Category: My Husband Rocks

Haunt

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I don’t know what I was so worried about…other than my wicked mean imagination. I think I was my own worst enemy on this trip. Kisa and I just got back from a trip to Gould. Since getting back he has been trying to watch 3-4 football games and I’ve been trying to upload pictures. Both of us are experiencing the head nod – falling asleep only to be jerked awake by the sensation of falling. Soon, we will admit defeat and take afternoon naps. Travel always makes me tired.

But write about this last weekend, I will. I learned something about time. You know that saying about healing all wounds? Well, not only that, but time wraps it’s confidence around you and whispers, “get in the game” and you do. You don’t fail. You don’t hate yourself afterwards. Suddenly, you’re having a good time. There’s a real smile on your face and you find yourself saying “let’s come back for our 25th.” Even shaking hands on the deal. Was I drunk? Maybe. I don’t know. What I do know is this, I went to fight the ghosts that haunted me for 20 years. When I got there I couldn’t find them.

Elaborate Mind Break

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dscn0378.JPGI admitted I was losing my desire to cook. That utterance alone was enough to scare me into therapy. Since when did cracking open a cookbook not motivate me, move me, make me happy? Recently. When I started The Affair and felt awful. That’s when.

I’m happy to say the spell has been broken. I’ve ended my rendezvous with Mr. V. There’s even a rumor that Mr. V. will be going away permanently and I couldn’t be more pleased. In the meantime, I’ve become reacquainted with my cookwear again.
Last week it was Greek turkey burgers complete with feta, oregano, red onion, spinach, roasted red peppers, garlic, Kalamatas, pepperoncini, cucumbers, lemon and yogurt. Last night it was inspiration from Tyler and Emeril: pork chops in autumn, noodles and cauliflower. “Pork chops in Autumn” just means the chops were served over a saute of Granny Smiths, Vidalias, Savoy, Calvados, butter, bay, thyme and marjoram. For some reason I didn’t want to serve just egg noodles so I dressed them with butter, s&p, and lemon zest. The cauliflower was roasted with evoo, garlic, s&p, and lemon juice. Aside from turning off a burner and not noticing for 20 minutes…and then roasting a plate at 500 degrees (!), the meal went really well. One for the books, as they say, mistakes and all.
I’m not sure what’s on the menu for tonight. Kisa is under the weather and I am beyond frazzled. I am heart weary and dead tired. I owe phone calls and thanks to people so fantastic I am left speechless. I will get to you, I promise! In my heart, you are my lovely.
The only thing left to say is it’s amazing what a 500 degree oven will do to a plate. Go figure.

Sending You

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Dear Dad,
I’m in this huge office with tiny courage. You should see me. Little ole me, Head Mucky Muck, behind a gigantic desk. It’s 72″ wide. 11″ more than I am tall when I don’t slouch. How I sleep curled up I could slumber on it with room to spare. People smile when they see me here. Like I’m playing professional or something. Big desk, little girl. I’ve painted blue and green, green and blue. I seem to be drawn to ocean colors according to crayons. They don’t know the sea as well as you.
I’ve taken to talking to myself lately. Especially in early mornings when the light of day is still hours away. I pretend you are on the other end of a disconnected phone line, or only a stamp away. I still hear you in my sleep. I haven’t lost your voice but I’m starting to forget where your life left off and ours kept going.
D took this picture of this picture of us. You and Me. Me and You. Do you even know D? They have been a couple for so long I’m forgetting start and end dates. When they started being thought of as together and when you, well, when you ended. I know you don’t know my other half. I’m betting you wouldn’t have liked him at the start. I didn’t. In the end you would. He grows on you until you can’t imagine a single second without his Being being beside you. Just being. He saves my sanity. Really. He puts it away for when I need it again. Stores it up in cases of collapse and utter emergency. There have been some. You would love him once you see how wonderful I am with him. I’m behind this big, huge, honking desk because of him. Head Mucky Muck.
It’s stupid to say I miss you. Because that’s pointing out the obvious. Today, today your advice in the shape of a shell went to work with me. Pale purple and white and worn smooth from my thumb. Your words will sit in this office. Stupid stuff like, “lay off the Turbo.” Sage stuff like, “love what you do, do what you love.”

I’m working on it, dad.
Love,
me

Navigationally Lost

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I have made the decision to go home. I wasn’t going to – make the decision or go home. Neither was in my best interest until my life got beyond interesting. Let’s face it. I’m a creature of habit and my habit is to go home in the waning days of summer’s warmth. When the mornings are cool enough for a sweatshirt and the afternoon, shorts. When coffee steams hot at daybreak and ice cream cools the midday sunshine.
I need to go home become my astrocompass has lost its true anything. I need direction. I need my mother to teach me how to make MeltInYourMouth rocky road fudge complete with pockets of sticky sweet marshmallow and crunchy walnuts. In this week I’ve lost my love for the kitchen and that scares me. I sigh and slouch on the couch and say “let’s order out.” Subway for dinner should be a sin.
My magnet is more than one morning in Maine. I’m drawn to the ocean if only to drown the feeling of being directionally duped. The pull of the island is too strong to put aside. I will go. Navigate me so I can TumbleHome.

Remember When

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I find it funny that after three years I’m still laughing and losing it. Marriage hasn’t changed you. Marriage hasn’t changed me. Yet, marriage has changed us. Us as who we are together. I find that funny.
I spent 74 minutes on the phone remembering September 18th, 2004. The tent, the guests, the chef, the weather (oh, the weather!) The island had a wedding exactly like ours almost on the same day. Same tent, same weather, same chef, some same guests. We made comparisons back and forth, forth and back again. Ping ponging “remember whens” at each other. “But, her sunset wasn’t as nice” my mother sniffed. She’s just giving My sunset preferential treatment because I’m her daughter, so in a weird way it was her sunset, too. I’m sure it was just as beautiful for the newly pronounced Mr. & Mrs. of September 2007, too. Everything would be remembered as utterly gorgeous on that day. Even if it wasn’t.

Kitchen Healing

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Yesterday was all about me. Girly and giggly, I indulged in fun and food and friends. I needed this. Needed to sip away sorrows of an anniversary long ago; needed to drown myself until I was back here, back to now, back to loving my life. Kisa took the wheel while I took to the wine. Together we sampled dips and chips, sauces and soups. Simply Tasteful something-er-rather. Someone asked me about kids, then asked my age. I don’t know why I was suprised over their shock. I see myself everyday so I should know. Later. Home. BubbleGum and Gravity, letting my favorite drummer find my heart. Find my favor.

Today, I took to the kitchen for Kisa. Breakfast was apple pancakes from scratch. Granny Smiths grated in the thick, multigrain batter, cooked slow. A topping of apple slices sauteed in small amounts of butter, brown sugar and maple syrup. Hot coffee to wash it all down. A meal to last all morning. Only blueberries could make it better.
Lunch was indulgent enough to be called dinner. Inspired by season-ready tomatillos I created a Mexican buffet:
Enchiladas – chicken, sour cream, onion (finely minced), cream cheese, Monterey cheese, tabasco, chili powder, cumin, and smoked paprika stuffed in multigrain tortillas. Baked with sauce – garlic, chipotles & tomatillos roasted and pureed. So simple, so yummy (thanks, Rick!). This has got to be one of my favorite meals.
Red beans and Rice – lime juice, red beans and brown rice (kept simple to mix up with the other dishes).
Tacos – beef, chili powder, cumin, Tabasco, cayenne pepper, onion, tomatoes, black olives, jalapenos, lettuce, cheese, salsa, avocado….
I left the kitchen looking like a tornado-torn town. My kind of cooking.

Dessert was something I picked up from Reading Lolita in Tehran: Coffee ice cream, cold coffee and pecans. Simple and sweet.

So, September is slipping away. Halfway gone. Pretty soon it will be crockpot cooking, slipper & sweater wearing, shut-the-windows weather. Something to look forward to: Tuesday!

Murder the Meow

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In light of what’s been going on with Michael Vick, this is going to be in bad form, but I really want to know what the penalty is for killing a cat. The cat specifically known as MY cat. She is driving me absolutely nuts lately. Absofukcinglutely crazy. It started with puking on the carpet yesterday morning when I had to be at work 3.-tres?-three! hours early. This morning, sensing someone was awake (yeah, me. I had to pee), she starts crying to be fed. Only she doesn’t stop there. She jumps on the bed, finds the nightstand (on my side) and a lamp to headbutt & nudge. When that doesn’t work she makes her way to the cedar chest and discovers crunchy tree branches to gnaw on (the rewind: for our engagement party my family made a money tree out of branches from home. I’ve kept every stick). Kisa throws a pillow at Indy. She retreats to the hall, but is determined to keep begging. She yowls louder. Kisa swings the bedroom door shut. Indy takes to “scratching” at the door, her clawless paws paddling at a furious pace. It’s kinda funny but I have a few more minutes of sleep to snatch so I’m not laughing. I’m not even smiling. When we finally feed her she takes a few bites and then races around the apartment like she’s dropped a speedball. Up and down the stairs, window to window, meowing the entire way. Like I said – Nuts.

I have a theory. A few mornings ago I looked out the window at a gruesome sight. A mourning dove lay dead, decapitated on the ground. Tiny white feathers surrounded the body, but not much else. Did Indy witness the murder? Was she just on the other side of the window, that close to being next? Is she haunted by the scene of the crime? Does she worry she’s a marked cat? Or is she jealous? Did she want in on the killing? Did she salivate at the sight of bloodshed? Hunger for the hell unleashed? Does she miss the great outdoors, hunting and having claws? We find it odd that the culprit left the entire bird body behind with only the head unaccounted for. Today, all evidence is completely and utterly gone. Not a feather exists. Maybe, just maybe Indy is pissed someone took her fantasy away.

For You Only

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Dear You,

 Thanks for not pushing me. Thanks for not “checking up on me.” It’s true that I haven’t checked my email, opened my mail or answered the phone. This little blog has been my only real form of communication with the outside world. I’m in lockdown mode. I’ve rolled over and played dead because I am more own worst enemy right now. I am both the hawk and the squirrel right now.
Tomorrow I leave for New York City…the Bronx to be precise. I couldn’t be happier to get away from everything here. I feel the vomit of disgust rising and it’s best if I step back before I say something too vile. I want to explore every inch of the Bronx zoo. I want to be a kid again. I want to escape my world for just a little while.
To RT~ give your grouch the biggest hug in the world and tell him I love him…even if he likes a guy who sings like nails on a chalkboard and dances like a snake on crack. I am sorry for his loss.
To NM~ to say thank you for something I haven’t seen seems odd but bear with me. As they say, I am in transition.
To MI~ see you tomorrow. I’ll be the one wanting to pet the animals with a balloon tied to her wrist.
And to you, I know you mean well. I’m just not used to pushing; to be greedy when all I feel is gratitude. I’m not afraid, just don’t feel I need to be awarded.

love, me

Big Dog Bite Me

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big dogTalking at me. Everyone is talking at me. G says let’s negotiate. He has dollar signs for eyeballs and greed is in his back pocket. He thinks he can whore me out for a price. K says I’m outta here and good riddance. Middle finger raised on a gentleman’s fist. Head held proud with a fukc you behind the smile. A is offering advice as a friend yet I cannot hear what she says. My husband is offering strategy as a partner. Take ’em for all they’re worth. Don’t sell yourself short. Where have I heard that before? The head honcho is calling me dude. Am I in his back pocket? What should I do? I can’t even ask what would Jesus do without offending someone…mostly myself. The only religion that can help me now is the one called confidence. The big dog can no longer bite because that dog is me. Bigger than what I planned on, bigger than who I am right now. Big man on campus. This is what you wanted. They say its a marriage. New wife…new life, right? How many things can I go about changing in my big corner office?
He says I’m tough on people. That I expect too much and I’m pushing buttons. Better than pushing you. Did I push you? Did we throw cups of hot, scalding coffee at each other to see who ducks faster? Did we?  If we did, did I win? I didn’t feel the sting of boiling brew so I must have. Big dog me. This isn’t how I wanted it to be. Everyone talking at me.

Monhegan House Lights

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This is our last night home. A big dinner with friends and a rainy walk home in the dark. We’re not tourists so we shrug off offers of raincoats and laugh off offers of flashlights. Don’t be ridiculous. We don’t need no stinkin’ flashlights! Laughter all around. Passing darkened houses I can remember feeling nostalgic, romantic on that walk home. The last night home is always like that. Every stone in the road is a well known marker for where we are, where we are going. I relish the soft rain and heavy salt air. Standing before the Monhegan House I remember this is where we got married, where we celebrated well into the night. I can hear the music pounding, the clinking of wine glasses, champagne toasts, tuaca shots, the laughter floating out into the night, the love swirling up to the heavens. I imagine my father, ethereal in the clouds, reaching down to catch my prayers wrapped in bittersweet smiles. I imagine the tourists in their guestrooms. Are they reading dogeared fiction, writing in journals about the day’s hike, examining bird books, touching up paintings created on the backside, or sleeping with the lights on? I try to imagine being a real tourist, here for the first time. What would I think of this place on my first night here? I’m always curious about what brings people here in the first place. Only, it’s not my first night here. It’s my last. Hand in hand we walk back to the cottage. Kisa senses my heavy heart and puts his arm around my shoulder. Glancing back at the MH it’s lit up like a pumpkin. My thoughts turn to fall. I’ll be back.

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.

If I Could Give You

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If I could, I would give you the ocean for your birthday. I would bottle up every wide blue wave with love. Just for you, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would give you another day of salty skin, fogbound sky and pounding surf. I would command the seas to rise just a little higher. Just for you. If I could, I would throw you a gull party with the loudest squawkers. Lobster tails and ears of corn for party favors. If no one comes we’ll entertain the crows, for one more day. If I could, I would find the finest purple seaglass and present it as a blooming flower. If I could, I would give you just one more day. If I could, I would buy you one more humble or whoopie pie…or maybe one of each. Just one more day.
Instead we’ll have Mocha dreams in a bed fit for a king…or at least a knight in shining armour.

Happy birthday, my love.

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.