50 in '15 ...

After a MOST-shitty year, I bid 2014 adieu with an assortment of curse words and finger maneuvers.
I was ready to celebrate a BRAND-NEW year and was damned near giggling and all bouncy like a thirteen-year-old who got kissed for the first time when, within hours of greeting 2015, I learned that several friends were having the worst new year of their lives: death of a sibling, a new cancer diagnosis, a return cancer diagnosis, a long-term marriage dissolving like wet sugar before all the Christmas cookies had even been eaten.
And yet ... .
I am still standing (*cue Elton John's survival anthem*). We women are remarkably resilient, even when we think a sad Hallmark commercial will be our undoing. We persevere. We might drink too much vodka or sneak a cigarette or eat ourselves into the nearest Lane Bryant for leggings, but we will find ourselves back on our two feet, even if we're wobbly or feel a tiny bit dizzy. It's what we women do, isn't it?
***
This year-2015-is a BIG year for me: I celebrate (if this is the right word) a thirty-year wedding anniversary in April AND I turn fifty in August. Two BIG life events, both in the same year.
Now that I recognize fully that no one is guaranteed a tomorrow (I didn't always think like this; youth is a stage filled with optimism and a sense of immortality~), I want to carpe diem every day of 2015.
Here's a list of fifty things I want to do the year I turn fifty, listed in no particular order:
50 in '15
1) Take a girls-only trip to Memphis to see Graceland.
2) Take a 5 a.m. drive to CMSU, the university where I met my husband. Drive around town, eat breakfast by myself (not sure I've ever done this), and then see if the little chapel where I got married is still standing. (I want to start driving when it's still dark outside. A little weird, but this is my list.)
3) If little chapel still exists, travel there with husband on anniversary weekend and get new picture taken, right there on the very same bench we'd sat on thirty years ago as newly married college students, broke and scared to death. (Also: pregnant)
4) Go to the zoo.
5) Go to a drag show.
6) Do amateur night stand-up.
7) Get a literary agent.
8) Lose twenty-five pounds. I would say fifty, but why set myself up for disappointment?
9) Walk fifty miles. (Too easy?)
10) Bicycle fifty miles. (Still too easy?)
11) Run fifty miles. (There we go.)
12) Write fifty poems.
13) Write fifty essays.
14) Write fifty blog posts.
15) Submit work to fifty journals.
16) Get turned down by fifty different agents (food memoir; novel; YA novel).
17) Meet fifty new people.
18) Throw away fifty things.
19) Donate fifty items.
20) Write and send fifty hand-written letters. (If you'd like to receive one, please leave your mailing address ~)
21) Attend fifty cultural events.
22) Read fifty books.
23) See fifty movies.
24) Play fifty games of SCRABBLE.
25) Drink fifty glasses of wine.
26) Eat out fifty times.
27) Take fifty walks with the dogs.
28) Attend church services fifty times.
29) Go fifty days without television.
30) Go fifty days without playing Bakery Story.
31)  Save fifty dollars a week for 2015 Christmas Fund.
32) Get a job that pays enough for me to save fifty dollars a week.
33) Get a literary-themed wrist tattoo. As of today, I am leaning toward Maya Angelou's "Still I Rise."
34) Take a trip to Galena, Illinois, with Shawna and Kelly (cousin and sister)
35) Eat a foot-long corn dog at the Liberty Fall Festival. With no guilt.
36) Drink fifty glasses of gin and cranberry juice.
37) Learn fifty conversational phrases in Spanish.
38) Learn fifty conversational phrases in French.
39) Go camping at Watkins-Mill.
40) Talk husband into selling our house and moving somewhere where there are some fucking trees.
41) Continue daily yoga routine.
42) Journal every day.
43) Learn to meditate.
44) Hang out in a Barnes & Noble at least twice monthly.
45) Take a daily shower with ZUM soaps, especially anise-lavender
46) Visit aging relatives.
47) Finally read Thoreau's Walden.
48) Get Mom and Dad's ashes buried. (I feel extremely guilty for posting this as #48)
49) Make a shrine to Mother Mary. (More guilt, double-downed)
50) Read poetry every day.

Bucket List - Evolving/Emerging

Came across a forgotten notebook today. Inside, in addition to a day's accounting of what I'd eaten, from Nov. 2, 2013 through Nov. 8 ~I'd enjoyed a pumpkin spice latte at 7:30 a.m. on Monday, Nov. 4 ~ I also discovered a hastily scrawled title several pages later: "My Bucket List," dated March 25, 2013. My mother had died one year prior. Is that why I'd chosen that particular date? Did I need yet one more reminder to actually live my life instead of Dr. Phil-ing my way through each day?
Here's the list, with what I have accomplished since then asterisked:
- Ride in a racecar
- Shoot a gun
- Fly in  a small plane (ideally over the Plaza at Christmas)
- Take a motorcycle ride
- Snow ski
- Ride a horse
- Drive to CMSU at five in the morning (CMSU, now called UCM, was the college where I'd met my husband; located in Warrensburg, Missouri, it is a 90-minute drive ~)
- Ride in a police car (not as a criminal)
- Tour the White House
- Milk a cow *
- Do Open Mic night at a comedy club
- Go to NYC at Christmas
- Learn to speak Spanish
-  Go to England
- Learn to swim
- Learn to play piano
- Own a piano
- Go tanning (I've never been to a tanning salon)
- Vacation in Colorado
- Return to MacDowell
- Publish a book
- Try on an evening dress
- By an evening dress
- Attend a night at the opera

Hmm. Milk a cow. The only Bucket List goal I've met ... involved squeezing (surprisingly) rough, dry teats and getting milk to spray forth. I had taken two of the children I nanny to a local dairy farm. Each of us milked a cow that was the size of a compact car. While the 8-year-old girl screamed her way through the experience, I showed a weird and unexpected expertise. If I remember correctly, it was a proud sort of small victory.

Meeting Anne Lamott and a black-blazered man

I have loved Anne Lamott's writing since I first pored through Bird by Bird, which was probably about twenty years ago. Currently, I cannot find my copy. Probably gave it away, a gift to someone who I thought needed it. That's how I operate with the books in my life that change me from the inside out: To Kill A Mockingbird, The Art of Racing in the Rain, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, The Girls from Ames, God's Psychiatry. I buy multiple copies and hand them out, unsolicited. I like to think I am being helpful, but knowing how people disappoint each other, I might be wrong.
Meeting Anne Lamott has been on my bucket list for a good decade. My chance came Thursday night, April 4, at the Community Christian Church near the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri. One of the last independent bookstores in the nation, Rainy Day Books, of Fairway, Kansas, sponsored the event. (Ohmigod, I am writing like a reporter. Five W's and an H.)
As I am a big fat weenie and afraid to drive after dark into the "dangerous part of the city" (not really; my fear is imagined), my husband took me, dropped me off at the door, and then came back three hours later, our cocker Millie in the front seat to greet me. (I swear, if only the people in my life were as enthusiastic to see me, what daily joy would there be!)
In between my drop-off and pick-up, I spent three hours in a writer's fantasy land. Unfortunately, as I had gone by myself (why do the people in my life who love Lamott as rabidly as I live out of state?), I had no one to talk to, which about drove me insane. Generally, I strike up conversation with anyone who's breathing, but the seating arrangement inside the church didn't contribute to that happening. Granted, there was a woman about my age three seats away, but she was there with her daughter, and the two of them giggled and poked each other in a fun way and chit-chatted and I didn't sense a way in. Ditto for the gals in front of me, my mother's age (66), the three of them awaiting Anne's presence on stage with an exciting fervor that matched mine, only they had each other and seemed completely unaware of my enthusiasm and desire to share. I was jealous.
Demographically speaking, there were about 500 people in attendance, and 490 were women, ranging in age from about fifty-five to seventy-five. Fewer than a dozen men attended, and with the exception of one in particular (*), the men were there with women, who appeared to be wives or girlfriends. I saw not a single person of color, which disappointed me tremendously, given that Anne Lamott loves everybody, wears her hair in dreadlocks, and preaches from the altar of extreme liberalism.
*This man sat two rows behind me, and although I am not psychic per se, I sensed that he was interested in me. (Stop laughing.) Know how sometimes you feel like a person is staring at you, and you quick-look to see if you're right? Well, that's what happened with the two of us. I would ever-so-subtly turn around to see if he was looking at me, and, well, yes, he was, although this might have been because I was too-often turning and he was growing annoyed with me.
Except that's not how I felt about the situation. I felt that he and I would have enjoyed great camaraderie, the two of us singletons sitting there, feeling alone and unloved and so ... so ... single.
He was about my age, wore a dark blazer, had two copies of Anne's newest book, a tattered copy of Bird by Bird, and a copy of Traveling Mercies. This I was able to ascertain when I returned from a faux bathroom trip; also, he was not in the beginning stages of balding. (My next husband will have a full head of hair. Also, he will talk. And he will read Anne Lamott and go with me next time she comes to Kansas City.).
As I, too, had brought along Traveling Mercies, I felt that was a sign that this mystery man and I needed to talk. While I waited for Lamott to take her stage, I entertained how my life would change, had I the courage to get up out of my lonely seat and head two rows back. I would introduce myself in some quirky-cute way and then sit beside him for the rest of the evening. I imagined that our knees would touch in that adolescent our-parents-dropped-us-off-at-the- movie kind of way and I would feel bolts of electricity and the next day I would announce to my (silent and balding) husband that I was leaving him for a man in a dark blazer who not only read Anne Lamott and went to see her but highlighted certain passages that he found endearing or life changing. This man and I would then spend the next month hanging out at bookstores and coffee houses; we would marry in a small ceremony in his arts and crafts style house in midtown; we would invite Anne to the matrimonial gig, and of course she wouldn't come, but we would share the story of how it was Anne Lamott who'd brought us together, and all of our friends would sigh in unison and coo, Awwwwwwww.
Alas, I have the courage of an anti-social ant, and my fantasy fizzled.
I ended up sitting alone, silently, throughout the event. Anne came on stage wearing an extremely casual outfit (mismatched, if you ask me, but, hey, that's Anne Lamott). Her trademark dreds were evident, only shorter than I had imagined. And her voice was deeper that I had thought. Did she smoke? (This thought gave way to my next fantasy, that Anne and I would hit up a barbecue joint ~ Kansas City, duh ~ after the speaking and signing, and she and I would have a Big Life Talk while we smoked American Spirits and drank cold beer).
Needless to say, that fantasy failed to ripen, and so I clung to every word my favorite writer spoke, and I took notes, and I loved her even when she misspoke and referred to Anne Frank as the girl at the well who finally understood "water" (later, she got it right), and felt sad that the clock was tickingtickingticking and it wouldn't be long before the night was over and my husband would be picking me up, only to whisk me off to our boring home in the suburbs where neither Anne Lamott nor the man in the black blazer lived.
***
My signing number was 401. I watched hundreds of women approach Anne at her signing desk, lean in, say something, hug, or pose for a picture because they had someone with them to snap the damn thing. Again, jealousy.
Occasionally the event coordinator, a kind, professorial type named Bob, would announce that ticket holders numbered blank to blank could line up (fans were approaching the signing desk in a line of 50). It made me happy to note that Black Blazer Guy stayed seated, even as the 300 to 350 call went out. Finally, the 400s were approaching. And then Mystery Man and I stood up, and my pulse raced at the thought of standing in line with him for ten to twelve minutes when all of a sudden another man, this one not nearly as mysterious nor attractive, got in line between me and the object of my affection. Shit.
Talkative, this guy was, and in the space of three minutes I learned that his first wife had died of breast cancer, that they'd been unable to have children on account of her illness, that Anne's writing had helped him wade through grief, that his current wife was the lead soprano in the evening's performance at the Kauffman Center for the Performing Arts, that he and his wife were in town from Massachusetts, and that he'd heard about Anne's signing on NPR that very day.
In fact, Mr. Talksalot distracted me to the point of losing what I was going to say to Anne once I got to the table. So much so that here's what I remember saying: "Thank you for coming to Kansas City. Thank you for your writing. Your words have brought so much joy into my life." And before she could even get her you're welcome out completely, I asked if she'd ever gone to The MacDowell Colony, and she said, Why no, no I haven't. And it was then that I noticed that her sweet face looked old, way older than what you see on the book jacket, and although I am quite sure I did not announce to her how old I thought she looked, I have no fucking idea what I said next, although my mouth was moving and she was nodding her head and a few seconds later I was walking off the stage, my face feeling flushed and hot.
Once again, my crazy-ass neuroses effed-up what was to have been a perfectly wonderful evening meeting my all-time favorite author (after Anne Tyler) and, let's not forget, my future perfect husband.