Author: gr4c5

I write. I read. I cook. I run. That's me, in a nutshell.

If I Ever Write

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For the past week I have been scrutinizing you, writing about you. Sizing you up, cutting you down only to build you back up again. I look at both sides of what you deserve and what you’ll get and wonder if I am being fair. Is it about being fair? Is what you do reason enough for the numbers I give you, assign you, tell you to live with? Until next year. When we’ll do it again. Will you learn from my scrutiny, my cutting and building? Isn’t that what it’s all about? Learn the rules of the game in order to play. Learn the tricks of the game to win. And so I write.

Game on.

This Old Post 11/8/05 10:13am

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Remember When?

My childhood has crept up on me. Daily, I think about my younger days. A psychic once told me that to ponder my past meant an imponderable future…an impending death. Interesting. I just think it means I’ve been reminded of when I was a kid so it’s been on my mind more than a lot lately.
My husband and I watched a program about the strangest creatures to roam the eather (BTW: the male angler was number one because he attaches himself to the female and becomes part of her body; an odd appendage of sorts). Anyway, horseshoe crabs made the list. I forgot where on the list they ranked. They are not crabs at all, but rather relatives of the spider with 12 legs and ten eyes. I used to find horseshoe crabs stranded on the beaches of Quogue. Thanksgiving. Visiting my wealthy grandmother on Long Island. I remember a picture of me bravely holding up the tail of a beached and decided dead one. I wore a Dorothy Hamill haircut and a big cheesy grin. I was fascinated with the creatures.
S and I went to dinner tonight and I saw the dreaded whoopie pie. I’ve sworn off them, by the way! I still say my mother’s whopper of a whoopie is still my ultimate favorite. Standing at least 4″ high and easily a hefty pound I won’t be able to resist. I long to stand at her side, frosting spoon in hand.
This weekend I skimmed through the books I bought my nephew. The Lorax, Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel, The Five Chinese Brothers, Blueberries for Sal, Goodnight Moon, Tiki Tiki Tembo, Ferdinand the Bull…all the stories from when I was a kid. I still read them as an adult. I have Shel Silverstein poems solid like cement in my head….memorized for life. “I cannot go to school today said little Peggy Anne McKay…”, “The crocodile went to the dentist and he sat down in the chair…”, “Enter this deserted house, but walk softly if you do…”
I have no idea why we attach ourselves to the childhood things and think they are the greatest. Batman, Lincoln Logs, Nancy Drew. Flour, salt and water. 64 colors and the built-in sharpener. I still love the smell of grape bazooka bumble gum and drinking Sprite through a Twizzler is still one of the coolest things to do.

Crossley Baby (with spoiler)

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Crossley BabyCarey, Jacqueline. The Crossley Baby. New York: Ballantine, 2003.

November is National Adoption Month. Out of everything I am currently reading, I thought this would be my favorite. I’m sorry to say I was a little disappointed. The Crossley Baby is the story of two sisters (Sunny & Jean) battling for their dead sister (Bridget)’s baby. Well, that’s what it’s supposed to be about. Instead, it’s more of a commentary on wealth (Jean has it, Sunny does not), parenting (Sunny is a mother of two, Jean is not) and manipulation (they both do it, for one reason or another). More time is spent setting up where Jean, Sunny and Bridget came from than the actual adoption process. More time is spent on describing the vast financial differences between Sunny and Jean than on their personalities. By the end of the book I didn’t know Jean or Sunny any better so I didn’t care who got the baby. I was completely indifferent to their struggle for baby Jade. Probably what bothered me most was the lack of real grief shown by either sister over the death of their elder sister. Crossley adds flickers of sadness, glimpses of sorrow, but for the most part Bridget’s death goes mostly unmourned. Possibly that is because they never got along. If there is one thing the three sisters did really well it was avoiding closeness.
In the end, Sunny wins custody. Everything points in the direction of Jean winning – money, power, people in her corner – while Sunny’s husband is filing for bankruptcy, old favors aren’t worth cashing in, and they have to sell their home. In a last minute surprise ending Jean withdraws her application for adoption and doesn’t contest the award going to Sunny. No one from Bridget’s life is there to put in a word edgewise.
Ironically enough, it was Bridget who was my favorite character because of this one line, “Bridget tasted her words before she spoke…” (p 112).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the very first chapter called “Adapting to Adoption” (p 1).

Is It Any Wonder?

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We’ve started to talk about Thanksgiving. They talk. I listen. I find this time of year tiresome. Who goes where and for how long? Can we split up the time? Can we avoid the time? What is the time? My mother-in-law is stressing about keeping the kid. Defiantly announcing, “I get the kid.” Okay. Definitely. Two years ago I brought up having a “schedule,” some sort of flow chart to keep our obligations straight. Somehow it became a discussion about something else entirely.
We have never had a holiday, just the two of us. I’ve never cooked a twelve part meal with only him in mind. Turkey, (garlic) mashed potatoes, cajun sweet potatoes (with pecans), that green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (homemade), creamy pearl onions, stuffing (two kinds), honey wheat rolls, the gravy I don’t touch, three kinds of pies… There’s always been someone else. Or a few someone elses. Not that I don’t mind family. I just miss him.

It’s insane how much we try to divvy up family time. Time with his family – both sides- time with mine. What about the other in-laws? Where’s their time? Everyone wants a piece. Who gets the turn this year? Well, where were we last year? We’ve never hosted Christmas, nor have we started our own (private) traditions because we haven’t been here. My kitchen remains cold because we’re always cooking somewhere else. I’m about ready to sell my serving ware.
This year I may not even bother with the ornaments, the decorations, or even the tree since we won’t be here…again. I was in such the spirit last year that I put everything up….only to have it sit silent while we went somewhere else.

Here’s my wish for the holidays. I want my home away from home to be so warm that I feel like I’m where the heart is and I’m happy to be there. Regardless of where that is.
 

Bad Land: An American Romance

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Bad LandRaban, Jonathan. The Bad Land: an American Romance.

In honor of both the month Montana became a state and National Train Month I put Bad Land  on my list. It reads like a river. Some parts read like racing rapids while others slow to languid pools of near stillness. Then there are the waterfalls, where the language is cascading awe-inspiring. It was during these “waterfall” sections that I wanted to pack a bag and head west, just to see it for myself.

Raban helps you look at Montana from the point of view of the immigrant (emigrant), the artist, the ancestor, the traveler, the naturalist. Like standing back from a canvas to discover hidden colors. It’s a historical story, lyrically descriptive and informative. It’s a biography of the landscape as well as the people settled there at the turn of the century.
Favorite lines:”…mouth like a mailbox” (p 67).
“Mrs. Nemitz, scenting sarcasm, put his face on trial for a split second, but found it not guilty” (p 104).
“It’s exhilarating and scary, to lighten ship every so often, to kiss goodbye to the accumulated tonnage of ones life so far” (p 114)
“now the book is full of brittle ghosts” (p 136).

BookLust Twist: Mentioned twice in Book Lust. Once in the chapter called “Montana: In Big Sky Country” (p 156)…in which Pearl calls Bad Land  “the best book about Montana by a non-Montanan” (p 157); and “Riding the Rails: Railroad History” (p 201).

Cleaning Out

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Sometimes I get beyond frustrated with my way too much stuff. I have one of those lives where even the paperclips have a home, yet you wouldn’t know it with all the junk I have around. Junk junk junk. It feels excessive, stupid and indulgent to have so much. Kisa and I have two full sets of dishes. One from my life without him (from 1990), and one from our humble beginning together. Do we really need 20 mugs for a two person household? I don’t think so.

So today….today kisa and I are cleaning. The in-laws announced the arrival of a huge dumpster and a whole week to fill it. I hear it’s the walk-in kind. How cool is that. I can imagine it like a gaping mouth that will accept only garbage, trash and unwanted junk. I can’t wait to feed it. Cookbooks without a single diary entry…mattresses tired of waiting for guests…posters from high school…stuffed animals from old boyfriends…lying letters…anything related to broken promises or unfulfilled good intentions. I hope it’s really, really hungry.

I want a lighter life. I want to be stark like the mountain range, not cluttered with clusters of trees and debris. I want more of a mis en place existence. I can’t explain it more than that.
Stay tuned.

Limbo

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My favorite time of day isn’t really when the sun is shining. Driving home the other night I tried to capture the light in my mind- pin it down to describe it. It’s that time of day when it’s light enough to see the shape of clouds in the sky, but dark enough that streetlights start to flicker on. Dusk. Twilight. The time when, looking at the horizon, you see the fading color of the sun: the color of old bruised skin yellow. Straight up above, the darkened sky of almost black. A dark so dark that strong, bright stars twinkle bravely. Firstcomers to the party. It’s like seeing night and day at the same time and time itself is caught in limbo between. There is a magic to that space-between light. I see things with clarity in that light. I am happy to be alive in that light. I can’t explain it anymore than that.

Happiness Is…Me

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Somewhere in the back of my mind I seem to recall a book. Something in my childhood that I held dear. I’m thinking it had to have been written by Charles Schultz because I distinctly remember Snoopy and the gang. It was called “Happiness Is…” and within its pages were pictures and proclamations of what made someone happy. “Happiness is…a warm blanket” with a picture of Linus or something like that. I’m guessing. It’s a murky memory at best.
Throughout the years I have played the “Happiness Is…” game, filling in the blanks whenever something made me happy. Happiness is…whoopie pies fresh from Moody’s Diner. Happiness is…my husband massaging my feet. Happiness is…finding a great pair of shoes…chai tea…nanook slippers…You get the point.
Lately, I’ve been playing the game a lot. Happiness is talking to a friend for four hours and not noticing a single second. Happiness is hearing from Ohio and talking about the talkative. Happiness is two pumpkins, one smiling, one frowning, on my doorstep. Happiness is Halloween and everything it brings. But, most of all…last but nowhere near least, happiness is…acceptance when you least expect it.
I talked to my mother on Halloween night for two hours, 20 minutes and 19 seconds. While I struggled with hurt, she helped. While I struggled with disappointment, she didn’t try to tell me differently. She let me feel everything I needed to and thensome. I’m not saying things are perfect. Things rarely are. But. But, I’m on the road to good and that makes me happy.

This Old Post 11/2/05 6:46am

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Note: It’s funny. I didn’t write on 11/1/05 either. What’s even funnier is this post – from two years ago. I could have written it today.

What You Want to Hear
When does the game of he-said/she-said go from conversation to complication? When your heart is too involved…or not enough? When you are close to the subject or you can’t get away from it fast enough?
We played an intricate game of telephone and I’m still trying to sort out the winners and losers. What kind of game are you playing when you don’t have all the facts yet you are pressed for something? You keep saying “I don’t want to get into this” but yet, you do because you picked up the phone in the first place. An active participant without all the answers. Don’t they call that “not playing with a full deck, but playing nonetheless”? The sad thing is, my lack of facts gave someone else the excuse to only hear what he wanted to hear. I’m still trying to sort out if that was a good thing.
My husband is not letting someone else hear what he wants to hear. I admire my man for not giving in to apologies and rug sweeping. He’s smart enough to know this thing is too big to get under there anyway. I applaud him for his decision to confront because he’s not only trying to save a friendship, he’s trying to save a life. My only hope is that he won’t be told “it’s none of your business” because that’s not what he wants to hear.
Seriously, when is it okay to get involved? When is it okay to turn a blind eye? Is it ever okay to simply say I don’t care anymore and walk away? How can you catch yourself before you care too much and it’s beyond too late? How can you act of out love and hate at the same time? My answer would be you can’t but still, I wish I could battle through the pernicious and arrive at sanity’s doorstep unscathed. “We are the roses in the garden, beauty with thorns among the leaves. To pick a rose you ask your hands to bleed.” ~10,000 Maniacs.
Take the good with the bad. Suffer the pain with pleasure. Without one you simply cannot have the other. The trick is to know when to answer the phone…and hear what you want to hear.

This Old Life 10/31/05 9:46am

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pumpkins.jpg

All Things Evil
What is it about Halloween? The one night where pumpkins turn into jack-o-lanterns, shadows dart from house to house, leaves crackle under foot and the air takes on a crisp, smoky smell. Out come costumes that scare, masks that hide, cobwebs, candy and laughter. I love Halloween. I love the haunting, the magic, the feeling of something creeping just behind you.
Every year my living room turns into a shrine of all things October 31st. A pumpkin that screams, a skull that bleeds red wax, a gargoyle with ruby eyes, a witch who proclaims, “I aint yo mama”, a hissing black cat, several ghosts, life-like tarantulas…Every year I get something new. I’m a kid again, wanting to sit in the sincere pumpkin patch of innocence, waiting for the Great Pumpkin chanting “I believe. I believe.”
I love walking around our neighborhood on Halloween. One neighbor shows Nightmare Before Christmas on the side of her house, another has glowing faces in every window. Almost everyone has a creative jack-o-lantern on their stoop. Teenagers race around in the dark, hoping for tricks while excited, giggly children traipse from house to house looking for treats. Laughter is in the air along with something else…something spooky. I’d like to think the dead really are prowling the earth; authentic ghosts joining the fun, blending in for a night of mischief.

Coming Home

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Dear kisa,

You are stranded on a plane somewhere in PA. Engine trouble…something about a starter. I didn’t worry about failure during flying, but more about how tired you’ll be when you finally touch down for sleep. I know how much you hate to be tired.
I had a break through at work today. My BigBossMan reminded me I’m Miss Mucky Muck. If I don’t like something I can make it change…or go away. Imagine that! I’m been counting to ten when all I need to know is three strikes you’re out. Load off my mind and onto my plate.
We’re out of milk. My chai tasted like dirt. The kitchen has been cold without you to cook for. I’m glad you’re coming back tomorrow. Wish it was tonight. I’ll try to kiss you more than the Chipotle.
Anyway, I am ready for bed. Ready to get a new Serious. Speaking of the orange orb, I heard something funny the other day, “That closed sign means nothing to me. That rope across the driveway isn’t going to keep me out.” I had to laugh. Isn’t that how you get your pumpkins? Boys will be boys.

Kisa, I’m tired of negotiating with the cat for bed space. She’s a hog in disguise! Come home soon.
love,
me

Talk Talk Talk

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Dear kisa,

I’m a little late with today’s letter. That’s what happens when your wife is on the phone for over 200 minutes. Yup. You read that right. I was on the phone for an hour last night. Tonight, nearly four. I needed to talk to someone who really understands me. Not that you from last night doesn’t…or that you don’t. Far from it. I’ve got a great friend and you’re the guy who can tell me when to drink my coffee because you’re that clued in to my temperature control. It’s not that I don’t trust every word I give to you…I just needed to give them to someone else tonight.
We talked for nearly four hours. It’s like I had a backpack of sh!t and she not only looked inside and said, “yup, it’s crap” but she took it from me as if I didn’t need to carry it anymore. I needed just one more person to tell me nothing make sense for me to understand it. With therapy in her family I trusted her questions almost as much as her answers. It was good…and I didn’t even finish the bottle.
It’s 1am and I honestly think I’ll sleep tonight. Hopefully, I won’t wake to find the sheet in a ball beside my head, or the comforter stranded down the hall like last night….Just in case, maybe I should have one more glass of wine – tilt that bottle in the air and toss back more than my share (NM) – take me over the limit of reason. I don’t think so. I’m talked out and tired out.
Until tomorrow,
me
xoxox

This Old Life 10/29/05

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This is the time when I could use a drink. What is it that they say? Something to take the edge off…waking up to use the bathroom I find myself really awake as I lay back in bed. How do I get to this point? It happens all the time. I was dreaming of lip balm and Spoletos before. Why can’t I get back to slumber? How did I jump off the Sleep Express? Maybe it’s nerves. I’ll be meeting a bunch of new people today and I don’t think I brought enough makeup to put my best face forward. I pushed away a potential friend because the thought of that initial how-do-you-do terrified me. I’m not good at first impressions. If I could I’d have several first impressions. Like in the movie Groundhog Day. Until I get it right. Whoops! I stuttered. Let me go back to bed and try again. Ooops, I bumped your drink. Let me get back to you in 24 hours. Sorry! I mispronounced your name. Same time tomorrow? Until finally, finally my first impression is gracious and charming.
Insomnia leads to crawling around the internet. First stop, email and news of Natalie. Second stop, quick check of island life activity and photographs of heaven. Third stop, the sirsy message board to check the now grown silent chatter. Final stop, here. To confess my thoughts by the glow of the laptop and to wish for sips of icy cold limoncello….or maybe warm tuaca.

Dear You Day Two

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dear kisa,

as predicted my night was hell. wind woke me up, worry kept me up. i watched too much tv and gave myself too much to think about. but we know all that. we talked and i gave you girly crap about not calling me before the game. don’t mind me. i’m just lonely.
today i read a lot of my montana wild-wild frontier book. i should be reading the pregnancy book but i can’t get into it. it interests me as much as stock car racing and stamp collecting.
i met RT at the mall. yes, the mall. not the best place to purge your worst week but i did it and was glad for it. she shares my WTF attitude and had a few choice words of her own. it made me laugh and it brought me one step closer to moving on. all the time in the world to make it better just got a little sooner, thanks to her.
later i caught a friend on the phone and talked for an hour. it would have been better to sit with coffee and let silences be comfortable but it was nice to just talk and not have tears on the verge of betraying me. i got to laugh a little, smile a little and worry about someone else for a little. i liked that. i wanted to describe the night sky. i’ll write about it for sure.
so fenway we are not. mountaintops rule your view. i’m still waiting on the burrito.
love,
me

rain & not snow

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dear kisa,

i know i will try to hear you later when you call…from The Game…i guess this is more for when you can’t hear me. across the miles. it rained today but that didn’t stop us from going out. we ate at jake’s for lunch, only we had breakfast. i got the usual…without the hot sauce. she forgot it and i was too insecure to ask. it wasn’t as good as when i’m across from you. the cornbread was dry, the eggs not runny enough. i missed seeing you through coffee’s steam. after we went to faces and laughed at the halloween faces. instead of goblins and ghouls i thought of christmas and all the presents i could buy. i didn’t. we wandered thornes and i bought Yungchen’s 2006 album while she bought a bee. don’t ask. i don’t think i understand it myself. the rain made yard leaves shiny and bright. it was only then i remembered you have the camera. i touched the pumpkin’s orange instead. a rub for good luck. we walked in shops smelling perfume too decadent for my skin. clothes too rich for my wallet. i wouldn’t wear them anyway. i prefer black, and today, orange.
last night i slept sideways. tonight i’ll sleep lightly. i’m not as tired as the day before. if i had my cellphone i would make phone calls. i want to ask a man about a sunday that may or may not have happened.
the cat is confused and a little concerned. i don’t think she believes me when i say i’m not going anywhere. where would i go? i ask her.
anyway,
thunder rolled across the skyline and the trees have slipped into black so i’ll say goodnight. i can see you – fat tires in cupholders. hope the fun is yours for the taking.
love,
me