Category: Confessional

What I Did (Thank You Very Much)

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studyoflegs
Everyone has a comment about my legs. Or, rather, the pictures I had taken of said legs. There have been mixed reviews, for sure. Funny how the boys have good things to say (thank you, gentlemen) while the girls…well, they don’t say anything negative, per se. Just stuff like “what made you do that?” voices trailing off, implying judgment just under the skin. The tone is not condescending…yet not very complimentary either. Umm…thanks.
Here’s why I did what I did. Maybe there are women out there who do not have a single complaint about any part of their body whatsoever. Maybe there are women out there who think they are perfect in every single way and wouldn’t change a thing. Good for them. I, on the other hand, (unfortunately), am not one of those women. I could find fault with a fingernail (they don’t grow straight). The recent weeks of trying on clothes that did not flatter, finding new gray hairs and realizing gravity works in mysteriously bad ways has really taken a toll on my otherwise happy-to-be-me personality. Turning another year old hasn’t help matters. As my mother says, I’m 39 and “holding.” Middle aged, if I think about it, and consider the odds of living to 78 and beyond.

To put it bluntly, I needed something. Me & myself, we needed compliments from moi. In a nutshell, I wanted to stand in front of a mirror and proclaim myself happy to see me in that WhereHaveYouBeenAllMyLife? enthusiasm. I just wanted to be happy to be me. So, yes, it took fishnet stockings. It took high heeled boots and it took a schoolgirl skirt to put me in that frame of mind. The bigger compliment to myself was the ability to stand (or sit on a kitchen counter provocatively) in front of a camera and capture the moment. The biggest compliment was for me to post myself for all the world to see. Truly proving that while I have changed dress sizes and acquired more gray hair, I have reclaimed my sense of self. I heart me once again. So, that’s why I did what I did. Thank you very much.

With Absolute Abandon

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tigerlilyI am obsessed with you. Every word you utter ripples through me; sends shivers down my spine and spears my heart. I cannot get enough of your voice and how you say what you do. I capture my tongue hostage for fear of parroting too much, driving others insane with incessant talktalktalk of you. It’s all in what you say that makes it impossible for me to fall silent.
I realize this is my way. This has always been my way. I fall in love easily, carelessly, with absolute abandon. New fascinations rein supreme while old loves are tossed aside without favor. Over and over and over again. How my husband tolerates me I’ll never know.
But, but, but, back to you. Always you. If you were to stand before me, if I knew you, would I have the courage to confront your voice? Would I be capable of communicating my devotion to your craft? I hate the heartache you force me to feel. I am a fool for your politics, your positions. I don’t walk away easily – for even after I have removed myself your words follow me. Like a fine coating of dust that can’t be wiped clean you cover my conscience. You preach the imperfections and I pour over every word like a new language I have yet to understand.

Flicked to Flix

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My dislikes have the awful habit of growing to aversions. After they avert they become near-phobias and I give up completely. Somewhere along the way I stopped liking movie theaters and, above all else, going to them. I chalked it up to annoying people talking through the good parts, having to “hold it” until the very end, and the waste of money if the film wasn’t all that good. I couldn’t justify gathering the courage to shush someone (gawd forbid), or sit in pain while I twisted my bladder in agony, or spend a small fortune on popcorn and flat, mostly iced soda. I was perfectly capable of keeping my mouth shut, pausing for a bathroom break, and making my own freakin’ popcorn (with Tabasco) at home.
After I had given up on going to the movies I soon began to hate watching movies in general. My interest in renting became almost nonexistent after awhile. Suddenly, going to Blockbuster was more of a bubble buster. They never had what we wanted when we wanted it and when they did, the copy usually had some skipping/freezing/blank screen problem. We could never return the disks on time and we almost always missed out on the special features. Director commentaries are almost always just as long as the movie itself and who has time to watch the thing twice, especially when it has a 2-day rental sticker on it? Me & movies~  suddenly we didn’t get along so well. It kind of hurt my feelings, especially when friends and family would ask “did you see — yet?” or I’d read a book and realize it probably made a pretty good movie, too (as in the case of In Cold Blood by Truman Capote), or that nagging, tiny itch to see every Oscar winner for best pic…
Recently, my husband has turned to Netflix. So far we have seen five movies in just as many weeks:

  1. I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (funny, funny scene with Dave Matthews – who knew he could be so gay?)
  2. Click (One of those “morality” movies – wasn’t super thrilled with it)
  3. Capote (I am a huge, huge fan of Capote – both the writing and the person. This was the best one so far)…
  4. Stranger than Fiction (I expected Will to be naked and Emma to be dry. Who knew I would be so wrong? Great movie!)
  5. Memoirs of a Geisha (although this was lengthy, it was worthy)

My sister wants us to rent Weeds. Someone else suggested House. Not only am I trying to catch up on movies missed, but television, too! Yikes.

Sunday SuperBowl Solitude

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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

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the-dress.jpgI 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.”

Hell Has a Name

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FatHell does have a name. Hell, hell has several names. Shopping…malls…Macy’s. Take your evil. Pick your poison. Five hours of scouring racks, trudging into fitting rooms, undressing and cringing, fighting static electricity all the while, not wanting to scrutinize lines too closely, yet knowing if I didn’t someone else would, deciding “no, this doesn’t work” only to start the process all over again. Back to the racks. Pushing aside hangers of too flashy, too shiny, too young, too short, too I’mNotThatGirl, too Holy-Cow-They-Want-$250-For-That?! Finding one or two things to haul back to the all-telling mirrors. Glancing over the shoulder, deciding something’s just not quite right (oh wait. It’s me that’s not quite right). Back and forth. Forth and back.
Halfway through the process I noticed a stain right in the middle of my turtleneck and my sweater was beyond brimming with snapping static. My feet were hurting and by dress #8 I broke a nail trying to negotiate the too-tight zipper. That should have told me something right there. With each try-on I felt fatter and fatter. Uglier and uglier. I started to curse my cousin and question why big, fat me had to attend his wedding. The dressing room felt too tiny and someone had turned up the heat. Too make matters worse, some lady tried to steal my dressing room while I was in my mother’s dressing room deep in consultation. How this woman had missed my inside-out jeans on the floor, my cat hair covered coat on the seat, my purse hanging on the door…not to mention the stained turtleneck lying crumpled in the doorway, is beyond me.
Finally, frustration found me and I started trying on black anythings. Black, black, black. Not a shred of color. I settled on something with rhinestones, something fit for a funeral. Shopping had been the death of me. I was so relieved to be finished, done with the search that when I dressed back into my clothes for the final time I put my turtleneck on backwards and forgot to zip my jeans.

ps~ while this makes a great end to the story, just wait until you hear about what happened at the wedding…Hell gets worse.

Left Out

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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

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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:

  • sesshin
  • zazen
  • koan
  • zendo
  • samadhi

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Zen Buddhism And Meditation” (p 255).

Stop The Read

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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

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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

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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.

Tomorrow is Today

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I’m literally at a loss for words today. If I could climb into the attic of my mind, and you watched me, you would find me picking up stray thoughts, turning them over and over, considering them – weighing the weight of them, pondering their importance and, ultimately, putting them down again, not discarding, just avoiding. I have a few things up there in that attic. I am still in mourning over a quiet death. I am still not feeling 100% well. Both my heart and body are on the mend. It’s just taking a little longer than I expected. There is more.
I ran last night. While I am happy to have faced the Gerbil wheel again I know not to get too excited. I could fall off again just as easily as when I got on. I know myself. I’m still feeling an October hurt. I’m still nursing a December disappointment. 2008 hasn’t come quietly. But, the good news is I ran easily. I ran confidently. Rubber raced under my feet while I watched three miles tick by. Simply starting over.
Tomorrow I see a friend. Someone to listen to. I don’t want to talk about me. I’d rather forget me for a while. I’ll let the attic lay dark, let the thoughts sleep quiet. It will be nice.

Obsession with Words

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Everyday I listen to a song that has me in angry tears. I listen to it two, three…okay, sometimes even more than three times a day. I have no idea why I am so addicted. Drawn to pain, I really can’t turn from it. I told myself there’s a nice drum fill in it, but that’s not it…really, it’s these words:
“Every morning waking in a fever, wet, and shaking. My heart inside me pounding, muddy water all around me. Cold, shocked and speechless. Can anybody reach us? And, why? Oh God, why?…
Gone and lost my patience with this hopeless situation. Oh yeah, I’m alive, the lonely sole survivor. Spared me for a reason, picking up the pieces. But, why? Oh God, why?”

Oddly enough, whenever I cook (the last four or five meals, anyway) there’s another song kicking around. I’ve been singing, “I never meant to be so bad to you…one thing I said I would never do. One look from you and I would fall from grace and that would wipe the smile right from my face…” and a picture a chick doing gymnastics on television sets. How very bizarre!

These words couldn’t be further apart in terms of meaning, time, artists and space. Yet, inside my head, here they live side by side. Day in and day out I am obsessed with the words.

From the Sky

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Is it wrong to have favorite moments from a funeral? Is it wrong to find small laughs and smiles amid the sorrows? We approach the “home” in a black clad seriousness, create small family clusters and murmur small talk about illnesses; it’s the weather’s fault. We all agree. Nod seriously. We want to avoid the real reason why we have gathered. Soon enough it is time to start. Quietly, we shuffle to seats and send furtive glances at the flower laden casket. So many flowers. Tissues and tears emerge in front of just-reminded, grief-stricken faces. We haven’t lost sight of why we are here, after all.
Funerals are for the living, of this I am convinced. It is our chance to praise, to love, to remember, to pay respect, to say goodbye. We may even realize or learn something for the first time. He didn’t miss a day of work. Made his girl pay her own bus fare home on their first date. He lost friends in the war and never, ever forgot their names or their faces. He was dedicated to worrying about family so you didn’t have to. He shared a love of Red Sox with his grandson. He had a Beloved Wife and shared over 60 years of marriage with her. He died of a broken heart.
At graveside the air is crisp, the sky a brilliant blue. Taps is played and suddenly a strong wind blows up, shaking snow from the overhanging tree. A saluting soldier is hit squarely in the face with a Mother Nature snowball, yet he does not flinch, doesn’t move – not an inch. Doesn’t move a muscle. A final joke played from beyond? We all glance at the flag covered casket in wonder. He loved to laugh, too.
But, that, I knew.

You Call Yourself

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You call yourself a fan when all I can think is fraudulant fanatic. You are given gifts and all you can do is gripe, bitch and moan. Crass complaints instead of compliments. Questioning and quarrelling. There is no gratitude or grace in your words. There was no reason beyond simple generosity yet your greedy little heart wanted more and more. You turned a deaf ear to the offer and called for much more. Before, during and after. Laid before you were the new words from a broken heart, a soul bared still grieving, yet all you want are old words, sung too many times over. New doesn’t excite you. You want yesteryear as if nothing could be better. If you can’t move on why move this way at all? You didn’t read the letters outlining the expectations. Didn’t you know your gifts came with a purpose? Of course not for you only listened to what you wanted, disappointed when you didn’t get it. You embarrass me.
There is a rudeness to you. You wave your paltry collection like some sultan. Did you think there would be gratitude on bended knee, a bowed head murmuring thank you for all you have given? You think your donation is the salve to soothe the situation. The end all, be all answer to the cause.
You call yourself a friend when you don’t pay back debts or walk two way streets. I won’t ever acknowledge you. Unlike you, I walk away from the past when it becomes meaningless, useless, stupid and loud. There is a time and place for everything and you aren’t anything. Not to me at least.
So, call yourself fan. Call yourself friend. Then tell yourself you failed at both.