For the Tumblrs who’ve felt the sting of the greeting-card aisle over the past month:

For those who’ve winced at casual mentions of Father’s Day in the media:

For those who wished this weekend would never arrive:

For those who will go to a cemetery instead of a country-club brunch:

For those who won’t spend today with dry eyes:

We acknowledge you.

We acknowledge your brave (or not-so-brave) face.

Because however you spend it (or don’t), however graceful you are (or not), you are facing it.

It will suck, no doubt, but you will survive your first (or fifth or twelfth) Father’s Day without him.

You can do this.

And we’re with you.

So let’s raise a virtual glass of Tumblr love to all the missing fathers.

And to you: their brave, blogging offspring.

God bless and Godspeed.

emptymanuscript:

So I finally finished Splitting the Difference: A Heart-Shaped Memoir by The White Elephant in the Room. It took me a while because I had to cry. A lot. But it is a beautiful book that is hard to put down except to cry and lives up to its billing of splitting the difference between pain and wonder amazingly well. What she’s done so masterfully is to boil herself and her experience down to the point that it really feels like you are living through that year with her. Well enough that I had dreams about her as if I knew her, down to speech rhythms, despite the fact that there is no actual dialogue quotes in the book. I’m not quite sure how else to explain the power of the book, other than that, of course, love and loss are integral to our lives and she puts both of hers on bright and shameless display in equal measure and shows us the world that she inhabits. It’s also just hard to review a memoir, especially if you know the author may very well see what you say. But, yeah: it’s good, it’s powerful, it’s a tearjerker but it’s got it’s fair measure of joy and beauty (and stupid stuff we do too) and yeah, you should read it.

Friday just got about a grillion times better.

This is happening.

And you made it possible.

On July 23rd, we’ll meet IRL.

And hug faces.

And drink.

Also, Internet, you’ll be meeting the parents.

So bring the flask—I mean the polite.

Twice a week all Spring, I’ve been in living rooms from Oregon to New York.

Sometimes I’m physically in the room with a dozen female strangers; sometimes I’m beamed in via Skype.

Most of them have read my book and all of us have a glass of something in our hands.

I break the ice by reading passages I hope their book club will enjoy.

Sometimes I read the right stories.

Sometimes I don’t.

But after talking love, loss, books and Pilates for an hour (or three), the definitions of reader and author become amorphous.

There’s nothing they’re afraid to ask.

Nothing I’m afraid to answer.

We take turns showing and telling.

Crying and laughing.

And by the end of every book club, I’ve met women I’d like to know better and others who it seems I already do.

I am in a tapas bar, approaching a man wearing red cords, a gingham shirt and brogues.

I know these preppy clothes and even from behind, I know the person they belong to.

When I touch his arm, he turns away from his newspaper and toward me.

Time slows down as I take in the smile, the pores, the smooth-shaven chin.

The man is Alberto.

Minus a major accessory.

But darling, I ask, where are your glasses? 

His chin nods toward me.

Even in the dream, I’m aware that his signature glasses are my new trademark.

Oh, I say. I didn’t realize that was how it worked.

It’s fine, he laughs. I don’t need them anymore.

Good thing, I say. Because I already replaced your prescription with mine.

I know, he says. So, how’s your day? What are you up to?

Just silly errands—but who cares? I want to hear about you, I say, leaning in.

As he pulls me into a hug, his hand slides around my lower back, sending tingles from tips to toes.

My God, I say. You’re really here.

I awaken as I reach toward Alberto’s side of the bed, mumbling that I was missing you in my dream.

When I find only pillows and sheets, my eyes open to the dark room.

But where are—?

I see the replaced headboard, the rearranged art on the walls and Alberto’s absence washes through me like it’s Day One.

Washes through me like he hasn’t been gone longer than we were married.

Which he has.

The sobs are sucking oxygen faster than I can take it in and so I cry-cough, trying to memorize his outfit and words from the dream.

I slip into sleep—and find myself right back in the tapas bar, sitting across from Alberto at a table.

So, you’re doing errands today, he says, putting his leg in my lap. Can you pick something up for me?

Sure, I say, not unaware that I’m in the dream again, just hanging out with my dead husband.

Get me one of those Luna Lances.

Luna whats?

You know—those chalkboards with phosphorescent chalk. The kind that glows in the dark.

Never heard of it. Is that so you can see your to-do list even at night?

No, Tré. It’s so YOU can see your to-do list even at night.

I awaken this time without reaching for the empty space.

Without tears or a lack of oxygen.

I awaken this time and walk into the home office, where my to-do list is not glowing.

I stare at it, prioritize and put the kettle on.

Two hours and four emails later, I’ve confirmed a reading of “Splitting the Difference” at a Long Island library, secured book press for August and landed a new writing assignment.

I also may have googled phosphorescent chalk.

(And realized it was beside the point.)

Is it weird that we haven’t met yet?

Can we remedy this?

If you’d go to a reading/signing of “Splitting the Difference” at The Last Bookstore in downtown L.A. on June 30, will you:

Follow/Tweet @lastbookstorela + mention #heartshapedmemoir?

Like their Facebook page + post on their Wall?

Reblog the hell out of this for L.A. Tumblrs?

If 50 people do it, I will come.

Loudly.

I promise.