For Heather

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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?

Dancing to “Almendra”

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Montero, Mayra; translated by Edith Grossman. Dancing to “Almendra” : A Novel. New York: Picador, 2005.

Can I say the cover alone got me? I’m not a big fan of hippos and there, on the cover is a dead hippo. Brilliant. Or, as someone else told me recently, “hippos are jerks.” But, that is either here nor there as far as the plot of Dancing to “Almendra” is concerned.

Here is the benign review I put on LibraryThing:This is a convoluted tale about a young reporter looking to make it big in pre-Castro Cuba’s world of journalism. Characters are drawn as tragic, eccentric, needy and sometimes self-absorbed.
At the center is Joaquin Porrata, the weak-willed entertainment reporter, sent to cover the death of a hippo at the zoo. He finds himself entangled in a much darker plot. There is the mafia (to which the death of the hippo is directly related), eccentric circus performers with leprosy and amputations, a zoo keeper with too many nicknames who chops up horses as food for the zoo carnivores, prostitution, violence, and even a murder that hits closer to home than Joaquin bargained for.
On the other side of the story is Yolanda (she also has other names). As the one-armed, former assistant to a magician with leprosy, her story is just as tragic. While Joaquin and Yolanda’s stories do not mesh well with the plot, the telling of both sides enhances the story of their romance.
Because I read a translation of Dancing to Almendra I cannot be sure Mayra Montero’s language is all her own. While the voice moves masterfully between Joaquin and Yolanda, direct translations could be lost in description.

Not too exciting but I’m paranoid I’m not a team player. More on that later.

Favorite (weird) line: “with a voice like hysterical glass” (p 4). What, exactly, does that mean?

Love, Redefined

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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.

Seriously Southwest, Silly Me

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Southwest Airlines is trying to take their seating sorrows seriously. How do I begin to describe gate 4?
First of all, there are a bunch of poles everywhere. All these poles are topped with numbers. For example, I sit facing the one stating “36-40 41-45.” If I follow the logic of the poles I’m in the wrong seat. I should be one seat over…or something. I understand the thinking. I think. Rather than a free-for-all when group A is called (and that’s my group) we now have sections so, in theory, does that mean smaller free-for-alls?

I wrote the above on my way down to Tampa. My boarding number was A46. How wrong I was…on oh so many levels. First of all, and I’ll admit this clearly: I wasn’t at gate 4. I was at 5. I wrote all of the above while waiting at the wrong gate and I blatently blame it on the poles. At gate 4 I saw numbers 1-10, 11-15, 16-20, 21-25 but nothing beyond that. Walking further I saw the numbers start all over again. 1-10 and so on. So now I’m confused. Keep in mind, I’m looking up at the numbers and not at the gate numbers so I managed to walk past my gate. Obviously. Once I realized I had gone too far (when the numbers started over again) I circled back, but this time on the other side of the poles. Magically, there were the higher numbers I had been looking for. I sat down when I saw 36-40, 41-45. At gate 5.
My second mistake was thinking my numbers designated where you sat as well as how you boarded the plane. I joked with passengers around me that I hoped I wouldn’t get in trouble for sitting in the wrong waiting area chair. No wonder they looked at me funny. Boarding numbers are just that, b o a r d i n g numbers, as in, how you get on the plane. Don’t worry, Ms Klutz Me would give them more to laugh at. About 20 minutes later someone came over the intercom and started announcing the boarding of flight something-er-rather…to Baltimore. As in Maryland. Startled, I looked behind me only to see I was sitting at gate 5 and not 4. Oh hell. Pretending to need the ladies room, I asked someone close to me where it was. I could tell she was confused. We were about to board, she knows I’m A46, we’ve talked about this and now I want the ladies’ room??? Nevertheless, she pointed it out and watched me go, a bemused look on her face. I wonder what she thought when I never came back, nor boarded that plane to Baltimore?

Reunion

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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

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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

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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

What I Did (Thank You Very Much)

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Everyone has a comment about my legs. Or, rather, the pictures I had taken of said legs. There have been mixed reviews, for sure. Funny how the boys have good things to say (thank you, gentlemen) while the girls…well, they don’t say anything negative, per se. Just stuff like “what made you do that?” voices trailing off, implying judgment just under the skin. The tone is not condescending…yet not very complimentary either. Umm…thanks.
Here’s why I did what I did. Maybe there are women out there who do not have a single complaint about any part of their body whatsoever. Maybe there are women out there who think they are perfect in every single way and wouldn’t change a thing. Good for them. I, on the other hand, (unfortunately), am not one of those women. I could find fault with a fingernail (they don’t grow straight). The recent weeks of trying on clothes that did not flatter, finding new gray hairs and realizing gravity works in mysteriously bad ways has really taken a toll on my otherwise happy-to-be-me personality. Turning another year old hasn’t help matters. As my mother says, I’m 39 and “holding.” Middle aged, if I think about it, and consider the odds of living to 78 and beyond.

To put it bluntly, I needed something. Me & myself, we needed compliments from moi. In a nutshell, I wanted to stand in front of a mirror and proclaim myself happy to see me in that WhereHaveYouBeenAllMyLife? enthusiasm. I just wanted to be happy to be me. So, yes, it took fishnet stockings. It took high heeled boots and it took a schoolgirl skirt to put me in that frame of mind. The bigger compliment to myself was the ability to stand (or sit on a kitchen counter provocatively) in front of a camera and capture the moment. The biggest compliment was for me to post myself for all the world to see. Truly proving that while I have changed dress sizes and acquired more gray hair, I have reclaimed my sense of self. I heart me once again. So, that’s why I did what I did. Thank you very much.

With Absolute Abandon

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tigerlilyI am obsessed with you. Every word you utter ripples through me; sends shivers down my spine and spears my heart. I cannot get enough of your voice and how you say what you do. I capture my tongue hostage for fear of parroting too much, driving others insane with incessant talktalktalk of you. It’s all in what you say that makes it impossible for me to fall silent.
I realize this is my way. This has always been my way. I fall in love easily, carelessly, with absolute abandon. New fascinations rein supreme while old loves are tossed aside without favor. Over and over and over again. How my husband tolerates me I’ll never know.
But, but, but, back to you. Always you. If you were to stand before me, if I knew you, would I have the courage to confront your voice? Would I be capable of communicating my devotion to your craft? I hate the heartache you force me to feel. I am a fool for your politics, your positions. I don’t walk away easily – for even after I have removed myself your words follow me. Like a fine coating of dust that can’t be wiped clean you cover my conscience. You preach the imperfections and I pour over every word like a new language I have yet to understand.

Flicked to Flix

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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:

  1. I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (funny, funny scene with Dave Matthews – who knew he could be so gay?)
  2. Click (One of those “morality” movies – wasn’t super thrilled with it)
  3. Capote (I am a huge, huge fan of Capote – both the writing and the person. This was the best one so far)…
  4. Stranger than Fiction (I expected Will to be naked and Emma to be dry. Who knew I would be so wrong? Great movie!)
  5. 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

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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

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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.

Jerusalem Diet

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Besserman, Judith and Emily Budick. The Jerusalem Diet: Guided Imagery and Personal Path to Weight Control. Jerusalem: Green Publishing, 2007.

The very first thing I liked about this book was the statement that it is not a conventional “diet” book. Yay for that! It’s a book about making choices. Sometimes, in the world of nutrition and eating better, it is better to not think in terms of dieting; instead think in terms of getting healthier. Period.
The second thing I liked about this book is the disclaimer about gender. Right in the introduction the subject of why women are ‘targeted’ is addressed. The authors are quick to point out that while men have benefited from their methods, the conversation of this book is directed toward women because a woman’s reasons for dieting differ from a man’s.
Other points made in The Jerusalem Diet seemed to be common sense. A lot of conversation covers emotional eating and how food takes the place of other wants and desires. This is something any dieter has definitely heard before. The recommendation to start a food diary seems commonplace as well. Doesn’t Weight Watchers encourage the same awareness of dietary intake?
The main focus of The Jerusalem Diet is the use of imagery, or guided visualization. Throughout the book there are 43 different imagery exercises to be practiced during both the dieting and maintaining stage of weight loss. The exercises are conveniently indexed in the back as well. There is a pleasant mix of “lecture” and storytelling between exercises. Besserman and Budick share the experiences of their patients, which results in personalizing the “how to-ness” of the rest of the book.
One final addition to the book is a list of soup recipes designed to promote weight loss. It isn’t clear why the program is called the Jerusalem Diet other than the fact Besserman practices in Jerusalem and Budick teaches at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem.

*Disclaimer: while reading The Jerusalem Diet for review I also practiced what it preached to see how effective it was in helping me with my dietary concerns. Stay tuned because I’m still working on it!

February Is…

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heartWhen 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:

  • The Jerusalem Diet: Guided Imagery and the Personal Path to Weight Control by Judith Besserman and Emily Budick
  • Dancing to “Almendra”: A Novel by Mayra Montero
  • and a third book coming soon.

Here’s where I’ll try after I am done with those:

  • American Century – by Harord Evans
  • Defiant Hero – by Suzanne Brockmann
  • His Excellency – by Joseph Ellis
  • 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!

January Was…

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January was a pretty good month for reading, given the fact I was sick for the first two weeks! I was able to get through all the books on my ‘January Is’ list…as well as some extras. Here’s the total tally:

  • Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned by Walter Mosley – finished!
  • Beyond the Black Stump by Nevil Shute – finished!
  • The Dollmaker by Harriett Arnow – finished (thanks to NYC)!
  • The Americanization of Benjamin Franklin by Gordon Wood – Finished!
  • Everyday Zen: Love and Work by Charlotte Joko Beck – Finished!
  • Alburquerque by Rudolfo Anaya – Finished!

and the extras:

  • The Funnies by J. Robert Lennon (was actually a reread)
  • Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley (started on a whim and couldn’t put it down)
  • Book Lover’s Cookbook by Janet Jensen (as a Christmas present)
  • A Civil Action by Jonathan Harr (something I had laying around…but didn’t finish. Not yet, at least!)

Out of all the reads I think Thousand Acres and Alburquerque were my favorites. Both had a lot of locational culture, if that makes sense. I learned a lot about farming from Acres and more than a lot about food, traditions, history and the people of Alburquerque.