Category: Confessional

Are You There? part two

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I ride the bus from time to time. I like to leave the driving to Greyhound every so often. It allows me to read uninterupted. Think without stopping. Be without moving… among other things.
The first part of my ride was a lesson in conversations with kids. Bouncing, loud, over-the-top kids. But, after they debarked I was able to open my book and read until Boston. Pure bliss…even it was one of those 1800’s romancy things.

Once in Boston we switched buses. I thought the longer your ride, the nicer the bus. Not so in this state. This particular bus had problems with the overhead lights, the AC, the foot rests and the driver. The lights and AC simply didn’t work. I moved three times and finally gave up. I had bruises from the foot rest snapping back into place and hitting my ankles on the way up. I kept forgetting they didn’t work either until finally I sat with my feet tucked underneath me. I had heart palpitations whenever the driver would blow red lights and drift into other lanes of traffic. He gave new meaning to the phrase Bat Out of Hell. Trying to ignore this, I turned to my mp3 player for distraction and listened to every song at least twice. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the repeat function off. To make matters worse the battery ran down until finally, I couldn’t get the off button to function so, ironically, I listened to These Are Days four times before the player finally quit for good and all I had left was silence.

I think Manda will appreciate where I am going with this story. I am pleased to announce that I love my phone. More specifically, I love the text function on my phone. Somewhere along my journey I found I had a text message from a very smart man. I think he knew that I wouldn’t actually call anyone while on the bus so he wrote, texted me, whatever. I texted him back – is that the right way to say I sent a text reply? A few moments later he wrote again and I discovered we were headed in the same direction. I have no clue how he was responding since he was driving at the same time. It’s hard enough just sitting there, leaving the driving to someone else to text! The conversation turned to updates: where are you now? What are YOU now? Sitting in the dark, clutching the phone I waited for it to vibrate so I could reply again. Are you there? At one point he announced he was only minutes behind me. I dared him to catch up. Despite the impossibility of it, I giggled at the thought and actually watched out the window, half expecting the silver streak of a kayak laden car to go speeding by.
My friend saved my sanity that night. There was a darker reason for taking the bus that day. For me, riding with strangers is the fastest way to feeling lonely. I force myself into crowded solitude to feel the sadness of being by myself. Like an addict cutting himself to feel pain, my invisible knife was 5.5 hours alone with my thoughts. Only, at the end of my journey I wasn’t alone. Someone got me to smile at the idea of being just behind me; at the mere thought of catching up to me.

Are You There? part one

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This is a half kid, half conversation story for Sarah.

Kid part:
I was waiting to leave on the 4:15pm bus. Ahead of me I had a 5.5 hour ride that would normally take only 3. True to form I forgot lunch (and breakfast) and was trying to inhale a bad bag of Cool Ranch. I don’t know about you, but I can’t stand people eating stinky food in cramped spaces – there’s no way to escape the smell. Anyway, I was trying to mind my own business while two little girls raced around me. Running, playing on the phones, jumping off the curb, screeching and screaming while their parents were nowhere in sight. Soon enough the older girl spied my bag and asked for a chip. I showed her the emptiness and lamented that the pig in me had emerged. I had nothing to share. That didn’t stop her from striking up a conversation, though. Suddenly deemed safe by some unknown intuition she proceded to question everything about me. Why are you wearing those shoes? Where’s your purse? Are you going home? Have you seen Casper? Did you hear that train? Did you know my mother lets me eat chocolate? I’m going to Worcester. Where are you going? 
Soon it was time to board the bus, “Michael’s Teddy” (I came this close to getting on “Princess Tiger Lily”). Out of nowhere mom and dad emerged and herded the two little girls onto “Michael’s Teddy” while carrying a newborn in a carrier. I was a little relieved when dad barked an order for the girls to head to the back of the bus, but equally surprised when one of the little girls burst into tears, crying “I want to stay with the lady!” I looked around for the “lady” only to realize she meant me. I’m the lady. Both girls wanted to sit up front…on my lap.
Five minutes out of the terminal and the younger girl turned out to be a boy. With long, dark, curly hair that hung down his back I could only stare. She had been a sweet girl and suddenly, with the reveal of Superman pull-ups he was a beautiful, dark eyed boy. All of four years old with a fixation on McDonalds. Every time we would pass a sign or restaurant he would scream out “McDonalds!” The older child, definitely still a girl, calling herself Princess, would perk up each and every time and shout “where?!” without fail. Princess taught me a game – something involving singing and clapping about a Miss Merry-Something-Er-Rather. She talked nonstop about school, her friends, her jeans, her homework, her little brother, her mother’s boyfriend, her brother’s dad, her dad (not all the same person), her lost umbrella and hated lunch meat. Every time she would get up to make her way back to see her mom her sneaky brother would bounce into her place beside me and with hungry eyes ask if he could hold my watch, try on my ring, wear my hair ties, look at the book I was reading. He asked me if I liked McDonalds, the Yankees, buses, him. How could I say no?

90 minutes later the children reached their destination and left me without so much as an over-the-shoulder goodbye. I waited for the mother to thank me for entertaining her kids. As she came up the bus aisle I looked up expectantly, prepared to say, “you’re welcome. You have great kids.” Not only did she continue by without a word, she didn’t even look me in the eye. Thanks for nothing. PS~ I hate the Yankees.

To be continued…..

My Hero

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I have to blog about this. It might offend someone. No, it probably will offend someone. The truth is in-your-face dirty.
Years ago when I started the whole blog thing I had decided I would write about the first thing that came to my head – the first and only thing. That has been modified to include what’s important to me and what I simply cannot get off the brain. Writing is an effort to nudge some thoughts out of the head, get out what I can’t stop pondering. Here’s what is sticking right now: I have one prescription and I can bet you know what it’s for. Before Walgreens I would, once a month, TRY to remember to call ahead to get it refilled. Calling ahead meant I could run in, state my name, pay, and run back out. BingBangBoom. Sometimes, I would forget and would have to wait while some pimply teenage receptionist boy scrutinized my medical records and got the pharmacist to fill the prescription. This sit-and-wait episode would cause anxiety because of my overactive imagination. It wasn’t like I could pick up the prescription and go. Sitting and waiting meant they, the behind the counter pharmacy men, could put a face to a name, put a pill to person. Me. I am always painfully aware that this pill is a sex pill. Yes, it’s so I can have sex without having to agonize once a month over Am I? or Am I Not? Yeah. Yeah, it has other benefits like an easier time of the month, clearer skin and all that, but more importantly the pill spares me from peeing on a plastic stick and perspiring while expecting the blue line (or happy face or whatever it is these days). But, having to wait while the prescription is being filled is like wearing a sign. I have sex. I told you – overactive imagination at work here. I guess it’s like this for people with more embarrassing ailments, predicaments that a particular pill gives away. When the guy with an STD comes in I imagine the pharmacist shaking his head, thinking “you poor bastard” as he hands him his topical ointment.
So it comes down to this. Walgreens. I love Walgreens. I can’t believe how simple they have made my life. Instead of me calling them to fill the prescription, they call me. Automatically. No more calling ahead. No more forgetting to call ahead. It’s a beautiful thing.

Black Blame Game

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This. This picture is what I thought about when trying to meditate at Now & Zen Yoga studio last night. It looks like a whole lot nothing, a clear mind…but look carefully. Something is there. Something lurks. Just like in my head, something was on the fringe of calm; just on the edge of quiet. Blame. Ruth called it Wanting vs. Not Wanting. Like a psychobabble tennis match, I bounced between the two. I want to be as confident HERE as when I am THERE. I do not want to worry about this zit mutating on my chin. Why can’t I not worry about it HERE like I didn’t worry about it THERE? As this volleying went on I felt panic set in. I was slipping away from the calm and quiet I had so proudly achieved just moments before. Where was that peaceful easy feeling? Why was I thinking about how awful I am all of a sudden? The blame game was in full swing. Was I completely losing it? Was I stepping off the train and utterly missing the boat?
Fortunately, I was able to grab the bouncing ball and stop the guilt game for the rest of the session. But. but, but here it is again. In my court. Thanks to Ms. Klein. We write parallel blogs. Maybe not on the same days, but sooner or later we talk about similar things. Since I have missed a week of her writings I’m a few blogs behind. Today I read about fault. It took me by surprise because that was the very game that I was playing last night in the middle of a meditation class. Try as she might, Ms. Klein was not able to convince herself it was someone else’s fault. It always came back to her and the question of what she did wrong. Just like how I keep coming back to my split personality problem. I’m like a boater who doesn’t know how to skull, so I keep going around in circles with my one oar. Someone can tell me it’s a question of confidence. I’ve figured that one out on my own. Someone can tell me it’s an issue with comfort. I got that, too. I have all the answers. What I still don’t know is WHY.
Maybe some things aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe being in the dark with only a hint of the answers is how it has to be. Maybe, in this one case, I need to let the mystery be. Oddly enough, this comforts me. It also brings out the creative thoughts in me. Who says I can’t be there permanently some day?

Juggling Here and There

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Home on day two is always tricky. I am are waiting for street lights to change when the roads aren’t even paved. Traffic is on foot, a gang of overwhelmed artists not sure what to paint next. I step around them and move on. I am listening for a 7am wakeup call when the entire house doesn’t have a clock, alarm, wall, or otherwise (we recommend something). I am thinking the tapwater smells a little funny while the outdoor air smells wonderful. I can’t stop leaning out the kitchen window and inhaling. I am thinking I am missing something and then it dawns on me- I haven’t plugged into the internet, a cell phone or a television set in over 24 hours. Suddenly, there is small panic. I’ll miss The Closer! Who am I missing on myspace? How many emails are piling up on gmail? Yahoo!? Outlook? First Class? What about the blog(s)? Librarything? PostSecret?
Being home is a balance, a juggling act between here and there. I want to be here, but the residue of there is still sticky to the touch, nagging at the brain. It’s not easy to let the Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup go. The commute to work is still the autopilot I think of.
It’s day two and I start to compromise. Half shave the legs, half comb the hair. Wear half clean clothes. Half think about that life over there and half concentrate on settling in. Crack open the book.
Day two and we hike the backside cliffs, finding mysteries along the way. Who built this thing and why? How long did it take? I can’t let the mystery be for there is a whole army of them, all juggling rocks and drift wood. All juggling here and there. Just like me.

Sigh of this Soul

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This is my first night home. I remember being exhausted from not sleeping well the night before (I never can in a strange place); tired from traveling all day; tired from being on the water (boats always make me drowsy), and tired from that other life’s load. It was a relief to finally set it down.
We ordered pizza right off the boat. The Humble, large with mom. Sue set aside goat cheese and a decadent dessert for me. Chocolate and cream. We crowded around the dining room table and laughingly devoured it with wine. Welcome home. I felt like a six year old, like Queen Eloise. Skipping and giggling, giddy to be back where I belonged.
Later, Kisa and I slipped away to view the dying light of day, just the two of us, hand in hand. A simple hike to what I call Heather’s point. With arms around each other we talked the “what ifs” of living here, working here, loving here, being here for good. Wild fantasy and speculation gave way to silence as we pondered the possibilities. Lost in our own thoughts of what could be. On that first day nothing seemed impossible.

Autobiography of a Face

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AutobiographyGrealy, Lucy. Autobiography of a Face.New York: HarperCollins, 2003.

I had all the right conditions to finish this book in two days – traveling, vacationing, but most of all, fascination. I couldn’t put it down. On the surface Autobiography of a Face is the tragic story of one woman’s struggle with cancer and journey through recovery. Only her struggle isn’t as an adult. She is a child. Confronting Ewing’s sarcoma at age nine Lucy battles through radiation therapy and chemotherapy. Her tone can only be described as matter of fact as she recounts the loneliness and pain after countless surgeries to correct the deformity of losing a third of her jaw. Deeper than that, Autobiography is about rising above the cruelty of others, shaking off the superficial prejudices of what supposedly makes a face beautiful. Lucy is defiant and remarkably stoic in her recollections of childhood taunts, adult avoidance, and across the board lack of social acceptance.
Critics call this book the vehicle with which to free oneself from self loathing and fears of rejection. It is a message to stop wallowing in self pity and live with dignity – no matter what. It’s also a call to be human and have real emotions as Lucy admits, “and as much as I wanted to love everybody in school and waft esoterically into the ether when someone called me ugly, I was plagued with petty desires and secret, evil hates” (p 181).

My favorite quote: “speaking seemed like something one could grow tired of” (p 77).

Lucy’s story ends with her getting published, finding friendships and getting on with her life. Yet, there is a darkness to it all. She is criticized for not telling the whole truth. There is mystery surrounding her untimely death in 2002. Her story leaves you asking what happened and wanting more. What the book doesn’t tell you is that her multiple surgeries led to an addiction to pain meds and subsequently, heroin. She died of an overdose at the age of 39. There is more drama after death, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out.

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Other People’s Shoes” (p 181). I can’t even begin to imagine being in Lucy’s shoes.

Small House

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I met someone who doesn’t believe in fairies or faeries. He does not believe in the kind that gather in P’town, nor the ones we build houses for and make wishes to. Our fanciful ideas are nothing but overactive imaginations for the fairies or faeries of either kind, according to him. I have to say it again. According to him.
I guess after reading this news article I’m still thinking of that lie, “to each his own”, spoken like the truth, like it came from the heart.
I think it’s innovative to let the imagination fly. How enticing to think of what could be, what should be! I have to admit it bugs me when someone says no without considering the possibilities. A flat out no is like a stab to the heart. Where is the maybe? What happened to the we’ll see? Why not possibly? When can we try?
We build faery houses for no other reason than to feel like a kid again; to shirk duty and grownup ways…if only for an afternoon. Crouching down to balance stick to bark, building rock walkways and leafy beds. Taking it all oh so seriously. I remember the faery condo G and I made, imagining ours to be the biggest and the bestest. Awards were made for condos such as this, we thought.
Maybe this is where I learned my love of possibility, of taking dares with Yes. Where the only no heard is the one sandwiched between k and w of “I don’t kNOw.” Because even I don’t know leaves the door open, just a crack, for yes.

Majesty

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I’m feeling a little less than majestic; a little less regal and more royal pain in the ass, lately. I don’t know why. Yes, I do. Do I dare say why? Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t feel like a queen in your world. There, I said it. Outloud. Loudly out there.
I think about a perfect storm – when weather conditions have to be just right for something big to happen. Something spectacular, nothing short of jeweled orgasmic. Several different conditions come together to create something powerful and explosive. Each individual condition alone and on its own would be puny, laughable, forgotten even…but, with all elements combined together you have something to sneeze at. A force to be reckoned with. A goddamn hurricane Ophelia times ten. You said my conditions had to be perfect and for the moment I agreed, only because I couldn’t think of how to respond and well, because you seemed right. Again. Correct as usual, King Friday. Only…not so much now that I think about it. And think about it, I have – now that I’m not on the spot. Now, I have a rebuttal.
They say actions speak louder than words. So, I have been the screaming one. In the bathtub I sunk below the water to drown my passions. Before work, I stifled my ambitions to be something else. Even before grocery shopping I let myself cry out with hunger. I raised my stakes and shouted my interest. But, but, but my actions were lost without the royal (dis)order. I lost my voice. Actions stay silent in my world because, according to you, we need a perfect storm. Perfect conditions.
I am medicated for no reason.
Senza Figli.

Dot3 Dash3 Dot3

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I had been connected, plugged in, and glued to the Live Earth concert pretty much all day. Somehow, we managed to go out for breakfast (gotta love it when the waitress remembers the vinegar the first time requested), write up menus and grocery lists for the island trip (we’ve decided on pizza the first night – go figure), exchange the xBox360 so my kisa doesn’t go insane, pick up ankle weights and two running books so tigrelily doesn’t go insane, walk five miles and still had time to witness some of the best bands from the day. I am sorry I missed out on Corinne Bailey Rae and John Legend, though.
Shakira, Snoop Dog, Missy Higgins, Genesis, David Gray, Metallica, KT Tunstall, Yusef, Chris Cornell, Joss Stone, James Blunt, Xuxa, Foo Fighters, Beastie Boys, even Nunatak, the Antartica band of scientists. I was really excited to see them since I have such an affinity for the Antartic. Dave Matthews Band (just knew they would perform Too Much and Don’t Drink the Water), Alicia Keyes, Madonna, and of course Bubblicious. I loved his decision to call it “We’re NOT Waiting on the world to change”….
I am anxious to go home. My carbon footprint on the island is much smaller than the one here, in this life. At home I am a 0.9 as opposed to a 12.7. Here, I am big foot. Giant foot. Embarrassing foot. It feels wasteful, awful. Today we bought eco-friendly lightbulbs and talked about the Prius, maybe my next car.
Answer the call. I suppose I should think of that literally because my phone is ringing.

Edited to add: TiVo loves me. It recorded all the artists I missed (and wanted to see): Jack Johnson, Corinne and John and even one I didn’t know I wanted to see – DRUMMERS! Yay!

Battlefront of Id and Ego

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Let’s stand up and be counted, shall we? How many of us lie to our personalities, aren’t true to our own true selves? Especially those of us with a first impression to make? I want to say I’m honest when it comes to the first 30 seconds of “nice to meet you” but, then again there isn’t much to lie about. I speak my mind. I will tell you how I feel, what I believe in (or not). I can be “in your face” with my opinions. I will love you forever or walk away. I can’t come off any smarter, prettier, funnier so what’s the point in trying? What you see is what you get. What I hide is insecurity, self-doubt and the amazing ability to sell myself short. I’ve got it down to an art. But, even that doesn’t stay hidden forever. That truth will surface sooner or later. No lying.
As for others, I love people who say “I can respect that” and mean it, really mean it. The people who say with all honesty, “I see what you are saying.” Does that sound familiar, kisa? It’s like they are the people with ability to see the glass from every direction. They walk around it, circle it, inspecting all the facts, and weighing the opinions of half full and half empty and, in the end, despite disagreeing, still say, “I can respect that.” What they are really saying is I don’t agree with you but I won’t hold that against you. It is the attitude of come as you are. So appealing, so attractive, so impressive. Here’s the deal. I’m learning to walk around the glass. I’m learning to see the invisible angles. I see what you’re saying.
Come as you are, but let me be me if that’s what you really, truly preach. No lying. I now walk away.

Edited to add: There are times when I get freaked out by coincidences – especially those involving complete strangers. I consider Stephanie a complete stranger yet I read her blog pretty religiously. We share the same viewpoints on food and the food network, friends…stuff like that. So, imagine my surprise when she blogged about “to each his own” yesterday. She even says, “it’s why Baskin’ Robbins has 31 flavors” (I love the way she writes, by the way). Coincidentally (again), I should have written mine yesterday, but I took some advice and slept on it. Okay, so Stephanie delves into a topic I could never think about much less write about (swinging), but you get the point. Variety is the spice of life…and…to each his (or HER) own! Rock on, Steph! Thank you for putting it into words much better than my own.

How Are You?

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When I was a kid I would start every letter with “Dear so and so. How are you? I am fine.” My dad would joke “what are you? A doctor? Do you have to ask everyone how they are?” Seriously, dad, it was just something to say. Dear Aunt Jo, How are you. I am fine. Thank you for the purple knit sweater. I love the lime green buttons and yellow peter pan collar. The dog head on the back is cool, too. It’s two sizes too small but with a nice blouse I don’t think anyone will notice…
I could have gone on to ask why Jo can’t remember I’m 14 instead of four or point out that purple isn’t exactly my color, especially when it’s paired with lime green and yellow. Never mind that I’m a cat person and practically run from dogs if they even so much as drool my way. I could have spoken my mind when being polite leaves nothing else to say. Nothing but How are you? I am fine.
I’ve always been this way – asking unnecessary questions to fill the silence of not knowing what else to say. Small talk. I’m just not good at it. I talk the lazy way out of conversations. I’m full of How are you? I’m fines.
But, I’m getting better. Last weekend I went to a party and held my own while my husband was being guitar hero II. We talked sexy shoes, sweet swings and superb sightseeing. No small talk, just really good conversation. Tonight we are getting together with my German friend. Kisa by my side to hold my hand and hold back the nerves. I haven’t seen Mr. Germany in years so I have admit I’m afraid of the useless How Are You that might make an appearance. I don’t want to be that way. I shouldn’t be that way. This is someone who has always been so sweet to me. There is no reason to clam up now. I will be fine.

You Cooking Fool

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It was two nights before the wedding and the lobsters were in the pot. This guy was cooking our meals. Judging by the back pocket he either flipped them or forked them to death. With polka dotted oven mitt in hand, it’s hard to say. As the sun set over the ocean, wine flowed like a red tide, stories were getting taller, while laughter was getting louder. We passed more than the bread to sop up buttery plates. We all partied our way through the final nights of solitary. What once was you…or I…would become we and us in a matter of days, mere hours. Nerves hadn’t set in as long as the sound of the crashing surf was there to calm us.

He was the Las Vegas Lobster Cooking King. Straight out of the gambling desert. He stood guard over our bright red critters and growled his endless love for family. After the ceremony he chased after us with an oversized umbrella, shielding us from the hurricane’s rain. Us, as newlyweds who wouldn’t notice the cold for hours. He left his arid desert for the rain soaked eastern seaboard to celebrate love…and to cook lobsters.

I haven’t seen him since.

Waiting…

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Butterflies. That’s the only way to describe the feeling of being this excited about something. How can I explain this without selling out? It started with an idea shared with a friend. Originally, I wanted it to be our idea – something to share. When she handed it back to me I thought I would harbor a disappointment for longer. Instead, I resurfaced inspired by the secret. I vowed to keep it private, sharing it only with myself and moi. They, in their weird way, will help me through this construction area. I only hope blonds have more fun.

Art & Water – I said I was stalking you. I lied when I didn’t say why. I know why. I do. I feel the box closing in on me when I am so close to breaking free. So close to being normal. My heart has been shredded, chewed up and puked up when it comes to guilt. I can fall on a thousand swords and never forgive myself. Dramatic? Hell yes. When it comes to history I don’t know myself like you do.  

Before The Accident

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John Mayer TrioA friend reminded me that I haven’t put up a BubbleGum post in a while. It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Kisa loaded me up with secret shows (gotta love new music), John posted a halarious video on his site about illegal dogfights off stage (the part about Brutus getting loose is the best part), there’s a buzz about The Breakup  (he was too smart for her, IMHO), and then there’s that haircut. (Now, he completely reminds me of a certain artist – don’t hate me SB, but in some pictures the resemblance is uncanny, um…creepy even. Sorry!)

What I can talk about is something a little more profound, something a little more BryanAdams straight from the heart. I forget what show it was but BubbleGum was chatting with the crowd as he often does. He started off with something funny but then launched into about only having one life to live. Go ahead and groan. You’ve heard this from me before. It’s the only life you’ve got so live it to the fullest, blah, blah, blah. But, here’s a different take on it. This is life as you know it, as Bubble says “before the accident.” Okay, so it may not be an accident per se, so fill in your own blank. Life before ______. Here’s an example: Some people blame their current beliefs, actions, downfalls, whatever, on September 11th and they preface defensively with “before 9/11 I didn’t…” So, now you know what I mean. Tomorrow you could be hit by a car and paralyzed from the waist down. Your days become separated into “before the accident” and “after the accident.” I know all about this. I hear a date, say 1995, and I immediately think, “three years after dad died.” I’m constantly doing the math. There are other dates that trigger that response, too. I think everyone has a timeline that resonates a “before” and “after.” But, But. Here is my question. How are you going to live your life before the next accident?

BubbleGum said many tomorrows from now your topics of conversation will circle around how many medications you have to take and how you can’t remember what you had for dinner the night before. You might need diapers, a walker, or hearing aid. Many tomorrows from now you will be saying, “before I got old…” It’s a different kind of accident, an unavoidable one at that, but one to consider.