Well. I should clarify. I’m bound by home but I’m not homeward bound…not yet, anyway. KISA & I have started the planning process. The date has been set, the house has been booked. So, we’re on a roll, so to speak. Figuring out when to go is half the battle.
I’m excited about this upcoming stay. We’ve rented a childhood’s friend’s childhood home. It will be like living in the house of childhood past. How much has it changed? What will I remember? Will I find the crayon scrawl I made behind the closet door? I can remember it like it was yesterday. Inspired by Harold I held a purple crayon. Hunkered down I drew a purple heart with a pounding heart. Will it still be there?
We asked friends to come with us. We always go through this process with trepidation. Will our friends “survive” the island? It’s always a crapshoot. No electricity. No Xbox. No cell phone. Who can take that kind of isolation without going crazy within the hour? When deciding who to ask we always throw around names and take bets. What are the odds? Does she blowdry her hair? Does he have to check his email all the time? Can they walk a mile? Live without Big Mac? To get the island is to get me.
Category: Life
Particle Theory
I spend a lot of time thinking about myself. I don’t think it’s a vanity thing. I think it’s an identity thing. Truthfully, I think it stems from an identity crisis of sorts. Some time ago I wanted to impress someone to the point of oppressing my personality. He liked pancakes at 2am. I was an 8am egg girl, but I learned to make flapjacks his way, and worse, love them. His likes and dislikes became my own through tons of time pretending. I faked so much I forgot who I really was. Was I a girl who loved golf or one who couldn’t stand the game? Was I sweats and tee-shirt, stand at the fridge chugging milk from the carton, or was I white slacks and silk blouse sipping a mimosa? I was in conflict with who I really was but at the time, true to form, oblivious. Blind. Friends tried to warn me as I lost my name, but I was too busy booking my next tee time. Helpless in a sea of Helpfuls.
I do believe that everyone “gets” something from the people they come into contact with. Especially the long-time, intimate contacts. I’m not talking mono or an STD. I’m talking about personality shaped by connection. Particles of personality clinging to the psyche that is undeniably “you.” I have an affinity for grape soda, hot dog and green olive pizza, Enigma, and apples with cheddar cheese because of someone introducing them to me. I’m sure I would have discovered these things on my own because in the grand scheme of things they were destined to be “favorites” (regardless of how I got to them), but I’m grateful the direction that led me there that much sooner. I practice yoga because one of the most important people in my life showed me the way. I dont’ do it for her but I can honestly say it’s because of her. I carry my father’s way of answering mail. I mimic my mother’s mannerisms when meeting strangers. I’ve adopted things and made them my own. I think I can name a particle I’ve acquired from every boyfriend I’ve ever had, even the golf fanatic…despite the fact I’ve definitely dropped the game.
Manchester Manic
We went to Manchester last night. Dinner ran late because of a dining dilemma. Fridays sorted it out and one of the best meals in ages was had. It’s nice not to be so manic about showing up on time to a show. Get there when we get there is cool by me. The music is getting better and better all the time, though. Drums are getting fuller and heavier. Guitar solos are becoming more complicated and achingly beautiful. Each song is developing more and more personality and deeper depth. To elaborate further would imply criticism of an earlier effort so I’ll leave it at that. My review of the heart. I said evolution and I meant it. I have decided I want to start a new Delicious trend involving the filler in the near end chorus.
The music is what gets me. Still. Always has, always will. I make no excuses for the love of the sound. I’ll continue to invite people to shows. I’ll still be disappointed when they don’t show. I’ll still buy every shirt and testify that thongs are all that. I’ll go the distance despite the fall from grace. I’ll admit, it’s terrible to be trapped under the weight of insecurity, or worse, isolation. Gone are the days of These Are Days. I convinced KISA to stay until the very end despite a headache and a long drive home. Still, I take the blame for him not hearing his favorite song. There is nothing I can do about it. It was my request. I’m at the end of my mania. There are no new listeners to reel in; no new three-day weekend roadtrips to take. I’m at a dead end and to some it looks like indifference. Life moves in mysterious ways. Priorities of promotion have appeased me. The choices we make aren’t necessarily the easier ways out. But. I’m still trying.
I want to thank B with all my heart. With the warm hug and beautiful smile I feel as if you were there just for me. One birthday drink and you were gone. Too soon, my friend. So, thanks for making me feel so special and I’ll see you in Danbury!
Time Out
I’m declaring tonight Time Out Time. I cleared the schedule, cancelled Boston and called in my favors. Tonight it’s time to recharge the batteries. No. That’s not it. I’m not run down or worn out. Okay, maybe I’m a little tired since Dot came to town, but that’s not the half of it. I need me. I miss me. By nature I’m a solitary girl. I like being alone-alone. Me, Myself & Moi all hanging out, talking to ourselves. I want to do the laundry from start to finish. Not a wash here, four hours later a dry there. Folding five days later. And forget about putting it away. I still have piles of laundry sitting on the floor outside my closet – From Monday. I have piles of paperwork, begging to be sorted. I’ve lost track of what bills are due and which my husband quietly paid while I wasn’t paying attention. 
Distracted. I have been too distracted by work and things are starting to fray. Don’t get me wrong – having dinner with friends has been awesome and the catching up was way overdue. Monday night was the bomb because of the bond. Okay, the cheesecake was boss, too. Even on the way home I thought of things to babble. If only my cell phone wasn’t trapped in the pocket blocked by the seatbelt! Wednesday night was all about VentVentVent. Bending the ear of someone who has no clue. Not involved in any way, shape or form. Probably the best way I know to get unbiased help on IM, Podcasting, Second Life, VoIp, Domain names…you name it. Nice to not have to call the director on the carpet, but rather sweep her under the rug. I can’t think about that anymore, either. Like I said, frayed.
I want to whip up a girly mudmask to combat the zip that’s been hanging out on my cheek all week. I want to spend an hour in restorative poses while Yungchen sings to me. I want to read a chapter from each of the five books I’m supposed to be reading. I still haven’t written thank you letters from Christmas – not to mention my birthday. I’m hugged in a maternity sweater from my-not-pregnant-anymore sister and she doesn’t even know I got it, let alone how much I appreciate her hysterical gifts. She’s right – I wouldn’t give up the lobster, either!
I just need to get back to me. I’m doing things halfassed lately. Yoga is a quick 5-15 minutes. Reading is a sentence here, a paragraph there. Knitting is a few rows, a few purls in between. Plants are drooping. Piles of laundry are growing. Taxes are lurking. I should get to them before I have to put out an APB on my W2.
To those of you I promised Boston to: Saturday. I will be where I said I would. Promise.
Static Sticking
My husband becomes a devil this time of year. His eyes glint with mischief and he can barely contain a smirk as he struts around our apartment. It’s like he drags his feet on purpose, just because he can. It doesn’t hurt him, yet for us girls it’s torture. It’s almost as if he enjoys inflicting this pain on the women in his life. I’m talking about static electricity. My KISA doesn’t need to build up a charge before zapping us. It just happens. He will sit on the couch and distractedly pet the cat. Pat. Snap. I watch as she flinches before contact every single time. Pat. Snap. Pat. Snap. Her ears flatten or a second and I can hear the electric crackle from across the room. It doesn’t hurt her much but it makes me shudder. When it comes time for me to make contact with KISA I practically slug him across the face to defuse the shock. Nine times out of ten it doesn’t work. I get jolted anyway. I’m sure the neighbor can hear me scream…ten houses away. And. He. Laughs. How cruel is that? We are not a violent household, but it sure sounds like it in the winter. I let out yelps of pain so loud I’m just waiting for the day someone calls the cops on us. It’s so bad that I want to ban certain articles of clothing that snap and crackle when removed. I had a sweater that puts on a spectacular light show when taken off in the dark. I gave it Goodwill. Touching metal anything is torture. Getting in and out of my car is hell. File cabinets. Light switches. Door knobs. Desk drawers. Doing laundry – having to peel the nightgown from running pants. I have to resist the urge to OD on dryer sheets.
All this electricity has got me thinking about the things we collect. A trait developed and adopted…sort of like a stray sock stuck to a towel fresh from the dryer. What is inherently me and what have I picked up from time served in a relationship? Something I’ve been thinking about. More on that later…
SoapBoxRant
It’s starting again. Those commercials and catalog “sales”. All getting ready for that day. Some people call it the Hallmark Holiday. Some people call it Emotional Blackmail or the TakeMeForAllI’mWorthBecauseIEnjoyBeingSuckedDry day. I call it the most annoying “holiday” from hell. I’m talking about Valentine’s Day. You know the one, always falls on February 14th. It’s the excuse of the lonely to whine about the state of their loneliness. It’s the prerogative of the newly in love to be even more PDA about their relationship. It’s the guilt-inducing, high-hoping, let-down day of the month that I (obviously) can’t stand.
When I first met my husband, back when he was barely even a potential date I ranted to him about VD. I’m sure he thought I was trying to impress him by not being “that chick” but I was serious. He sent me flowers. Two days before 2/14. The card said, “Happy Friday?” It was Friday. My kind of guy.
I hate the idea that people expect a gift on Valentine’s Day. Don’t get me wrong – I’m all about someone thinking of me, but not if it’s because the calendar said to. I don’t ever want someone to buy me flowers because “it’s the thing to do on 2/14.” Forget about chocolate – that’s just as bad. Is it so strange to want a cactus on January 12th? Is it odd for me to say, “give me something sour on All Souls Day”, or “surprise me with pickles and peanut butter next Tuesday”? I love roses, but not if I can predict not only their color, but their arrival date as well. Where is the fun in that? What’s worse is the thought of someone struggling to buy something just because 2/14 is the day to do it. Add the guilt of forgetting and it’s even worse. I hate, hate, hate it. I know I’m in the minority and that’s okay. There are legions of Love Day lovers out there. They’ve joined ranks with the I-Have-To-Have-A-Date-For-New-Years-Eve people (another ridiculous notion). My thinking is outnumbered by “Thinking of You” cards decorated with red and pink hearts. Shoot me now. Send me a cactus while you’re at it.
End SoapBoxRant. thank you.
Sex Switching
My husband asked me to make a hair appointment for him. I asked him to call our insurance agent to fix a crack in sirsy bug’s windshield. Why? I suppose it’s a matter of stereotypical comfort. He didn’t want to be the one to book a haircut at a lala ladies’ salon and I didn’t want to talk to some macho man mechanic. No matter. We look out for each other and that’s what our partnership is all about. But, here’s what’s bothering me. On the surface we’re fitting profiles I’m not pleased about. I did the girly thing. He did the guy thing. If I were my father’s daughter I’d changing my own sirsy oil and rotating the tires while I’m at it.
It got me thinking. What is it with sex stereotypes? Exactly who is the person driving the silver Honda with the rainbow butterfly decal that I’m following home? A homosexual lepidopterist? I assume “girl”. The car is slow, so I add “young” to my assumption. Am I switching sex based on sight?
Standing Next To Kin
I can’t really say I get hyped up over the Superbowl. I think I watch it more for the half time show (or the commercials) than anything else. Unless the Patriots are in it. Then, there’s something to make some noise over. I like the dynasty thing. I’d like to see more of it just because it wasn’t always this way. Remember the days of Drew? Change is good.
But, the Patriots weren’t in 41 so I could care less. Every game has a loser and this time I didn’t worry over who it would be. Even the commercials were nothing to make note of. Going into this we knew this would happen… yet we still insisted on gathering, gambling, eating and drinking. Any excuse to get together and be in each other’s company after all this time.
They’re all my husband’s friends. After all this time if he went his way and I went mine, they would all stay on his side so they’re his friends. I’m okay with that. We all like each other well enough and J and I aren’t going anywhere separately anytime soon. So, it’s all good, as they say. But, they’re still his friends.
Somehow, the wives got on the subject of kids. This has never happened before. I should mention that out of the six couples none of us have anything that fits the description of child. S & B are just past newlywed and I made the mental faux pas we all do. I assumed they would want one, would be starting one anytime soon. I thought, new state, new jobs, new house. Give them time to settle and when all is not so new they’ll announce the new addition. Not so. Not so to the point of not ever. wow. We women shot reasons for the lack of babe back and forth like a volleyball, each getting better than the last. Finally, we decided we would have to have a “not having a baby” shower for each of us in the group. It was funny and for once it felt good to laugh about it. It was good to stand next to kin.
Proper Placement
I like staring at the art on my walls. I’m not sure if it’s a sense of pride or a sense of person that keeps me standing still. If I don’t know the artist, I certainly know the image. In most cases I know both, for they are all portrayals, stills if you will, of my island life. Stories in frames. My home in intimate detail. My history in watercolor, oil and pencil. My memory lane matted and framed. Neimic, Stone (Jr. & Sr.), Barnes, Larson, Johnson, Bush, Tihansky, Caroll, Brooks, Wyeth, Drexler to name some. A little bit of everyone. The cliffs, the ocean, the harbor, the woods, in town, out of the way. Most of me is represented in art.
We have a whole room dedicated to art, shrine-like and stark. Off white walls, red trim. It’s not a room of comfort and coziness. You can’t sit down and enjoy the images and I like it that way. It’s my private sanctuary. I walk around the room and gingerly touch the frames, evoking home like a seance. I think about other art I want to own. Original Brooks, Wyeth, Neimic. Call me crazy, but I’d like the cemetery under a cerulean blue sky. In real life I have sanctuary among the headstones so why not in wet paint?
Kill
Why is it that we think we can take the ones we love for granted? Treat them like sh!t just because we know we can. Why does that saying, “we hurt the ones we love” even exist? Trapped in the car for two hours yesterday and that’s all I could think about. Rant about inside my head. I came up with so many excuses it made my brain hurt. Emotional sabotage. I’m afraid to speak for fear of letting more garbage come out of my mouth. I don’t know what I want to say, I barely know what I want to mean. I come across as foolish and frivolous when my feelings are anything but. It’s stupid to think that I can reason with the unknown. Sometimes, I am bold enough to think I am indestructible and I can wrestle any insecurity to the ground, pin it under my pride and carry on. Not so. Never so. I saw metaphors in the landscape. Trucks rolled by me, as big as whales. State troopers hungry like sharks evoked fear in this sea of bumper to bumper transportation. I’m a minnow in my little green sirsy bug (with the new cracked windshield and squeaky brakes). I’m cruising along, singing, “…these are days…” at the top of my lungs, trying to drown out the voice of stupidity. I don’t want to think about what makes us hurt one another. Because we can, so we do.
Perfect Day
Glamour sent me a Happy Birthday email and asked me how I would describe my perfect day. I can’t really detail the days that haven’t happened, even those wildest fantasy days, so I drew on something from long ago. This was my perfect day.
We were best friends, you and I. Back before your cousin showed me his meaning of best friend. Back before life got in the way. Back before adulthood and responsibility. We were friends.
We would start the day, you and I, by foraging for breakfast. We’d shamelessly stand begging for donuts at TY’s door, then climb knotty crab apple trees to eat the fruit whole, crunching through worm holes, seeds and not ripe cores (and the occasional worm).
We’d roll down Store Hill coming to a jumbled stop in bunches of sweet wild clover; a midmorning snack. Never mind grass stains or stares.
We’d head to Arnie’s Beach for elusive milk of magnesia blue sea glass and Arnie. We’d slide down rocks, over the slimy-spit laden seaweed and into the ocean until our shorts were stained black and worn through in places. Turn over rocks hoping to catch a crabby crab. Stare into tide pools waiting for the minnows to dart by. Smash perriwinkles with rocks for a raw lunch.
Skip pebbles on the Ice Pond’s tranquil face and laugh about an earlier prank. Look for coins in illegal faerie houses and steal every penny without guilt. Roll over mossy logs to look for black and yellow salamanders and gray leggy potato bugs. Dirt clogging our fingernails and hair.
Climb the big chestnut tree in Lex’s yard, get lost in the leaves and yell lewd things at the tourists, “You have big boogers, lady!” Jump down to scare the city slickers. Hide in lobster cars if that wasn’t enough. Give them the wrong directions to Lobster Cove if we wanted more.
Penny candy at Zim’s: fireballs and Swedish fish, Bit o Honeys and Bazooka Joes.
Wander to the dock to lay flat on our bellies. Playing I-Spy with the harbor’s bottom. Peer through the rippled water; the toilet bowl was off-limits because it was always there.
Take the skiff out for a round-the-harbor row, trailing fingers and toes in the icy water’s wake.
Climb to lighthouse lawn and play lion, tying knots of tall grass over our heads for forts.
If there was time, drop in Treetops for mocha and markers. As the sun set over the water and the end of day was near we would head for home. You for dinner, I late for curfew as usual. We could tell by the bell. Covered with sweet dirt and sticky candy. We swore, you and I, we had a rubber band between us; a band that would stretch and stretch until we each got home. You’d yell “got it?” and I’d call back “yes”. Back and forth through the neighborhood until we couldn’t hear each others’ fading voices. We swear the band wouldn’t break until we got to our front doors safely. You and I. A perfect day. To this day I don’t see a rubber band and not think of you.
PS~ I never did meet Arnie.
High
I started last night not knowing where I was going. When you’re on a treadmill you never know where you are going to end up. We are all gerbils going nowhere, but the emotional, mental end of the journey is a different story. Luckily for me it ended up being my best run in nine months. I rediscovered the elusive runners’ high. I was drowning in the electric buzz for hours afterwards.
It started out like any other run. The Cage was busy so I had to exert energy just to block out the bad music overhead and the bad conversations overheard. My KISA to the left of me & some teenage boy to the right of me. I’m drawn to competition so I kept a lazy, easy eye on both boys (more on that later).
I’m trying something new with the warmup – instead of walking for a few minutes I’m immediately jogging at a gentle pace right out of the gate. Something just shy of speed walking (4.2 for you treadmill junkies). I find that it gets me in the right frame of mind that much sooner. I can get to a good runner’s pace that much easier. Before long I found myself chugging along at a 9.5 minute mile. Feeling no pain. At one point my KISA pointed out our comparative calories burned and competition kicked in again. I upped the incline and pressed on faster. He laughed and I gave up. But, here’s what I learned from this run: when I push myself beyond my limits I reach a mental ecstasy. There is a spreading warmth all over my body; a warmth that hugs me close and lasts for hours. I’m hugged by the high. I literally walk around in a haze, a protective bubble of buzz. I feel like I’m floating and well, euphoric. I can’t explain it any other way: the euphoric groove. I realize there is nothing wrong with treadmill running. The belt below me forces continuous motion from me, myself and moi. I can’t slow down, I can’t even think about quitting. But the thing is, I’m not chained to the gerbil cage. The wheel is not my only running place. It’s not my prison. I realize I have the open road, the great fresh-air outdoors. I am not a wimp. I am not a baby. I will not limit my run to the coddled comfort of indoor containment. There is nothing wrong with getting my butt outside to chase that elusive high. I want it back.
Bottom line: 3.48 miles
Gone and Forgotten
I was wondering what I did on my birthday last year. Why didn’t I write about it? Where was I that I wouldn’t say something, anything? Florida. Tampa…no, Brandon, to be exact. That’s where I was. I remember now. I practiced five minutes of yoga and ran two miles in the morning. B made me breakfast. Humidity was fun for me. That same weekend J & I set sail for the Caribbean. Dave and Friends, Sunshine and sand. G. Love & funk. Buffets and booze. No wonder I didn’t write.
I cancelled sunshine this year. No Florida for me. I will miss the run; I will miss my friend of 25 years. Promotion prompted me to pass up pleasure. For this year.
Protecting My Good
“- – – – – – Says:
January 23rd, 2007 at 11:37 pm e
blank stares means I have confused and angered…and that makes me giddy”
I can’t decide how this statement makes me feel. Angry? Not necessarily. No. Sad, yes probably. Not good, though. I definitely don’t feel happy about this statement. For the past two weeks I have been dealing with people who felt they were dealt a raw deal. Up until last night I was looking forward to running away and not dealing with what was dealt. I’ve changed my mind about that.
Maybe it’s the yoga. No. I know it’s the yoga because something amazing has come over me. I think it’s called Calm. I am Quitting the Caring. I have determined I don’t need statements like this one in my life. Ordinarily, I would have done some calling out, and argued it out, and out and out and out. Rehashing the ugly. Not so this time. I’m simply saying I don’t agree with it. End of story.
I left someone because I thought he was too negative for my already black-clouded space (that, and the sad fact that he couldn’t keep it in his pants). But, really. Standing just this side of suicidal I needed sunshine, not cynicism and cheating sex. He couldn’t shake his own Eeyore attitude (or Her for that matter). He couldn’t deliver anything but derogatory remarks about the world around him, so I dearly departed him. Years later I still think of him in his Florida funk and wonder if making people confused and angry would make him giddy. Probably. Evoking a negative emotion in someone to create self~happiness really doesn’t make sense to me. But, it would to him, I’m sure. Here’s the thing: I don’t want or need an explanation. I’m okay with knowing I don’t want this negativity in my life. I want to surround myself with people who love their lives, are happy with who they are. I want to be around people who won’t Box me in or Eeyore me out. Those are the someones who will protect my good. Help me protect my good. Say something good, please. It will mean the world to me in these nagging, negative times.
Balance Better Than Juggle
I have been in the practice of balance lately. I could say I’m juggling work, yoga, running, and home life, but the word ‘juggle’ implies trouble. I prefer balance.
- Work has me frustrated because while the winds of change blow I’m the only one buckling down to face the inclement weather. Everyone else is bellyaching about bad reviews. Blahblahblah.
- Yoga has been all about balance, figuratively & literally. My knee is bothering me so I’m shaky on some of the standing balancing poses. I’m trying to reach with my eyes closed. I want to feel my center rather than force it into being. The other balancing act is making sure yoga is In The Day, everyday. I have been practicing for 24 days straight and some days it’s harder than others to fit it in. Harder than I would like. Truthfully, two of my sessions this week have been 5 minutes at a time. It feels like cheating. I’m looking forward to Thursday because hopefully an hour session will balance out the shorter ones.
- Running. Last night we went back to the Gerbil Cage. For some reason I wasn’t in the mood to push for speed. Maybe it was the knee. It could be the knee. I’m sure it’s the knee because it’s a new knee pain. At any rate, I tried for balance. After the warm up I ran an 11 minute mile & I tried closing my eyes every so often. It sounds corny to say it now, but I wanted to be one with the treadmill. I wanted to bind myself to the plastic, rubber and metal. To really own it. I once saw trainers run backwards on a treadmill and I want that kind of ownership. I want that comfort level. Closing my eyes helped me feel what I was running on rather than where I was not going. Bottom line: 2.9 in 35 minutes.
- Home Life. I think BubbleGum has a song about HomeLife. In a live version he says, “hold up – hold up. I’m about to tell the truth here…” and it sets me smiling. My truth. I have been a cooking fiend lately and I’ve had consultation work – two weeks worth- out of the blue. I’m loving every minute of the home life; it’s got me busy, but something’s missing. My friends. I want to sit with RG and just talk, maybe try that pigeon pose while we’re at it. I want to compare burnt tongues with A. I want to giggle over ‘Sex & the City’ with SB. I want to compare running stories with RC. I want SB2 to sniff my wrist and tell me the scent is too sweet for someone as bitter as I can be. I want to come face to face with P and know that she is as sweet in person as she is in print. I want to hang out with M and watch G entertain with talent. I want RC2 to tell me again how innocent she is not. I haven’t been to the movies. I’m tied up in books. I want a haircut. I don’t need a raincoat. I need balance.
~*LunaSea*~ 