Kate’s dad passed away last night, after an unexpected and rushed trip to the hospital last week. It’s a very sad day for the Herd.
Archive for the 'The Herd' Category
I’m pleased to report that I successfully added the additional half mile to my run this morning, and I completed 3.5 miles in 30 minutes. To be fair, I don’t have any fancy GPS running gear – I mapped the route using google maps and logged my time using my watch. So, grain of salt and all but pretty damn close.
I felt good! Well, I felt good when I was done. My legs started getting tired somewhere around two and a half miles and in the last quarter of a mile – the incline – I solidified my decision to stay at 3.5 miles for at least a week. I’ll try for 4 miles before the end of the month but I’m not ready just yet.
Outdoor running definitely uses more of your entire body than jumping on the treadmill.
And don’t think I haven’t been trying on my skinny jeans after every run like, “Hey thighs! We ran today! Are you skinny yet? WTF?!” This evening I’m in the gym for shoulders and abs and I’m already wondering if or how sore abs will affect my run tomorrow morning.
Aside from my own personal triumphs, one of my most favorite people on my planet – someone that I love to my core – is going through a personal heartache that I can’t imagine. I feel helpless and sad and am mentally prepared to get a call at any moment that will put me on a plane to be there. I hope it doesn’t come to that for a while.
Prayers and good thoughts are appreciated for her.
Dear Tracey,
I listened to Houses of the Holy this morning on my way to work and cried a little, thinking of you.
Miss you,
Ame
Dear Tracey,
I was driving to work today and Bad Medicine came on the radio. It seems weird that I have such distinct and vivid memories of sitting on the floor of that classroom after school and listening to it as a “new song”. Every time I hear Bon Jovi I think of you. Every time I see (or wear!) Chuck Taylors, I think of you.
In a couple of months it will be seven years since you died. Last month it was 19 years (19? Is that right? Really?!) since your baby brother died. I think about your dad and Todd a lot. I think about them thinking of you and Justin. It makes me cry.
But, Trace, I’m happy to say that my life is good. So good! Finally! I just wish you were here to enjoy it with me.
I miss you and love you,
Ame
Shipping Up To Boston
Published September 22, 2009 PMOH , Sightseeing and Vacations , The Herd Leave a CommentWe made it up to Boston this past weekend, a success especially considering that the last time we tried that we ended up with The Weekend of Fail.
I’m interrupting this post to say: I know he’s an Iron Chef and all, but nothing that Bobby Flay makes looks good to me.
Anyway, Thursday night we were here:
and it was an absolute blast. Aside from the fact that Fenway is the fucking shit, I think the amazingly good time had something to do with the fact that we were with these kick ass people:
Oh yeah, and this guy may have had something to do with that as well.
You think?
Friday we went to see his grandfather and after lunch I managed to get lost when I went to get the car while they waited out front for me. In my defense, the streets of Marblehead were formed by cows and, dude, they are NOT on a grid. I was on a one way street and two blocks up from the restaurant and you’d think that making three lefts would get me back there but, sadly, no, that did not work. I finally made it back and we all laughed at my expense and, whatever. It was vacation and warm enough for them to be outside until I got back.
Friday night we partied with the Herd and can you believe that we didn’t take a single picture of that evening? I can’t either. I assure you that I was a great time.
Saturday morning was a bit of a cluster fuck and it’s not worth the story about why, but let’s just say that I was supposed to meet my mother for breakfast, making it the first time I’ve seen her in six years and she couldn’t make it but, oh, don’t you worry, she made up for it later. It was a weird day.
Lunch at my aunt’s was great even though we didn’t get to girl chat like we normally would have and Saturday evening I was asleep on the couch by 9:00. I’m wild like that.
We left Sunday morning without any trouble and had the dogs licking our faces by 4. I threw some chicken in the crockpot so we’d have something to eat this week because the fridge is bare after a weekend sans trip to the grocery store.
I temped one pathetic day this week and have a few hours for Thurs but that’s it. The lack of paycheck is getting old. Very, very old. And I’ve finally sold the last of anything valuable that I had – pulled it out of the safe and off it went. At least I’ll be able to pay my rent for another three months with the money.
Ok, I know you want to see one more:
November already, huh? We’re getting old, girl. Well, I’m getting old anyway. You should be too. How unfair!
Another year is coming to a close and I’m pretty glad. I think next year is going to be better but truthfully, I don’t know. Everything is all very up in the air – I suck at up in the air. I need a plan. Working on that…
I don’t really have anything major to report. Um..I’m having a good hair day. My back is a little tweaked, I think I slept on it wrong. Season 4 of LOST is coming to DVD on Dec 9 and it’s already in my blockbuster queue (you seriously have no idea how excited this makes me. Tracey, I hope they have LOST where you are.) I read a 500 page book this weekend about vampires. You would have loved it. We do love us some vampire stories, eh!
Overall, things are ok.
I talk to Josh every once in a while. We talk about you. We think about you a lot, you know.
So, another year. I’m celebrating for you tonight. Happy Birthday, friend.
I miss you and love you.
Love,
Ame
Today is the 5th anniversary of your death. I can’t pinpoint if it feels like a long time has passed, or if it feels like it was just yesterday. I for sure can’t wrap my brain around the events of my own life in the past five years but I have a very vivid recollection of standing in the cemetery the day we buried you. I was still angry at you then, for dying.
I talk to you sometimes, I’m not sure if you hear me or not. I’m not so happy these days, friend, and I’m sure it seems inclement for me to say that I wish we could switch places. I can’t seem to get this existence right and I think you probably could. I’m sorry I can’t make that happen.
I stopped by to see your dad and brother a couple of months ago. I was visiting Sarah, Kate and Erin and I made them drive through town so we could drive by your house. Your dad and brother were in the driveway and I made Sarah turn around and go back. When we pulled in they looked very confused, obviously having no idea who it was. But when the three of us piled out of the car they looked happy to see us, and a little sad too. I’m sure seeing us makes them think of you.
Oh – Todd is still hot.
I’m really lost, Tracey, and I don’t know what to do about it. I know it doesn’t do any good to look back, and I know having regrets is useless. Still, I’m having a hard time looking forward. Having a hard time feeling like there even is a forward. I’d give just about anything to go back to the days of Betty Lou and her new pair of shoes.
Shit, we used to laugh at that. I miss those really hearty, full bellied laughs that made our eyes water. I look forward to laughing like that again.
I hope where ever you are there is laughter like that for eternity.
I miss you. I love you, friend.
Amy
To round out my tales of the Herd, I’ve been sitting here trying to think of my favorite Tracey story, but I can’t come up with one. All the little snippets of my most favorite moments with her aren’t really all that story-worthy. We just spent so much time together that everything was pretty much a laugh, full of private jokes that wouldn’t really be entertaining to others.
It’s that whole “you had to be there” thing.
I keep trying to find a way to explain just how hard we would laugh, until our knees were too weak to stand and our bellies hurt and the tears clouded our eyes when we would sneak out to meet up with Josh and Mikey. Mikey would simulate Bass Fishing television shows and sing a song about Betty Lou getting new shoes, complete with air-banjo. See? That only sounds mildly entertaining, but oh the hilarity! The four of us would hunker down at the bottom of a hill so we’d be hidden from any passing cars between the hours of 2 and 4 a.m.
And I know it doesn’t sound entertaining to you when I bring up things like flashlight tag, and eating grape juice concentrate out of the can, and sneaking into R rated movies. It just sounds like the same kinds of things you all did at that age.
There is some definite humor to be had that, for whatever unknown reason, we thought that these outfits and teased hair were “wicked awesome” and that we insisted that we always wore those pants on the same day. Every time.
There’s nothing unique to us as teenagers having parties at her house when her parents were on vacation, accidentally throwing knives into the floor, stealing cigarettes from her dad’s ashtray (EW!) or calling and hanging up on boys we had a crush on (always the same boy, of course).
I remember when we found out that her mom was pregnant when we were in high school (OOPS!), and then staring in disbelief at the smallest coffin I’ve ever seen less than three years later. Those aren’t exactly the fondest memories, except that they’re memories of Tracey, so I hold onto them.
It was great to bump into her one summer years after she went away to a new school and had a whole new set of friends, and going back to her house and partying like old times. The novelty of exchanging cell phone numbers, when having a cell phone number was still pretty unique (and actually was a “cell”), and spending a summer between college semesters hanging out again. That was fun. A grown up Tracey with a degree and a future and a fiance.
Still, even after all that, I will always remember her with big hair, acid washed jeans and Motley Crue. It’s probably not exactly how she’d want to be remembered, but I can’t help thinking of her that way, and all with a big smile on my face. 
Many times in the past few weeks Kate has taken my call only to say “What? hon, I can’t understand you.”
When the heaving, sobbing, hopeless cries take over I know I can call Kate.
“Just talk to me.” Which probably sounds more like “juh tall ta meeee.”
Kate is a presence. She’s tall and loud, she talks fast (and sometimes with her mouth full) and she’s smart. She’s easy-going and I can’t honestly remember a time in the past 24 years when she’s been bitchy or curt. Kate has an awesome laugh.
Kate’s a little perverted, like me and you can tell her anything.
Even in junior high, Kate always seemed like the grown up. She was the truly independent one, but also the most social. Kate has always been the one we go to when we have a secret and need a confidante. If you are ashamed of yourself, or giddy over some dirty little deed, call Kate.
The first time I got drunk (at 8 in the morning! skipping school! REBEL) my friends dumped me at Kate’s house so she could take care of me.
Kate’s the first one I told about an awful experience I had when I was 14, when I was too scared or embarrassed to tell anyone else.
When I had no place to go home to for Christmas break my junior year of college, I stayed with Kate.
I’ve been trying to think of my favorite story to tell about Kate, but most of them I wouldn’t dare post here on the interwebs. Even I have my limits. I have tons of fun memories of Kate.
But aside from being a blast to hang out with, Kate is a constant. She’s our confidante. And she’s a damn good friend. God I can’t wait to see that girl.
The 1970s were a popular time for mama’s to be naming their baby girls Amy. In my small class there were five of us. Amy K and I took to each other immediately.
In high school I spent a lot of time with Amy. Amy with her tall, lanky frame and cropped, thin hair, pale skin covered in freckles and a face framed in glasses. I stood 8 inches below her with long, curly hair, dark skin and facial features all too big for my small face. I’m the Janeane Garofalo to her Uma Thurman. At her house we went by the names Mice (Amy’s parents had dubbed her “Mouse” as a baby), Amy squared (her dad was a math teacher) or just plain Ames. Among the Herd we were Big Ame, Little Ame and Sarah always used Amy K and Amy F.
Amy’s birthday is one month after mine and when she turned 21 we celebrated at Kitty O’Sheas. For whatever reason – I couldn’t tell you why – we adored Kitty’s. It very quickly became our favorite spot to gather when we were home for college break.
After graduation I moved in with my dad, Amy with her mom and Kate and Sarah had apartments almost walking distance from the pub. Erin was a little farther north and didn’t make it down as much. Friday and Saturday night, Kitty’s was our place to be.
Maybe it was because we had easy jobs while Kate was running campaigns, Sarah worked nonstop and Erin made middle management at 23, but Amy and I felt compelled to go out. Often. On a whim, we declared Tuesday nights “Kitty O’Sheas” night.
And then we learned that they had live music on Sundays. Who can pass up live music?
And then we decided that the weekend really starts on Thursday, not Friday.
So let’s recap: Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday had become “Kitty O’Sheas” night for Amy and me. Usually on the weekends we would get the girls to meet us too, but most nights it was me and Ame.
“It’s me and you, Ame. Me and you.” That was our mantra.
Obviously it didn’t take long for us to be recognized as regulars, particularly since there were only four bartenders ever working – four cute boys from Ireland who all lived in a house down the street: Paul, Jerry, Nipper and Declin. We’d walk in the door to the tiny pub and hear a cheer in that distinctive Irish accent “Eehhh! Amy! Amyella!” Well, that’s what it sounded like anyway. And they’d pour our drinks before we got to the bar: 2 shots of Sambuca, 2 pints of Bass.
We smoked too much, drank too much and made jokes about signing over our paychecks to Kitty O’Sheas, though in reality we never left there with a tab higher than $30 even though we each put away at least six pints and a shot every night (don’t ask me how I stayed 110 pounds. I don’t know. ) On more than one occassion I woke up face down on the floor of the boys’ house, went to find Amy and told her we had to go to work. I think we only called in sick once as a result of too much Kitty’s. Most days we just shook it off. Ahh, youth.
We managed like that for over a year, until I started going back to school at night for my Master’s degree. It finally became too much. I still held my own on the weekends and still got greeted with a drink and a cheer when I arrived with my cohort, “Eehhh! Amy! Amyella!”
As it turns out it was always “Amy, Amy eile” in Gaelic. Or, “Amy, the other Amy” translated. I don’t know which of us was “Amy” and which was “the other Amy”. I’m not sure there was a distinction, actually. At some point, though, I just adopted the moniker Amyella (the phonetic of Amy eile) as my own.
I do miss having a place like Kitty O’Sheas and company like Amy’s. Just thinking about it makes me want a pint.
