My husband’s screen name is Poppi. He wears his hair in two Space Oddity pigtails on top of his head and a tight, black skull tee shirt that shows off his navel and the twins. He sneers at the crowd and jumps around a lot. He looks hot…for a girl. I’m talking about his persona in the game Rock Band. I’m not sure if he plays bass or lead because all guitars look the same with Rock Band. But, but, but, he’s super cool. 
I wanna be him. If only to be that cool wearing the clothes. When he goes on tour, playing places like Los Angeles or Tokyo, he earns threads for his closet. Big chunky boots, fishnet stockings with safety pins, short army fatigue skirts, hip-hugger tight glitter jeans, big hoop earrings, metal tees with strategically placed holes, and metal studded wrist bands. He has a whole closet full of cool clothes. Rocker outfits. Really cool outfits only really cool people can wear.
I wanna be Poppi but, I’m out of my league.
Category: Life
Revisiting Me
Every once in awhile I will reread something from yesteryear and ask myself how far have I come from the person who wrote this? How far away from me am I now? Do I still carry myself with me? It’s like taking my own temperature, reading my own pulse. I like to go back just one year to the day, or two years to the day. Never random until recently; lately, I find myself reading my own stats page – that “top posts and pages” list. Know what I’m talking about? I’ll see something vaguely familiar and curiosity gets the better of me (as it always does). Like the blog called Kill. What was that all about? I don’t remember writing anything called “Kill” so, …was that really me? Then I’ll click on it and have to read it like a stranger. To tell you the truth, I’m fascinated. I find myself asking myself what made me write that? Who was I mad at? and why did I have to write so cryptically angrily that I can’t even remember my own rantcode? WTF? From there I go on to try to figure out what made this particular blog come to the surface. Why is it on the list? It cracks me up, truth be known. Take the search for Tyler for example. “Drum Save” came back up for air because someone searched for Tyler. Go figure. I’m grateful because without that search, in truth, I never would have revisited me.
That Young
When I was little I thought the world revolved around an ocean. I thought I was brave if I went beyond the rocks and out to what I considered the sea. Little did I know the rocks were more to be afraid of. Little did I know of their drowning potential beneath the waves. This is what I thought of danger.
When I was little I thought hugs and kisses were hidden in chocolate. Frosting disguised as an i’ll always love you treat. I thought if I ate real slow and savored every bite that meant I loved you back. And we could make it last forever. Little did I know about the human heart. Little did I know about how you felt. This is what I thought of love.
When I was little I thought I knew. I would row my boat upon the waves, sunburnt shoulders, calloused fingertips, sand and salt in my hair. Unafraid of the rocks. I would eat my chocolate slow. Sticky fingers, candy lips, chocolate chin. Unaware of your heart.
To be that young.
Don’t Get Out Much
I’m a snob when it comes to some sites and my active “participation” (for lack of a better word). Take Flickr for example. I don’t peruse any other pictures except my friends. Aside from that I don’t search for much except pics of my hometown. Looking at someone else’s holiday doesn’t interest me unless I recognize the place. I rarely comment on other people’s snapshots and I don’t belong to many “groups” or place myself on any maps.
Then, there’s that Library Thingy. People have tagged my library as “interesting” and have invited me to become a member of different groups. I’m flattered by the interest and I always accept the group invitations. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t be flattered because I don’t seek out interesting libraries of others. Maybe I shouldn’t accept invitations to join groups because I never take part in their discussions. I’m like the silent partner. I’m there but I never contribute. Truthfully, I’m waiting for the moderators to kick me out for lack of conversation…or something.
Same goes for myspace. I got a space. Got my picture and my profile and everything…even got “my” song. Except the whole thing’s private. No one can see it unless you’re already a “friend.” I don’t seek out comments, messages, profiles, pictures of people I don’t know, or think I might know, or even the ones I think I want to get to know. I occasionally return messages to my “friends” and pray they didn’t take it personally if I didn’t leave them a glittering “love ya lots” comment on Valentine’s Day. I’m just not that into it.
With all of these sites here’s what happens: I log in, I do my thing and I log back out again.
But. But, I have to tell you about this”revelation” I had. It happened here, on WordPressSpace and it involves my sudden, yet rewarding, participation. To be honest, I think I have a total of four friends who actively blog on this site. No, I take that back. Make that two friends because two left. Wait. One friend had more than one blog. Does that count? Nevermind…Anyway, my “blog surfer” page was looking a little anemic so I decided, for the first time ever, I would use that little arrow on the top righthand side of my blog. You know, the “go to next random blog” feature. I think I arrowed past four or five “god is great” blogs, three or four “watch my kid grow” blogs, at least eight political blahblahblah blogs, two or three knitting blogs (and here I almost stopped until I realized how hardcore these knit nuts really are), until finally I found writing so amazing I stopped to hang out, even scrolling back through the archives. Inspirational stuff. I have to say it, I love the way this person writes. Absolutely love it. I haven’t had the guts to find out if its a him or her who has so much talent, but you can bet I added this mystery to my blog surfer.
For once I explored outside my page, my involvement with a site. In return I found something rewarding. I should get out more often!
ps~ since writing this I have added another blog onto my list of interesting. I took my own advice and found a funny stranger.
Wanna See My Boarding Pass?
FYI – like getting plants tangled up in my shoes, I am capable of snagging maps on the inside zipper of my purse. Good thing it wasn’t stuck on the boarding pass. You’ll soon see why (note the boarding pass just above the captured map):
On the way down to Tampa I needed to show my boarded pass once and relinquish it only to get on the plane. Boarding the plane was done in a haphazzard sort of way. I was group A #46 and when they called group A numbers 35-60 we just moo’ed our way on board. No big deal.
Not so on the way home. Tampa is tough. I needed my boarding pass four different times. I should have stapled it to my forehead. Really. I had it out while waiting in the winding, maze-like line. (That line reminded me of the lines at Six Flags only without the tvs and fun.) I’m not a seasoned traveler so I carefully watched the other passengers and followed their leads. Because of them, I knew to take off my shoes, have my picture ID ready and to go where I was told. But, after that I was a bumbling idiot. I didn’t know I needed the id and boarding pass out for a third time at the security scanners. I had put it back in my purse (which was now going through the xray machine). The security guy wouldn’t let me walk through the gate without the pass, but made no move to retrieve my purse for me. I stood there rooted to the spot, confused as hell, wondering what to do. Passengers moved around me, shooting pitying glances my way. Maybe they were thinking Stupid. I know I was. Finally the security gate guy said, “come on through, BUT I need to see that boarding pass the second it comes out.” I practically sprinted through the gate and anxiously peered down the conveyor belt waiting for my bucket of shoes and purse to emerge. A trickle of sweat meandered down my back. My bare feet embarrassed me. As soon as the bucket started to show itself I reached in for it – I swear – only to facilitate the process and produce that boarding pass faster. “Don’t reach!” someone barked at me. “Okay!” I practically yelped and jumped back. If I was flustered before now I was a basket case. Finally, out came the bucket (on its own), out came my purse and, out came the boarding pass. Frustrated and extremely embarrassed I shoved it at the security guy who barely gave it a single glance then handed it back. What the fukc was that? I could feel my face go even redder. Suddenly, a voice behind me boomed “whose bag is this?” I turned around…of course it was mine. “I just need to look in here…” Mr. Security’s voice trailed off. Now what? I had dirty underwear, stinky socks…what could possibly be threatening (besides the odor)? A candle. A lavender candle. I apologized for it like an idiot and slithered away, hellbent on finding my gate. If there was ever a time for a shot of tequila, this was it. Make that a double shot. Three…four….
Finally, at the gate (the right one this time) I started to relax. I sent a few text messages to let people know I was on my way home and finally let myself breathe normally again. I didn’t even try to find my new boarding number sign (A45). However, when it came time to board the number process was much easier than the last time. Mr. Loudspeaker treated us like idiots, even taking the time to explain what numerical order meant. He wanted to make sure we knew 44 was directly ahead of 45 (who should be directly in front of 46). Duh. He must have gone over it at least a dozen times, telling us to talk to one another to figure out who stood where. Don’t be shy, he says. Riiiight. I was just praying no one recognized me from the security line. Like school kids waiting to go on a field trip we waited in a perfect line. 44 in front of 45 in front of 46. I felt like asking the guy in front of me, “hey. Wanna see my boarding pass?”
Love, Redefined
From the moment my kisa started dating me seriously I begged him to not acknowledge Valentine’s Day. I asked him to avoid candy and cards. I assured him I would refuse gifts of fluffy bears and flowers. I’m just not into it, I told him. He waited until the day after The Day and sent flowers. I would have sent them back, but not for the card which read “Happy Friday?” I think I ranted as much last year about this weird “holiday” (I’m too lazy to link to it so if you are feeling adventurous, you can look for it).
Anyway, this year one of my oldest and bestest friends sent me a Valentine. Humph. She and I stand reunited on the whole gooshy romance thing. We have the same views on children. We are pretty pragmatic when it comes to prissy, pretty things. In short, we don’t need Hallmark to define love for us. We have our own interpretations. So, imagine my surprise to see her card in the mail.
Yup, this is the card. Yup, that’s my friend. I couldn’t ask for a better laugh at a time when I’m usually scoffing at the whole love thing. She gets me. For over 20 years. I’ve needed her humor, her spirit, her “fiestiness” as one would say. I am lucky to have her in my life.
So, to my sage, wild, “something strong” friend, Happy Valentine’s Day. For what it’s worth, I love you.
ps~ 25 years from now we’re going on a road-trip; flashing other motorists is optional.
Seriously Southwest, Silly Me
Southwest Airlines is trying to take their seating sorrows seriously. How do I begin to describe gate 4?
First of all, there are a bunch of poles everywhere. All these poles are topped with numbers. For example, I sit facing the one stating “36-40 41-45.” If I follow the logic of the poles I’m in the wrong seat. I should be one seat over…or something. I understand the thinking. I think. Rather than a free-for-all when group A is called (and that’s my group) we now have sections so, in theory, does that mean smaller free-for-alls?
I wrote the above on my way down to Tampa. My boarding number was A46. How wrong I was…on oh so many levels. First of all, and I’ll admit this clearly: I wasn’t at gate 4. I was at 5. I wrote all of the above while waiting at the wrong gate and I blatently blame it on the poles. At gate 4 I saw numbers 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-25 but nothing beyond that. Walking further I saw the numbers start all over again. 1-10 and so on. So now I’m confused. Keep in mind, I’m looking up at the numbers and not at the gate numbers so I managed to walk past my gate. Obviously. Once I realized I had gone too far (when the numbers started over again) I circled back, but this time on the other side of the poles. Magically, there were the higher numbers I had been looking for. I sat down when I saw 36-40, 41-45. At gate 5.
My second mistake was thinking my numbers designated where you sat as well as how you boarded the plane. I joked with passengers around me that I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble for sitting in the wrong waiting area chair. No wonder they looked at me funny. Boarding numbers are just that, b o a r d i n g numbers, as in, how you get on the plane. Don’t worry, Ms Klutz Me would give them more to laugh at. About 20 minutes later someone came over the intercom and started announcing the boarding of flight something-er-rather…to Baltimore. As in Maryland. Startled, I looked behind me only to see I was sitting at gate 5 and not 4. Oh hell. Pretending to need the ladies room, I asked someone close to me where it was. I could tell she was confused. We were about to board, she knows I’m A46, we’ve talked about this and now I want the ladies’ room??? Nevertheless, she pointed it out and watched me go, a bemused look on her face. I wonder what she thought when I never came back, nor boarded that plane to Baltimore?
Hello Again Hello
All of this getting ready for the run has got me thinking I’m in the wrong spot. I should be out there, too. I should kicking my own ass on a regular basis…just like my friend. While I wil cheer her on tomorrow I can’t help but feel just a little jealous, a little That Should Be Me.
There is something to be said for finding your way. There is something to be applauded when, after you have found your way, you actually go your own way. Finding the way and actually taking it are two very different things. I think I needed to come to Florida to figure that out. We talked love and relationships, comedy and tragedy, heart and soul and the one thing that remains clear to me is this: live for today. Don’t think you should wait until something better comes along because, who knows? maybe it never will. You need to make it better if no one else will. Period.
We saw an accident today. It happened in the blink of an eye. I was on the phone and wasn’t paying much attention. A decent witness I definitely was not. I couldn’t even tell you who hit first. All I know is that I watch too much crime tv so when I saw the reddish liquid streaming from the injured truck all I could think was “fireball explosion” and pure panic set in. My heart raced even though I continued to talk on the phone. I don’t know if worry was anywhere near my voice, or if I sounded miles away from my concern. All I know is this: in an instance two vehicles collided. Where were they going? Doesn’t matter. They’ll all be late now. They are lucky to be alive.
That’s my point. Life can change you. Or you can change your life. Hello again, hello.
Sunday SuperBowl Solitude
From the moment I hung up the phone after talking to my sister I have not utter a word today. Not a single sound. I just realized this. Six hours of self silence. Natalie sang to me for awhile. I sent text messages while I missed my heartbeat. The tv blared the big game -which was watched through eyes squeezed shut. I spent more of the night looking down, unwinding tangled yarn, and reknitting silly squares. This blanket will be the death of me, I’m sure.
I reorganized my closet, cleaned the bathroom and folded laundry. Lit a candle and munched on cheese and crackers. Forgot about the candle and couldn’t figure out why I kept smelling a pineapple hours later.
I could have been at an all-day, sleep-over Superbowl (#42) party; I could have been socializing and snacking, sitting uncomfortable on someone else’s couch. I know how that would go. I can picture myself struggling to listen to conversations, trying to sort out strings of sentences, overlapped with tv noise and other talking. Trying to pay attention to the words directed at me, blocking out everything else.
Not this time. Silent. Quiet. Solitary. Just me and the cat…and the pineapple.
Buyer Be Seated
I could have called this “Hell Has A Name Part Two” because this is just a continuation of the disaster I call the Quest for the Dress.
So, I’ve already covered the fiasco that was finding said dress. Yes, this is a picture of me in it. Not a happy camper am I? If I only knew…believe it or not, this is the happiest moment (wearing the dress) I would have that night.
After humiliating myself for five hours finding the beforementioned dress I thought I was being wise to my “hefty” situation by next buying body hugging undergarments. You know the things that cinch you in, hold your extra baggage sausage-like? I guess I’m just talking to the women out there…But, I found the perfect all-in-one. Bra and skirt together. Lots and lots of lycra. Brilliant! Somehow, I really believed I could benefit from such a contraption. And for an hour all went well.
I can’t tell you when it all when wrong or why. I can’t say I made a wrong move, made a sudden move, or really moved at all. But, the next thing I knew the top to before beloved undergarment had popped off. Literally popped off and slid. Down. Way down. Without warning. All through dinner I discreetly negotiated trying to pull it back up. Leave it to lycra to be so uncooperative. I never got it back to the right place.
Sometime later, the same thing happened with the bottom half. Instead of popping suddenly the bottom portion had, unbeknown to me, worked its way up. Subtly, silently. Now the entire garment was around my waist, and cinching only my waist. Not in a good way, either. If I had a tire before, now definitely I had two.
I spent the entire wedding reception glued to my seat. In a corner. Trapped beside an elbowing, poking mother who insisted I asked someone (anyone) to dance. Riiiight. Luckily, my cousin put it perfectly, “We don’t dance.”
Left Out
My husband refuses to read the book reviews when I blog. If he sees a book cover for a picture, he skips it. Automatically. He doesn’t come right out and say it, but I know he finds them boring. My impulse is to apologize, to be put off and/or hurtfully offended. Instead of being put off, I have to fight that off. I have to dig deeper and ask myself why anyone would read any word at all? Thinking like that keeps me way grounded – almost underground with humbleness. I think Kisa reads mostly because he’s married to me; he has a vested interested in what I might (or might not) say, but. But. But, he draws the line at boring books. I try telling him that I don’t write traditional reviews, that he might actually find one or two interesting….or something. He doesn’t care. He still won’t read. He has even said (and I quote) “you could call me a jerk, tell me I’m an asshole and I wouldn’t know it.” Hmmm…is that a challenge? Is that a Dare-You-To statement? That means I could unleash the dream about divorcing him; untether the frustration when I feel I’m not being fawned over enough; cry it’s a crying shame I can’t get him to clean the toilet. Seriously! Think of the possibilities! Actually…No.
Honestly, this is not a bone of contention between us (although it might sound that way). I don’t silently resent him for not reading me cover to cover, line after line, word by word. I sometimes cringe at what he does read, fearing he will misinterpret me just as much as the next person who doesn’t know me half as well. Or more.
ps~ Here’s a little haha for the unread: When I posted Everyday Zen I hadn’t been able to load a picture to go with it. So, when my husband signed into this site he was tricked into starting to read the blog. It’s actually kind of funny. When I joked that I almost got him he admitted, “yeah, it took me a few lines to realize I was reading a review…” then he added, “but when I did, I stopped.” Touche.
Everyday Zen
Beck, Charlotte Joko. Everyday Zen: Love and Work. San Francisco: Haper Collins, 1989.
I had a hard time wrapping my brain around the reading of this book. I think I couldn’t figure out what was bugging me until I realized the reading required more than just my brain. It asked my heart and soul, my beliefs and convictions to get involved. It became a religious thing and that was something I really struggled with in order to read Beck’s book. I admit it – I am a person wrestling with and for a belief. If that bothers you, stop reading right here. I am searching for self-acceptance for what I believe and, ultimately, do NOT have faith in.
I found it insteresting that Beck put the word love in the title of her book because in the chapter specifically on love she states, “love is a word not often mentioned in Buddhist texts. And the love (compassion) they talk about is not an emotion…” (p 71). I had an interesting time coming to terms with that concept.
The other quotes that I took to heart are:
“…the storms of life eventually hit them more lightly. If we can accept things just the way they are we’re not going to be gratly upset by anything. And if we do become upset it’s over more quickly” (p 13).
“We can’t love something we need” (p 39).
“Other people are not me” (p 68).
“Not all problems are as tough as these, but less demanding ones may still send us up the wall with worry” (p 99).
New Words:
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sesshin
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zazen
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koan
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zendo
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samadhi
BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Zen Buddhism And Meditation” (p 255).
Stop The Read
I have to stop, or at least slow down, the BookLust Challenge for a short time. Within a month I have been chosen to read three different Early Review books for LibraryThing. I don’t know how this happened, but there you have it. I will finish the two BookLusters I have going then switch to the Early Reviewer books; the first being a diet book (go figure). This feeling-fat reader couldn’t have asked for a more appropriate to start with. You will read why in a few days. Trust me, I have something to vent about and it’s not pretty!
You Didn’t Ask Me
I know this picture is huge. I wanted it big for a reason. The reason is this: to make the message loud and clear. Some time ago I told a friend this postcard (shamelessly swiped from PostSecret) reminded me of them (grammar be damned, I want to protect the not-so-innocent from scrutiny). Yes, I thought they had something to do with a could-of, should-of relationship. Then, the other other other day someone else admitted to me, “I married the wrong person.” Yikes. What, tell me, what exactly, clued you into the right or wrong of a marriage partner? How do you know that now, and more importantly, did you know that going into the whole “death do you part” deal?
Freak me out. It would kill me to regret any part of the vows I exchanged (and now share) with kisa. I could sigh and say someone else could have been more my speed, more my temperament, more my Me. But, that’s just the way life is…and isn’t. I’m not going to regret something because ultimately, that means regretting someone and that’s not fair. So, I ask again. Did you know you married the wrong person from the very start? If so, why did you do it, let it happen, whatever?
I admit! I play the “what if?” game in my head. That doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my here and now. I think of old boyfriends and what could have been. I don’t think there’s a person out there who hasn’t done something similar, if not the exact same thing. A kind of WhereAreTheyNow? for ordinary people. I’m sure someone is Googling you right now. If I question my future with my past’s someones here’s what I come up with: a bored housewife with alcoholic tendencies, a military maiden with issues with authority, an atheist marooned at marathon mass every Sunday, a tripped out druggie wondering which sex my husband is having, gay or straight, without me, a overworked mother of three who has to wait through “just nine more holes – just nine more.” None of these are my idea of me. But, I said yes at the time. Did I know I would be marrying the wrong person? Did I know all these past passings would be considered mistakes? Certainly not. Life just works in a weird, weird way.
Say It In Song
If memories are the stories of my life, music paints the pictures of my past, my present and my unknown future. The yet-to-come is contained in lyrics not yet listened to. I haven’t heard them. The heartbeat of songs not yet sung. The melody unknown. Not mine, not yet.
For now, I’ll hear the here and now. That’s what I should do. Here and now. I’ll listen to it over and over, chase it down, hunt like a phantom obsession. I know what I like. I know what’s not mine. “Gonna get what’s mine. Wild horses couldn’t keep it from me. Papa says I’m a golden child. The whole world’s gonna fall at my feel. It’s all coming to me. ~ Natalie Merchant” The soundtrack to a time I can’t compete with. Never forget. A time so sweet. Wish you were there again.
A child grows in the womb, a mother gives up her tumored fight. A grandfather finds his beloved wife. A man finds love on the run. A woman prepares for her own run. The heart of life beats on. Carries on. I hear it in song. So, sing to me.
~*LunaSea*~ 