Missing

Last night, while channel surfing, I found the preview to a movie on Lifetime called "Bringing Ashley Home" and I didn't know if I could watch it because the one minute preview alone left me in tears . . . the story of a girl whose sister ends up missing.  I wasn't sure I could take much more than that and if you have a sister, or maybe even if you don't, you know why.  It showed scenes like the sister who isn't missing lying in bed unable to move from grief as the word "Sisters" flashed across the screen, followed by:

never give up, then

never stop looking, then

never let each other go.

If one of your sisters was missing, or your brother, could you give up or stop looking or let her go?  How would Easter look next week, when there are supposed to be four Easter baskets, just like there have been since 1982, but this time, because one sibling is missing, there are only 3 - or worse - there are still 4!

How do you give up or stop looking or let go when you can hardly even remember a time without your sister or your brother and even if you don't see them or talk to them as much as other people in your life, for a myriad of reasons, it really doesn't matter because you share a name and ancestry and blood and childhood and if one is missing then you are all missing.

How do you give up or stop looking or let go when, as kids, you ran away together (all your clothes packed in one flowered suitcase) or video taped your brother in your mother's underwear or waited together behind the sheet hanging in the hallway every Christmas morning.  When your memories have created a language that nobody else speaks and you have the same hair, same pictures, same resentment - how do you ever go home again if one of you is missing? 

Just like the Easter basket - you wouldn't know if you should hang the stocking or light the birthday candles or set the place at Thanksgiving.  It must be absolute agony, unbearable, to have a sibling missing, or anyone really - anyone we love and expect to see, who is a part of your life so deeply that he or she is also a part of you - a child, a husband, a parent . . . unbearable.

The truth is though, we don't really think about this stuff when everyone is where they are supposed to be and alive and well.  We can't be bothered then . . . and its a good thing because you too might spend an hour crying, imagining one of those you love -  just gone. 

No thank you. I will stick to thinking about the disappearance of the paper boy instead, the one who tosses our paper like a grenade at 5 a.m, or the neighbor who starts shoveling during my last half hour of sleep on a Monday morning or the moms who block my shopping path with those giant car carts in Wegmans.

Ah, but then again - they have Easter baskets waiting for them too don't they?  So lets just hope everyone comes home safely today.

Curves

Ladies, you have to hear the Rascal Flatts song: "These days."  If you have, you know you totally want some ex-boyfriend, fiance or husband out there to be the guy singin this song and if you haven't heard it, when you do - you will!

Hey baby, is that you?
Wow, your hair got so long.
Yeah, yeah, I love it, I really do . . .

. . . well, life throws you curves,
But you learned to swerve.
Me I swung and I missed
And the next thing ya know
I'm reminiscin' dreamin' old dreams
Wishing on wishes
Like you would be back again.

In the chorus, the guy goes on to say how he wakes up every day and tear drops fall and he listens to the old song they danced to and he goes to work just to get home and check to see if she's called (hmm, was this written when we still had answering machines? god, remember those things?  alas, i digress....), then dreams about her every night. 

Damn right life throws ya curves and you know those jackholes of your past (oh god, tell me they are in your past) were the biggest curves of all and sadly, there was probably more than one.  Uh oh, more than two or three?  Did all those curves make one big circle right back to YOU and did you finally get to look at yourself and say . . . you know it, say it with me:

"I can't be bothered!"

I hope so, but if you haven't - now is as a good a time as any to plant your own garden instead of waiting for some a-hole to bring you flowers.  He'll be singin this song within a year and if he isn't . . . well then, that's even more reason not to bother. 

The thing is, the greatest opportunities are usually disguised as something that looks even harder, more painful and more frightening than what we already have, than what we're already doing.  That's exactly why we don't recognize 'em. 

Talk about a curve ball.

Uterus

OK, so last night at 11pm marks the 3rd birth of  a friend's baby in the last 2 weeks and I just have to ask: "Am I really the only one who just can't be bothered with a human swimming in my uterus for 9 months?"

As if there are not countless other reasons that the idea of having a baby/toddler/child/teenager who hates me/adult kid who blames me for everything scares the hell out of me, let me just stick to this one: I cannot imagine growing a living thing with fingernails, hair, armpits, a butt crack, intestines, blood, bones and countless other less than cute parts - in my stomach.  I mean seriously, after a 1 pound 14 inch sub I am uncomfortable for hours, how are you going to put a maybe 8 pound 21 inch infant in there and expect to function?  Oh and there's more: veins, stretch marks, bigger feet, water retention, no sleep, toys all over, day care expenses, college funds, global warming . . . shall I go on? 

Maybe they just do it for the boobs. Now that makes me stop and think twice (ha get it?)!

Ah, but maybe I am fooling you, and myself too.  As disgruntled as I sound, you can ask my mom - I've been taking care of babies since I was one myself.  I remember being 8 years old and sneaking into my newborn brother's room when he was crying, kneeling beside his crib, reaching between the bars and rubbing his back until he settled down and fell asleep.  My parents thought they used the cry it out method, but it was me - his big sister.  At 16, I spent several Saturday nights caring for my four little cousins, one of which was an infant that I had to get up to feed at 3a.m.  My friends, who all have babies now, never did that!  There's more too, so many more - babies, kids and more babies and more kids and almost eleven years of spending every day with a classroom full of children. 

. . . and those 3 babies born in the last two weeks?  Well, the only one I haven't held yet was just born 19 hours ago.  So, maybe this baby fever is bound to get us all, even those of us who thought they'd just spend a lifetime loving other people's kids and their students and that would be enough.  Maybe. 

Then again, maybe I just "Can't be bothered!"

Welcome!

Welcome to "Can't Be Bothered," 3 seemingly harmless words I was introduced to many years ago by my sister and her friend, after they stole them from their gay male roommate at college.  "Can't be bothered" he would grunt - in response to any request that he just couldn't muster the attention for, and so it began for my sisters and me too . . .

"Hey, you wana go for a walk?" 

"Ugh, I can't be bothered."

"You wana go out Saturday night?"

"Nah, I can't be bothered."

"You have to break up with him, you know that don't you?"

"Ya, but I can't be bothered."

We can use this as a response for anything:

Inability: "Can't be bothered."

Avoidance: "Can't be bothered."

Laziness: "Can't be bothered."

Refusal: "Can't be bothered."

Lack of a better reason: "Can't be bothered."

. . . and thus, it kept coming to me as the perfect name for this venue, where I will talk about so much that bothers me (and a lot that doesn't too, but it's more fun to pretend it does), in an effort to make it not.

The best thing about it, so far (like 15 years), is that it seems to suffice in every situation, from those of very little importance all the way to big, life changing, really significant moments.  When we say this to each other it can make us laugh or it can really piss us off, but regardless - the point is always taken.  We just can't be bothered.

I could go on and on about this phrase and why I chose it as a title for my blog.  I could tell you how my husband of 2 years now says it constantly too and has even shortened it to "CBB."  I could tell you how I have said it to kids in my classroom, the waitress in a restaurant, the contractor remodeling our kitchen, the trainer at the gym and my therapist (obviously). 

I won't though, because . . .

I CAN'T BE BOTHERED!