Imposters

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I will be glad to leave this world for a little while. Just for a short time, just enough to catch my breath. I am no better than these drummers disguised as chefs. Cooking up all the wrong things. Stirring up mayhem and madness. This weekend I’ll be glad to sit back and be only wife and daughter for a few days. A long weekend. Shed the illusion of Head Mucky-Muck for the time being. I don’t want to wear nice clothes. I don’t want someone to knock on my door and ask “can I interrupt?” No. I want to be eat-from-the-earth girl. Apples, leftover blackberries. Eye-behind-the-lens girl capturing everything that catches my heart. The must-have-lobsters-and whoopie-pies girl. Chocolate crumbs on my chin, white frosting on my fingertips. Face-in-a-book-and-wine-glass-on-knee girl. Oohh…books. Wine. I’m starting to drool. Maybe my book, it will be a girly-girl book. A dirty book. A fantastic book. Something that goes with Merlot. Something too delicious for Miss Mucky Muck.

HomeHomeHomeHome

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What was I thinking? Not go home? Am I crazy? I always go home. Always in Autumn. I fall in love with the island’s air and light this time of year. Every single time. So, why would I think I wouldn’t go this year? Who cares that life is crazy right now? That’s all the more reason to run away.

It’s the same as it ever was. We’ll pack the truck, grocery list clenched between my teeth. Dog food, non-dairy creamer, the usual. I’ll be stressed and knotted until we’re actually on the boat and ready to roll on the waves. I won’t sleep well until we’re on the Southern End under a night of pitch black pine trees.

So, in the meantime I need to figure out what meals I’m going to cook. I need to pick and chose the books to read. Maybe I’ll bring knitting. Maybe I’ll bring running shoes. I need to find my favorite sweatshirt. You can bet I’m bringing the camera. End of story. I’m going home.

Leaving It All Behind

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I got the email today. All who attended were on the list which translated into all those who were there. As we were. There. I went because someone asked me to. That someone was me. I went because I asked myself. Please be social. Please do something outside the zone of all things comfortable. Be nice. Be forgetful of what was then. See yourself and others for this is now. Have a laugh. Have a beer. Raise a glass to better days ahead. Make promises you intend to keep…with joy.In a handshake I promised I would be back. In a word I gave my word. Promise came out of my mouth and happiness was in my vow. Be there with hope wide open and you shall receive a new beginning. I hope 25 years is just as easy as 20. I hope Frank’s Run is just as Fun (and that I actually do it). I hope to see everyone there again.

Who cares if we are not ourselves as we used to be? Who cares if we are newly improved forms of what we used to think was perfect? Time does more than heal. It advices us to smarten up, fly straight, too. I will not look back with regret, but forward with I Hope.

School Spirit

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1957
Look at the smile on this woman’s face. I absolutely love this picture. That’s the way I want to be thirty years from now, wearing red tights and sporting a fantastic attitude. She looks like she’s having a blast. Her smile is all about school spirit…either that or she’s very hungry. The parade ended at the dining hall and we were so close!

Finger sandwiches of turkey and roast beef. Tangy cold apple cider. Crunchy cookies on the table. Standing in the doorway of the dining room, looking out over a sea of faces staring back at me  I had one of those panic moments – where can I sit? Who isn’t going to get up as soon as I sit down? Didn’t I say I’d sit with 72 & 82? Kisa and my confidence momentarily floated away. Different dining room, same dilemma. Luckily, we had assigned seating and all I had to do was make it to our table without dropping my tray.

After lunch was another first. A class picture. Five of us made it there. Hopefully, it will make it into the newsletter. Won’t mom be proud?

To be continued…

1987

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My discomfort started with a clenched jaw, a stomach in knots, and a real sense of dread. We drove through campus a little after 10pm and all I wanted to do was turn around and go home. All I could think was “There I go again, doing something stupid.” I kept asking myself why did I come back? What did I have to gain from seeing people who didn’t like me almost as much as I didn’t know them? Almost every memory of this place is tainted by something embarrassing, awkward and not worth remembering at all. It was all I could do to stop from myself from blurting out “Yup! The campus looks awesome. We can turn around now. Let’s go home now.” Kisa would have killed me. With a cold he had just driven four and a half hours to get me here…for whatever reason.
The next morning I was feeling worse. Our B&B bed was made of bones and bricks. Everything creaked. The floor, the door, the bed, the dresser drawers. My tossing and turning, sighing and twitching kept Kisa and every neighbor within earshot up all night. Neither of us could imagine getting through a day of socializing and smiling. Kisa had nothing to reminisce about and I surely didn’t paint a pretty picture.
Breakfast changed all that. Sitting down to a gourmet meal of omelets (wild mushroom) and “possibly the best french toast on the planet” we were drawn into conversations with neighboring tables. Soon we were asking each other the usual question – What year are you? 1972. 1982. 1987. We passed stories from table to table. Holden Hall became hilarious. Gehring was more than girly. We couldn’t decide if Madame was the same Madame that everyone knew. Dress codes and dish duty. Outward Bound Hell and smoking in the boys’ room. Hanscom tag and an infamous pickle jar. 1972 remembered the exact same things as us 80’s grads.
By the time the parade rolled around we were all ready to roll. For the first time ever I participated. For the first time ever I found pride.

To be continued…

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.

Almost Breathing

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Three days to go. Three more days and I can breathe again. Back to school will be my back to good test. This time tomorrow I will be gearing up for Gehring. Like Ray says, three more days.
Sometimes I think it was a mistake to get married in September. The thought is fleeting but, it is my hated month after all. My nemesis in more ways than one. I shut people out and refuse to shout it out, work it out. My angry month. Sad, but true. I like it that way. I dream of Gin. I think of Integrity.
Three more days and I can unleash the pumpkins, bats, cats, witches and all things scary. I love October and all it brings. Pumpkin everything. This year I’ll search the faces of orange orbs and find my True Jack for the 31st. High Hopes boasts a syrup season too good to miss. Caleb’s Scary House waits for wusses like me.

**I don’t know what I did to deserve your gifts. You hardly know the tragedy of the ninth month. But, I thank you for sending smiles when I needed them most.**

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.

Another Book Break

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So, I had just finished Map of the World and I was trying to decide between All the King’s Men, Moo, Things They Carried and Road From Coorain. I admit, I started each of them at one time or another this week. None of them grabbed me right away. I absolutely hate that – when a book doesn’t hook me within the first five pages. I don’t know what it is about the number five but I’d like to be drawn into the plot at least by page five.  I know, I know! That doesn’t give the author much time to bedazzle me but that’s that I’m looking for.

Yesterday the reading dilemma (if you can call it that) was resolved. As some of you know, I’m a LibraryThing Early Reviewer. From time to time I review not-yet-published books and tell ’em what I think. I’m not your standard reviewer. I don’t pour over the books looking for errors, I don’t critique style or continuity within an inch of its literary life, I don’t look for the proverbial gun to go off by the second act. In short, I have no clue why LT asked me to be an early reviewer in the first place. At any rate, there have been three chances to review and I have been selected all three times. Instead of trying to find the next BookLust book I’ll be reading Red Zone Blues: A Snapshot of Baghdad During the Surge by Pepe Escobar. I’m nervous. I won’t lie. I’m really nervous. I guess it’s the subject matter that has me so apprehensive. War vs Anti-war. I’ve never been able to take a stand. I could say it’s a “necessary evil” but I don’t believe in killing like that. But, then again…let’s just say I am sitting on the fence and I am, for lack of a better phrase, firmly stuck on the fence.
Take for example, So You Think You Can Dance. I was stuck watching it because some chick was dancing to “Waiting on the World to Change.” What I didn’t tell you is that all the contestants were required to dance to the same song, wearing the same white, peace signed outfit. I watched eight different people dance to the same song only because I wanted to hear that song different eight times. What can I say, I love my BubbleGum. By then I was hooked on the contest itself and all hope was lost in regards to changing the channel. But, back to the song. The dancers were instructed to dance as choreographed but they could add their own spin to spins. They were all supposed to end with their hands in the air, showing the peace sign. Some dancers ended with anger in their eyes, some had smiles of hope, others tears of sadness. Different opinions about the song translated into different opinions about war. The War. The executive producer was forced to issue a public apology at the beginning of the next episode. Since when does a song about peace immediately become synonymous with anti-war? Since when does dance become a political demonstration and art become a threat? See what I mean? Reading about the Middle East is going to be a tough gig for me.

“If we had the power to bring our neighbors home from war they would have never missed a Christmas. No more ribbons on the door. ~ John Mayer, Waiting on the World to Change.”  Has any soldier missed a holiday? Can someone tell me they haven’t? If we had the power to bring them home maybe they would miss Christmas for some other reason.

…climbing down from the soapbox.

Another World

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I’ve always thought I would like living under the sea, or in an aquarium…at the very least. The watery depths have always appealed to me. Maybe it’s because there is silence, pure silence. Inhabitants glide by, float by, dance by effortlessly, carelessly, and silently. Maybe because there is speckled sunlight near the surface but, for the most part, mostly there is only darkness. Murky and mysterious. It’s misleading but the ocean’s depths seem calm, quiet, even patient. What a contrast to the world above.
Me, I had contrasting worlds on Sunday. Sometime during the day I lost my energy. I put it down somewhere and promptly misplaced it. I spent most of the late afternoon in a self-induced stupor. Sleeping in fits, staring at the tv in a wide-eyed trance, eating things straight from containers. I watched nearly an entire season of “So You Think You Can Dance?” I got drawn in by the contestants while shoveling large spoonfuls of cottage cheese into my mouth; I put myself on the panel of judges and instantly became judgemental and sour. Surely she can’t win. He looks too goofy. Who am I to judge? One girl looked like she could bench press me with one arm and I was calling her a losing contestant?
Everyday has to have one redeeming quality, just one. Here it is: Earlier in the afternoon I ran over five miles after working out. Yes. What a contrast to the couch I just confessed to. I actually put hand to weight and lifted. And then, and then got on the treadmill for an hour! Imagine that! I know a certain someone will scoff at my paltry five miles. I can hear him now, “Five miles? An hour? Is that it? I’m just getting warmed up!” But, I’m proud of my five. Wait. Over five. I think it was more like 5.36 or something. Anyway. I’m proud of this run because it’s the first one that felt like me in a long time. The music between my ears matched the desire in my heart and fueled my feet to run. Then. I hit the couch. Go figure!
The contrast between treadmill and tv time is tremendous. One world colliding with another. Yet, both worlds are mine.

I Don’t Deserve

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I had felt like crying all day. Heartache would lurch forward, stuttering, sudden and unexpected. A surprise for my composure. Choking back unwanted emotion, it was all I could do to swallow down sorrow. Mantras: Turn away from the hurt. Keep my eyes averted from the loss of composure. Keep my hands on the wheel of self control. Flare ups of faltering just sent me failing.
It doesn’t get easier. It just gets different. A peanut shell is just a shell until this time September. My mother says she remembers every second. 15 years later.
I’m jumpy, jittery. Suspicious as all hell. When a well known, troubled patron came into my office I eyed his shaking hands, his twitchy eyes and untucked shirt with paranoia. Harmless, he swayed from foot to foot as he explained he wanted to read something to me. I nodded, unable to voice my reluctant consent. I should be used to this by now. When he finished he folded his paper and started for the door. Harmless. To my surprise he didn’t walk out the door, instead he abruptly closed it. Shocked, panic nearly broke through paranoia and I started to protest. Harmless or not I was alarmed. He had locked the rest of the world out. No one could get in. Caged out. Before I could utter a single sound this nervous, twitching, skittish, peculiar patron produced a pitch pipe and started to sing. His voice waivered and trembled but never missed a note. His face took on a look of complete calm as he kept his voice quiet. His song was haunting and sad, beautiful and sweet. Short, too. Just as abruptly he finished, gave me a quick bow and was gone. Leaving the door to my once thought of cage open.
I do not deserve the kindness of you when all I do is dread and doubt. Jumping to conclusions, jumping out of my skin. I’m angry because I can’t sit still and accept your gifts graciously. I’m sad because I’ve let the words and advice of others taint my judgement of you (restraining order?). There is no reason to be jumpy or judgemental, yet I am.

A Map of the World

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map of the worldHamilton, Jane. A Map of the World. New York: Anchor Books, 1995.

National bestseller. Oprah book. A movie. All that should tell you something. Normally, I don’t try to read reviews before I myself have read the very last page. This one was a little different. Praise for A Map of the World was on the inside cover and I couldn’t resist. One line really said it all for me, “the story of how a single mistake can forever change the lives of everyone involved.” If you read my blogs you know I am fascinated by the what could have been, fate and serendipity. The path less taken, the path not known to take at all. This is the story of a mistake, an err in judgment, and the time and effort it takes to get back to good.

Told in first person from both Alice & Howard, husband and wife. Alice begins and ends the tale with Howard interjecting in the middle. Details that overlap her story and his tie the couple and their voices together. It’s their marriage talking. Yet, their views on life are very different. There is a moment when Howard is driving by the library and he thinks of the librarian, a man with a hook for one hand. Howard remembers that his wife thinks of the librarian as Captain Hook, not only because of the hook, but because the librarian was supposedly “cranky and unhelpful” to her. Howard recalls learning from the librarian and how he “never even noticed his hand.” Walking down the road of life Alice and Howard see the scenery differently, despite being hand in hand.

Favorite lines:
“I used to think if you fell from grace it was more likely than not the result of one stupendous error, or else an unfortunate accident” (p 3).
“She was all nerve, so energized by rage she had a hard time sorting out what she most hated” (p 291).
“It is one thing to be in a car with someone who is quiet, and another to be with someone who is silent” (p 364).

BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust and the chapter “Big Ten Country: The Literary Midwest (Wisconsin)” (p 25). I started reading A Map of the Worldbefore I double-checked what Pearl had to say about it. I had just finished the part about a major tragedy. I have to say it was a shock to read there was another one in store for me. I almost wished I hadn’t known that.

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.