Someone wrote me the sweetest email about this silly little blog. He said he admired the way I “attacked the love and your life.” Because I was in the middle of something I read it as, “I admire the way you attack the love of your life.” It made me want to rush home and check the mini-blinds. That’s me, rushing to conclusions. Instead, I realized English wasn’t his first language, so I reread it and had a good laugh. He said the only thing missing was the “100 things about me” post and dared me to create one. Actually dared me! I was tempted to dig up the one from MySpace but refrained simply because I’m not that person anymore. I now can go to a party and not feel like the naked wallflower with zits, vericose veins, hangnails and split ends. I now can pick up the phone and talk to Germany. I now can walk by a dog without breaking into a cold sweat. I can step over an anthill without screaming bloody murder.
So, G – thank you. Thank you for letting me look at myself. It was fun. So, here you go. Instead of looking in the mirror and sizing up the image with a critical eye, I laughed my way through 100 things.
Category: Good
Joke of the Day…Is On Me
Joke: What do you get when you combine an island off the coast of Maine and bunch of knitting yogis?
They want $1,900 per person for this retreat. What if you have your own place to stay courtesy of Chez Mum and you don’t care for the touristy critter dinner? (I’m already getting one of those, complete with bib, in less than a week.) I’m curious to see what they’ll say. I’m also curious to see if it would be worth my while to run away from work during one of the busiest months, to knit and practice yoga in my hometown when I have knowledgeable, fun, beautiful people here who could do the same thing for, I’m guessing, way less.
The joke is on me because I want to do it, just to blend in with the crowd. I want the headline to read, “Local girl gone loco”; to see the community’s bemused faces when they realize I’m not home for the hell of it. They don’t know me as someone who knits, runs, practices yoga, goes on retreats…
Small House
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.
The African Cookbook
Sandler, Bea. The African Cookbook: Menus and Recipes From Eleven African Countries and the Island of Zanzibar. New York: Citadel Press Book, 1993.
This is a gorgeous cookbook. Not just for the recipes and menus, but also for the art. The illustrations by Diane and Leo Dillon are amazing. My personal favorite introduces the recipes of Tanzania (p. 57).
In the first half of the cookbook the recipes cover all the regions of African cooking. In addition each chapter has a section on the culture of the region, how meals are served (traditionally) and how you, the American cook, can pull off your own Tanzanian, South African or Liberian meal. The second half of the cookbook covers additional recipes. Chapters are gouped by product – fish, poultry, beef, starch, etc.
Something else I find interesting is the nontraditional layout of each recipe. You won’t find a list of ingredients and then preparation instructions. Instead, each ingredient is presented as needed in the preparation instructions. Something I am never good at is reading through the entire recipe before starting and with The African Cookbook that step would be imperative.
BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust in the chapter “Africa: A Reader’s Itinerary” (p4).
Dot3 Dash3 Dot3
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
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?
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.
Transmit This!
You know when something is so good you want to shout it from a mountain? I don’t know why…just to share perhaps? Just to be a moron, maybe? Well, I feel like shouting today. I’m on the road again. Finger on the trigger, lemme saddle up.
Transmit this from your mountain top: today I hit golf balls. 1/2 a bucket for the first time in nearly eight years. Okay, so I’ve lost the sweet spot. So my swing feels alittle stupid, but, but, but I hit enough good ones to know my clubs haven’t forgotten me. I had to laugh at him. Here’s what I said somewhere else: Fukc him and his idea that I’ll never be any good. Fukc him and his high fairway only horse. I like swinging the club and that’s all that matters.
Transmit this: I’m back in the game.
Waiting…
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
A 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.
What I Don’t Have
What 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
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.
My Good Friend RootBeer Float
This was a night of obsessions. No other way to put it. First it was M coming up from NY, then it was G&S meeting up after their charity walk, then it was R&C taking a break from weekend chores and weekend work-too-hard, then it was S&J finding their way to Bishops. Finally, it was meeting up with J&S so the eleven of us could cheer on Rebecca. I got to hear yet even more new songs (new to me, maybe old to others..I don’t know). They were still great.
1.) Just a Boy (?) – First time hearing this one. Not sure I’ve got the title right.
2.) Miss You – title track off the “new” album. I can’t help but sing along.
3.) On Your Way Down – I love the word beast in this song. It’s so startling.
4.) Yours – I don’t know why but I keep calling this song “Reason Why”
5.) Nothing Left To Take – (which I call My Mistake)
6.) Walking Backwards
7.) Tell Kyle – another new one that is so so sad!
8.) Divorced – I admit, I requested this one. I wanted S to hear it.
9.) Sonnet #30 – Who doesn’t love Shakespeare put to music? The applause was awesome!
10.) Quiet Hands – another request
11.) Miss Innocent – I wanted to ask Rebecca if she had seen Paul McCartney’s commerical with the mandolin.
12.) Gin
I love getting together for Rebecca shows. I love meeting for basil & tomato pizza and eating it crust first. Ripping it apart into cheesy bites, cornmeal dusting my paper plate as we laugh and gossip and catch up. I love seeing amazing friends come together to support the music, even if isn’t their “type.” I took pictures of the couples, capturing their warmth, mine for keeps. One of the best parts of the night was kisa buying a cd and offering it up to anyone who wanted it. Rebecca told me I had married a good man and all I could do was smile. I know.
After the show 7 of us went to Friendly’s because I was obsessed with having a rootbeer float. People joked about me being deprived but I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t grown up with these strange concoctions. Someone else in our group admitted to having one for the first time “just the other day.” HA! Although it wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be. Someone told me I didn’t have the right kind of rootbeer. Who knew?
We finished the night watching Mr. Nash’s Drum video and talking about small feet, crazy people, “popping out” (what kind of friend are YOU?) and the Japanese tourist. Laughing too hard for my own good.
When I Simply Hate You
I 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
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.
~*LunaSea*~ 