something far beyond whatever it was I was babbling to her.

My mother was dying.

Whether or not I gave voice to those words didn’t really matter. She had already begun to leave us all behind. All I had done was delayed my own acceptance as well as my arrival before she’d gotten this far along.

There’s no point in giving details of that final day. You don’t need to know and I don’t need to remember. Truth is, I can’t forget. The memories wait right there at the edge of everything, and they do not rest.

The worst of it all was how she struggled to breathe. Everything about my mother’s life was a struggle, everything a fight right to the very end. But she was a stubborn woman, iron-willed and defiant in everything she did and everything she was. Even in her final hours, she wouldn’t relent. The hospice nurses didn’t understand how she was still going. I didn’t have to question it. She was my mother. I’d come up against that stubbornness all my life. I knew she wasn’t going to let go until she was ready.

My mother died.

And I can’t remember that house ever sounding quieter than when I walked back inside after the ambulance had pulled away. No more respirator. No more labored breaths or unconscious vocal exhalations. Nothing.

For 24 years, my father and I had watched my mother’s downward spiral, her slow but unstoppable journey toward this moment. Never would I have imagined her end would be like this.

The chaplain who spoke at her service referenced C.S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed, in which he writes of his wife’s passing from cancer. In this book, Lewis wrote of how memories of those we lose begin to fade like the melting of snowflakes. The chaplain wished for all of us the melting only of the darker memories, to allow the good to once more shine through.

Memories like how my mother loved Christmas with the fervor most of us lose to the passing of childhood. She loved family vacations and silly movies and singing along with the radio in a voice clear and strong as a perfectly tuned orchestra. She loved jigsaw puzzles and latch-hook rugs and every animal that ever came into the house instantly became hers.

She loved my father for 37 years. Knew that he was her husband, her guardian, her protector. Knew that “for better or for worse” weren’t just words to him, but a binding promise that he would never break. Knew that no matter what, he would never leave her.

She loved me with everything she had. Even through all the tangles and barbs of our complicated relationship (even more complicated than the mess that most mothers and daughters make of it), she loved me. My father has often said to me that I was the greatest success my mother ever knew in life. That makes me inexplicably sad, because all it does is makes me that much more aware of all the ways I felt I failed her. She had expectations for my life that I never wanted for myself. I realize now that they were more expectations for her own life that she knew she’d never experience for herself. So she wished them for me.

But I am my mother’s daughter. Her stubbornness runs strong through my veins. So I shut her out, closed down to her wishes, and tucked everything away that I thought would disappoint her. Wrapped myself so tightly that even I’m afraid of what will happen when the unraveling begins.

The cruelty of hindsight is that it’s only when it’s too late that you realize all the wrong choices you made.

Truth is, no matter who I was or what I did, my mother was my biggest fan. And I was never the fan that she wanted needed deserved.

No one will ever say my name the way she did, with that strange country twang that I never could understand coming from a woman born and raised in the D.C. area. No one will ever fill a room with laughter the way she could. No one will ever again respond, when I answer the phone, with the simple declarative, “It’s your momma.”

No one will ever love me with her same fierceness or pride.

No one.