Category: Confessional

What I Don’t Have

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chignonWhat I don’t have is hair sense. I’m the girl who has two styles, ponytail up or just plain down. What I don’t have is the ability to go chignon fancy. What I do have is a friend with classic style and grace.
What I don’t have is matching accessories. I’m the girl with the $5 fish that circles my thumb. What I don’t have is where to start with the silk scarf. What I do have is a friend with maturity and wisdom.
What I don’t have is a cool demeanor. I’m the girl who can rant about razor burn for an hour. What I don’t have is class. What I do have is a friend who is sweet and funny.
What I don’t have is the ability to make small talk with you. I’m the girl who circles her friends and asks their advice. What I don’t have is patience. What I do have is a friend who walks the walk, talks the talk. Straight up.
What I don’t have is strut. I’m the girl who can’t find sexy shoes that fit (but I’m working on it, Ruby). What I don’t have is a stop-’em-dead-in-their-tracks swagger. What I have is a friend who is confident and beautiful enough for the both of us.

So, I’m not fancy. I don’t have that kind of personality. I don’t have fukc me pumps so I’ll settle for cute maryjanes. But. But, what I DO have is an amazing group of people in my life who are stylish, graceful, mature, wise, sweet, smart, straight forward, confident and beautiful with a little bogger thrown in for fun. When I asked, they rallied. When I asked, they answered. That’s all that matters.

Thank you.

Cooking It Up

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I have been a cooking fiend. Last night was scallops and spaghetti sprinkled with chili peppers, cilantro, garlic and olive oil. Skewers of toasted sourdough and mozzarella cubes drizzled with garlic, lemon juice and butter. I’m addicted to gratins and fresh herbs lately. Fish poached in coconut cream and sesame seeds. It’s time to break out the smoker. Hickory chips are waiting to burn. Baked beans with smoky chipotles and bacon simmer with sweet brown sugar. It’s summertime, after all. Aint it funny how I’ve become so consumed by food?
I have a friend who can only be described as my food friend for we only meet for meals. Nothing more, nothing less. We don’t talk on the phone. We don’t see movies. We place all of our conversations in the company of food. Something new to talk about only goes with something good to taste. He wants me to try a deep fried hamburger. He’s the same one who wanted me to try goat testicles
Food circles my life and winds in and out of my days.
To celebrate the Closer I have wine (Merlot, of course) followed by one perfect RingDing. Kisa gets the other one. We lick chocolate off our fingers and smack our lips for a treat too small.
Before Rebecca shows it’s gourmet pizza and maybe now a rootbeer float after. I just need to find a better beer.
Then there are roadtrips. They require bottled water and smoky, salty beef jerky.
Monhegan means crab apples straight from the tree, blackberries from the bush, mocha whoopie pies and lobster by sunset’s dying glow.
If I lived in New Jersey I would want a Creations salad, a spicy italian sub or better yet, a shopping spree at Delicious Orchards. Picking perfect plums, soft gouda cheese and crusty sourdough bread. A picnic by the sea.
If I lived in Colorado it would be a Chipotles burrito chased by Fat Tire – bar none.
My most intimate moments are prefaced by food. Sharing spoonfuls of something good leading to something better. Leaning in over linguini to confess something deep.
Food has always hidden my denying ways. Picking walnuts out of a waldorf while breaking up; bringing the rest home to my sister. Holding an oversized mug of coffee with both hands, steam hiding my face as I hear about the cancer that is killing you. You can’t see my tears. Flinging tomatoes to swooping, squawking seagulls, pretending not to hear, yet I listen.

Feed me.

Number 37

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I have decided to be very angry with you. This is in answer to the accusation of MidLifeWhatever. I turn my head in shame because I am tired of you being there in the shadows, so quiet and unassuming. Assume this: you will die that way. You cannot fly when you bind your own wings, sabotage your own flight. Stop living for when and start wanting for now. Come to think of it, what is it that you want? Do you even know? I know there isn’t anything you need. You are not for want. I can assure you that. I can kill your past but only you can keep it dead. When you revive and relive it’s not my fault. Blame games are solo affairs of the cerebral. Think about that. Think about Want. Think about Desire. Think about it, act on it, then thank me later. Thank you now.

When I Simply Hate You

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Taser JacketI have decided I need this jacket. Thanks to my friend A, this is all I need. I was reliving my Peach story for him (he doesn’t read this blog) and after he got home he sent me information on getting a taser jacket. Imagine the possibilities! Anytime I have that GetAwayFromMe attitude I can follow it up with a nice jolt of electricity! Just kidding. I have a lot of questions like does it work if the perp is wearing gloves? What’s the reaction time from button pushing to electrifying? Does it jolt the wearer? Obviously I haven’t read the details on the website…I’m just playing with the possibilities.

Respectfully Yours

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I was talking to someone dear to me when all of a sudden she said something so truthful to life I nearly lost my breath. It resonated with me hours later, echoing in my head like the fading sound of a rung bell. I don’t remember how we got on the subject, or even why she said it. The initial thought was lost amid the words of chatter, but what remained was, “I would never post anything bad about my husband on the internet.” There it was. What I needed to hear. What I will believe for all eternity. Words taken right out of my mouth.
I know this woman who rolls her eyes and is quick to complain when the subject of her married-for -life partner comes up. It makes me squirm, twisting to get out of the way of vows turned sour. Why does it hurt ME when someone is ugly about someone not me?
Today, I told my husband I was on the verge of mental not wellness. Seriously feeling unbalanced…like I was coming unglued somewhere secret. Telling him was like picking at a scab and letting him peer into the disgusting, bloody wound – just trusting he wouldn’t turn his head. When he didn’t I knew I was right. He has pockets for my secrets.
I don’t understand what makes us take people for granted. What makes us assume they will always love us, no matter what we do? I thought of the woman who criticized and ridiculed her husband. If he did the unthinkable, died or just disappeared, what would she do? Where would the roll your eyes attitude go in the face of abandonment? If I had to crawl into bed with that fear I wouldn’t sleep very well.

Insult to Injury

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My husband knows the word “rant” all too well. I’ll go on for hours about something until it becomes nothing – the way writing a single word over and over will start to look strange and lose meaning twenty times later.
First it was about blood work. They wanted my blood and made me make an appointment. They told me when to stick my arm out for the needle. But, when I showed up it was all my fault. “You need to follow up on the appointment.” What? Doublecheck the receptionist to make sure I’m really in the book? “Well, even though you had an appointment you need to make sure the doctor put in the order.” What? So, now I’m following up on the doctor? Let me get this straight so I don’t waste 90 minutes on another day. “You shouldn’t make the appointment so soon after the doctor has seen you.” What? The receptionist told me the opening she had available. I just agreed to show up. Now you’re saying I need to refuse her suggested appointment time. Could I be anymore confused? Insult to injury- the nurse called my machine and said they found the drs order for blood work and I can come in “anytime” (giggle, giggle).
Then it was about my car. When they were done, they wanted to leave it behind the building, locked up, keys in the glove box. They wanted me to pay now and pick it up with my husband’s keys later. Behind the building, locked up. My keys would be in the glove box. It’s not behind the building. It’s not locked up (window is rolled down and door is left completely unlocked). Keys are not in the glove box. Only this is where stupid me, myself and moi come in. We don’t notice this for nearly a week. I call the mechanic six days later. “Do you guys have a spare set of keys lying around?” “Chevy Prism?” “Yup.” “Last name _____.” “Yup.” “Yeah, we got ’em.” “And you couldn’t call me?! Can you bring them to me since you said my car would be locked up with the keys in the glove box and NONE of that happened?” Silence. “Hey. You guys told me you would lock it up and leave the keys in the glove box. Since that didn’t happen you need to bring me my keys.” Who knew I had the brass bra? “*sigh* We’ll see what we can do.” Insult to injury – I was late for work.
Then it was my feet. “Do you have anything in a size 5?” “Nope.” “But I see 5 1/2s here.” “Last year’s stock. We’re not carrying anything smaller than 6 on the adult side. Kids has size 5. Check there.” Insult to injury – size 5 didn’t fit. Neither did 4. I’m a 3 1/2 KIDS if I want to shop at Marshalls.

guiding me home

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Dear Dad,

Happy Father’s Day. This is your daughter telling you I thought of you today. If I were home I would lay flowers at your name. Red roses for remembrance. I remember you. Instead I paused to smell the blooms still on the bush, crushed the silky petals between my fingers and pretended to be running wild with mud speckled bare feet, tangled hair flying behind; I heard you calling me home. I’m late for dinner again.

We spent the day on the water and I remembered a boat of a different shape, remembered water of a different color. I thought of skin bruised red by the sun, salty to the tongue. We picnicked on the waves and I thought of you, your laughing eyes behind dark sunglasses, your pocket knife hooked at the hip, your military issued blue shirt stained with grease as only a mechanic could. How you let me steer our way home. A spur of the moment navigation lesson.
We flew over the water and the spray was just the same. I could have been hanging over the Atlantic instead of a river. I leaned out to touch the flying droplets, searching the water’s surface for murky secrets, ghosts in the spray. As usual I didn’t find anything. I never find anything.
Tying at the dock I had one more brush with your past. “1500 hours, driven in by the rain. Lunch on the water aborted. Headed for home. 1512.”
Dear Dad, this is your daughter telling you I missed you today. Happy Father’s Day.

Memory Lane

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I signed up to come here again and I’m not exactly sure why. If ever there was a mental illness about a place, it’s held here. There are embarrassments hidden behind every porte francaise, athletisch fangen Sie auf regrets. Tweny years is a long time but yet, I still feel this way.
This is the mulligan of my memories; the doozy of all do-overs; the greatest saga of second chances ever told. It’s not that I squandered my time here and need lost youth back. I’m not in search of childhood games. It’s not that I want to present a different face to this lost land. It’s that I came here, to this place, confused and misguided. The blinders of another life were still covering who I was meant to be. I lived by a belief system that was fundamentally flawed. I was a tangle of torment, but it didn’t have to be that way.
So. So, why go back? I don’t know. I haven’t a clue. This is my place of hurt. This is my place of shame. But, it’s also my place of unraveling. I came here in knots. This is where life loosened a little for me. In the end, the threads weren’t so complicated. I made one of the dearest friends I’ll ever have. I learned that snow is sh!t. I followed a pickle jar into peanut butter. I became Sweetpea and learned how to drive.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to go alone. I was reliving my trip to West Cornwall with a friend. She asked if I brought anyone with me and her eyes grew wide when I said no, I went alone. She understood that to go back to a time of hurt, by myself, was huge. What would she think of this?

Problems with the Equipment

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                                               pedometers

I have become a pedometer snob. It started slowly since I haven’t always worn one. A little over two years ago I joined the walking nation and clipped on a pedometer to count my steps. I dropped the habit when I started running. Lately, I’ve turned back to walking. It’s a little nerdy and a lot productive. On Mother’s Day I signed myself up for another walking challenge – a virtual walk across the country. It was during this time that I decided I needed a new pedometer. I’ve tried many makes and models – some with radios and headphones, others with heart monitors and calorie readouts. I’ve spent anywhere from $5 to $15, testing the step counters. The current one I am joined to the hip to is one of my earlier purchases. The interface is starting to fade, it’s clunky, boxy and awkward. Soon I was on the hunt for something a little more “glamorous.”
I found Gaiam’s sleek model in Barnes and Noble and shelled out the most ever for what turned out to be the cheapest product ever. I was in love with its sophistication (heart rate monitor included), its capabilities (alarm clock and stop watch!), even it’s color (gray-blue and silver). It even came with a cd (as if I didn’t know how to put one foot in front of the other and simulate walking). I loved it until I walked with it. Basically, I sneeze and suddenly I’ve walked seven steps. Sit down, stand up and I could add another sixteen steps. In the instruction manual they warn against this “overcounting.” Their solution is turning & tightening some screw counter clockwise. That screw must tighten the mechanism that measures movement. Well, I tried that and okay, it helped a little. Sneeze and I’ve only walked four steps. Standing up and sitting down only adds ten. But still! There is no other way to regulate the sensitivity of the product and it drives me crazy!
All is not lost. My old GoWalking pedometer works just fine. It’s still clunky and the numbers are fading, but at least it works!

On the Other Side

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Prompted by a return to ThatSpace, I have a few things to say about who my friends are…and will be.

I’ve been trying to put myself in your shoes; trying understand where you are coming from. It hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s downright difficult. It’s not that I’m closed-minded or deliberately, absolutely, stubbornly blind. I truly cannot see your side of things and that saddens me. It’s the means to an end. You say things that simply are not true. You assume things to be the way they actually are not.
I’ve shrugged you off like a winter coat in July. Not because I don’t love you, but because I don’t need you. There is a difference. Like that Bodyguard song goes, I will always love you. People grow up, grow out of love (with obsessions) and grow apart. I think they call that natural progessions. I was dedicated for five years and I think that was loyalty enough. The way I see it there are plenty of others (thanks to me) to take my place. There is no need aside from want. Want I do not have (in your new kind).
It doesn’t hurt me to move on. Your shoes don’t fit. Like a bad ex-football player trial I’m free from the obvious verdict. I can see the other side – I look through and see how it is. But, here’s the thing: I’d rather burn that bridge than try to cross it.

Prayer

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People are asking me how my holiday was and I’ve been answering “spiritual.” WTF? Where is that coming from? Usually my peace comes from a good yoga session, an exhausting run, a rhythm with the ocean, sleeping in, waking slow. I’m grounded by a good book, a better friend, cooking a decent meal, laughing loud and long. I didn’t have much of any of that while I was home. No yoga, no run. Each morning I woke at 5:30am… usually from jarring dreams that rattled me awake. The equivalent of being rudely tossed out of slumber. While I read the books didn’t give me safe passage. So, what gives? Why the word “spiritual” to describe what a week ago I couldn’t even put words to?

I think I know. I think I get it. Discovery is knowledge. Knowledge lends itself to understanding. Understanding is the foundation for acceptance. There is peace in acceptance. Bingo. I learned a little more about myself through my mother’s history and that has brought me home. Spiritually. I get it now. This revelation brought me hope.

My mother said, “I block those times out” and that’s when hope arrived. I was this close to replying “I know what you mean.” I was this close to yanking open the closet door and letting the skeletons tumble out. It seemed like an invitation to confide. My hand was on the door, turning the knob. I could have done it…but I thought too much. How would she feel that she is the very last to know? Would she be offended, would she be hurt? How would I explain my distrust of her reaction 30 years too late? Time doesn’t heal all wounds. And wound her I would. Hers would be fresh and raw while all mine have scarred over and hardened into indifference. So instead, I let go, looked in my lap and said, “I can see why…” With that, the moment slipped away. Wine in hand she walked away. The closet door stayed closed.

Glass

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To drink or not to drink…not a question. Not a problem. I’ve never really considered alcohol a good friend, or even a friend for that matter. I know someone who gave it up completely. She was my not-really-drinking-drinking-buddy. My something sour to her something strong. She gave it up completely while I still talk to the bottle every now and then.
While on vacation every now and then became every night and then. Thursday night was a big glass of Merlot, chugged at Rosie’s. Friday night was a couple small glasses of Yellow Tail while staring at the ocean. Saturday night was this bottle of out of this world UFO, while watching watching the sun go down. Sunday was Shipyard brew at the Bull. Monday night I cried uncle when a Beaujolais was coming my way. Why? Four days in a row is nothing and there are people who think nothing of it, but to me, I was thinking everything.
Something worth considering.

rain

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It’s the only time my mind is bombarded with lyrics – when it rains. Drives me crazy but comforts me all the same. Madonna (“Rain”), Matchbox 20 (“She only sleeps when it’s raining”), Natalie Merchant (“I’ve been walking all alone through the wind and through the rain”), Dave Matthews (“Gravedigger, when you dig my grave could you make it shallow so that I can feel the rain”, Eurythmics (“Here comes the rain again”), Rebecca Correia (“Rain, how’s it feelin’ babe” and “I’ve got all the blue skies in your eyes combined, so bring on the the rain”), Bob Dylan (“Buckets of rain”), the Grateful Dead (“Box of Rain”), Eric Clapton (“praying for the healing rain”), and even Gordon Lightfoot (“rainy day people…”) have been singing to me all morning.

I don’t know what makes the rain so beautiful to me, especially today. Maybe it’s that first day back to work, matching my get-down-to-business attitude. Can’t think of anything else but writing proposals, drafting policies, scheduling fall classes, wading through tons of email…No running, no “I should be outside” guilt trip, no other plans but getting back into the professional world. Weird how I missed it. I needed to be away, yet cannot stay away.

I’m thinking I’d like to learn a new “hobby”. Any ideas? Bring on the rain.

Clear Path International

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Too Many YearsMy first exposure to Clear Path was through Natalie. She provided a song on a benefit cd (Too Many Years) which was released in the spring of 2005. Even before that I knew Natalie was involved in the project. She would talk about CPI’s mission during her shows. She called such conversations (when she wasn’t singing) “patter”. I called it education for she was always talking about charities near and dear to her. CPU caught my attention when it broke my heart. So I donated. When I ordered the cd I asked to be put CPI’s mailing list for their biannual newletter and discovered I went to school with the vice president and the Cambodia advisor. Small world. They don’t know I subscribe to their newsletter, nor would they recognize my name when I donate. I’m a different person, literally and figuratively, since high school. But aren’t we all? 

But, I digress. Here’s the quick and dirty about CPI: Clear Path International is a six year old nonprofit out of (U.S.) Bainbridge Island, Wash. and Dorset, VT. They have offices in Vietnam, Cambodia & Thailand (the places that really make sense) as well. Their mission is to serve the families and communities who are victim to landmines and oh so much more.  Their website is chock full of information – including a blog of videos worth checking out.

                                                    CPI logo