With the holidays tucked neatly behind us, we're disheveled. You are in the next room, clearing your throat and sucking snot through your nose, as you play some loud thing. I pound green tea to prevent the body from giving in to the cold that hovers in our living room.
Alaska: you are so large and dark in the winter. When we first landed, our plane shook in your freezing air. I held my stomach and averted my eyes from the window. When we are sick, we are alone.
At touchdown, we clacked onto the peach shining tile of the new Anchorage airport. Things change, you must have thought. Your hometown, where your heart grew in its palms, grows without you. It mars your memory. I know this because the Fargo from my youth doesn't exist anymore either. It is something else entirely. It is present. I am past. When I visit, its new buildings tell me, I don't belong anymore.
Through the cold window in the car, the night white snow mesmerizes me. I am not speaking as the black spokes of the trees zip past. A dark organic silhouette emerges on the street, lit by the yellow globes of the quiet winter street. There's our moose, sauntering through the streets like a living poem. Only in Alaska...
I am grateful to love your family. Grateful to hole up in the dim light of that cozy cabin. Grateful for the five-day hibernation that felt like a warm hug. Grateful for blankets, tea, Christmas lights, and carbohydrates.
We were so silent together, the five of us. Even the dogs outside barely barked. When Humvee, the sheep, wanted crackers, he butted his head against the window without a cry. The only peep I heard from him was when we were leaving; his thick hooves crunched in the driveway as he galloped after the car.
I saw you unwind there. I'm not sure who needed that more--you or me. Since we moved to San Diego, I've seen you hold that tight rein around your life. Squeezing it so hard your knuckles whiten, your neck stiff. I know you do it for us and I love you for it, but I miss you.
It's temporary. It's temporal. It's necessary i know. But gawd my heart screamed when I saw you breathe. Even as you got sicker and sicker, your nose stuffed and your head clogged, I was still relieved. It meant, to me, your body letting go. Laying down. Sleeping.
When we boarded the return plane, you handed me our tickets: first class. You smiled at me. I punched you. We sat down and you held my hand. I started to cry. You said, 'we'll figure it out.' And we will.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
We Blossom Don't We
The blossoms outside my apartment changed. From winter white to winter purple. Cold purple. The kind of lavendar that chills. My breath freezes in front of me, 'was it like this yesterday?' No. The color changes in a day.
I keep on waiting for you. Tapping my fingernails on the black iron. A hollow yell. I make plans for you. My hopes and dreams: they come and go.
Knee-deep in December, the presents pile by the door. Their bright red wrapping, crisp and shining, mocks the heart. You will not see your family, the postage remarks. I wait till the last minute to send them, trudge to the car, drive mindlessly to the post office, and go mindlessly about my day. I already miss the memory we haven't made.
We went to a party tonight. The white icicle lights blinked on the wall. When I smiled you smiled and then we went away...
I keep on waiting for you. Tapping my fingernails on the black iron. A hollow yell. I make plans for you. My hopes and dreams: they come and go.
Knee-deep in December, the presents pile by the door. Their bright red wrapping, crisp and shining, mocks the heart. You will not see your family, the postage remarks. I wait till the last minute to send them, trudge to the car, drive mindlessly to the post office, and go mindlessly about my day. I already miss the memory we haven't made.
We went to a party tonight. The white icicle lights blinked on the wall. When I smiled you smiled and then we went away...
Monday, December 7, 2009
The Hipster's Holiday Book-Giving Guide
Since we're all in the Christmas spirit, spending our hearts away and whistling to the classic holiday tunes, I thought I'd share ten of my fave books EVER (in case you're looking for gift ideas for you or others). These books touched my life in a profound way--either by blowing me away with their artfulness, enlightening my perspective on things, or just plain changing my life.
1. Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks - This book began my love affair with Russell Banks. This easy-to-read, coming-of-age tale of a troubled adolescent dabbling in drugs and homelessness displays all of the components I like in fiction: twisted, deep, vivid and well-written.
2. The Art of Happiness, A Handbook for Living - I've owned this book for atleast ten years, and it still sits near my bedside. The Dalai Lama, guided by psychologist Howard Cutler's questions, very clearly and simply explains the importance of compassion and how to cultivate it. It explains how to deal with suffering, overcome anger, and operate from a place of loving kindness.
3. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini - While I loved his first book, "The Kite Runner," this book about modern Afghanistan (before, during, and "after" the Taliban's rule) shook me to the core. The haunting images in this book still make me shudder. While the history lesson enlightens readers, the personal story makes it sit like an anvil in the heart.
4. Student's Vegetarian Cookbook by Carole Raymond - At age 18, this was the first cookbook I ever bought. While I am not a vegetarian, I don't eat a ton of meat either. This book is just one of my favorites, years later!
It is so tattered and tore apart--it's sad. Many of the pages are burnt from when I accidently set the book on fire while crafting the very very scrumptious Broiled Zucchini Parmesan. I lost that recipe in the fire, but the survivors still make my mouth water. The recipes (think Easy Asparagus, Chipotle-Black Bean Chili, and Baked Bananas) are so quick and easy and tasty, ANYBODY would benefit from this book, not just students.
5. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan - This tale, based on extensive historical research, follows the intimate affair of the infamous American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, and his well-spoken mistress. Not only do you get a deeper understanding of the eccentric genius of Mr. Wright, you read a beautiful and scandalous love story.
6. A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah - Written by a former boy soldier who lost his family and was forced to join the "government army" in Sierra Leone at age 13, this memoir speaks about Beah's tragic childhood and some of the gruesome acts committed by himself and the army. Removed by UNICEF from the violent war at age sixteen, he talks about forgiving himself and trying to heal. This eye-opening book sheds light on the situation in Sierra Leone and the complex forces of its perpetual violence.
7. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - O.k., the movie was pretty bad (minus the fact that Eric Bana is some pretty special eye candy). If you haven't seen it yet, or read the book, then please go purchase this book. Niffenegger's writing is artful and gorgeous and she crafts one of the most unique works of fiction I've read in a long time.
8. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl - Frankl spent years enduring the horror of the Nazi death camps during WWII. His memoirs will disgust and enrage you as he details the unspeakable things he experienced. Also a renowned psychotherapist, Frankl's terrible experiences led him to craft a theory: man's motivation for living is the search for meaning. This is a philosophical and analytical book on everything from God, the afterlife, suffering, and ultimately, happiness.
9. Native Son by Richard Wright - A hefty classic, this fictitious tale follows a young black man in America who commits a horrific and senseless violent crime. It unapologetically weaves through the complex psychological and social fabric of race relations in the early 1900's in America. It's a thorough and thought-provoking work of genius.
10. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - Go read this, quick, before the movie comes out! Like "The Time Traveler's Wife", I'm not sure how they're going to translate this heart-breaking and gorgeous work of prose to the screen. Either way, it won't be as good as the book, I promise you that. So go read it now. Easy-to-read, this book is really unique, sad, hopeful, and truly, lovely.
1. Rule of the Bone by Russell Banks - This book began my love affair with Russell Banks. This easy-to-read, coming-of-age tale of a troubled adolescent dabbling in drugs and homelessness displays all of the components I like in fiction: twisted, deep, vivid and well-written.
2. The Art of Happiness, A Handbook for Living - I've owned this book for atleast ten years, and it still sits near my bedside. The Dalai Lama, guided by psychologist Howard Cutler's questions, very clearly and simply explains the importance of compassion and how to cultivate it. It explains how to deal with suffering, overcome anger, and operate from a place of loving kindness.
3. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini - While I loved his first book, "The Kite Runner," this book about modern Afghanistan (before, during, and "after" the Taliban's rule) shook me to the core. The haunting images in this book still make me shudder. While the history lesson enlightens readers, the personal story makes it sit like an anvil in the heart.
4. Student's Vegetarian Cookbook by Carole Raymond - At age 18, this was the first cookbook I ever bought. While I am not a vegetarian, I don't eat a ton of meat either. This book is just one of my favorites, years later!
It is so tattered and tore apart--it's sad. Many of the pages are burnt from when I accidently set the book on fire while crafting the very very scrumptious Broiled Zucchini Parmesan. I lost that recipe in the fire, but the survivors still make my mouth water. The recipes (think Easy Asparagus, Chipotle-Black Bean Chili, and Baked Bananas) are so quick and easy and tasty, ANYBODY would benefit from this book, not just students.
5. Loving Frank by Nancy Horan - This tale, based on extensive historical research, follows the intimate affair of the infamous American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, and his well-spoken mistress. Not only do you get a deeper understanding of the eccentric genius of Mr. Wright, you read a beautiful and scandalous love story.
6. A Long Way Gone, Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah - Written by a former boy soldier who lost his family and was forced to join the "government army" in Sierra Leone at age 13, this memoir speaks about Beah's tragic childhood and some of the gruesome acts committed by himself and the army. Removed by UNICEF from the violent war at age sixteen, he talks about forgiving himself and trying to heal. This eye-opening book sheds light on the situation in Sierra Leone and the complex forces of its perpetual violence.
7. The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger - O.k., the movie was pretty bad (minus the fact that Eric Bana is some pretty special eye candy). If you haven't seen it yet, or read the book, then please go purchase this book. Niffenegger's writing is artful and gorgeous and she crafts one of the most unique works of fiction I've read in a long time.
8. Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl - Frankl spent years enduring the horror of the Nazi death camps during WWII. His memoirs will disgust and enrage you as he details the unspeakable things he experienced. Also a renowned psychotherapist, Frankl's terrible experiences led him to craft a theory: man's motivation for living is the search for meaning. This is a philosophical and analytical book on everything from God, the afterlife, suffering, and ultimately, happiness.
9. Native Son by Richard Wright - A hefty classic, this fictitious tale follows a young black man in America who commits a horrific and senseless violent crime. It unapologetically weaves through the complex psychological and social fabric of race relations in the early 1900's in America. It's a thorough and thought-provoking work of genius.
10. The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold - Go read this, quick, before the movie comes out! Like "The Time Traveler's Wife", I'm not sure how they're going to translate this heart-breaking and gorgeous work of prose to the screen. Either way, it won't be as good as the book, I promise you that. So go read it now. Easy-to-read, this book is really unique, sad, hopeful, and truly, lovely.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Because I Can
I'm just going to talk politics. Because I can. And I'm not going to care what you think. But I am.
I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?
What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...
(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.
But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.
When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.
The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?
I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).
All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.
Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.
I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.
I'm so sick of all this chatter. All of these talking heads have got me so far down that I can't think straight. Did it always used to be like this? All of these opinions swirling about?
What I like about the digital age is that we're all so much closer. My gawd, what did we do before google, right? What we know about the rest of the wider world is so much more now. It's so quick, so NOW. We can see suffering. We can hear it thubbing through our digital bones. Into our hearts. Hopefully. O, do i ever hope we hear it...
(Again). I like that we can hear each other. Look at us all here. Making friends on the screen, reaching our words into living rooms across the globe. We care. We're here. Reading with voyeuristic mania and good intentions.
But what I don't like--what I hate is--all wrapped up in the same gift. All this togetherness makes my head spin. All the noise! Sometimes, I really don't think everybody should have a platform to speak from. Sometimes I think CNN should not really try to listen to all sides. Sometimes I don't think we should try to understand where the serial killer is coming from. Or Republicans for that matter.
When thoughts and ideas are just plain messed up, I don't think we should be all listen-y with one another, even if it means we're muting half of the population. Sheer size doesn't warrant credibility.
The conservatives are breeding like crazed lunatics--if you do the math--progressives (known for their 1.5 children and charming homes) will be overrun in two decades, Tops. So let's enjoy our last run without "trying to understand each other," huh?
I hate that everyone picks away at Obama. Dems included. Who on God's green earth do you think is going to do any better? It took a long line of very poor decisions to steer our gassy country into the shitter. And most of them stem from our own individual hearts (not mine, of course, i'm an angel).
All that collective crap just trickled up to Bush. But then, luck would have it, we noticed the horrid smell, and our hearts manifested a good guy instead. Hip hop hurray for us.
Now let's sit the fuck down and let true integrity guide us. For Once.
I just can't stand listening to all the nuts in the peanut gallery.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
This One's For My Mom
because she whines and cries that I don't write enough. So here I am. Two in a row. Back to back. Boom.
I'm thinking a lot about Christmas and what I want. what i want what i want i want i want. Gotta get those lists figured out, hand em' out, divvy up meh goods.
With this wish list fulfilled, I'll be accessorized with all the necessary material things that go with my capricious ideal. I'll BE better, by and bye.
So here's one paragraph of things i want, without inhibitions and completely unattached to reality...
i want i want i want a full-loaded MacBook Pro, an entry-level DSLR camera, Adobe Creative Suite, an end table for my bedroom, a navy blue Volvo, a black Pomeranian, an eco-maid, an uber special spa wrap, a ticket to New Zealand, my two front teeth (literally, i need new crowns), and world peace.
While I'll receive nary a one of these, it is now very apparent to me that I'm an aspiring yuppie. Are you happy now, mom?
I'm thinking a lot about Christmas and what I want. what i want what i want i want i want. Gotta get those lists figured out, hand em' out, divvy up meh goods.
With this wish list fulfilled, I'll be accessorized with all the necessary material things that go with my capricious ideal. I'll BE better, by and bye.
So here's one paragraph of things i want, without inhibitions and completely unattached to reality...
i want i want i want a full-loaded MacBook Pro, an entry-level DSLR camera, Adobe Creative Suite, an end table for my bedroom, a navy blue Volvo, a black Pomeranian, an eco-maid, an uber special spa wrap, a ticket to New Zealand, my two front teeth (literally, i need new crowns), and world peace.
While I'll receive nary a one of these, it is now very apparent to me that I'm an aspiring yuppie. Are you happy now, mom?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Giving Up On Numbers
It's the pattern of the holidays again. It's the drown of an entire month spent spending, forgetting that last year we said, "it'll be different. we won't ever do THAT again." But we do.
Not that I'm complaining. I love gift-giving. Even better, I love receiving. I welcome this trade. Sometimes I like to just give. However, just getting something makes me uncomfortable. If you get me something, rest assured, I won't leave myself indebted long.
I act out of the fear that people might whisper, "she always takes, never receives." And so I super give back. You won't be chiding me and my friendship skills later. O heck no.
...
Been traveling back and forth to Phoenix the last couple weeks. Dipping myself in my recent past. I drive around, trying to remember if I ever belonged there. I think I did. Once. Twice. Yes. For weeks and months at a time.
I hit a wall though, somewhere near 2003. I wanted to leave the desert. I wanted to forget her hot hug on my neck. Rip her sweaty kiss off of me. I disliked living in her spiky landscape, even if I did it for love.
And so, back there...the old comfort of familiar friends and family makes me oooh and aaah for my old place in the world. There's a chair waiting, their presence reminds me. The table is full and topped with flowers.
But I must be filled with ice. I'm so cold. My heart is closed to this past of mine. Already. It's as if the wound of me leaving was closed quickly, like a zipper. Simple as that.
Yet, I know it's not a stone heart that keeps my eyes dry.
It's knowing I've done the right thing.
...
I saw my niece Nova, her and my sis traveled down from Minnesota. She's so precious. All moving and kind of mumbling and screaming and crawling.
I didn't get enough of her though, and that breaks my heart. It sucks that I can't get myself around it. I can't find a solution and I'm a solution girl. I hate problems without solutions. Especially when it involves not seeing some of the people I love most in the world.
...
On a positive note, since a handfull of my readers mistakenly think I'm thisclose to offing myself: Today was a beautiful day. The components of this prettiness? Painting, music, and chilled oranges. And this too. This moment right here, tapping out prose like a metronome.
Not that I'm complaining. I love gift-giving. Even better, I love receiving. I welcome this trade. Sometimes I like to just give. However, just getting something makes me uncomfortable. If you get me something, rest assured, I won't leave myself indebted long.
I act out of the fear that people might whisper, "she always takes, never receives." And so I super give back. You won't be chiding me and my friendship skills later. O heck no.
...
Been traveling back and forth to Phoenix the last couple weeks. Dipping myself in my recent past. I drive around, trying to remember if I ever belonged there. I think I did. Once. Twice. Yes. For weeks and months at a time.
I hit a wall though, somewhere near 2003. I wanted to leave the desert. I wanted to forget her hot hug on my neck. Rip her sweaty kiss off of me. I disliked living in her spiky landscape, even if I did it for love.
And so, back there...the old comfort of familiar friends and family makes me oooh and aaah for my old place in the world. There's a chair waiting, their presence reminds me. The table is full and topped with flowers.
But I must be filled with ice. I'm so cold. My heart is closed to this past of mine. Already. It's as if the wound of me leaving was closed quickly, like a zipper. Simple as that.
Yet, I know it's not a stone heart that keeps my eyes dry.
It's knowing I've done the right thing.
...
I saw my niece Nova, her and my sis traveled down from Minnesota. She's so precious. All moving and kind of mumbling and screaming and crawling.
I didn't get enough of her though, and that breaks my heart. It sucks that I can't get myself around it. I can't find a solution and I'm a solution girl. I hate problems without solutions. Especially when it involves not seeing some of the people I love most in the world.
...
On a positive note, since a handfull of my readers mistakenly think I'm thisclose to offing myself: Today was a beautiful day. The components of this prettiness? Painting, music, and chilled oranges. And this too. This moment right here, tapping out prose like a metronome.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Naming the Blank Nothing
It's weeks like these, we roll up into ourselves.
We gather our arms inward, into the deep
dark, the unmoving silence.
We try not to let the fear grip us, the impossibility
of life's lightness moving us.
I feel so silent and sad,
so frustrated with the present.
We laugh as the television blinks on and off
our faces, the bone smile of your smile
can make me fly out of winter.
for now I need you
tangled in my arms.
I ache
today like the
entire world as if the
entire world's sadness
could break me.
i want to
back up
back down
back bone
grow...
You're sleeping.
I want to make you tea.
Put our hearts at ease.
Love, what is that unknown thing?
My words struggle to find
their syncopation. They're out of step,
out of line.
I start them
I fail them
I let them fall out of my mouth
into the crawl space between
now
and now.
What (i think and i think) i'm trying to think is
i'm so scared and so not scared of everything.
I can hear you breathing
"Let's tear down the night anyway."
We gather our arms inward, into the deep
dark, the unmoving silence.
We try not to let the fear grip us, the impossibility
of life's lightness moving us.
I feel so silent and sad,
so frustrated with the present.
We laugh as the television blinks on and off
our faces, the bone smile of your smile
can make me fly out of winter.
for now I need you
tangled in my arms.
I ache
today like the
entire world as if the
entire world's sadness
could break me.
i want to
back up
back down
back bone
grow...
You're sleeping.
I want to make you tea.
Put our hearts at ease.
Love, what is that unknown thing?
My words struggle to find
their syncopation. They're out of step,
out of line.
I start them
I fail them
I let them fall out of my mouth
into the crawl space between
now
and now.
What (i think and i think) i'm trying to think is
i'm so scared and so not scared of everything.
I can hear you breathing
"Let's tear down the night anyway."
Monday, November 9, 2009
Day 150-something - Oh My Mega Mall
Went to the mall today. I like to shop on my day off. I like to pretend that I'll buy something. But now-a-days, my tight budget's got me strangled. I walk around from rack to rack. I like this. I like that. I walk away.
It seems like prices haven't really moved at all. The recession hasn't made any retailers really anti-up their $50 sweaters into $15 sweaters, or even $30, or dammit, even $40. What's wrong with them? Whose buying this stuff? Seriously? Almost everybody I know is hurting.
Sure, there's richies everywhere, but the majority of the people are in the $17 sweater range. Let's be honest. Is everyone still putting this shit on credit? Isn't that what got us into this mess? I refuse to charge a thing.
The cash in the pocket. It's real. Tangible. I have X amount of dollars per month to spend on clothes. And my taste could kill it on a nice pair of shoes. I love clothes. Shoes. Material things. Shallow I know. Sometimes when I'm in the mall, it's like a torture chamber. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...
I resist. Every time. Bite my lip. I'm an outfit shopper, so going piece by piece is a bit like tearing my flesh off in strips. I tend to over think things anyway, ask anyone I know, so you can imagine the analyzation of trying to make my tired wardrobe sing one sweater per month.
It all goes a bit like this...
I start out practical. I go to Charlotte Russe. I mean, they have cute stuff. Cheap. Yet immediately upon entrance, I can't help but think...I'm thirty, aren't I too old for this? And plus, the clothes, they last four wears and they are done. Isn't that a waste of money too? Perhaps I need to invest more in quality pieces...
So I then go to Express. They have more sophisticated, classic clothing. I see a dress I like. $79.99. Damn. One dress. Which really wouldn't be the end of the world, except I need an ENTIRE winter wardrobe. F$#%.
It's here I start to notice the impossibility of building this phantom wardrobe. First off, this season's sweaters are noticeably missing sleeves. Which to me is just clever marketing. They make you buy a long-sleeved undershirt too. Which is two pieces, as opposed to one whole sweater. That equals more money for them. Trend? Or clever recession strategy?
Second that, with the whole flat boot thing. Absolutely adorable. BUT. You have to wear skinny jeans with those. And if you're like me, you've avoided the whole skinny jean thing for a very long time considering most of us are not built like a 13-year-old boy. BUT jeans in boots = cute. So now I guess I need skinny jeans too. As of yet, none of this potential outfit is even accessorized. I re-check the cash in my pocket. Depression sinks in...
RE-evaluation: I go to Forever 21. Where I think...I hate teenagers AND their stupid clothing. Barf. Also: hot pink flannel? really?
How bout Macy's? That seems middle of the road, semi-affordable and semi-well-constructed. I accidentally end up in the high-end section first. The cutest BCBG stuff assaults me. I'm spinning. When I finally get to "my" section, everything looks cheap and old. I leave immediately.
Three hours deep in mall-ville, I ended up with a pair of work shoes and Aveda foundation to replace what I've run out of. I also gained a severe need for bipolar meds. Oh my mega mall. You bring out the worst in me.
Yes, I know I can go to Target, and sure, I could perhaps piece together an outfit a month there. People are starving, for pete's sake, my thoughts are so small.
But today, I dreamt and swore. I want to get all debaucherous on shopping. Just once (or thrice). I want to just blow a wad of cash on what I love. Rub quality fabrics all over my skin and walk haughty in my super-fly new heels, my well-constructed dress.
I know these thoughts won't get me to heaven. But I'd ask for forgiveness afterwards. I promise.
It seems like prices haven't really moved at all. The recession hasn't made any retailers really anti-up their $50 sweaters into $15 sweaters, or even $30, or dammit, even $40. What's wrong with them? Whose buying this stuff? Seriously? Almost everybody I know is hurting.
Sure, there's richies everywhere, but the majority of the people are in the $17 sweater range. Let's be honest. Is everyone still putting this shit on credit? Isn't that what got us into this mess? I refuse to charge a thing.
The cash in the pocket. It's real. Tangible. I have X amount of dollars per month to spend on clothes. And my taste could kill it on a nice pair of shoes. I love clothes. Shoes. Material things. Shallow I know. Sometimes when I'm in the mall, it's like a torture chamber. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink...
I resist. Every time. Bite my lip. I'm an outfit shopper, so going piece by piece is a bit like tearing my flesh off in strips. I tend to over think things anyway, ask anyone I know, so you can imagine the analyzation of trying to make my tired wardrobe sing one sweater per month.
It all goes a bit like this...
I start out practical. I go to Charlotte Russe. I mean, they have cute stuff. Cheap. Yet immediately upon entrance, I can't help but think...I'm thirty, aren't I too old for this? And plus, the clothes, they last four wears and they are done. Isn't that a waste of money too? Perhaps I need to invest more in quality pieces...
So I then go to Express. They have more sophisticated, classic clothing. I see a dress I like. $79.99. Damn. One dress. Which really wouldn't be the end of the world, except I need an ENTIRE winter wardrobe. F$#%.
It's here I start to notice the impossibility of building this phantom wardrobe. First off, this season's sweaters are noticeably missing sleeves. Which to me is just clever marketing. They make you buy a long-sleeved undershirt too. Which is two pieces, as opposed to one whole sweater. That equals more money for them. Trend? Or clever recession strategy?
Second that, with the whole flat boot thing. Absolutely adorable. BUT. You have to wear skinny jeans with those. And if you're like me, you've avoided the whole skinny jean thing for a very long time considering most of us are not built like a 13-year-old boy. BUT jeans in boots = cute. So now I guess I need skinny jeans too. As of yet, none of this potential outfit is even accessorized. I re-check the cash in my pocket. Depression sinks in...
RE-evaluation: I go to Forever 21. Where I think...I hate teenagers AND their stupid clothing. Barf. Also: hot pink flannel? really?
How bout Macy's? That seems middle of the road, semi-affordable and semi-well-constructed. I accidentally end up in the high-end section first. The cutest BCBG stuff assaults me. I'm spinning. When I finally get to "my" section, everything looks cheap and old. I leave immediately.
Three hours deep in mall-ville, I ended up with a pair of work shoes and Aveda foundation to replace what I've run out of. I also gained a severe need for bipolar meds. Oh my mega mall. You bring out the worst in me.
Yes, I know I can go to Target, and sure, I could perhaps piece together an outfit a month there. People are starving, for pete's sake, my thoughts are so small.
But today, I dreamt and swore. I want to get all debaucherous on shopping. Just once (or thrice). I want to just blow a wad of cash on what I love. Rub quality fabrics all over my skin and walk haughty in my super-fly new heels, my well-constructed dress.
I know these thoughts won't get me to heaven. But I'd ask for forgiveness afterwards. I promise.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Day 140 - On Books, The Big and Small
1. The Big
The bookstore is a magical place. For me, a trip to the bookstore is probably like a spa day is to a rich dame. I get there, and it's all *sigh*. Sanctuary. Everything can be fixed here.
I can learn to cook, knit, meditate, and travel right here. Everything I need to know is a book away. I'm reminded of how many things there are to love in this world. How many words I need to read. How many countries to see. How many heart-aches and transformations, the world weeps. I'm surrounded by memory and possibility. Left-over pictures and paragraphs. Remnants of thought, experience. It's days like today, where I have nothing to avoid (DMV or dishes), that I get the most done.
I'm relaxing into life here in San Diego. It's home. I haven't felt like this since Fargo, circa childhood and early adolescence. I have a wandering spirit. A rogue will. I like to strive for the next best thing. The here and now has no hold on me.
I can hear your words now. You'll tell me that that's no way to live. And I know that. That's why I want to say it out loud. Call it like I see it. Don't we all wait for tomorrow? But that's enough of that. I tell my inner nomad. Relax.
I wish I could live moments inside other people. Live their moments for them. Perhaps that's why I love books so much. In fantastical chapters, I'm in South Africa as a dying man; in Pennsylvania as a lonely seamstress; I'm in India, the son of a zookeeper. I'm the world's consciousness. I'm in my living room.
Isn't that why we're here? In cyberspace? To pity and love one another? To read that never-ending reality T.V. show?
2. The Small
I noticed "The Nook" being advertised at Barnes and Noble today. The Nook is the new device where we can all read our fave novels on the small screen. You can buy books like apps. You can read "Crime and Punishment" on your laptop.
And I totally get it. I think in a way it's good because I believe in conservation. And if I have/use a brain, I realize that to make books you have to make paper. You have to shave it from trees, chew it up, and release it into pages. I know that the spines on my bookshelves come from the spines of the forest.
But I think we can also all agree that it's just not the same. Just as we've lost the art of the CD cover, we'll lose the art of the held book. While I don't miss CD jackets so much, I would absolutely miss the colored words on my mantel ledge.
I need the smell of them. I need to turn the page. Not push the button. I need the tangible journey. I need to see the pages I've past to see how far I've come. I need them to pile up. I need to see how far I have yet to go. Electronically, you lose all that. You're just swimming around in book space. You're on a page, but you can't see physically where the end is. There's something to that.
I also secretly believe that people who love those electronic book devices, possibly don't really love books at all. I don't have any basis for this assumption. But there it is.
So I'm thinking we should compromise before we go all e-booking all over the place. How about more books from recycled stuff? Or maybe we could just stop making magazines into pages? I can read mags on the screen, no problem.
But novels need real paper. They need to be quiet, run without batteries. They need to remain unattached to the real world. Like little paper sanctuaries. Mini-revolutionaries protecting us from the buzz and the whirl.
The bookstore is a magical place. For me, a trip to the bookstore is probably like a spa day is to a rich dame. I get there, and it's all *sigh*. Sanctuary. Everything can be fixed here.
I can learn to cook, knit, meditate, and travel right here. Everything I need to know is a book away. I'm reminded of how many things there are to love in this world. How many words I need to read. How many countries to see. How many heart-aches and transformations, the world weeps. I'm surrounded by memory and possibility. Left-over pictures and paragraphs. Remnants of thought, experience. It's days like today, where I have nothing to avoid (DMV or dishes), that I get the most done.
I'm relaxing into life here in San Diego. It's home. I haven't felt like this since Fargo, circa childhood and early adolescence. I have a wandering spirit. A rogue will. I like to strive for the next best thing. The here and now has no hold on me.
I can hear your words now. You'll tell me that that's no way to live. And I know that. That's why I want to say it out loud. Call it like I see it. Don't we all wait for tomorrow? But that's enough of that. I tell my inner nomad. Relax.
I wish I could live moments inside other people. Live their moments for them. Perhaps that's why I love books so much. In fantastical chapters, I'm in South Africa as a dying man; in Pennsylvania as a lonely seamstress; I'm in India, the son of a zookeeper. I'm the world's consciousness. I'm in my living room.
Isn't that why we're here? In cyberspace? To pity and love one another? To read that never-ending reality T.V. show?
2. The Small
I noticed "The Nook" being advertised at Barnes and Noble today. The Nook is the new device where we can all read our fave novels on the small screen. You can buy books like apps. You can read "Crime and Punishment" on your laptop.
And I totally get it. I think in a way it's good because I believe in conservation. And if I have/use a brain, I realize that to make books you have to make paper. You have to shave it from trees, chew it up, and release it into pages. I know that the spines on my bookshelves come from the spines of the forest.
But I think we can also all agree that it's just not the same. Just as we've lost the art of the CD cover, we'll lose the art of the held book. While I don't miss CD jackets so much, I would absolutely miss the colored words on my mantel ledge.
I need the smell of them. I need to turn the page. Not push the button. I need the tangible journey. I need to see the pages I've past to see how far I've come. I need them to pile up. I need to see how far I have yet to go. Electronically, you lose all that. You're just swimming around in book space. You're on a page, but you can't see physically where the end is. There's something to that.
I also secretly believe that people who love those electronic book devices, possibly don't really love books at all. I don't have any basis for this assumption. But there it is.
So I'm thinking we should compromise before we go all e-booking all over the place. How about more books from recycled stuff? Or maybe we could just stop making magazines into pages? I can read mags on the screen, no problem.
But novels need real paper. They need to be quiet, run without batteries. They need to remain unattached to the real world. Like little paper sanctuaries. Mini-revolutionaries protecting us from the buzz and the whirl.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Day 133 - Moms, Anniversaries, and DMVs
1. Moms
Sometimes, I miss my mom so much that it hurts. Such is the case today.
But I'm also very very grateful. I just spent five blissful days with her, whooping it up here in sunny San Diego.
My mom is one of my best friends. I feel blessed that I mean that.
Like tourists, we traversed this town. From art fair to botanical garden. From the open green hills to the loud downtown.
At the risk of sounding like I work for the San Diego tourism department, I must say, I'm so in love with this city.
Per usual, we also tackled a home project. Couldn't resist spray-painting my old wicker furniture. We opened the garage and surrounded the chair, the end table, the chest of drawers. From ratty tan to chocolate brown, we transformed my bedroom stuff, all nice and new. Brick orange cushion for completion.
My mom has the ability to unwind me. Sometimes I get so tight. So serious. She just can grab the end of that string, and skip off into the sunshine. When it's all said and done, I'm new again. Unraveled. Disheveled. Smiling. Remembering to let go...
Of course I also have the habit of taking it too far. Ravished for the younger and freer me, I probably maybe perhaps smoked a few cigs while she visited. I probably maybe perhaps drank coffee, soda, and rum. And better yet, I think I probably maybe perhaps needed all that.
Let's face it. Stress management has never been one of my strong suits. Too-shay.
I miss you mom. I wish we lived in the same city.
2. Anniversaries
I'm going to brag here. I just can't help it.
Dave and I celebrated our six-month wedding anniversary over the weekend. With my mom in town and his mom and step dad also stopping in for the weekend, the morning of our anniversary, we quickly shared some lovely sentiments and a heart-felt spoken "Happy Anniversary" to each other before crawling out of bed. He went off to sail with his family. Mom and I, off to the gardens. (That all sounded so bourgeoisie) I didn't think anything of it, I figured we'd celebrate after our guests departed.
Later that evening, he came smiling up the stairs with a fist full of pink and white balloons, one of which, in red lettering said "Happy Anniversary." His other hand? A bouquet of lilies. His mother and step dad followed close behind him, with a smooth rectangle of tiramisu cake. What a guy. What a guy.
I love getting love in all the girly, cliche ways that hipper girls might renounce. Flowers are pretty. Balloons are awesome. And cake is divine. I have a theory that girls who claim to not like these things are actually insecure. They think YOU don't like these things. So they claim the same.
Or they saw a movie somewhere where the quirky protagonist girl said something witty to her potential mate like, "Why would you buy me flowers? It's a waste of money for something that just wilts and dies all over my kitchen table."
Which was really just the screenwriter's lazy way of using character development. The underlying message of the dialogue was meant to communicate this: This girl is so different and unique than all the other girls this guy has ever met. And the guy is supposed to know he's met someone real special and that perhaps his whole life might be changed from here on out.
So some poor girl out in the audience thinks to herself, hmmm...maybe if I don't like flowers than I'll be unique and special and someone will love me just like this guy loves Amanda Peet.
But sadly, the results are simply this: These girls miss out on one of the oldest and simplest forms of male to female courtship. Here's a flower. It means I love you. I'm not much of a talker. But I got you this pretty thing. Because I want to give you things. Because you're pretty. And I like you. And I want to continue touching your boobs.
We're so smitten with this display of affection that we let them. As well we should.
In a more advanced form of male to female courtship, Dave handed me two tickets to the dance tour of "So You Think You Can Dance" in downtown San Diego in November. Row Five. Center Stage.
WHAT??!!! (Can you hear me jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs like Mary Murphy?!) This male to female show of affection says: I love you so much that I went out and did for you (for us) what might make you love me till we die.
Add to that, that my mom witnessed our anniversary exchange. Which means, Dave earns mad brownie points. Which means, I'm all the more ecstatic. Because I'm petty and I love it when things look good. Kidding. Kind of. Let's face it, everybody wants their parents to adore their chosen life partner. Life isn't as fun without that key element.
Anyway, "Happy Anniversary" to the the love of my life. For the seven years before our wedding day and to the 70 years after--my love continues to thicken and grow in my heart. It digs deeper; it gets more complicated; it gets more light than ever.
3. DMVs
Went to the DMV today to finally get my California driver's license.
At the first counter, the guy said, "I like your name. Darcy. That's nice."
Me (smiling): Thanks.
DMV employee: Have you ever seen the TV series "Pride and Prejudice"?
Me (replying in my head): You mean, 'Have I read the classic piece of epic romantic literature written by none other than Jane Austen?'
Me (actually said): The character Mr. Darcy?
DMV employee: Yes, that's it! Mr. Darcy. That's who I thought of when I heard your name. Very English sounding. I love it.
At the second counter, the woman said, "You and I share the same middle name."
Me (smiling): Oh, your middle name is "Jo"?! Are you from the Midwest?
2nd DMV employee: My parents are.
Me: Well that explains it.
We share a laugh.
By the end of our time together, she had complimented my ability to take a good thumb print and also said "Pretty picture!" after snapping my new driver's license shot.
O.k. so my trip to the DMV was lovely. What the hell? Did I just walk into some kind of DMV twilight zone? Where the most upbeat and supportive employees uplifted residents all day long? Next time I go they'll be distributing champagne and cookies at the buffet table. Knock on wood.
While the customer service was friendly, I have to say California government lags lags lags. First off, my written driver's test was actually written. What? Written. Like pencil and test sheet. And when I was done, I watched my fave employee with the middle name Jo grade it by hand. By hand. What kind of backwards shit is that? Don't they know that most states have these electronic things, they're called computers, that not only save paper but also increase efficiency?
And to boot, they said, "Your license will arrive in the mail in a few weeks." What? Um, in Arizona and Minnesota AND in po-dunk North Dakota (circa early nineties), you get, hold your breath, the darn thing printed off right there. Weird. Why is CA so behind?
To further this point, the other day I got pulled over by a stoic motorcyle cop. Why? Um, I was also interested to find out. Apparently it was for talking on my cellphone while driving. Without a hands-free device. Apparently that's a law they enforce here. I thought they were kidding. And when he handed me the ticket, he said I could call a number and pay, but I would have to "wait a month or so, so that they can get the ticket in the system." Hmm... it's no wonder Cali has budget problems.
Which brings me to my last point. Which is quite far down here, so I'm hoping some of you have dropped off before getting here, so you'll miss one of my few Republican-like confessions.
Now, most of you know that I'm a Democrat through and through. I tend to agree with and therefore vote blue, the majority of the time. But I have to say, one negative thing, I've noticed since living in this dark blue state (the first one in my life, Arizona and North Dakota are blood red), is that (begin redneck twang here and kick dirt with cowboy boots), "There sures are lots of laws here. Lots of big bureacracy, red tape. I don't know if I like the gubernent' deciding all my bizness." Sometimes a point is a point.
Sometimes, I miss my mom so much that it hurts. Such is the case today.
But I'm also very very grateful. I just spent five blissful days with her, whooping it up here in sunny San Diego.
My mom is one of my best friends. I feel blessed that I mean that.
Like tourists, we traversed this town. From art fair to botanical garden. From the open green hills to the loud downtown.
At the risk of sounding like I work for the San Diego tourism department, I must say, I'm so in love with this city.
Per usual, we also tackled a home project. Couldn't resist spray-painting my old wicker furniture. We opened the garage and surrounded the chair, the end table, the chest of drawers. From ratty tan to chocolate brown, we transformed my bedroom stuff, all nice and new. Brick orange cushion for completion.
My mom has the ability to unwind me. Sometimes I get so tight. So serious. She just can grab the end of that string, and skip off into the sunshine. When it's all said and done, I'm new again. Unraveled. Disheveled. Smiling. Remembering to let go...
Of course I also have the habit of taking it too far. Ravished for the younger and freer me, I probably maybe perhaps smoked a few cigs while she visited. I probably maybe perhaps drank coffee, soda, and rum. And better yet, I think I probably maybe perhaps needed all that.
Let's face it. Stress management has never been one of my strong suits. Too-shay.
I miss you mom. I wish we lived in the same city.
2. Anniversaries
I'm going to brag here. I just can't help it.
Dave and I celebrated our six-month wedding anniversary over the weekend. With my mom in town and his mom and step dad also stopping in for the weekend, the morning of our anniversary, we quickly shared some lovely sentiments and a heart-felt spoken "Happy Anniversary" to each other before crawling out of bed. He went off to sail with his family. Mom and I, off to the gardens. (That all sounded so bourgeoisie) I didn't think anything of it, I figured we'd celebrate after our guests departed.
Later that evening, he came smiling up the stairs with a fist full of pink and white balloons, one of which, in red lettering said "Happy Anniversary." His other hand? A bouquet of lilies. His mother and step dad followed close behind him, with a smooth rectangle of tiramisu cake. What a guy. What a guy.
I love getting love in all the girly, cliche ways that hipper girls might renounce. Flowers are pretty. Balloons are awesome. And cake is divine. I have a theory that girls who claim to not like these things are actually insecure. They think YOU don't like these things. So they claim the same.
Or they saw a movie somewhere where the quirky protagonist girl said something witty to her potential mate like, "Why would you buy me flowers? It's a waste of money for something that just wilts and dies all over my kitchen table."
Which was really just the screenwriter's lazy way of using character development. The underlying message of the dialogue was meant to communicate this: This girl is so different and unique than all the other girls this guy has ever met. And the guy is supposed to know he's met someone real special and that perhaps his whole life might be changed from here on out.
So some poor girl out in the audience thinks to herself, hmmm...maybe if I don't like flowers than I'll be unique and special and someone will love me just like this guy loves Amanda Peet.
But sadly, the results are simply this: These girls miss out on one of the oldest and simplest forms of male to female courtship. Here's a flower. It means I love you. I'm not much of a talker. But I got you this pretty thing. Because I want to give you things. Because you're pretty. And I like you. And I want to continue touching your boobs.
We're so smitten with this display of affection that we let them. As well we should.
In a more advanced form of male to female courtship, Dave handed me two tickets to the dance tour of "So You Think You Can Dance" in downtown San Diego in November. Row Five. Center Stage.
WHAT??!!! (Can you hear me jumping up and down and screaming at the top of my lungs like Mary Murphy?!) This male to female show of affection says: I love you so much that I went out and did for you (for us) what might make you love me till we die.
Add to that, that my mom witnessed our anniversary exchange. Which means, Dave earns mad brownie points. Which means, I'm all the more ecstatic. Because I'm petty and I love it when things look good. Kidding. Kind of. Let's face it, everybody wants their parents to adore their chosen life partner. Life isn't as fun without that key element.
Anyway, "Happy Anniversary" to the the love of my life. For the seven years before our wedding day and to the 70 years after--my love continues to thicken and grow in my heart. It digs deeper; it gets more complicated; it gets more light than ever.
3. DMVs
Went to the DMV today to finally get my California driver's license.
At the first counter, the guy said, "I like your name. Darcy. That's nice."
Me (smiling): Thanks.
DMV employee: Have you ever seen the TV series "Pride and Prejudice"?
Me (replying in my head): You mean, 'Have I read the classic piece of epic romantic literature written by none other than Jane Austen?'
Me (actually said): The character Mr. Darcy?
DMV employee: Yes, that's it! Mr. Darcy. That's who I thought of when I heard your name. Very English sounding. I love it.
At the second counter, the woman said, "You and I share the same middle name."
Me (smiling): Oh, your middle name is "Jo"?! Are you from the Midwest?
2nd DMV employee: My parents are.
Me: Well that explains it.
We share a laugh.
By the end of our time together, she had complimented my ability to take a good thumb print and also said "Pretty picture!" after snapping my new driver's license shot.
O.k. so my trip to the DMV was lovely. What the hell? Did I just walk into some kind of DMV twilight zone? Where the most upbeat and supportive employees uplifted residents all day long? Next time I go they'll be distributing champagne and cookies at the buffet table. Knock on wood.
While the customer service was friendly, I have to say California government lags lags lags. First off, my written driver's test was actually written. What? Written. Like pencil and test sheet. And when I was done, I watched my fave employee with the middle name Jo grade it by hand. By hand. What kind of backwards shit is that? Don't they know that most states have these electronic things, they're called computers, that not only save paper but also increase efficiency?
And to boot, they said, "Your license will arrive in the mail in a few weeks." What? Um, in Arizona and Minnesota AND in po-dunk North Dakota (circa early nineties), you get, hold your breath, the darn thing printed off right there. Weird. Why is CA so behind?
To further this point, the other day I got pulled over by a stoic motorcyle cop. Why? Um, I was also interested to find out. Apparently it was for talking on my cellphone while driving. Without a hands-free device. Apparently that's a law they enforce here. I thought they were kidding. And when he handed me the ticket, he said I could call a number and pay, but I would have to "wait a month or so, so that they can get the ticket in the system." Hmm... it's no wonder Cali has budget problems.
Which brings me to my last point. Which is quite far down here, so I'm hoping some of you have dropped off before getting here, so you'll miss one of my few Republican-like confessions.
Now, most of you know that I'm a Democrat through and through. I tend to agree with and therefore vote blue, the majority of the time. But I have to say, one negative thing, I've noticed since living in this dark blue state (the first one in my life, Arizona and North Dakota are blood red), is that (begin redneck twang here and kick dirt with cowboy boots), "There sures are lots of laws here. Lots of big bureacracy, red tape. I don't know if I like the gubernent' deciding all my bizness." Sometimes a point is a point.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Day 132 - Things To Be Said
There are a lot of things to be said HERE. Which I'm not going to SAY.
And that makes it SEEM all the more Important Than What it IS.
The Truth Is that I'm not really trying to Say ANYTHING Here,
that isn't easily said aloud to ALMOST Everyone I Know.
Which might Make this Seem
Water-Downed. But might just BE as Real
as it gets
With Me.
And that makes it SEEM all the more Important Than What it IS.
The Truth Is that I'm not really trying to Say ANYTHING Here,
that isn't easily said aloud to ALMOST Everyone I Know.
Which might Make this Seem
Water-Downed. But might just BE as Real
as it gets
With Me.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Day 128 - 15 Minutes of Unedited Thought
Dave is constantly trying to find the best salsa. Like one exists somewhere out there, and he just needs to find it. This habit of his lends itself a special place in our fridge. The bottom shelf of our fridge door is where less lovely salsas, not passing his litmus test, go to die. There they sit, 1/4-eaten, until months later, I, nose-upturned, throw them out.
I don't think he'll ever stop his journey. I think he forgets when he finds a salsa he likes, because he simply goes on, picking and choosing new ones. He swears though, that he does in fact remember, and to prove it, he starts naming off particular salsas in his life that have moved him. He even knows which particular stores carry which particular salsas. I stand corrected.
My mother is touching down in San Diego in about three hours. She probably in the airport now, browsing the news store, picking out a new book. I am hoping she has a window seat so that when she comes into the city she can see how beautiful it is. Like the plane is her first chaffeur in this misty city. If she could just get an overview, I know she'd fall in love, I wouldn't have to worry so much about her first impression. I'd be confident that she'd be smitten.
I went out to eat with my friend (that's right, you heard me, I have a friend, a real live friend) Amanda last night. She's such a lovely girl; I'm feeling so good about my little circle of people so far. One of the cool things about her, is not only does she wear yellow peacoats with purple ballet slippers, when she eats, she can pick out specific tastes in her mouth. Case in point, she dipped her flatbread in a mysery sauce and said, "Hmmm...there's definitely curry in there."
Now, although I have a highly developed taste of what sucks big time and what's like really really good, I admire my more culinary advanced friends. I love to cook. Like a ton. But I think I could learn a thing or two from my new friend. How do I know this? She is also experimenting with jarring peppers. What?! Awesome.
I gotta clean my house now.
P.S. I love grapes. All colors.
P.S.S. I also love my cats. I had a dream that I lost my youngest one last night. I was balling. Devasted. I've hugged him three times today.
I don't think he'll ever stop his journey. I think he forgets when he finds a salsa he likes, because he simply goes on, picking and choosing new ones. He swears though, that he does in fact remember, and to prove it, he starts naming off particular salsas in his life that have moved him. He even knows which particular stores carry which particular salsas. I stand corrected.
My mother is touching down in San Diego in about three hours. She probably in the airport now, browsing the news store, picking out a new book. I am hoping she has a window seat so that when she comes into the city she can see how beautiful it is. Like the plane is her first chaffeur in this misty city. If she could just get an overview, I know she'd fall in love, I wouldn't have to worry so much about her first impression. I'd be confident that she'd be smitten.
I went out to eat with my friend (that's right, you heard me, I have a friend, a real live friend) Amanda last night. She's such a lovely girl; I'm feeling so good about my little circle of people so far. One of the cool things about her, is not only does she wear yellow peacoats with purple ballet slippers, when she eats, she can pick out specific tastes in her mouth. Case in point, she dipped her flatbread in a mysery sauce and said, "Hmmm...there's definitely curry in there."
Now, although I have a highly developed taste of what sucks big time and what's like really really good, I admire my more culinary advanced friends. I love to cook. Like a ton. But I think I could learn a thing or two from my new friend. How do I know this? She is also experimenting with jarring peppers. What?! Awesome.
I gotta clean my house now.
P.S. I love grapes. All colors.
P.S.S. I also love my cats. I had a dream that I lost my youngest one last night. I was balling. Devasted. I've hugged him three times today.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Day 125 - Ode to Fall
I can feel your chilly arms descend on this landscape. You hug the hills, and they blush brick red and orange. Your cool breath snuggles in the earth, becomes the dark brown bones of the trees. The night is a thick descent.
You've so confidently replaced Summer. You belong here, and you've got no use for long good-byes. In one day, you release her into the atmosphere. There's no trace of her long blond hair, light and shining.
O, but you're so dark and delicious. You like all things insular. Introspective. You're complicated and moody. Despite your coolness, I've always loved you...
When you're near, I become more like you. I fold into myself.
It's here where I find your warm body. Your best part.
You are cozy personified. Your comfort is the color yellow, like the inside of the house where the fire shadows slowdance on the walls. I wrap myself in layers of cable-knit, wool, and tweed.
You make me love blankets and couches, herbal teas and soup. I've never loved steamy mugs of chocolate and milk so much, 'cept when you're around. Even the cats relax for you.
O, to breathe you. You smell like dropped leaves, a crisp earthen ash. How I've missed you...
On Sunday, my lover and I went to see you. There you were, in the park. You were on the ground and in the trees and all around. You're so subtle here, but I see you. You're the silent ducks in the lake, the chilled mountains--you're the clipped air.
You gave us such brilliant dreams. We dreamt our children running against your muted sun. We saw them tumble in and out of the house we'll buy for them--hats and scarfs forgotten. Over the colored hills we fumble after them, my warm palm pressed to his warm palm.
You've so confidently replaced Summer. You belong here, and you've got no use for long good-byes. In one day, you release her into the atmosphere. There's no trace of her long blond hair, light and shining.
O, but you're so dark and delicious. You like all things insular. Introspective. You're complicated and moody. Despite your coolness, I've always loved you...
When you're near, I become more like you. I fold into myself.
It's here where I find your warm body. Your best part.
You are cozy personified. Your comfort is the color yellow, like the inside of the house where the fire shadows slowdance on the walls. I wrap myself in layers of cable-knit, wool, and tweed.
You make me love blankets and couches, herbal teas and soup. I've never loved steamy mugs of chocolate and milk so much, 'cept when you're around. Even the cats relax for you.
O, to breathe you. You smell like dropped leaves, a crisp earthen ash. How I've missed you...
On Sunday, my lover and I went to see you. There you were, in the park. You were on the ground and in the trees and all around. You're so subtle here, but I see you. You're the silent ducks in the lake, the chilled mountains--you're the clipped air.
You gave us such brilliant dreams. We dreamt our children running against your muted sun. We saw them tumble in and out of the house we'll buy for them--hats and scarfs forgotten. Over the colored hills we fumble after them, my warm palm pressed to his warm palm.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Day 123 - I'm a Quitter
I faced it a long time ago. I quit things. Lots of things. I don't try hard enough to get there. I want the easy way. If it's not easy, I take the easiest way out of there.
I want rainbows and bunnies. I want a glass of good wine and a pretty sunset. Give me my boo and a good laugh. That might just be about it. I want my world like a Janis Joplin song. Summertime and the livin' is easy.
I don't 'power through.' And I certainly don't 'rise to the challenge.' I think sometimes it looks as if I do though. Because I certainly finish things. College, for example. I certainly honor my commitments to others. People might even say I've been successful. For example, I held a well-paying job in my field of study for years.
But the truth is, I've never attempted much outside of my comfort zone. The reason for this is, drum roll please...pure fear.
I tend to shy away from anything that might poke holes in my tender perception of myself as Completely Awesome. Therefore when the going gets rough, I jump ship. Better to quit than to fail. Especially at the things I really love.
And I've quit plenty things I've loved. For example, in tenth grade I got a B in art. For fear of lowering my grade point average, I didn't enroll in art classes for the remainder of high school. Even though it was my fave. My absolute fave.
My third semester in college, I quit political science as a major because "I cared too much."
I also like to quit at the first sign of my own mediocrity. I don't like to be kind-of good at something. I like to be The Best. If I can't be The Best, then I don't want none of it. No matter how much I may care for it, I prefer quitting. Cold turkey.
You can see the inherent problems with this mentality.
Now since college, as I've gained life consciousness, I've worked hard against this bad habit. I have done things I loved and followed them through to their inherent ends. Even if I wasn't The Best, I've done things that simply made my heart sing. I've certainly made progress...
But I'm three decades deep now. And I'm wondering if, before I gained consciousness of my quick perchance to quit things, did I fuck up the rest anyway? So now all my attempts at follow-through are just quaint self-help busywork, feeble attempts to awaken the promise of the yesteryears? There's been no gallery showings. No Oscar-winning screenplays. No rescuing villages from starvation in Third World countries.
Intellectually, I know, I can probably strive for all of these things. (And the lesser things in the same vein). But how? How do I get there? From Here?
I want rainbows and bunnies. I want a glass of good wine and a pretty sunset. Give me my boo and a good laugh. That might just be about it. I want my world like a Janis Joplin song. Summertime and the livin' is easy.
I don't 'power through.' And I certainly don't 'rise to the challenge.' I think sometimes it looks as if I do though. Because I certainly finish things. College, for example. I certainly honor my commitments to others. People might even say I've been successful. For example, I held a well-paying job in my field of study for years.
But the truth is, I've never attempted much outside of my comfort zone. The reason for this is, drum roll please...pure fear.
I tend to shy away from anything that might poke holes in my tender perception of myself as Completely Awesome. Therefore when the going gets rough, I jump ship. Better to quit than to fail. Especially at the things I really love.
And I've quit plenty things I've loved. For example, in tenth grade I got a B in art. For fear of lowering my grade point average, I didn't enroll in art classes for the remainder of high school. Even though it was my fave. My absolute fave.
My third semester in college, I quit political science as a major because "I cared too much."
I also like to quit at the first sign of my own mediocrity. I don't like to be kind-of good at something. I like to be The Best. If I can't be The Best, then I don't want none of it. No matter how much I may care for it, I prefer quitting. Cold turkey.
You can see the inherent problems with this mentality.
Now since college, as I've gained life consciousness, I've worked hard against this bad habit. I have done things I loved and followed them through to their inherent ends. Even if I wasn't The Best, I've done things that simply made my heart sing. I've certainly made progress...
But I'm three decades deep now. And I'm wondering if, before I gained consciousness of my quick perchance to quit things, did I fuck up the rest anyway? So now all my attempts at follow-through are just quaint self-help busywork, feeble attempts to awaken the promise of the yesteryears? There's been no gallery showings. No Oscar-winning screenplays. No rescuing villages from starvation in Third World countries.
Intellectually, I know, I can probably strive for all of these things. (And the lesser things in the same vein). But how? How do I get there? From Here?
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Day 122 - Rough Draft
I've started this post three times now. I want to get this right.
Sometimes I feel like a stranger in my own life.
I don't want these words to shake you.
Maybe better. Maybe a better way. Is to say.
I'm blind. Er, I feel blind.
Reaching out into the nothing unknown.
Steady now...
I want something that will calm me down.
I want living. With No-Thought.
That's it. That's it! That's it?
I am indecisive. Like a search engine.
None of these thoughts are actions.
I don't trust action.
Yet I draw. Another map.
I go. And then I get there. And then I think.
No. No. No.
When does the trying stop?
When does my mind stop trying to get somewhere?
I want living. With No-Thought.
Sometimes I feel like a stranger in my own life.
I don't want these words to shake you.
Maybe better. Maybe a better way. Is to say.
I'm blind. Er, I feel blind.
Reaching out into the nothing unknown.
Steady now...
I want something that will calm me down.
I want living. With No-Thought.
That's it. That's it! That's it?
I am indecisive. Like a search engine.
None of these thoughts are actions.
I don't trust action.
Yet I draw. Another map.
I go. And then I get there. And then I think.
No. No. No.
When does the trying stop?
When does my mind stop trying to get somewhere?
I want living. With No-Thought.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Day 121 - The Happiest Place on Earth
Awww....the irony ;-)
No but for reals, giant teacups DO make me happy...
No but for reals, giant teacups DO make me happy...
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Day 118 - Sick Day
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't believe how dang tired I was. I could barely push myself out of bed. On day nine of no caffeine, I couldn't help but think 'wtf? still tired? if this is life without coffee then I quit quitting.'
Instead I booked an appointment with Dr. Google. As I searched 'exhaustion' and 'adrenal fatigue,' my tiredness morphed into a headache that felt like a punch in my left eye. I started to wonder if the continual caffeine intake had only been masking a complete health failure. Was caffeine propping me up like rag doll? Sure to fall over without support...
But by noon my neck felt swollen. My throat filled with raw sand. Wait a second.
Sneezing sets in. Watery eyes. Shit.
I'm sick as a dawg.
I was kind of relieved. I was thinking my no caffeine experiment was yielding arg-worthy results. On the other hand, I'm sick. Arg.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In other sickly news...
I hate the little pieces of pink chicken in Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Why can't they just make noodle soup in chicken broth? Why add the little shredded morsels of loose meat? I pick them all out, one by one.
It grosses me out to think of how long they've been dead and floating around in my salty broth. Years perhaps? So I could be eating four-year-old dead chicken? I know they've been on my shelf for atleast four months. Disgusting.
When I'm sick, I miss my mother immensely. My mom was the best mom EVER when I was sick. For some reason, as a teenager, I was sick a lot. Much more than my brother or sister. It was always a problem with my throat and it always knocked me on my ass. At least three days. Can't talk. Can't walk. Can barely swallow or lift my head.
My mom was like an angel, swooping down with a look of love and concern. She'd dote on me all day. Antibiotics. Soup. Crackers. Tea. And a few lucky times, a touch of hot brandy mixed with tea. She said it soothed my throat and also put me sleep. It did. Both of those things.
I loved how whenever I woke, she was there, with medicine or soup. I didn't have to think about anything, I just fell in and out of sleep. The days would go by and she'd be my blurry consistent. Nursing me back. Until one day, I'd crave something solid and I'd watch reruns all day.
Don't get me wrong, Dave is good. He stocks the cupboard with Nyquil and saltines. And he says, "I'm sorry you're sick, babe." If I ask him, he'll stir me a pot of soup. Butter my crackers.
But still, moms are just better than boys. They just have the perfect mix of love, concern, and get-better-know-how. They give you what you need before you ask.
I remember one time when my mom was sick she said, "Who takes care of mom when she's sick?" As busy teenagers, it surely wasn't us.
It seems that by the time your heart grows big enough to love your mom the way she loved you, it's too late. You're gone. All growed up. Too far away to reciprocate the kind of day-to-day love she bestowed on you.
As I get older, I understand this sad catch-22 more and more. I suffer alone on the couch. I feebly ask Dave for water, hoping not to bother him. Everything maternal in me gives; never takes. As we get older and the estrogen thubs through our blood, the only override of this instinct is mom.
I guess what I'm really saying is...
I want my mommy :-(
Instead I booked an appointment with Dr. Google. As I searched 'exhaustion' and 'adrenal fatigue,' my tiredness morphed into a headache that felt like a punch in my left eye. I started to wonder if the continual caffeine intake had only been masking a complete health failure. Was caffeine propping me up like rag doll? Sure to fall over without support...
But by noon my neck felt swollen. My throat filled with raw sand. Wait a second.
Sneezing sets in. Watery eyes. Shit.
I'm sick as a dawg.
I was kind of relieved. I was thinking my no caffeine experiment was yielding arg-worthy results. On the other hand, I'm sick. Arg.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
In other sickly news...
I hate the little pieces of pink chicken in Campbell's chicken noodle soup. Why can't they just make noodle soup in chicken broth? Why add the little shredded morsels of loose meat? I pick them all out, one by one.
It grosses me out to think of how long they've been dead and floating around in my salty broth. Years perhaps? So I could be eating four-year-old dead chicken? I know they've been on my shelf for atleast four months. Disgusting.
When I'm sick, I miss my mother immensely. My mom was the best mom EVER when I was sick. For some reason, as a teenager, I was sick a lot. Much more than my brother or sister. It was always a problem with my throat and it always knocked me on my ass. At least three days. Can't talk. Can't walk. Can barely swallow or lift my head.
My mom was like an angel, swooping down with a look of love and concern. She'd dote on me all day. Antibiotics. Soup. Crackers. Tea. And a few lucky times, a touch of hot brandy mixed with tea. She said it soothed my throat and also put me sleep. It did. Both of those things.
I loved how whenever I woke, she was there, with medicine or soup. I didn't have to think about anything, I just fell in and out of sleep. The days would go by and she'd be my blurry consistent. Nursing me back. Until one day, I'd crave something solid and I'd watch reruns all day.
Don't get me wrong, Dave is good. He stocks the cupboard with Nyquil and saltines. And he says, "I'm sorry you're sick, babe." If I ask him, he'll stir me a pot of soup. Butter my crackers.
But still, moms are just better than boys. They just have the perfect mix of love, concern, and get-better-know-how. They give you what you need before you ask.
I remember one time when my mom was sick she said, "Who takes care of mom when she's sick?" As busy teenagers, it surely wasn't us.
It seems that by the time your heart grows big enough to love your mom the way she loved you, it's too late. You're gone. All growed up. Too far away to reciprocate the kind of day-to-day love she bestowed on you.
As I get older, I understand this sad catch-22 more and more. I suffer alone on the couch. I feebly ask Dave for water, hoping not to bother him. Everything maternal in me gives; never takes. As we get older and the estrogen thubs through our blood, the only override of this instinct is mom.
I guess what I'm really saying is...
I want my mommy :-(
Monday, October 5, 2009
Day 117 - Random Gratitudes
To counteract the other day's rant...let's take a trip down gratitude lane....
1. I am grateful for great medical insurance and care. Today, my new "women's care" doc actually stopped to listen to me speak. Her responses? "You've done your research!" and "Isn't that interesting?" I love her.
2. I am grateful for chamomile tea. The eight-day-uncaffeinated me looks forward to this hot herbal treat.
3. I am grateful for yesterday. Dave and I spent our day hand-in-hand at Disneyland. While mostly it was color and shape and sound overload, we enjoyed the awe-struck stroll. I love just being with him. Anywhere.
4. I am grateful for all the fanciful creations at Disneyland. I like to think about the care and thought beyond the attractions and exhibits. How someone meticulously carved the face of each pirate in 'The Pirates of the Caribbean.' How someone sewed all the seasonal costumes for Mickey and Minnie. How someone strung up all the Halloween lights and webs on Main Street. I'm grateful for the street sweeper, the cashier, and the candy scooper.
5. I am grateful for mini-road trips with Dave and nice hotels in Anaheim.
6. I am grateful my cats, Trick Daddy and Diego, kinda sorta get along now.
7. I am grateful that my mom and brother got little Nova for the weekend! I am also grateful that my sis and her husband got a weekend with no baby. How was it guys???
What are YOU grateful for???
1. I am grateful for great medical insurance and care. Today, my new "women's care" doc actually stopped to listen to me speak. Her responses? "You've done your research!" and "Isn't that interesting?" I love her.
2. I am grateful for chamomile tea. The eight-day-uncaffeinated me looks forward to this hot herbal treat.
3. I am grateful for yesterday. Dave and I spent our day hand-in-hand at Disneyland. While mostly it was color and shape and sound overload, we enjoyed the awe-struck stroll. I love just being with him. Anywhere.
4. I am grateful for all the fanciful creations at Disneyland. I like to think about the care and thought beyond the attractions and exhibits. How someone meticulously carved the face of each pirate in 'The Pirates of the Caribbean.' How someone sewed all the seasonal costumes for Mickey and Minnie. How someone strung up all the Halloween lights and webs on Main Street. I'm grateful for the street sweeper, the cashier, and the candy scooper.
5. I am grateful for mini-road trips with Dave and nice hotels in Anaheim.
6. I am grateful my cats, Trick Daddy and Diego, kinda sorta get along now.
7. I am grateful that my mom and brother got little Nova for the weekend! I am also grateful that my sis and her husband got a weekend with no baby. How was it guys???
What are YOU grateful for???
Friday, October 2, 2009
Day 114 - Retail Woes
Place: A Retail Store in Anywhere, CA
Time: All day long
Anonymous Sales Associate gets treated like dogshit. Because, really, that's what retail sales associates are. Dogshit. And if you have a shitty life, you should go into any store anywhere and ask ridiculous questions that you could easily answer yourself. All day long.
If you sense any amount of impatience on the sales associate's part, you should then feel free to be a complete and utter asshole. Because you can. Complain as soon as possible. Ask to speak to their supervisor. Fill out a comment card. Tell them how you'd like them to act. Tell them what you want and why you deserve it. Let them know that you're entitled.
Act like sales associates are the enemy. Start your own mini-war in every store you go into. Emotional violence is key. Shoot your nebulous anger at your faceless targets. It's their fault. React. Be uncontrollable. Inconsolable.
You should always talk to the sales associate in a demeaning way. Assume all of them are stupid. Say, "Listen dear" to the young girls behind the counter. Scare them with your power. They aren't human anyway.
In fact, you should fling shit at them. Because that's what you want to do anyway. They can't really say anything back to you. The endless corporate chain trained them to bend over backwards or else. And you know that. That's why you do it. They're scared witless to lose their jobs. Threaten them with that anytime you can. You're the king, remember?
You're not crazy. You're right. And you're out to prove it. You know exactly how people should act in your presence. Mostly, you want service NOW. You have things to do. You have a life.
The only thing you know is your base emotions. And goddamnit you just don't have time for this waiting patiently in a long line to ring up your purchases. Why are they doing this to you? If they would only do what you think they should do, this wouldn't be happening to you. You're mad. Mad as hell.
You should tap your foot and stare at them. Spit on them if you're close enough.
It's your world. Yup. Just yours.
At the end of the day, the person you're yelling at is in the mirror. Face it. What you're so busy trying to control is beyond your control. All your frustrations and angers and hates go right back into you. Or at least, that's what some people are hoping...This thought alone makes Anonymous Sales Associate feel good. The fact that if there is a hell, you might be going there. That brings much comfort to the Anonymous Sales Associate.
Better yet, Anonymous Sales Associate hopes that one day you might walk out of your own personal hell and stop spreading it like a disease and hopes one day you can stop being such a fucking prick. That's what he/she hopes for you. Because Anonymous Sales Associate doesn't want to hate you like you hate them. But you're making it hard. Really really really hard.
Stop it. Just. Stop. It.
Time: All day long
Anonymous Sales Associate gets treated like dogshit. Because, really, that's what retail sales associates are. Dogshit. And if you have a shitty life, you should go into any store anywhere and ask ridiculous questions that you could easily answer yourself. All day long.
If you sense any amount of impatience on the sales associate's part, you should then feel free to be a complete and utter asshole. Because you can. Complain as soon as possible. Ask to speak to their supervisor. Fill out a comment card. Tell them how you'd like them to act. Tell them what you want and why you deserve it. Let them know that you're entitled.
Act like sales associates are the enemy. Start your own mini-war in every store you go into. Emotional violence is key. Shoot your nebulous anger at your faceless targets. It's their fault. React. Be uncontrollable. Inconsolable.
You should always talk to the sales associate in a demeaning way. Assume all of them are stupid. Say, "Listen dear" to the young girls behind the counter. Scare them with your power. They aren't human anyway.
In fact, you should fling shit at them. Because that's what you want to do anyway. They can't really say anything back to you. The endless corporate chain trained them to bend over backwards or else. And you know that. That's why you do it. They're scared witless to lose their jobs. Threaten them with that anytime you can. You're the king, remember?
You're not crazy. You're right. And you're out to prove it. You know exactly how people should act in your presence. Mostly, you want service NOW. You have things to do. You have a life.
The only thing you know is your base emotions. And goddamnit you just don't have time for this waiting patiently in a long line to ring up your purchases. Why are they doing this to you? If they would only do what you think they should do, this wouldn't be happening to you. You're mad. Mad as hell.
You should tap your foot and stare at them. Spit on them if you're close enough.
It's your world. Yup. Just yours.
At the end of the day, the person you're yelling at is in the mirror. Face it. What you're so busy trying to control is beyond your control. All your frustrations and angers and hates go right back into you. Or at least, that's what some people are hoping...This thought alone makes Anonymous Sales Associate feel good. The fact that if there is a hell, you might be going there. That brings much comfort to the Anonymous Sales Associate.
Better yet, Anonymous Sales Associate hopes that one day you might walk out of your own personal hell and stop spreading it like a disease and hopes one day you can stop being such a fucking prick. That's what he/she hopes for you. Because Anonymous Sales Associate doesn't want to hate you like you hate them. But you're making it hard. Really really really hard.
Stop it. Just. Stop. It.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Day 111 - Shotgun Blog
I'm feeling kinda bleh about my world lately. This acknowledgement is upsetting.
I know not everything is happy and roses all the time, but I only know that intellectually. The real true person in me says why not?
I feel drowned by work right now. Outside of it, I feel unproductive and lethargic. This acknowledgement is upsetting. I'm not sure how to fix that.
I quit caffeine yesterday. Perhaps I'll actually have more energy. Give my adrenal glands a break. I want to be as pure as possible; I want to see what that mountaintop looks like.
Dave and I are ttc. That's shorthand on pregnancy forums for trying to conceive. I am seriously absolutely rip-roaring ecstatic, like so happy I want to eat my arm. Cross your fingers for us. Send up a prayer.
I have a life in San Diego. Exhibit A? My weekend. Friday after work we met old friends of ours from AZ who now live in Del Mar who we once went to a party with when we first moved here. We met them at Dave and Busters for their friend's b-day party. Our other friend, Remy, who was a groomsmen in our wedding, who recently moved to San Diego for a job, he met us there too.
On Saturday after work, Dave and I met with my friend from the book club and her husband at a cutesy putoosie place in Little Italy for a scrumptitious Italian dinner of wine and pasta. We like totally clicked on our double date and we're ecstatic to have couple friends here!
On Sunday, my cousin invited me to a Chargers game. My first EVER pro-football game. I took the trolley in and her and I enjoyed the blatant displays of testosterone and the sunshine. The Chargers beat the Dolphins. For a second there, surrounding by the screaming masses, I kind of cared.
I think we're gunna be o.k. here.
I know not everything is happy and roses all the time, but I only know that intellectually. The real true person in me says why not?
I feel drowned by work right now. Outside of it, I feel unproductive and lethargic. This acknowledgement is upsetting. I'm not sure how to fix that.
I quit caffeine yesterday. Perhaps I'll actually have more energy. Give my adrenal glands a break. I want to be as pure as possible; I want to see what that mountaintop looks like.
Dave and I are ttc. That's shorthand on pregnancy forums for trying to conceive. I am seriously absolutely rip-roaring ecstatic, like so happy I want to eat my arm. Cross your fingers for us. Send up a prayer.
I have a life in San Diego. Exhibit A? My weekend. Friday after work we met old friends of ours from AZ who now live in Del Mar who we once went to a party with when we first moved here. We met them at Dave and Busters for their friend's b-day party. Our other friend, Remy, who was a groomsmen in our wedding, who recently moved to San Diego for a job, he met us there too.
On Saturday after work, Dave and I met with my friend from the book club and her husband at a cutesy putoosie place in Little Italy for a scrumptitious Italian dinner of wine and pasta. We like totally clicked on our double date and we're ecstatic to have couple friends here!
On Sunday, my cousin invited me to a Chargers game. My first EVER pro-football game. I took the trolley in and her and I enjoyed the blatant displays of testosterone and the sunshine. The Chargers beat the Dolphins. For a second there, surrounding by the screaming masses, I kind of cared.
I think we're gunna be o.k. here.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Day 105 - A Short Short Story Called Grief
I sit at the kitchen table. The white sunshine diving through the blinds cuts the bland wood surface into stripes of light and dark. My newspaper warms.
I'm so sick of waiting. I read the story about the puppeteer who fashioned a hand puppet from his deceased dog's skin. I'm watching time pass. I'm trying not to. I skim the funnies.
When you open the door, I only see your silhouette. Your darkness fills the frame. And then like a negative, your detail and color reveal slowly, brilliantly.
The dogs cheer for you. They don't know what you've done.
If our children weren't dead, they'd run to you too. I hear their feet padding through the hallways. Their laughter ricochets in my chest cavity. The memory makes me want to pound my fists against my skull.
"Here's your oranges," you say, presenting the heavy mesh sack to me.
I motion towards the countertop. "Thanks." I pretend to read.
Later that night, you reach for my waist under the covers. I let your cool skin cover me. I become just a feeling, a sound, a movement.
Afterwards, you whisper "I need you" in between my shoulderblades. I start to cry.
The morning light blinds me. I start to pack my things. I know that I'm not good enough to forgive you. Even if you're not to blame...
I'm so sick of waiting. I read the story about the puppeteer who fashioned a hand puppet from his deceased dog's skin. I'm watching time pass. I'm trying not to. I skim the funnies.
When you open the door, I only see your silhouette. Your darkness fills the frame. And then like a negative, your detail and color reveal slowly, brilliantly.
The dogs cheer for you. They don't know what you've done.
If our children weren't dead, they'd run to you too. I hear their feet padding through the hallways. Their laughter ricochets in my chest cavity. The memory makes me want to pound my fists against my skull.
"Here's your oranges," you say, presenting the heavy mesh sack to me.
I motion towards the countertop. "Thanks." I pretend to read.
Later that night, you reach for my waist under the covers. I let your cool skin cover me. I become just a feeling, a sound, a movement.
Afterwards, you whisper "I need you" in between my shoulderblades. I start to cry.
The morning light blinds me. I start to pack my things. I know that I'm not good enough to forgive you. Even if you're not to blame...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Day 104 - Hashimoto's Revenge
Soooo....remember how I told you I was going to get my thyroid checked? That Dave and I wanted to make wee ones and so I needed to check out where my levels were from years ago. Back when they told me I had what's called Hashimoto's--an autoimmune disease that eats the thyroid like a sandwich. Until its gone.
The disease itself is in the same category as psoriasis or arthritis. It's where an overactive immune system thinks that healthy tissue is actually foreign and toxic. It attacks. The wrong thing (my thyroid gland). Until its gone.
Being that in my (not-so) distant past, I've had quite the perchance to destroy things that are healthy, feed things that are toxic, I understand this disease's dilemma. My insides simply don't know what's good for them. I empathize.
According to many doctors, once the process of Hashimoto's begins, it's irreversible and untreatable. It simply runs willy-nilly, unchecked. It's only mission is to destroy. After chomping away at your thyroid, Hashimoto's eventually causes its consequence: a condition called hypothyroidism.
Now, hypothyroidism IS treatable, much to the medical community's relief. Your thyroid is no longer functioning, therefore you introduce synthetic thyroid hormones to replace what you're missing. Simple as pie right?
Well, not so much. It gets a little dicey is in situations like mine.
I first found out about this civil war being waged inside of me approximately four years ago. It was a routine blood test, recommended by what I considered an overzealous doctor, after she learned thyroid problems ran in my family. I thought 'she-crazy.' I had no symptoms, no complaints, nothing. Imagine my surprise.
Her: "You have Hashimoto's thyroiditis."
Me: "What did you just say to me?"
Her: "It is destroying your thyroid gland, and you are now hypothyroid."
Me:" Huh? I feel great, how could this be?"
Her: "You need to take synthetic thyroid for the rest of your life. Here's your prescription. Have a nice day."
Me: (practically holding door open...)"Wait! What about eating better? Quitting smoking? I'm not the healthiest."
Her: "Nope. Sorry. It's unrelated. No reversing."
Me: wtf...
I went home and researched like crazy. For the most part, what she said rang true in nearly everything I read. Whether I read medical abstracts or Internet chat forums, I found the same information. Once you're hypothyroid, you need to take your pills. Once you're over a certain level (according to your blood test), about 100% percent of doctors agree: treat, treat, treat.
But the problem was, I wasn't over that certain level yet where 100% of doctors agree. I belonged to a small area of hypothyroid people called mild hypothyroid (approx. bt. 4 to 12 TSH). And in this little grey area of the medical community, the opinions of doctors swayed from one end of the spectrum to the other. Some say treat. Some say don't. There simply wasn't a clear answer.
So, I ignored her prescription. For the next three months before my check-up I did three things: I quit smoking; I ate better; and I did more yoga.
Lo and behold, on my next appointment, the doctor cheerfully remarked that my medication was working. I was within the normal ranges, and therefore not hypothyroid at all anymore. With pride and bitterness, I said, "I didn't take the pills." I never went back.
Since then, I've vascillated back and forth over smoking, eating well, and exercising. Considering my consconsistency, when I went to see my new San Diego doctor recently, I was sure my levels would be a complete and utter mess.
I thought, after four years of my slowly disintegrating thyroid due to Hashi's, I would definitely fall in the category of treat, treat, treat. And then, that I would take the medication. That I would succumb to this because I knew that if we wanted to conceive, it was absolutely necessary for the health of the unborn little guy. I wanted to lay down my sword, raise the white flag.
My new doctor agreed. And after hearing my story, his professional opinion bet that my levels would also be out of control. Imagine our surprise.
Turns out, I am well within the normal range. Therefore, I am not hypothyroid. Therefore, he does not recommend any treatment whatsoever.
Of course, my doctor did note, my little Japanese nemesis, Mr. Hashimoto, still lives in me. But he apparently isn't much of an eater because my thyroid remains intact.
I sighed so loud. I couldn't believe it.
And then I got pissed! Not just pissed in general, like pissed the cashier overcharged me, but like pissed off for the world in general. You're telling me, that had I listened to my previous doctor's advice, that I would have been taking synthetic thyroid hormone for four years?!
First, that would have been well over two thousand dollars in medicine that I didn't apparently need. And secondly, just by taking the medication, it reduces your thyroid's ability to naturally produce its own hormones. Therefore, I would actually NEED the medication, just by virtue of taking the medication.
How reckless of her! I mean, like I mentioned earlier, she's not alone in her opinion. Many doctors think you should treat mild hypothyroidism. But doesn't the medical community owe it to the patient to at least TELL you when there's a discrepancy in opinions?! She DID NOT tell me this. Even when I practically begged her for a different answer. I found all this out on my own, after hours and hours of research.
Why isn't there some form of regulation on this? Shouldn't the patient, in cases of grey areas of medicine, be given the information and the CHOICE???!!!
I imagine people with all sorts of other conditions run into similar problems. It's not fair! Most people trust what doctors say, and why shouldn't they, they went to fucking medical school for gawd's sake. We didn't.
How many people with mild hypothyroid are running around downing synthetic hormones, when a simple change of diet would have sufficed?
I hate the attitude of treat, treat, treat! What about taking responsibility for our health? Thank gawd for The Information Age or I would not have been brave enough to shirk her careless advice. (Mind you, I'm not saying all medical advice sucks. If you are regular hypo, you need your meds.) Arg. Arg. Triple Arg.
In the end, my new doctor said to me about Hashimoto's, "Well, you're one of the rare cases where you know you're going to be hypothyroid at some point in your life. You just kind of watch it happen."
I nodded. But on the inside I said, "We'll see..."
(p.s. some doctors and others have seen Hashi's go away completely. Plus, it is not 100% certain that you'll become hypothyroid if you have Hashi's (although 9 times out of 10, you will). But still, how the f*%& would the doctor know that I couldn't be in that 10%??!! It pisses me off that doctors don't HAVE to tell you this.
A guy, like me, confounded at his doctor's cold-hearted diagnosis of Hashi's with mild hypothyroidism, actually self-published a book he wrote called "How I Reversed My Hashimoto's Thyroiditis." With research, alternative therapies and healthy habits, he changed his diagnosis. What's up now doc?)
The disease itself is in the same category as psoriasis or arthritis. It's where an overactive immune system thinks that healthy tissue is actually foreign and toxic. It attacks. The wrong thing (my thyroid gland). Until its gone.
Being that in my (not-so) distant past, I've had quite the perchance to destroy things that are healthy, feed things that are toxic, I understand this disease's dilemma. My insides simply don't know what's good for them. I empathize.
According to many doctors, once the process of Hashimoto's begins, it's irreversible and untreatable. It simply runs willy-nilly, unchecked. It's only mission is to destroy. After chomping away at your thyroid, Hashimoto's eventually causes its consequence: a condition called hypothyroidism.
Now, hypothyroidism IS treatable, much to the medical community's relief. Your thyroid is no longer functioning, therefore you introduce synthetic thyroid hormones to replace what you're missing. Simple as pie right?
Well, not so much. It gets a little dicey is in situations like mine.
I first found out about this civil war being waged inside of me approximately four years ago. It was a routine blood test, recommended by what I considered an overzealous doctor, after she learned thyroid problems ran in my family. I thought 'she-crazy.' I had no symptoms, no complaints, nothing. Imagine my surprise.
Her: "You have Hashimoto's thyroiditis."
Me: "What did you just say to me?"
Her: "It is destroying your thyroid gland, and you are now hypothyroid."
Me:" Huh? I feel great, how could this be?"
Her: "You need to take synthetic thyroid for the rest of your life. Here's your prescription. Have a nice day."
Me: (practically holding door open...)"Wait! What about eating better? Quitting smoking? I'm not the healthiest."
Her: "Nope. Sorry. It's unrelated. No reversing."
Me: wtf...
I went home and researched like crazy. For the most part, what she said rang true in nearly everything I read. Whether I read medical abstracts or Internet chat forums, I found the same information. Once you're hypothyroid, you need to take your pills. Once you're over a certain level (according to your blood test), about 100% percent of doctors agree: treat, treat, treat.
But the problem was, I wasn't over that certain level yet where 100% of doctors agree. I belonged to a small area of hypothyroid people called mild hypothyroid (approx. bt. 4 to 12 TSH). And in this little grey area of the medical community, the opinions of doctors swayed from one end of the spectrum to the other. Some say treat. Some say don't. There simply wasn't a clear answer.
So, I ignored her prescription. For the next three months before my check-up I did three things: I quit smoking; I ate better; and I did more yoga.
Lo and behold, on my next appointment, the doctor cheerfully remarked that my medication was working. I was within the normal ranges, and therefore not hypothyroid at all anymore. With pride and bitterness, I said, "I didn't take the pills." I never went back.
Since then, I've vascillated back and forth over smoking, eating well, and exercising. Considering my consconsistency, when I went to see my new San Diego doctor recently, I was sure my levels would be a complete and utter mess.
I thought, after four years of my slowly disintegrating thyroid due to Hashi's, I would definitely fall in the category of treat, treat, treat. And then, that I would take the medication. That I would succumb to this because I knew that if we wanted to conceive, it was absolutely necessary for the health of the unborn little guy. I wanted to lay down my sword, raise the white flag.
My new doctor agreed. And after hearing my story, his professional opinion bet that my levels would also be out of control. Imagine our surprise.
Turns out, I am well within the normal range. Therefore, I am not hypothyroid. Therefore, he does not recommend any treatment whatsoever.
Of course, my doctor did note, my little Japanese nemesis, Mr. Hashimoto, still lives in me. But he apparently isn't much of an eater because my thyroid remains intact.
I sighed so loud. I couldn't believe it.
And then I got pissed! Not just pissed in general, like pissed the cashier overcharged me, but like pissed off for the world in general. You're telling me, that had I listened to my previous doctor's advice, that I would have been taking synthetic thyroid hormone for four years?!
First, that would have been well over two thousand dollars in medicine that I didn't apparently need. And secondly, just by taking the medication, it reduces your thyroid's ability to naturally produce its own hormones. Therefore, I would actually NEED the medication, just by virtue of taking the medication.
How reckless of her! I mean, like I mentioned earlier, she's not alone in her opinion. Many doctors think you should treat mild hypothyroidism. But doesn't the medical community owe it to the patient to at least TELL you when there's a discrepancy in opinions?! She DID NOT tell me this. Even when I practically begged her for a different answer. I found all this out on my own, after hours and hours of research.
Why isn't there some form of regulation on this? Shouldn't the patient, in cases of grey areas of medicine, be given the information and the CHOICE???!!!
I imagine people with all sorts of other conditions run into similar problems. It's not fair! Most people trust what doctors say, and why shouldn't they, they went to fucking medical school for gawd's sake. We didn't.
How many people with mild hypothyroid are running around downing synthetic hormones, when a simple change of diet would have sufficed?
I hate the attitude of treat, treat, treat! What about taking responsibility for our health? Thank gawd for The Information Age or I would not have been brave enough to shirk her careless advice. (Mind you, I'm not saying all medical advice sucks. If you are regular hypo, you need your meds.) Arg. Arg. Triple Arg.
In the end, my new doctor said to me about Hashimoto's, "Well, you're one of the rare cases where you know you're going to be hypothyroid at some point in your life. You just kind of watch it happen."
I nodded. But on the inside I said, "We'll see..."
(p.s. some doctors and others have seen Hashi's go away completely. Plus, it is not 100% certain that you'll become hypothyroid if you have Hashi's (although 9 times out of 10, you will). But still, how the f*%& would the doctor know that I couldn't be in that 10%??!! It pisses me off that doctors don't HAVE to tell you this.
A guy, like me, confounded at his doctor's cold-hearted diagnosis of Hashi's with mild hypothyroidism, actually self-published a book he wrote called "How I Reversed My Hashimoto's Thyroiditis." With research, alternative therapies and healthy habits, he changed his diagnosis. What's up now doc?)
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Day 102 - As If I Knew
Here's where I want to take you...away from the steps of my daily life. You really want to watch me pour my coffee and watch the hills?
Plus, if I'm happy, won't you forsake me? So I won't tell you that...
But how far do we go into our interiors? Isn't there poetry in the mundane? Yes...
So let's teeter on the edge instead. See-saw between what we see and what we feel. Like we always do.
We'll drown ourselves one day and fly the next.
...Is this enough for now? It's experimental, jarbled.
It's like eating words raw.
I need to knead the sentences.
Roll them into paragraphs.
Keep em' stuck together with conclusions.
Decorate with adjectives...
blood-red, delicious, lead-like, and divine.
Meaning: irrelevant? Sometimes.
Just for the art of it,
I bury it blind.
Plus, if I'm happy, won't you forsake me? So I won't tell you that...
But how far do we go into our interiors? Isn't there poetry in the mundane? Yes...
So let's teeter on the edge instead. See-saw between what we see and what we feel. Like we always do.
We'll drown ourselves one day and fly the next.
...Is this enough for now? It's experimental, jarbled.
It's like eating words raw.
I need to knead the sentences.
Roll them into paragraphs.
Keep em' stuck together with conclusions.
Decorate with adjectives...
blood-red, delicious, lead-like, and divine.
Meaning: irrelevant? Sometimes.
Just for the art of it,
I bury it blind.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Day 101 - Random Gratitudes
O.k., obviously not a Wednesday, but does it matter? The Gratitude List, randomly placed...
1. I am grateful for a fresh oranges; it's a bit like licking sunshine.
2. I am grateful for the sunny softball field yesterday. I'm sore and old. We lost big time. I don't care.
3. I am grateful for movie theaters. Overpriced popcorn and candy make me giddy. Sitting with my legs rested on Dave's lap in the cool dark is delicious.
4. I am grateful that my kitty Diego's eye infection is not serious. I'm even more grateful that our new San Diego veteranarian ROCKS! When moving to this new town, we worry/worried about picking new docs and dentists and haircutters and vets. A random google search and we get lucky lucky.
5. I am grateful my little niece Nova is crawling! (p.s. because I know you want constant up-to-date info on my fave little girl, you can get it by going to/following my sister's blog http://stacy-interiorview.blogspot.com/. She might kill me for that, but I don't care.)
1. I am grateful for a fresh oranges; it's a bit like licking sunshine.
2. I am grateful for the sunny softball field yesterday. I'm sore and old. We lost big time. I don't care.
3. I am grateful for movie theaters. Overpriced popcorn and candy make me giddy. Sitting with my legs rested on Dave's lap in the cool dark is delicious.
4. I am grateful that my kitty Diego's eye infection is not serious. I'm even more grateful that our new San Diego veteranarian ROCKS! When moving to this new town, we worry/worried about picking new docs and dentists and haircutters and vets. A random google search and we get lucky lucky.
5. I am grateful my little niece Nova is crawling! (p.s. because I know you want constant up-to-date info on my fave little girl, you can get it by going to/following my sister's blog http://stacy-interiorview.blogspot.com/. She might kill me for that, but I don't care.)
What are YOU grateful for?
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Day 97 - To My Old Friend 'The Cigarette'
So here we are. Three months after My Big Quit. A few drags here and there that I snuck in a drunken stupor--I've nearly forgotten them. Better yet, I've forgiven them.
Today is a bit like a memorial service. A memoir. A good-bye.
Dear Cig,
I've left you so many times over the last few years. Every time, I think this is it I'm done. But I always knew, if I was low and needy, you'd be there. I always tucked you away in this special place in my mind. Loving you in secret.
You are my life noir. My dirty little playmate. You make me feel delicious, dark, and carefree.
Each time I take you back I welcome you. It's right back where we left off. We hang out on the back patio together. We pour a glass of thick red wine. We look at the stars. We breathe each other in deeply, thinking, O I've missed you...
But as days turn to weeks, I start to feel your weight on me. I'm remembering why we left each other. Why this wasn't a good idea. Your old familar hug starts to feel like a noose.
You're so needy the way you cling to me. You demand that I stop at the nearest dingy gas station to pick you up at 7 dollars a pop. I don't have the money to spend on you, to pay the fees you incur. I start to realize you never really made me feel good anyway. You never give back. I resent you.
It's all so rocky--so love / hate. When I don't have the fire to light you, I panic. I think I'll lose my mind without you. You've always been so lovely in the mornings.
Yet our patio stints are more frantic now. Quick pulls just to quiet my rising anxiety. We don't even sit out there anymore and watch the sky. Worse yet, my friends don't even like you. You're controlling and smelly. You're no good for me. I know I have to leave you.
I pick an arbitrary date in the future. And then I relish our last weeks together. I get nostalgic and fearful. I start to think perhaps we could make it after all...
But I know better. We're doomed. As the day approaches, a knot grows in my stomach. It flutters around, kicking my organs. You start to freak out in protest. You use your best manipulations, begging to stay, distorting the truth, trying to confuse me. I see how desperate you are.
On 'Q' day I quietly put the pillow over your face to smother you. I can hear and feel you screaming. It breaks my heart. In the next week, you never stop clawing at my throat. I'm sad and mad and angry and weepy and happy and despite my mixed bag of feelings, I know it's the right thing. I want you to leave me alone.
It's easier and harder then I ever imagined. As the days melt into weeks and months, I've only snuck into your bedroom twice. And it's always been tinged with morning-after guilt. You mean nothing to me.
Most days I don't even remember you. I forget we ever happened. I realize how inconsequential you really were to my being. I think why didn't I leave you sooner?
But I must have you in my bones, because sometimes I walk by a cafe and there you are on the patio. You look bohemian and vibrant. You smell so good. I inhale deeply. I think, o my you're divine. Then I shake my head.
I remind myself to look behind your smoke screen. You look so pretty, but your insides are dusty ash. I crave the pink heart of life without you. My mind is cloudless. I am free to feel what I really feel. Without you, everything is brighter. The electric pulse of the city. The cool smell of the ocean in the air. The sleep without you cuddled in my pores. The light in my eyes is real.
So fare thee well my twisted companion. Sometimes I'll miss you, but mostly I won't. I've gone three months without you, and aim to go three hundred more.
P.S. F#*% you too.
Today is a bit like a memorial service. A memoir. A good-bye.
Dear Cig,
I've left you so many times over the last few years. Every time, I think this is it I'm done. But I always knew, if I was low and needy, you'd be there. I always tucked you away in this special place in my mind. Loving you in secret.
You are my life noir. My dirty little playmate. You make me feel delicious, dark, and carefree.
Each time I take you back I welcome you. It's right back where we left off. We hang out on the back patio together. We pour a glass of thick red wine. We look at the stars. We breathe each other in deeply, thinking, O I've missed you...
But as days turn to weeks, I start to feel your weight on me. I'm remembering why we left each other. Why this wasn't a good idea. Your old familar hug starts to feel like a noose.
You're so needy the way you cling to me. You demand that I stop at the nearest dingy gas station to pick you up at 7 dollars a pop. I don't have the money to spend on you, to pay the fees you incur. I start to realize you never really made me feel good anyway. You never give back. I resent you.
It's all so rocky--so love / hate. When I don't have the fire to light you, I panic. I think I'll lose my mind without you. You've always been so lovely in the mornings.
Yet our patio stints are more frantic now. Quick pulls just to quiet my rising anxiety. We don't even sit out there anymore and watch the sky. Worse yet, my friends don't even like you. You're controlling and smelly. You're no good for me. I know I have to leave you.
I pick an arbitrary date in the future. And then I relish our last weeks together. I get nostalgic and fearful. I start to think perhaps we could make it after all...
But I know better. We're doomed. As the day approaches, a knot grows in my stomach. It flutters around, kicking my organs. You start to freak out in protest. You use your best manipulations, begging to stay, distorting the truth, trying to confuse me. I see how desperate you are.
On 'Q' day I quietly put the pillow over your face to smother you. I can hear and feel you screaming. It breaks my heart. In the next week, you never stop clawing at my throat. I'm sad and mad and angry and weepy and happy and despite my mixed bag of feelings, I know it's the right thing. I want you to leave me alone.
It's easier and harder then I ever imagined. As the days melt into weeks and months, I've only snuck into your bedroom twice. And it's always been tinged with morning-after guilt. You mean nothing to me.
Most days I don't even remember you. I forget we ever happened. I realize how inconsequential you really were to my being. I think why didn't I leave you sooner?
But I must have you in my bones, because sometimes I walk by a cafe and there you are on the patio. You look bohemian and vibrant. You smell so good. I inhale deeply. I think, o my you're divine. Then I shake my head.
I remind myself to look behind your smoke screen. You look so pretty, but your insides are dusty ash. I crave the pink heart of life without you. My mind is cloudless. I am free to feel what I really feel. Without you, everything is brighter. The electric pulse of the city. The cool smell of the ocean in the air. The sleep without you cuddled in my pores. The light in my eyes is real.
So fare thee well my twisted companion. Sometimes I'll miss you, but mostly I won't. I've gone three months without you, and aim to go three hundred more.
P.S. F#*% you too.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Day 94 - Speak, speak slow
Isn't it mundane the way we speak to each other sometimes?
As our interior words stay seated, we let out words without meaning. We hope you get it...even though what I say has nothing to do with how I feel. Perhaps you feel some moving, shifting one way to say the scars are deeper than you think. When glazed eyes fix on the floor do you hear I don't understand why it feels so empty...
We dance around our words, our bodies raw like open wounds. We do normal things--fetch the paper, pour the coffee, gather notes. All the while, our pasts our loves our fears ricochet against each other on the inside. Even those closest to us have only inklings of who we are. We try to give it to them, but we can't quite get there, can we?
We'll live out a thousand moments before we see each other clearly. And even then, It's so brief, like a lost raindrop that licks the skin. It's a pinprick. It's a private epiphany.
And you. In the dark rooms before sleep, the yellow lights burning. I see your shadow against the wall, the curve of your shoulders. Still sleeping, you don't remember that you begged I love you into the nape of my neck. As if you were losing me. What poem were you dreaming? I find comfort in your need. Shape myself into the shape of your body.
As our interior words stay seated, we let out words without meaning. We hope you get it...even though what I say has nothing to do with how I feel. Perhaps you feel some moving, shifting one way to say the scars are deeper than you think. When glazed eyes fix on the floor do you hear I don't understand why it feels so empty...
We dance around our words, our bodies raw like open wounds. We do normal things--fetch the paper, pour the coffee, gather notes. All the while, our pasts our loves our fears ricochet against each other on the inside. Even those closest to us have only inklings of who we are. We try to give it to them, but we can't quite get there, can we?
We'll live out a thousand moments before we see each other clearly. And even then, It's so brief, like a lost raindrop that licks the skin. It's a pinprick. It's a private epiphany.
And you. In the dark rooms before sleep, the yellow lights burning. I see your shadow against the wall, the curve of your shoulders. Still sleeping, you don't remember that you begged I love you into the nape of my neck. As if you were losing me. What poem were you dreaming? I find comfort in your need. Shape myself into the shape of your body.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Day 92 - Balboa Park, In Pictures
For the day at Balboa Park, the family free-for-alled. Here's $40 bucks and a map, they said. Here's some snippets of the park journey....
Someone played alone behind the large steel ediface, filling the park with the sound of yearning without a face.
We tried to peak through the cracks and saw nothing. But the music still moved me...
Then, wooed by the promise of peace and zen, we followed the path to the Japanese Friendship Garden. At $4 dollars a head I thought 'this better be good,' and it wasn't, but then again it totally was. I do remember this...a room with a view...
Why does this big picture window with its rock garden view calm you? Who knows. But it does. Why ask why? That's so zen.
Maroon trees and bamboo forests. Bonsai trees and pithy Japanese paintings.
And then there was that koi pond...
We leave in a hurry, and I miss the tea pavilion. Next time, next time... We scurry to meet our sister at the lily pond.
Next, we meander through the cool shade of the botanical building. Where the caged birds sing...
We squirl at carnivourous plants and medusa's heads...These are the stories that incite the imagination...
At the visitor's center, I almost kicked somebody in the head when I found out the art museums were all closed on Mondays. Considering THAT was the ONLY reason I voted on the trip, I pouted like a little baby.
Luckily, the actual baby, Nova, was strapped to my torso, making it very difficult for me to feel negative emotions for long...
Music from an organ ambled into the air from a distance. My brother Cole and I hiked in the direction of the sound. It's eerie hollow yell led us to this door.
Someone played alone behind the large steel ediface, filling the park with the sound of yearning without a face.We tried to peak through the cracks and saw nothing. But the music still moved me...
Then, wooed by the promise of peace and zen, we followed the path to the Japanese Friendship Garden. At $4 dollars a head I thought 'this better be good,' and it wasn't, but then again it totally was. I do remember this...a room with a view...
Why does this big picture window with its rock garden view calm you? Who knows. But it does. Why ask why? That's so zen.
Maroon trees and bamboo forests. Bonsai trees and pithy Japanese paintings.
And then there was that koi pond...
We leave in a hurry, and I miss the tea pavilion. Next time, next time... We scurry to meet our sister at the lily pond.
Next, we meander through the cool shade of the botanical building. Where the caged birds sing...
We squirl at carnivourous plants and medusa's heads...These are the stories that incite the imagination...
I see an abstract painting in the flowers. I snatch the picture. I color it neon to make it mine.
We meet the rest of the fams at the IMAX to go "Under the Sea." My sis and I sat in a corner with Nova as she slept...and I wouldn't of had it any other way. When Nova awoke, she watched the gargantuan screen with us.
My fave part? At one point, Nova screamed, scared out of her wits, when a creepy crab pounced on a fish, chewing it to bits. I love that she vocalized that terror. Even at 7 months, it's amazing we already know what's f'ed up and scary.
Speaking of scary, we also saw the BodyWorlds exhibit. Creepy? Pretty? Smart? Educational? Hmmm....I got words waiting for this....
Day 91 - Gratitude Wednesdays
My weekly gratitudes for The Gratitude List...
1. I am grateful for the purr of little Diego on my belly right now.
2. I am grateful for discount art supplies.
3. I am grateful for fresh-squeezed orange juice.
4. I am grateful for a text from my possible new San Diego friend. Social life--here I come!
5. I am grateful our friend Remy got a job out here in San Diego and now lives here!
6. I am grateful for fun conversations with my coworkers today.
7. I am grateful for movies on demand here in SD. Phoenix is sooooo lagging!
8. I am grateful for etsy.
9. I am grateful that most people in my family live free from disease and live comfortably--we all have beds and cars and clothes.
10. I am grateful for the nice wood color of my kitchen floor.
Leave your gratitudes too! WHAT ARE YOU GRATEFUL FOR?
1. I am grateful for the purr of little Diego on my belly right now.
2. I am grateful for discount art supplies.
3. I am grateful for fresh-squeezed orange juice.
4. I am grateful for a text from my possible new San Diego friend. Social life--here I come!
5. I am grateful our friend Remy got a job out here in San Diego and now lives here!
6. I am grateful for fun conversations with my coworkers today.
7. I am grateful for movies on demand here in SD. Phoenix is sooooo lagging!
8. I am grateful for etsy.
9. I am grateful that most people in my family live free from disease and live comfortably--we all have beds and cars and clothes.
10. I am grateful for the nice wood color of my kitchen floor.
Leave your gratitudes too! WHAT ARE YOU GRATEFUL FOR?
Day 84 - Gratitude Wednesdays
Because I(we) can get all crappy about life...I am stealing my step-second-cousin's friends idea, and adding it to my blog as a Wednesday staple. So please welcome, The Gratitude List, to your hump day. So every week, I(we) focus--plain and simple--on what rocks about life. Please comment and add your lists!!!! I love to learn about people in that way. What they're grateful for is a lovely way to get to know people....
1. I'm grateful for the week I just spent with Nova--she is just a treasure.
2. I'm grateful that my dad and stepmother pay for the rental of the Carlsbad beach house every year.
3. I am grateful for the final paying off of my car recently; our debt reduction techniques are paying off!
4. I am grateful for the recent hot hot heat here in California--I love it HAWT!
5. I am grateful for Trader Joe's near my house. How is it so cheap and so good?
6. I am grateful that my brother loves to play board games as much as I do--we could entertain ourselves for days.
7. I am grateful that Dave got some time off while my family visited.
8. I am grateful for the sound of the waves and the view of the horizon on the beach.
9. I am grateful that I live in a city that most people want to vacation in. It's packed with things to do and see. Beautiful.
10. I am grateful that my friend Bethany is enjoying grad school!
WHAT ARE YOU GRATEFUL FOR??!!!
1. I'm grateful for the week I just spent with Nova--she is just a treasure.
2. I'm grateful that my dad and stepmother pay for the rental of the Carlsbad beach house every year.
3. I am grateful for the final paying off of my car recently; our debt reduction techniques are paying off!
4. I am grateful for the recent hot hot heat here in California--I love it HAWT!
5. I am grateful for Trader Joe's near my house. How is it so cheap and so good?
6. I am grateful that my brother loves to play board games as much as I do--we could entertain ourselves for days.
7. I am grateful that Dave got some time off while my family visited.
8. I am grateful for the sound of the waves and the view of the horizon on the beach.
9. I am grateful that I live in a city that most people want to vacation in. It's packed with things to do and see. Beautiful.
10. I am grateful that my friend Bethany is enjoying grad school!
WHAT ARE YOU GRATEFUL FOR??!!!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Day 82 - Dictators Rule
Every year we convene for our annual McGaugler vacation, we arrive fresh-faced and gleeful. We hug and kiss cheeks. Each of us throw our bags into some room down the hall, eager to ask the usual barrage of questions--How was the flight or drive? Job? House? Kids? In the beginning, we're all bendy and flexible for each other...
But soon enough, we settle right back into our usual roles. I take on the role of instigator, inciting heated arguments due to my lack of patience with group democracy. My sister, she's a frustrated mothering type. My brother, he's a snarky mediator. My stepsister is simply vocally annoyed by the whole thing. And my stepbrother is the 'keep me out of it' guy.
Add to that my father, whose the poster dad for "tough love" (i.e. "don't expect any kind of break just cause you're my kid"). Then, my stepmother, the opposite of my father, overreaching her attentiveness i.e. "do you need anything, what about this or this or that?!" Lastly, throw in a couple of moody teenagers, a beautiful baby, and some half-terrified spouses. THEN, it's a party.
We must all sense the impending boom because most of the adults, minus the recovering alcoholics, grab beers as soon as their suitcases hit the floor. We cross our fingers that our impulses aren't a sign of our own future recovery. But Fuggetaboutit. We swig.
It's normally all fine and dandy until the family meeting. Every year we circle around the living room floor and, according to my father's rule book on how to run a meeting based on we-have-no-idea, we discuss/vote/change/keep any and all aspects of our week-long beach side event.
There's so many differing opinions in even this small of group that I often wonder how Congress gets anything passed at all. I sigh and understand the slow uphill groan of bureaucracy. It's times like these I think, despite popular opinion, dictatorship ain't half-bad. The fact of the matter is: Most people don't know what's good for em'. Case in point: George W. Bush got elected. Twice. (Well at least once; that first election is debatable...)
Now our gathering is, of course, much more evolved than the half-wits who elected W., but still, I lose patience for our slow decision-making process of majority rules. (Note: my family and democracy-lovers in general just gasped and threw tomatoes at me. Whatev. I ain't taking it back!) See how I am? An instigator.
Anyhoos, besides everything, one of the major things we discuss is our family day. What San Diego attraction will we descend upon this year? We vote and much to most people's delight, it's a day at Balboa Park!
Stay tuned...
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Day 81 - The End of Something
As I type, the voices of my family lull and crest in the next room. I hear chatter and laughter. I'm pretty sure there's games. I had all these ideas for things to tell you. About the cake for my brother. Or the way Nova lights up a room, like the star she is.
I was going to tell you about the new beachhouse, and how the plates in the cupboards remind me of my grandmothers. How they jolt me back to the smell of the lake cabin and my young cousins in the Minnesota summer air, light as the sun's rays.
I was going to tell you...and I will...
Later.
For today, I'm thinking hard about Ted Kennedy. This month, Death rules the media. As one larger-than-life figure falls after another. It's Jackson or Fawcett or Cronkite, one headline trumps another. We march to the cemetary together, waiting for Larry King to interview friends/family/collegues. We tire of the talking heads and retire to bed. And so it is...
Icon after icon, I barely blink.
But Kennedy, Mr. Ted Kennedy, this one gets me good. Of all the eulogies, it's his--"the lion of the Senate"-- I record. It's his I watch, and my body pumps blood into my heart until it aches. The whole thing feels bigger than me. Than any of us.
Grainy black and white images static-cling to the screen as the 1960's-era voice of a young and handsome Ted Kennedy floats into the room from a CNN broadcast. As the pictures move and Kennedy moves through them, soft-spoken and compassionate, the time period itself mesmerizes me.
The music rises to the occasion as a tragic war and the struggle for civil rights shreds the nation. Our hearts break and break. The scars are everywhere, like gravesites scored in the ground. Bob Dylan thumps his hollow guitar. Janis screams at us.
In 1963, Ted loses his brother. In 1968, Ted loses another brother. His voice breaks while speaking to the crowd at Bobby's funeral; his body hunches and a wave of hurt bends his back as he tries to compose himself at the pulpit. Words of hope. He gives.
Making meaning out of memory, he focused almost completely on the causes him and his brothers championed: civil rights, an end to war, the poor, the sick, the hungry. He embodied the words of Emma Lazarus's poem etched on the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside your golden door!"
Forgiving him his personal failures, his career in the U.S. Senate spanned almost five decades and soared in its accomplishments. He spoke and acted compassionately. His handprints mark the page of nearly every important bill on civil rights, disability rights, and education. A world without Ted Kennedy would be a very different world.
The poetry of his passing doesn't elude me. We live in a charged time right now. The time we live in will be a time frequently replayed in the future--much like the 60's, a time of change. With different players. Different causes. If you pay attention, you'll notice--the energy and the intensity of right now is palpable. I believe this time period will mesmerize my unborn granddaughter.
It's different now than it was back then, it's true. But there's mirrors all over, peeking into a similar time. It seems to me, if I drew out lines and conclusions, that Ted Kennedy's passing was timed like a metronome.
Kennedy helped usher in the Civil Rights Act in 1964, a bill that delineated such basic rights for black people in America as to where they were "allowed" to eat and drink. Now, the year of his death, Americans voted into the highest office, the first black president. And with him, the compassion and genius of his message--we will speak honestly and with empathy in mind. We're going to do our best. It's been so long, the soul sighs to hear it. Kennedy probably did too.
I think I glimpsed a tiny little bit of what his life must have been made of while I worked during the 2008 election. I worked harder on that campaign than any job in my life. The energy in those offices was euphoric and endless. Thick and raw. We fight, I thought to myself, with our nails and our tears.
Sadly, we're polarized as a nation as never before. Change rumbles in the distance. And now too. It's storming out. Only time and perspective can show us the overview.
For now, I know, it is the end of something. Something I can't quite put my finger on it. The world is left with her yearning. We'll claw to build bridges as other men tear them down. We'll wake up next to our beloveds, as others carry their beloveds to rest. As a country, our fallen icons etch their songs and their ideas into our collective subconscious.
And the beat goes on...
I was going to tell you about the new beachhouse, and how the plates in the cupboards remind me of my grandmothers. How they jolt me back to the smell of the lake cabin and my young cousins in the Minnesota summer air, light as the sun's rays.
I was going to tell you...and I will...
Later.
For today, I'm thinking hard about Ted Kennedy. This month, Death rules the media. As one larger-than-life figure falls after another. It's Jackson or Fawcett or Cronkite, one headline trumps another. We march to the cemetary together, waiting for Larry King to interview friends/family/collegues. We tire of the talking heads and retire to bed. And so it is...
Icon after icon, I barely blink.
But Kennedy, Mr. Ted Kennedy, this one gets me good. Of all the eulogies, it's his--"the lion of the Senate"-- I record. It's his I watch, and my body pumps blood into my heart until it aches. The whole thing feels bigger than me. Than any of us.
Grainy black and white images static-cling to the screen as the 1960's-era voice of a young and handsome Ted Kennedy floats into the room from a CNN broadcast. As the pictures move and Kennedy moves through them, soft-spoken and compassionate, the time period itself mesmerizes me.
The music rises to the occasion as a tragic war and the struggle for civil rights shreds the nation. Our hearts break and break. The scars are everywhere, like gravesites scored in the ground. Bob Dylan thumps his hollow guitar. Janis screams at us.
In 1963, Ted loses his brother. In 1968, Ted loses another brother. His voice breaks while speaking to the crowd at Bobby's funeral; his body hunches and a wave of hurt bends his back as he tries to compose himself at the pulpit. Words of hope. He gives.
Making meaning out of memory, he focused almost completely on the causes him and his brothers championed: civil rights, an end to war, the poor, the sick, the hungry. He embodied the words of Emma Lazarus's poem etched on the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside your golden door!"
Forgiving him his personal failures, his career in the U.S. Senate spanned almost five decades and soared in its accomplishments. He spoke and acted compassionately. His handprints mark the page of nearly every important bill on civil rights, disability rights, and education. A world without Ted Kennedy would be a very different world.
The poetry of his passing doesn't elude me. We live in a charged time right now. The time we live in will be a time frequently replayed in the future--much like the 60's, a time of change. With different players. Different causes. If you pay attention, you'll notice--the energy and the intensity of right now is palpable. I believe this time period will mesmerize my unborn granddaughter.
It's different now than it was back then, it's true. But there's mirrors all over, peeking into a similar time. It seems to me, if I drew out lines and conclusions, that Ted Kennedy's passing was timed like a metronome.
Kennedy helped usher in the Civil Rights Act in 1964, a bill that delineated such basic rights for black people in America as to where they were "allowed" to eat and drink. Now, the year of his death, Americans voted into the highest office, the first black president. And with him, the compassion and genius of his message--we will speak honestly and with empathy in mind. We're going to do our best. It's been so long, the soul sighs to hear it. Kennedy probably did too.
I think I glimpsed a tiny little bit of what his life must have been made of while I worked during the 2008 election. I worked harder on that campaign than any job in my life. The energy in those offices was euphoric and endless. Thick and raw. We fight, I thought to myself, with our nails and our tears.
Sadly, we're polarized as a nation as never before. Change rumbles in the distance. And now too. It's storming out. Only time and perspective can show us the overview.
For now, I know, it is the end of something. Something I can't quite put my finger on it. The world is left with her yearning. We'll claw to build bridges as other men tear them down. We'll wake up next to our beloveds, as others carry their beloveds to rest. As a country, our fallen icons etch their songs and their ideas into our collective subconscious.
And the beat goes on...
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Day 77 - He Loves Me; He Loves Me Lots
Dave is busy. Really really busy. And sometimes when I tell people that, they get all "oh poor you." And sometimes, I admit, I feel that way too.
But mostly, I support him with my entire heart and soul. Why? Because I love that Dave has dreams and vision and ideas for his life. Because I view my role in his life (or my role in anybody's life for that matter) as a support beam--I want for Dave what he wants for himself. As long as he stays within the line of legal, moral, and with respect for me and my dreams, I want to be the tailor that stitches his wings together, the breath of wind that whispers 'you can do it, I'm here for you.'
And it's vice versa too. I believe that what I want for my life is what he wants for me too. Dave's not gaga over art like me. And I'm not really turned on by the business world like him. But the common thread that binds us is our mutual respect for our respective loves--we're each other's fans, we cheer each other on.
I care that Dave HAS passion about something, not if I share it. In our vows we promised, "I will trust you with my dreams, and support you in fulfilling yours."
And I'm not saying it's all perfection. It's not. I've been known to throw little pouting fits when I find out he won't be accompanying me to the next family fiesta. Or I've abruptly ended phone conversations when he calls to tell me he'll be late to our dinner date. I've said I'm o.k., no, it's nothing...more than once when I didn't mean it. I've even stared at him as if he single-handedly took away my soul when he changed our Thanksgiving plans.
But the fact of the matter is: Nothing is perfect. But what I DO consider perfect is that no matter what: I trust him. He never pushes me past my limits. He respects me and my words when I say, 'This is my limit of what I can give you, without forgoing my needs.' Which really sounds more like this: 'I need your time so badly it hurts.'
When I get there, he always rushes towards me. He never walls himself away, defensive. He never says, "Why don't you calm down?" or "You're being ridiculous." He says, "O.k. what can I do?" He opens. If he closed in those moments, I'm positive we would have never made it to that beautiful spring day, pledging our everlasting devotion. His gentle and kind reactions to me make my heart blow up like a balloon. My love is as infinite as air.
The other day, he arrived home late at night after a long day of work. This week has been extra rough. In his eyes were smiles and in his hands were a vase of two red roses and one white. I beamed knowingly at him as he handed me the plump and fragrant knot of petals. He beamed too.
You see, recently I added the phrase "Give wife presents--pretty flowers" to his lengthy to-do list on the dry erase board hanging up in his personal office. Giggling to myself as I scribbled.
Instead of laughing off my humorous addition to his to-do list, he drove around the neighborhood after work looking for an open retail store. He finally spotted a 24-hour drive-thru flower kiosk (gawd love California) where clean glass cubes displayed vases of various flowers.
He didn't mention my addition to his to-do list. Instead he said, "The flowers there were seriously beautiful, not a bad one in the bunch."
The next day I noticed a very important item on his list with a new checkmark next to it.
But mostly, I support him with my entire heart and soul. Why? Because I love that Dave has dreams and vision and ideas for his life. Because I view my role in his life (or my role in anybody's life for that matter) as a support beam--I want for Dave what he wants for himself. As long as he stays within the line of legal, moral, and with respect for me and my dreams, I want to be the tailor that stitches his wings together, the breath of wind that whispers 'you can do it, I'm here for you.'
And it's vice versa too. I believe that what I want for my life is what he wants for me too. Dave's not gaga over art like me. And I'm not really turned on by the business world like him. But the common thread that binds us is our mutual respect for our respective loves--we're each other's fans, we cheer each other on.
I care that Dave HAS passion about something, not if I share it. In our vows we promised, "I will trust you with my dreams, and support you in fulfilling yours."
And I'm not saying it's all perfection. It's not. I've been known to throw little pouting fits when I find out he won't be accompanying me to the next family fiesta. Or I've abruptly ended phone conversations when he calls to tell me he'll be late to our dinner date. I've said I'm o.k., no, it's nothing...more than once when I didn't mean it. I've even stared at him as if he single-handedly took away my soul when he changed our Thanksgiving plans.
But the fact of the matter is: Nothing is perfect. But what I DO consider perfect is that no matter what: I trust him. He never pushes me past my limits. He respects me and my words when I say, 'This is my limit of what I can give you, without forgoing my needs.' Which really sounds more like this: 'I need your time so badly it hurts.'
When I get there, he always rushes towards me. He never walls himself away, defensive. He never says, "Why don't you calm down?" or "You're being ridiculous." He says, "O.k. what can I do?" He opens. If he closed in those moments, I'm positive we would have never made it to that beautiful spring day, pledging our everlasting devotion. His gentle and kind reactions to me make my heart blow up like a balloon. My love is as infinite as air.
The other day, he arrived home late at night after a long day of work. This week has been extra rough. In his eyes were smiles and in his hands were a vase of two red roses and one white. I beamed knowingly at him as he handed me the plump and fragrant knot of petals. He beamed too.
You see, recently I added the phrase "Give wife presents--pretty flowers" to his lengthy to-do list on the dry erase board hanging up in his personal office. Giggling to myself as I scribbled.
Instead of laughing off my humorous addition to his to-do list, he drove around the neighborhood after work looking for an open retail store. He finally spotted a 24-hour drive-thru flower kiosk (gawd love California) where clean glass cubes displayed vases of various flowers.
He didn't mention my addition to his to-do list. Instead he said, "The flowers there were seriously beautiful, not a bad one in the bunch."
The next day I noticed a very important item on his list with a new checkmark next to it.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Day 75 - Sunday, Fun Day
So remember how I told you about that all-girls bookclub of 20-30 somethings that I was trying (ok begging) to join? Well, they did in fact let me in and yesterday I attended my first meet-up.
I nervously set my alarm in case I overslept. Like a schoolgirl, I hand-picked my outfit, laying each piece out thoughtfully.
I debated with myself as I peered into my messy closet. No, no...that's overdressed. OR This outfit looks like I'm trying to hard. OR trying too little on that outfit. But THIS ONE, this is just right. Seemingly effortless, casual, and stylish. Bingo.
The setting for our Sunday soiree of potluck and book swap is a shaded park in Mission Hills, an old neighborhood in San Diego known for its old-growth trees, historic architecture and quaint walkability. I get a little excited/anxious as I quick check myself in the mirror. New friends...here I come!
I stop at Trader Joe's to pick up a dish. It's whole wheat tortilla chips and guacamole dip. I grab a gallon of chilled green tea with mint for my sippy cup. As the grocer places my goods in recycled bags, I'm pleased with my selections. I think they say, "Look, I'm conscious! Befriend me!"
I note that an intense urge to smoke hits me as I breeze down the freeway to my destination. I want to roll the window down and thoughtfully take pulls. I'm a rebel, a misfit, that's where I fit in, my craving seems to coax. I ignore that Junkie brain, and unwrap my dark chocolate instead. I shove squares of truffle in my mouth at 70 miles per hour.
I get lost and I'm late. After a call to my beloved human GPS (Dave) who recently bought me a real GPS (Garmin), I pull up to the green park nestled in the city. A cluster of about twenty girls congregates near the center, sitting cross-legged on blankets. I creep up to the food table and no one looks up as spear watermelon and scoop hummus unto my plate. Even when I give my I'm sorry I'm a loser face to the chatty group, no one seems to pay attention. I am relieved when I finally sit down on the fringe.
And then I fall in love. These girls are knee-deep in a conversation about whether or not one of Jodi Picoult's recent books lacked her usual spunk. Which parlayed into which of her books were faves and which flops. I have opinions on this very matter. I share them. People laugh. I fit right in.
When they ask me about the book I brought, "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls, I express succinctly and steadily what I love about this memoir. The dysfunction. The heart-ache. The genius. When I'm done, a girl turns to me and says, "I read that book, I loved it."
When the swap starts, I'm secretly pleased with myself. My book is coveted. It's one of the first to reach White Elephant retirement, meaning it's been stolen/traded two times and therefore can be swapped no more. I end up with a collection of the best American essays from 2006. I'm thrilled about this as I think it might help me improve upon this very blog.
We form a circle and chat about where we're from and where we've been. We talk about babies and careers. We talk about movies and books. As the girls start to thin away into their cars and their lives, I end up talking at length with a girl, who also recently married and who recently moved here from Nashville.
Randomly, she cut Dave's hair a few weeks ago. Through their conversation, they deduced that her and I coincidentally belonged to the same book club. Considering the one-in-a-bunch chance of that, me and her e-mailed a few times, and met for the first time today! It's fateful enough that I pay attention to it. I'm eager to see it through, to find its path.
She's in a similar place as me in life, and we got along excellently. I'm hoping hoping hoping, perhaps I've got me a friend.
Look at me now, world. All growed up.
I nervously set my alarm in case I overslept. Like a schoolgirl, I hand-picked my outfit, laying each piece out thoughtfully.
I debated with myself as I peered into my messy closet. No, no...that's overdressed. OR This outfit looks like I'm trying to hard. OR trying too little on that outfit. But THIS ONE, this is just right. Seemingly effortless, casual, and stylish. Bingo.
The setting for our Sunday soiree of potluck and book swap is a shaded park in Mission Hills, an old neighborhood in San Diego known for its old-growth trees, historic architecture and quaint walkability. I get a little excited/anxious as I quick check myself in the mirror. New friends...here I come!
I stop at Trader Joe's to pick up a dish. It's whole wheat tortilla chips and guacamole dip. I grab a gallon of chilled green tea with mint for my sippy cup. As the grocer places my goods in recycled bags, I'm pleased with my selections. I think they say, "Look, I'm conscious! Befriend me!"
I note that an intense urge to smoke hits me as I breeze down the freeway to my destination. I want to roll the window down and thoughtfully take pulls. I'm a rebel, a misfit, that's where I fit in, my craving seems to coax. I ignore that Junkie brain, and unwrap my dark chocolate instead. I shove squares of truffle in my mouth at 70 miles per hour.
I get lost and I'm late. After a call to my beloved human GPS (Dave) who recently bought me a real GPS (Garmin), I pull up to the green park nestled in the city. A cluster of about twenty girls congregates near the center, sitting cross-legged on blankets. I creep up to the food table and no one looks up as spear watermelon and scoop hummus unto my plate. Even when I give my I'm sorry I'm a loser face to the chatty group, no one seems to pay attention. I am relieved when I finally sit down on the fringe.
And then I fall in love. These girls are knee-deep in a conversation about whether or not one of Jodi Picoult's recent books lacked her usual spunk. Which parlayed into which of her books were faves and which flops. I have opinions on this very matter. I share them. People laugh. I fit right in.
When they ask me about the book I brought, "The Glass Castle" by Jeannette Walls, I express succinctly and steadily what I love about this memoir. The dysfunction. The heart-ache. The genius. When I'm done, a girl turns to me and says, "I read that book, I loved it."
When the swap starts, I'm secretly pleased with myself. My book is coveted. It's one of the first to reach White Elephant retirement, meaning it's been stolen/traded two times and therefore can be swapped no more. I end up with a collection of the best American essays from 2006. I'm thrilled about this as I think it might help me improve upon this very blog.
We form a circle and chat about where we're from and where we've been. We talk about babies and careers. We talk about movies and books. As the girls start to thin away into their cars and their lives, I end up talking at length with a girl, who also recently married and who recently moved here from Nashville.
Randomly, she cut Dave's hair a few weeks ago. Through their conversation, they deduced that her and I coincidentally belonged to the same book club. Considering the one-in-a-bunch chance of that, me and her e-mailed a few times, and met for the first time today! It's fateful enough that I pay attention to it. I'm eager to see it through, to find its path.
She's in a similar place as me in life, and we got along excellently. I'm hoping hoping hoping, perhaps I've got me a friend.
Look at me now, world. All growed up.
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