Tags: second chance idol


SCI Week 2, High Wire

It is my firm belief that this wedding will be the end of me.

This is supposed to be the most joyous, exciting, peaceful time of my life. Family should be coming together from both sides to join hands and sing happy choruses as they sign the checks. Presents should be flooding my doorstep, full to bursting with the household goods in my Macy's filled dreams. Rainbows and unicorns are supposed to prance ahead of me, making the way pleasant to my glorious day.

Lies! Hollywood has lied to me and I'd like my money back!

I know what you're thinking.

It's your mother, isn't it?


My mom is actually being extremely helpful yet unintrusive. She is busting her butt to make sure Corbb and I have a beautiful day that is reflective of our love for one another, surrounded by our friends and family who love us. I can't say enough good things about her. I know this makes me blessed.

What about the bridesmaids?

Aside from a few grumbles over the price of the bridesmaids dress I picked (it is $250) they have been blessed dreams. They will love me and the dress when they need a formal to wear again and I didn't make them pay for a taffeta monstrosity. I'm looking forward to our weekend of epic fun filled with martinis and lingerie.

What's left to cause me so much anxiety and inner angst?

The future in-laws?

Ding ding ding! You got it, Charlie, ten points for you!

There are not enough words in the English language I can use to express what it is like to be their future "daughter-in-law". "Daughter" is a word I can't even comprehend when thinking of my relationship with them. All they seem to get joy out of doing is saying over and over again how we shouldn't be getting married. You think they'd be over this by now, but no. They complain that this wedding seems to be all about "her" family (they never make an effort to talk to me about anything, after all). Yet, when we go to them to ask for help (like they have encouraged us to do) they say no. All they want to do is pay for the rehearsal dinner and Corbb's tux. I could understand this if they were poor…but the reality is, they are not. It has taken all of the self control I have to not say to Rita (the future monster-in-law) "Why don't you sell that little Corvette you only drive for three months out of the year, if you drive it at all. Or, how about you cut your trips to exotic global destinations short by a few days this year. That would free up some money to help your son who has worked so hard to support himself, who paid for half of his plane tickets home to see you all through college. That would go a long way to helping your daughter-in-law who has had to put back together broken self-esteem and emotions that you created with your selfishness and cold heart."

But, logically, I can't say any of these things. They are still Corbb's family and the grandparents of our future children. We don't have to be best friends with them, but I'd like to maintain some semblance of a relationship with them if at all possible. Conversations with them are just walking a high wire in-between what should be and what is. I know I should be happy that Corbb and my mom are so close I should feel grateful that my dad is stepping up to the plate lately and trying really hard to have a supportive relationship with us. I should rejoice that the money is working itself out, in spite of the obstacles.

And I am.

And I look forward to the weekend of August 11th when I will be Mrs. O'Connor, and THAT much closer to my husband being comfortable with the idea of babies.
In the mean time, if you all see reports of a raving mad woman named Rita turning up in Siberia…

It wasn't me.

SCI, Week 1 "What's Missing?"

It wasn't yet the spring…

I have fond memories of Michigan. My time there was always accompanied by the purity of rural snow, an unfinished house full of family I still covet, and a man I had a desperate need to transform. My heart still longs for something untouchable when I recall sitting on that rickety stool in the wood shop surrounded by "my boys", a misfit band of musicians who partied too hard and laughed too loudly. Tornga (the drummer) rebelled against the religiosity of his first name (John) and insisted on being referred to by his last name. He had a mind for numbers, long hipster sideburns, and played in bare feet even in the winter bight of March. Spence played bass and shared a similar dislike for his given name, though I never ascertained what that was. He was dark haired and had a desperate look about him, like a grown up boy searching for home. Levi was the most boisterous of them all, tall and woodsy with his guitar constantly slung over his shoulder. He always had a story ready to split you open with laughter, but when he sang, his voice cut into the marrow of your bones, an unspoken soulful pain spilling out over whoever was listening.

Lastly, there was Kevin, the tortured and lovable keyboard player with a brilliant voice and my heart in the palm of his hand. It was a deep friendship pushed to the limit until I was in love and he was obligated. I knew sitting there that morning, singing along with my darling band of misfits, that we were in too deep to save ourselves.

I loved what I could have had there, and in so many ways, I still do. His parents and sister opened their home and hearts, welcoming me into their cosy, midwestern family with a tenderness I had never known. Kevin's friends grew to be my own and I had visions of raising children in this peaceful town. People were simpler there; not as consumed by the latest designer or gadget or get-rich-quick scheme like Nashville. No one expected me to be anyone but me and that memory I will hold close to my heart until I leave this earth.

After one of the most fun gigs of my life in a dive bar downtown, my boys and I had too many Washington Apples and an overwhelming need for Polish sausages overtook us all. Kevin and I sent Tornga, Levi and Spence out to retrieve the gold of the drunk while we lingered in the basement greenroom on a couch that was undoubtedly older than me. Kevin was never much of a drinker but had indulged in one or two Amaretto Sours while I tried (unsuccessfully) to outdrink not only the band members, but their rugged Michigan girlfriends. I lost and curled up in Kevin's lap to greet the spinning oblivion that usually followed such adventures.

"I love you, Kevin," I said as he stroked my hair.
I waited for the words that had become so familiar to my ears.
"I know," he finally said, tongue heavy with the unfamiliar drink.
I pressed into the pain that surged into me, knowing that alcohol had rubbed raw the truth I so desperately wanted to deny.

My boys returned with the sausages and Kevin and I carried on as if we had found our missing puzzle piece. No one knew but us that it was a lie.

We held on for another year, Kevin desperately trying to love me more than his demons, me praying every day for a miracle that hasn't yet come. Sometimes, the sun leaked in through the cracks in the floor and I thought it would get better. But finally, I had to surrender him to his addiction and learn to love myself again. He held me the day it ended, tears streaming from his hopeless eyes.

"I tried…I tried," he whispered over and over.
"I know," I replied, running my hands through his unkempt hair.

Love can hardly leave the room
with your heart.
-Bon Iver "Michicant"

A/N: This entry was inspired by a love I treasured and a beautifully painful song by Bon Iver called Michicant. Go to the iTunes link in this entry and support an amazing artist who speaks to my soul.

 Michicant by Bon Iver from Bon Iver (Rating: 0)