We didn’t end up where we haven’t been so I ran. I promised I would. (thanks for messing with me). Truth is, the running thing is seeping back into my blood. I can feel it becoming as natural as time ticking. Except for this – it’s really hard to run on a full belly of burritos! Seriously. There is this small Mexi place right by where I used to work. Everything is authentic and good, good, good. I pity the person who is afraid to bite adventurously because there isn’t a bad thing on the menu. I could stand in front of that menu, drool coming off my chin, taking forever to decide just how hungry I am. I’m always biting off more than I can chew, more than my stomach can hold. In my greed for great food I gorge.
Last night was no different. We ate and ate. Later, I literally waddled up to the gerbil cage and said a prayer before rocking 3.4 miles in 35 minutes with warm-up. I’m proud of the pace. A month ago I was barely hitting 2.5 miles in that same time. I prefered a 12 minute mile over anything faster. Now, I’m comfortable with 10.5. What a scary thought. What a great feeling. So, B~ I didn’t get the 3.5 I promised you, but I came damn close – so damn close!
Someone pissed me off today and made me shut off my phone. The anger is enough to get me running again but I have to be smart. Last night I heard my hip gnash it’s teeth in pain when I climbed the stairs. Last night I ran hard and I ran happy. I never run stupid. I’ll wait a day. The anger will still be there, but the Mexi won’t. I wonder how far I’ll get?
Category: Confessional
I Dare Ya
This is the face that means business. This is the face that says, “mess with me. i dare ya.” This should be my face today. Yesterday, one of my staff didn’t make a deadline which made me look bad. Today, the other shoe drops…with no regrets.
Tonight we go where we haven’t. At least not in a very long time. I’m not sure I’m up to it. I haven’t run in two days Today will be three. I don’t have that Kick In The Azz ‘Tude. And yet, this is the face I should have.
23 days ’til Darfur.
Spoon
I’m functioning on a little over three hours of sleep and my brain seems to be fixated on fukcing spoons. I just want a clean nonplastic, I repeat – clean spoon. One spoon. One that doesn’t have little curly cues of plastic shavings around the edges; one that doesn’t have dried crude on the handle, water spots, coffee stains, or sharp edges from being chewed up in the garbage disposal. We don’t even have a garbage disposal so I’m not sure what’s up with that. I just know it looks more like a weapon than something I’d want to put in my mouth. I’ve scoured the staff kitchen with little luck. All I need is a utensil with which to eat my yogurt before it starts doing the creepy crawly across my desk. Is that too much to ask? I would really like to enjoy my blackberry parfait before the word culture takes on a whole new meaning. It’s been over an hour. Maybe I can use a straw? Damn spoon.
Post Traumatic
I went through a little post trauma yesterday. Even though the tanker accident is long over and traffic moves on and I said my peace & prayers I wasn’t prepared for to pass the spot. See, usually everyday I pick up kisa from his work, and usually everyday I take that same exit where the accident happened. For all intents and purposes, I usually mimic the car that caused the accident; trying to get on the highway & blend with the rushing vehicles already going my way. Except for the past four days I had been avoiding that spot. Last night was my first time driving the route since the trucker died…and I couldn’t do it. Kisa took the wheel and took over. What surprised me was how I flinched when he smoothly merged between two cars. Am I scared of traffic? Will I be gunshy from now on? How I winced when we came upon the scene of the accident. Have I lost my aggressive nature? What exactly bothered me? The shiny new guard rail? The workers still trying to pick up pieces of debris & rake over the black scorched earth? The evidence was like a fresh wound, ugly and raw. To me, it was like driving through someone else’s hell and feeling the pain. It hurt and I don’t know why.
Solo Strength
Last night, when all the friend saving was said and done, I took a desperately long bath. Car accidents and drunkenness aside. The water is where I calm myself. I like to sink beneath the surface and listen to the world from underneath. Everything always sounds echoed and hollowed. Warped and wavy. The dripping spout sounds like a tuning fork. The African cd sounds more like muffled birds than joyous voices. I like the warmth of the water, cradling me. Steam rising from the surface. Last night I stayed silent and unmoving letting the water become as calm as can be. I wanted to become just as still, just as calm. With only my nose above water I willed myself to be slow and easy. A ladybug crawled over the spout and paused to investigate the drip before making its way along the rim of the tub. Every time it stopped I thought about its journey and wondered if it would join me in the water. A solo ladybug going somewhere. When it finally disappeared from view I thought about Aaron, about alcohol, about aborted engagements and mourned one and all. Not my lives, nothing to do with me, but I will miss them just the same.
While my muscles were still warm from the bath I practiced sun salutations for half an hour. There is something about moving from pose to pose as slowly and silently as possible that makes me feel whole. Strong. Centered. Solitude is my saving grace. My breath was just as quiet as in the bath. If I thought I could communicate with you through mental telepathy I would have said I’m finished with the anger. Silently I would have said I’m done being raving mad. Because while I didn’t want to talk to you at such a late hour I wanted you to know I’m fine. But, thanks for being there.
Here’s the thing. I’m finding I’m learning to let go of anger and hurt more easily. I have found my solo strength.
Are You Afraid?
I can’t tell you how many times I have heard someone say the words “I hate change.” Why is that? Yes, to both: why am I hearing it so often and why do people hate change much? Here’s why I ask – I just took a pretty intensive course on leadership and how to direct “my people” through changes. Basically it was all about how to hold their hands during that “transition” phase. Please. Six weeks of Be Sensitive to their feelings. Six weeks of Be Gentle with the speed of change. Six weeks of Be Patient. I aced the course because I just regurgitated the touchy-feely statements but, I’ll say it again. Pahleeease! Give me a freakin’ break. I’m tempted to warm up some milk and make sure everyone has a blankie on hand for sleepy time. If everyone were allowed to resist avoid change we would still be tapping out our love letters in dots and dashes.
Here’s the thing. Change IS hard. I’ll admit that. Change can be intimidating, especially when you don’t see the need for it, or can’t imagine the future any differently. But, consider the alternative. Same is dull. Same is same old-same old. I couldn’t imagine having the same job, the same schedule, the same life year after year. You know you’re really in trouble when your ex from three years ago knows where you’ll be on Any Given Thursday. What’s worse is when that ex is right…ALL the time. I don’t want someone to expect me somewhere because I’ve always been there. To be that predictable is pitiful. Pitiful and seriously sad.
I don’t have the same job I had six months ago. Traded it in for something a little more stressful, yet a little more stimulating. I don’t have the same relationships I did a year ago. Traded them in for deeper, more meaningful exchanges. I don’t listen to the same music I did two years ago. I’ve opened my ears to bands with names like Dumpstaphunk and JuJu and Sonny Landreth. I changed my mind about movies. I found a new Indian restaurant and discovered I actually like bananas now. I am in a transitional phase with my family. I guess you could say I am changing all the time. While I’m not always comfortable with change, I’m always looking forward to the new me.
One more example: someone very dear to me is saying goodbye to a life she has known for years and years. No. In my opinion she was born to have this life and she’s letting it go. Like hearing about a divorce of two really, really good friends I was shocked. At first. Then she said it: I. need. a. change. She’s assures me it’s for the best. Suddenly I see. Suddenly, I get it. Change is good for her and she is not afraid. For everyone else, I’ll bring out the milk and cookies.
Stop This Moment
Someone called me this Grim Reaper this morning. I seem to circle death like a big ugly vulture. I’m like the black widow of the highway. Just last night I was thinking of how haunted I am (still!) by the man hit obliterated by several cars on the highway. I want to talk to him. I want to ask him where was he going? Did he really think he could cross four lanes of traffic in the darkdarkdark of winter? Did he know he was going to be mangled beyond recognition, no legs, no arms, no head- only clothes to make the man human? Then, I want to know to know why there weren’t any flowers, no makeshift memorials to mark someone’s mourning? Wasn’t someone saddened by your untimely demise? Doesn’t someone out there wake to find a void without you day after day? Aren’t you missed by somebody? Even now?
This morning on our way into work (I was driving) kisa and I caught the tail end of an accident of a different kind. Different, yet it was another horrific moment on the highway. Blacker than night smoke and a fireball at least 50 feet high. Cars starting to pile up, break lights glowing. Everything coming to a halt. Here’s what is rumored to have happened: a tanker truck carrying gasoline and diesel was cut off, he swerved to avoid hitting the car that had just cut him off, ended up hitting someone else, swerved again to avoid further damage and ended up hitting a third vehicle, partially going over a bridge and finally burst into flames. People rushed to his rescue. Here’s what drives me nuts. Conditions of any driver involved: unknown. It’s hard to imagine anyone surviving something like that.
Here’s what I do know. Three cars and a truck. At least four different people going somewhere. Going about their business on the same highway. Four people in the same place at the same time. Not one of them said “I might lose my life today.” Not one of them said “Later I am going to be in the accident that will make the headlines. I will be lucky to be alive.” No one kissed a spouse goodbye and thought “Maybe I won’t see you later.” If kisa and I had left on time we could have been in that mess. Ten minutes earlier and we could have been that fourth vehicle. We could have. Could have.
Something to think about: A man from North Hampton, N.H. climbs in his truck and starts his long journey home. Another man settles into his compact car and turns the key thinking about March Madness. A woman looks over her shoulder as she backs down the driveway. She’s meeting a friend for coffee. Another woman pulls her seat belt across her lap as she pulls out of a parking spot. She has one more stop before heading home. Ordinary. Not one of them expects anything different.
Not Just Anyone
You know that feeling when someone does something and you see it one way and that someone else sees it another? There is that weird disconnect between It Means A Lot and It’s No Big Deal? All night long I was stuck in the land of limbo.
First there was my JustFries man, making the trip to come hang out with me. Me, myself & moi! I invited. He accepted. Just like that. It was cool. When I thanked him for coming (because it meant a lot) he shrugged (like it was no big deal). No, really. It meant a lot. I want to join the Revolution and see you soon.
Then, there was the band. They weren’t even supposed to play. So what? I had driven over 2 hours to see them. So what? They didn’t owe silly me a performance. They could have turned around and driven back to wherever saying sorry! Your loss! Better luck next time! But, they found a place to play. And play they did. I loved Breakdown and Sympathy. They probably didn’t even get paid for their efforts but, but! But, they played as if they were each getting a cool mil. It was priceless to me.
Finally there was MrMissYou. My highlight of the night. I would have driven three times as far to hear a dedication like that. It may have meant nothing to you, but it meant the world to me.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that in the company of amazing people I find myself thinking I’m not just anyone. It’s no big deal to you or you or you, but it means everything to me.
There was only one other person I really missed that night. Maybe next time?
You Have It Better
I have climbed up on the soapbox to tell you this: just because You are not Me does not mean I have it better. There is a certain whine that I cannot abide by. Not anymore. I’m sick of you thinking because I’m not you I have it easier. I don’t have your troubles. I don’t have your burdens. Therefore, (you think), my life must be easier than yours. Welcome to the bullsh!t but where in the world did you get it? What did I do to give you the impression that I have the easy life because I don’t own a house or have three kids? Hell, I don’t even have a dog I need to walk so I m u s t have the charmed life. Right?
It’s funny. Children are the end-all, be-all for excuses. Pull a problem out of a hat and blame the kid. The ultimate PityMeParty because you don’t have a moment to yourself; you can’t afford this or that; you’re oh so tired. Give me a break. It’s not my fault you forgot to take a pill or wear a rubber. Don’t look to me as “lucky” because I don’t have motherhood as my middle name. You haven’t even stepped in my shoes so let’s not pretend about walking that mile in them, okay? You don’t ask the questions so I can’t give you the answers. And who’s to say you would listen anyway? All you know is that I don’t have daycare in my vocabulary so my life must be dandy.
My reason for this rant? Single Income, Three Kids all under the age of six, Five Pets, Four Charities and not a single WoeIsMe complaint. Does not envy a dink like me. You go girl.
Beatles Sex or Celine?
I can’t decide. My choices are, but are not limited to: The Beatles, Zoomanity, Celine Dion, Wayne Brady, tigers…and some burlesque thing. At least that’s what I’ve found so far while researching things to do…other than gamble…in Vegas. Here’s the thing. We’re planning our Nevada/Utah,/Arizona/California trip and I want to make the most of everything everywhere. We’re giving Vegas only two days. So, that means cramming a lot into a little time. Definitely a show in Vegas, maybe 10 minutes of gambling (just to say I did it), and who knows what else. I am a virgin when it comes to Vegas. Sooo “skies the limit” as they say. To say that I want to experience it all doesn’t mean I want to find a prostitute…and I was only kidding about Celine Dion. She is not an option. Neither is Wayne Brady. But, I do know there is a wealth of fun in Vegas. After all, someone had to have coined the phrase “what happens in Vegas…” for a reason. Right?
This is what I know I want to do in Vegas: skinny dip in the pool, find a turtle in the wilderness sanctuary, have a cheeseburger in paradise, do that 10 minutes of gambling I mentioned, have a dirty martini, see a CirqueDuSoleil show (sex or Beatles? I can’t decide!), find evidence of Bugsy’s vision (at the Flamingo), maybe get a new tat, and finally, last but not least, find a diner that serves huevos rancheros at 3am. That’s pretty tame for what I could want. I know I know! But, it’s a start. Right?
Pivotal Moments
It’s not often that I notice a turning point, a change of definite direction, one of those important pivotal moments in life. It’s striking when something strikes me as “pivotal” – such as what happened today.
I came across a resume of a friend. One of those drowned relationships that sank without apparent good reason. I admit, I let it sink. I have this habit of moving away from something if it no longer feels right. Such is the case with this friend.
I met her at one of the most out-on-a-limb times of my life. I was creating a new existence like never before. Everyday was a struggle to not fall. I clung to anything supportive. While I wasn’t paying attention she easily fit herself into the newness of it all. Somehow she became someone with the label of friend. It was all without fanfare and I thought nothing of it. It just happened and I didn’t notice. Until I started thinking too much about it. Something about the friendship made me worry. Made me nervous. Made me more than a bit uncomfortable. Made me want to move away – just a little. I started to decline invitations. Started to invite her out in groups of people. Strength in numbers. It was more than just having nothing in common or disagreeing about just about everything.
When she finally went away for good it took me months to really notice. It took another month to really care. Another month to be surprised by how much I did care. I made feeble attempts to fish around for the friendship. Murky and muddled I wasn’t sure I really wanted to find her. I sound horrible, but really I was more than confused. I wasn’t sure what I really wanted. Looking just to look? What would I say if and when I found her?
I found her resume today. Full name, address, phone number. Email. All things I had lost along the way, suddenly now in my way. Everything I needed to start all over again. Information in my hands. The search I didn’t really know if I wanted to make. Then came the turning point. The change of direction. That pivotal moment I mentioned earlier. I don’t know what made me do it, but letting by-gones be by-gones I let her resume slide into the trash. The moment the paper left my hand I knew it was one of those moments. If it were a scene in a movie it would have been slowed down and dramatized. The symbolism of such a shot is not lost on me. I let go.
The Dying Know Their Time
“Dearest Dalva,
I am putting my affairs in order, and that is why you have this short letter from a dead man. I don’t intend to tip over tomorrow but I sense this will be my last summer. Unless we are insensitive we know our own weather” (Dalva, Jim Harrison; Dutton, 1988. pg 287).
My good friend Leo started to say things like this six months before he committed suicide. He saw himself as not a weather pattern, or a change in temperature, but rather a leaf on a tree. He admitted that he could see himself dropping from the limb “any day” and that he wasn’t meant for this world. Over and over, leaves were his symbol of life and death was the act of disconnecting from the branches. Falling gracefully.
I had no idea he was planning his own end. No idea that his suffering was something no doctor could cure. There was no medicine that could soothe him. Despite a daily raw onion eaten like an apple (!) his pain was the very act of aging itself. Failing eyesight, faulty plumbing, noisy hearing aids. Shaking fingers. Uncontrollable, unstoppable aging. Repeatedly he kept telling me it’s time. “Not today,” he would gently assure me, “but it’s time. It is time” Over the phone his breath sounded raspy and his voice mean. I swear I could smell onion juice.
One time he was taking me to the Bronx to look at plants. As a member of the Botanical Gardens he had all sorts of access to all sorts of green things. He wanted to buy me a huge tree. Remembering his analogy of death I refused. Plus, I had nowhere to put it. ‘Just walk with me and tell me the names of plants’ I begged. He smelled of onions and vodka like always. He walked with hands clasped behind his back asking “does this make me look Jewish? No? Too bad! Because I am.” And laughing loudly, scaring away pigeons in the brush. It was hard to believe he wanted to fall with a laugh like that. I ended up allowing him to buy me a small fern which dried up and whithered away the following fall, despite my diligence to watering and worrying.
On the day I learned of his death, confused and angry, I threw up at the first sight of an onion. I couldn’t understand the meaning behind “I Quit” written on a calendar. Leaves weren’t supposed to pluck themselves from the limb. Whatever happened to falling off gracefully?
In the end Leo taught me that you don’t have to be sick to be dying. It was years before I really accepted it. Even still I don’t think I understand it. The dying know their time.
Stay Away from Gainesville
Stay away from Gainesville, Florida…or better yet, someone find George E. and muzzle him. George writes for the Gainesville Sun and believes Central Florida should “pull the plug” on public libraries in his county. He goes through the usual blatherings “no one needs a library anymore…we’ve got the Internet!” Yes, you do, Mr E. That and a whole bunch of garbage. Here’s a little exercise for you – Let’s say you have a not-so-manly problem of ED and you want to research the problem. So, you get yourself on Google and “research” your anatomy to figure out where the “dysfunction” comes from. Or doesn’t. Sorry about that bad choice of word. Check out how many hits Google was able to return to you in whatever seconds. [Google likes to brag about that sort of thing. Not sure how useful it really is when no one looks beyond the first two pages of search results…] but, anyway. Back to the exercise. Now go to Google Scholar, that is, if you know how to find it, and conduct the same search. What’s the difference? How much porn did you get with the first search? How much do you really want to be looking at people doing it while you can’t even get it up? Can you evaluate your sources accurately? Do you take advice from just anyone (because that’s what you’re doing if you can’t tell who’s sponsoring your search results)? Do you even care? Obviously not if you can’t see my point.
I like the woman who laid it all out in her comment: what her “library” taxes cost her per year compared to her savings when borrowing (for free) books, journals, dvds, music, cds, and audio books. The real kicker is when she mentions the research help she got from a real, honest-to-goodness librarian that saved her husband’s life. Priceless.
Someone else said Florida’s culture is going down the drain (well, they called the culture “backwater” which to me sounds equally unappealing). I don’t know that much about the Sunshine State, but I do know complaints about Florida’s lack of culture is nothing new. I have a friend who’s dying for a little culture in her little corner of sunshine.
Why do I rant about this? I’m sick of trying to defend my profession. There. I said it. I have a vested interest in all libraries and not just my own. I admit, the word ‘library’ is archaic. But, in this ever-growing wealth of cyber information someone needs to stand in the mire and sort it all out. That’s what professional librarians are paid to do. I have to wonder what Ben Franklin would say if he met Mr. George at a dinner party and was told “you don’t need a library for books, just to go the Salvation Army!” Since I’m not in the mood to promote George’s editorial let me know if you want to read it for yourself. I’ll forward the link….
Stepping off the soapbox for today.
oh yeah, and have a nice day.
The Music Game
I have a proposition to make. I’m exploring the idea of running on emotion. Right now I’m running by heartbeat. Bass and drums, bass and drums. Driving beats that match footfall. “Last night” I ran to Paint It Black five times because it got me where I wanted to go. That’s nice and all, but I want more. I need more. I found that I get more “fired up”, more “pumped” to run when there is a strong emotion behind it. Does that make sense? I’m looking to explore the idea of running angry (since I have so much of it, naturally), running happy, running with purpose. I’m thinking running angry will be a good substitute for energy since I’m less likely to have a surplus of that thing called energy, ha! 
Last night I was discussing the “angry” songs with kisa. I think he was surprised to hear Gravedigger by Dave Matthews is on the list, but when he asked “1940 to 1992?” I knew he understood completely. It’s the line that gets me every single time. What’s The Matter Here? by 10,000 Maniacs goes without saying. How could any song about child abuse not get you pissed off? Uncomfortable by sirsy is another great one.
So here’s a question for you: if you could pick 10 songs; 10 all-time favorite, YOUR greatest songs ever, what would they be? How about if there were rules attached like one had to be from the 1980s (‘cuz I’m an ’80s child), one had to be a love song, one had to be personal (for whatever the reason), and one had to outside your comfort zone. Could you pick 10 and only 10? If you can do it, lemme have ’em!
Here’s my all-time 10 (don’t laugh)
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These are Days ~10,000 maniacs
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Take Me To the Top ~ Loverboy
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Paint it Black ~ Rolling Stones
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Bulls on Parade ~ Rage Against the Machine
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Holiday ~ Scorpions
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Please Let Me Be ~ sirsy
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Thick as Thieves ~ Natalie Merchant
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Pretty Polly/Diver Boy ~ traditional murder ballads
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Grace is Gone ~ Dave Matthews Band
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Island Woman ~ the Merrymen
I think it’s pretty obvious where my inspirations are hiding. 80s song, love song, personal song, out-of-comfort-zone song. They’re all there. Those of you who know me will be able to spot them in a second. I doubt there will be any surprises. Your turn.
Compassionate Hate
“I try to incorporate compassion into my everyday life because without trying, nothing in this world will ever change.” ~ Now & Zen Yoga
Some of you might recognize this quote as a comment from one on my blogs, but as I said before, it’s worth repeating. I lose my compassion about 50 times a day. Drop it somewhere. Forget about it. Impatience, intolerance, insensitivity – all these things find and take control of compassion’s lonely place. Like the impossibility of holding water in my hands I find it difficult to hold onto good thoughts, deeds and gestures throughout an entire day. They slip away undetected as bad moods settle in; goodness is chased away by anger, frustration, irritation. Where does this come from and why is it easier to be this way?
I was at a family function not long ago when my table companion leaned over to me and whispered ” —‘s put on weight.” I found myself taking furtive glances. I couldn’t really tell. Suddenly angry I snarled, “her dress is beautiful!” knowing my companion hated her own. Was I trying to defend the weight-gainer or hurt the observer? Maybe both. I couldn’t tell. I do know I was caught between two kinds of cruelty.
This morning I was on my way to pick up bagels. I could have gotten the supermarket variety – six of one kind, half dozen of the same. Instead I went gourmet and bought flavors like apple cinnamon, garlic and herb, honey walnut, and blueberry. Fancy cream cheeses on the side. It was good to be generous. On the sidewalk sat a crumpled, bearded man. More blue than blueblue eyes stared up at me. I dropped a five in his can and wordlessly walked away. I couldn’t help wondering how he would spend it. Wine? Cigarettes? Or something stronger? Something only a syringe could deliver? Was it callous of me to think that way? Why did I think I just donated to his uselessness? Why couldn’t I think something better of his begging?
Oddly enough, I have gotten help through someone else’s blog. If you are really interested, click on February 15th’s post titled “Happy Day.”
oh. and have a nice day.
~*LunaSea*~ 