I can’t stop thinking about this. I can’t stop the burning because truthfully, I found the fire. Here’s what I needed to do – all I really needed to do: simply talk to someone who runs like me – not perfectly, not professionally, not obsessively. Someone who understands stumbling onto the powerline of running and the electric desire to stay strong. It’s a balancing act to stay on that live wire. Believe you me. What dawned on me was that I had no one to talk to about MY run, MY pain, MY failures. I would try, but deep in my heart I knew the well-meaning ears would only half hear me and the well-meaning hearts would only half understand me. Bottom line – no one got my run. I was another puppet – talktalktalk – and I was probably boring as all hell. No one got me. I mean reeallly got me.
That changed when I got back from Florida. I’m not sure which words struck the match, but I have found the fire. Since getting back I have run five times. Each time no more that 31 minutes. 2.4 miles, 2.45 miles, 2.5 miles, 2.55 miles, & 2.75 miles. Every other day the treadmill calls my name and I answer. I’m running to stupid sh!t like “Cotton Alley” and “2am” but, but. But! I hope that will change when I actually break down and buy myself an ipod. I’ll make running playlists for 2.5 miles, 3 miles, 5 miles…(lawd, I’m a geek). I’m so obsessed about the song that in fact, I now listen to music with an ear on the run. Can I move my feet to this? Is this something that will snag the miles and drag me along? I’m asking for advice, listening to the bmps. Everyone says “Running Down a Dream” is one of the best songs. I still say “Paint it Black” and “Use the Force” are my anthems. For now.
Category: Good
Reviewer Rotten-ly
I shouldn’t care what strangers say about me.
I should say that again.
I should not care what strangers say about me!
Yet, I do.
There. I said it.
I care. I definitely do.
Here’s why: I was cruising around my LibraryThing page, noticed a little “thumbs up” icon on certain reviews & got curious. What did that little icon mean and had it ever been applied to a review of mine? Hmmm….This is where I should have remembered the little saying about curiosity killing the cat because while searching my own reviews for that “thumbs up” icon I came across a review that had “tagged” as not a review. It was like a big, fat warning to all the professional reviewers out there, a flashing sign that read: “hey guys, don’t waste your time reading this horseshit. It’s not a real review.” Okay, so no one actually said that…but, that’s what it felt like. Not a review. Defenses up, demeaning name-calling at the ready: jerks…snobs! Who did they think they were? Then, I went back and read the post in question…Whomever tagged it was right. In the traditional sense it’s definitely NOT a review. See for yourself. Yet, the tag still stung. It’s like being called out as a fraud; no Great Oz. I have been tempted to go back and write a real review, something academically sterile and boring to compensate. I feel guilty because here I am, in the Early Review program and I break all the rules for writing a traditional review: You are supposed to review the plot: one, keeping first person voice out of it, and two, you’re not supposed to quote text. Two things I do all the time.
There is a disclaimer on my site that states I don’t review books in the traditional manner, but rather as proof that I took the time to read something for the BookLust Challenge. So, what now? Maybe I should write a traditional review for LibraryThing and leave my quoting and blathering for this site only???? I’m still pondering that….and sort of practicing that. LT gets the straight up this-is-the-book and WP gets ThisIsWhatTheBookMeantToMe. More work? Yes, but it will be worth it to not be so reveiwer rotten.
By the way …the “thumbs up” icon that got me in trouble in the first place? It was an was-this-review-helpful? indicator… Go figure.
For Heather
Would you believe I have no idea who this person is? Absolutely no clue. This is what I do know. I keep my promises. Or, I try to. Really. This is Heather. I don’t know a lot about her. But, I think I know the best thing about her: she’s doing that Hike for Discovery I talked about oh so long ago. I don’t think I need to point out that I never did it. Running 13.1 miles and doing a “doozie” on my knee scared me bad enough I’ve been glued to my recliner for the last year and a half. But. But, but, Heather found my blog about the desire to do something good and she called me out on it. So, I donated. Heather, I have no clue who you are but I applaud you and your cause. Good good good luck. If you find this and read it, hike for my grandmothers, Bessie and Irene. Both cancer victims, their absence is my everlasting ache.
If anyone else wants to help Heather, please go here. Do it! Every little bit counts. Really.
Here’s the deal: The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society has been circling my soul for some time now. Everything is coming together in one perfect storm. One crazy desire to run again, to race again, to train again with TNT. Could I? It’s all adding up. Seeing their faces in Florida, finding courage in an amazing friend, subtle support from family. It’s all building to something bigger. Could I be getting closer to something bigger than myself? Could I? Should I?
Love, Redefined
From the moment my kisa started dating me seriously I begged him to not acknowledge Valentine’s Day. I asked him to avoid candy and cards. I assured him I would refuse gifts of fluffy bears and flowers. I’m just not into it, I told him. He waited until the day after The Day and sent flowers. I would have sent them back, but not for the card which read “Happy Friday?” I think I ranted as much last year about this weird “holiday” (I’m too lazy to link to it so if you are feeling adventurous, you can look for it).
Anyway, this year one of my oldest and bestest friends sent me a Valentine. Humph. She and I stand reunited on the whole gooshy romance thing. We have the same views on children. We are pretty pragmatic when it comes to prissy, pretty things. In short, we don’t need Hallmark to define love for us. We have our own interpretations. So, imagine my surprise to see her card in the mail.
Yup, this is the card. Yup, that’s my friend. I couldn’t ask for a better laugh at a time when I’m usually scoffing at the whole love thing. She gets me. For over 20 years. I’ve needed her humor, her spirit, her “fiestiness” as one would say. I am lucky to have her in my life.
So, to my sage, wild, “something strong” friend, Happy Valentine’s Day. For what it’s worth, I love you.
ps~ 25 years from now we’re going on a road-trip; flashing other motorists is optional.
Reunion
This was my team. These were my people. Imagine my surprise when saw them again yesterday. Okay, okay, so I didn’t see these exact same people. Maybe some of them were there. I don’t know. But, I saw their colors of royal purple and kelly green and I recognized their cause. Running either 13.1 or 26.2 – it didn’t matter. New Hampshire or Florida, I recognized them and cheered them on just the same.
Here’s the thing. Before getting to FL not once did I think about Team in Training. Not once did I consider their presence in the Gasparilla. I didn’t think of them at all. Out of sight, out of mind. Really. I was there for one reason and one reason only – to cheer on my friend in her first 13.1. So, when I saw the familiar purple and green I was taken by surprise. My heart caught in my throat and I felt tears well in my eyes. The Cause was here. My own run came back to me mile by mile, minute by minute. Without warning I was overcome with emotion. Seeing their decorated race bibs and TNT decals I couldn’t help but yell words of encouragement. Calling their names, yelling Go Team in Training! You. Can. Do. It. With every thumbs up I felt it wasn’t enough. Something was missing. The run. Bottom line: I wanted to run with them. There’s something else I learned – I will always be a TNT runner. I will always have a place on the team.
Hello Again Hello
All of this getting ready for the run has got me thinking I’m in the wrong spot. I should be out there, too. I should kicking my own ass on a regular basis…just like my friend. While I wil cheer her on tomorrow I can’t help but feel just a little jealous, a little That Should Be Me.
There is something to be said for finding your way. There is something to be applauded when, after you have found your way, you actually go your own way. Finding the way and actually taking it are two very different things. I think I needed to come to Florida to figure that out. We talked love and relationships, comedy and tragedy, heart and soul and the one thing that remains clear to me is this: live for today. Don’t think you should wait until something better comes along because, who knows? maybe it never will. You need to make it better if no one else will. Period.
We saw an accident today. It happened in the blink of an eye. I was on the phone and wasn’t paying much attention. A decent witness I definitely was not. I couldn’t even tell you who hit first. All I know is that I watch too much crime tv so when I saw the reddish liquid streaming from the injured truck all I could think was “fireball explosion” and pure panic set in. My heart raced even though I continued to talk on the phone. I don’t know if worry was anywhere near my voice, or if I sounded miles away from my concern. All I know is this: in an instance two vehicles collided. Where were they going? Doesn’t matter. They’ll all be late now. They are lucky to be alive.
That’s my point. Life can change you. Or you can change your life. Hello again, hello.
It’s Not the Leaving
I leave for Florida today. I haven’t flown by myself in some time. I can’t remember the last time I got on an airplane with just me & myself for company. We’ll be okay, I’m sure.
As blogs usually go, I tend to write about what’s on top of the junk heap I call my brain. I single out the one idea or thought that’s making the most noise, the one that’s banging around the most, begging to be let out. Then I write. It’s not the leaving that I’m thinking about. It’s you.
Dear You,
You say I have some responsibility for this one-foot-in-front-of-another thing we call running. You say that I had something to do with putting you at the starting gate. If that’s the case, I am proud to be a part of your latest challenge. Hell, I’m proud of you. Period. You have always been that HellOnWheels woman that I admire. Even without the run you have grace, strength, power and passion. I am proud of you for just wanting this challenge, never mind actually taking it!
The run is one thing, but I want to talk about The Race. I know you are nervous. But, I know something you have forgotten: You Can Do This! I’ll tell you something else – this is how much I believe in you: I almost didn’t make my plane reservation last month. You wanna know why? Because next year you will be scoffing at 21 kilometers and you’ll be saying “42.2? Bring it on!” and I’ll be hauling my ass back down to Tampa to watch you run The Big One. This little 13 miler, my dear, is just a stepping stone for someone as stubborn as you. Next year you’ll want 26.2…That’s how much I believe in you.
So, I’ll say it again. You can do this. No fear. No pain. Nothing but courage. I’ll see you at the finish line.
Love, me
Flicked to Flix
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:
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I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (funny, funny scene with Dave Matthews – who knew he could be so gay?)
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Click (One of those “morality” movies – wasn’t super thrilled with it)
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Capote (I am a huge, huge fan of Capote – both the writing and the person. This was the best one so far)…
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Stranger than Fiction (I expected Will to be naked and Emma to be dry. Who knew I would be so wrong? Great movie!)
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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
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.
Happy Birthday
I have deemed my 39th year the year of change in oh so many ways. Traditionally, my birthday is the day of resolutions, promises and new leaves turning over. Nothing new there. I have said that before just as I have made public my struggle with 2007. I have to say (again) I’m glad it’s over. I’m more than happy to be putting 38 behind me, as well. Having said all that, here’s how I celebrated the big 39th.
Daybreak doesn’t come easy in my bedroom. Dark forest green walls and brown wood blinds keep out any good morning sunshine. Lying in the dark, contemplating the day, the phone rang. My mother – serenading me with “Happy Birthday Dear 39 and holding….” I wanted to ask her to call back and sing into my answering machine (I’ve kept my mother and sister’s birthday wishes on my machine for the past 2 years). Instead, I smiled into the phone and enjoyed her goofy singing. A great way to start the day.
Later, kisa and I visited Grandpa’s house. Sitting with cinnamon scones and steaming coffee at the kitchen table we listened to the silence. The longer we sat the more aware of other sounds we became: the ticking of a clock, the wind rattling the clothesline stretched across the lawn, the dripping, drumming of rain off the gutters. I swore I could hear the whispers of ghosts.
A big part of my birthday celebration was redemption for the dress fiasco of last week. So, believe it or not, I took me, myself & moi shopping. Yes, shopping. I found jeans called “flirt” and “diva”, black v-neck tops and catch-my-legs in black fishnet stockings. Here’s the thing – everything fit, first try. No struggling, no scrutinizing. My dressing room didn’t even have a mirror.
Next stop, Panera for lunch. I have a soft spot for the sandwich shop thanks to Sarah and a little trip to Saratoga. This time I went vegetarian with creamy tomato soup, crunchy asiago cheese croutons, and a Greek veggie sandwich. Yum. I could have sat there all day.
The rest of the afternoon was spent working out, playing on the computer and opening mail. My sister sent a cool package of goodies (hello homemade tortillas!). I can’t wait to start making my own fajitas from scratch.
Later, a steamy bath filled with bubbles. Getting ready for a night on the town. I modeled two different outfits for kisa because I just couldn’t decide- heels and brand-spanking new jeans or boots and brand-spanking new skirt? Sweater or scoop neck tee? Everything black, black, black. Finally decided on the school-girl skirt in flannel dark, fishnets and braided black top. Something sexy-festive and fun. Ready to hit the town.
Speaking of town – it was hopping. For the first time ever we had to park on the roof of the garage. People everywhere, chatting, laughing calling to one another, rushing to cross the street, others standing to window shop. Smoky breath rising; groups huddled together on street corners, shoulders shrugged to ward off the cold. Neko Case performing at the Calvin, restaurants with hour-plus waiting lists. Stop and go traffic, the chirping walk signal in between the flow of cars. There was a buzz and I felt the electricity everywhere.
We ended up at Zen. Plum wine, a fire boat filled with seafood, bok choy, mushrooms, cabbage, brown rice, chopsticks and soy sauce. Next time we will cook our own meal, Japanese Shabu style. I have the meal all picked out.
Home again, stuffed and happy. My favorite soon-to-be four year old on the answering machine, serenading me with Happy Birthday (I live in a zoo) with a little Fire and Rain and Scarborough Fair thrown in. So damn cute. If it hadn’t been so late (way past his bedtime) I would have called him back to ask if he takes requests. Maybe a little Janitor of Lunacy.
Later, late night – a night-cap of a single cranberry vodka. KBCO on the stereo. Red candles in the dark flickering in the reflection of cds on the ceiling. Happy birthday to me.
February Is…
When you think of the month of February what do you think of? I think of Valentine’s Day and how much I hate the Hallmark Holiday. I think of how I survived another year being me…and how I can’t wait to be me for another year. I think of National History month, National Friendship month, National Theater Month, National Science month, and the birthdays of Jonathan Letham, Ross Thomas, Russell Hoban, and Ian Banks. Lots and lots of reading for the month of February. Unfortunately, all of this will have to be put on hold while I read other things. LibraryThing has me tied up with:
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The Jerusalem Diet: Guided Imagery and the Personal Path to Weight Control by Judith Besserman and Emily Budick
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Dancing to “Almendra”: A Novel by Mayra Montero
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and a third book coming soon.
Here’s where I’ll try after I am done with those:
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American Century – by Harord Evans
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Defiant Hero – by Suzanne Brockmann
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His Excellency – by Joseph Ellis
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Bright Young Things – by Amanda Vail
I just found out that American Century is over 700 pages long and is a nemesis subject of mine: history. Ugh. So, I anticipate I won’t get to any of the others this February. Maybe next year!
Left Out
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.
You Didn’t Ask Me
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.
Bring Home the Bacon
Don’t get me wrong. I love to cook. I absolutely adore being in the kitchen, making my own meals, creating my own plates of goodness. But, but, but. There is something to be said for the man who can bring it to the table himself. I’m not talking about the guy who blah, blah, blah brags about how great his meals are. I’m not talking about the guy who sounds positively gay discussing his creme brulee, knife skills or turducken. I’m talking about the quiet guy…the guy who sheepishly says, “yeah… I guess I can try” when I mention starting up the pasta or pan searing the sausage or something. I have a soft spot for the man who, despite being scared, somehow serves something special. I love, love, love the humble guy cook. The guy closet chef who has no clue what he’s doing…but tries anyway.
Over the course of one Sunday I served up International servings: Swedish meatballs with smooth sour cream and bright current jelly, Polish kielbasa -cooked long with spicy-sweet BBQ sauce, and Thai chicken bites with lime, cilantro and vibrant green curry. The time before that I was exploring the ocean with garlicky, clilantro-y, citrusy salmon (my first time taking a pair of pliers to a fish). None of these dishes compared to the meal already made for me. Ready for my mouth the moment I walk in the door. He says he can’t cook. He says he has no clue what he’s doing. He tastes good to me.
From the Sky
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.
~*LunaSea*~ 