How Far Would You Go?

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I guess there are two trains of thought for this blog.

Thought #1
Fandom. Fanatical or when it fits your fancy? How far would you go to be a fan? I was talking to a friend this morning about traveling to see music – if you can “see” such a thing. You know what I mean. How far wouldn’t you go? I guess it depends on the who, what, where, when and why. For me, there are no questions, especially when it comes to the music. See you December 2nd.

Thought #2
How far would you go for a friend? Someone took it upon herself to tell me where I stand in the social classification of friendship. Friendship with her. Actually, the way she told me was actually quite comical. It deserves sharing. With you.
We were at a bar, watching younger twenty-somethings dance. Without warning one girl “popped out” of her already revealing outfit. Without missing a beat (literally) her friend tucked her back in. Those who witnessed the incident shared a few smirks and “did you get a load of that?” winks. My (so-called) friend turned to me and announced, “I was trying to think who of my friends I would let to do to me. I’m sorry you aren’t one of them.” Was she trying to insult me? Why tell me that? Was I to be hurt by not being boob worthy? Was it retaliation because I don’t deem her blog worthy? No blog, no boob? Was it a tit for tat statement (pun totally intended)? In a moment of clarity I saw we were on even ground. It works both ways. If she were having a Tara Reid moment I wouldn’t save her from embarrassment. I’m not that kind of friend. I’d let her hang out. That’s how far I would go for this friend.

Hate me if you want to. I know who my friends are.

Bestest

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I had the bestest run with a bestest bud last night. Okay, I don’t really talk like that, but I did have an awesome run with an awesome friend. That much is true. We agreed to meet at the gym to gerbil out. I got there first and started right in. My goal was to run 3 (three) miles. Period. Three meager miles. I wanted to give myself more time just in case I ran like molasses. Anything could have slowed me down: the knee, the not-quite-healed-rubbed-bleeding-raw Achilles tendon, or the simple fact that I haven’t been running and I am so, so out of shape. I gave myself a pace of a 12 minute mile. For those of you with longer legs, that’s a walking pace.
It’s easier to stay focused on a treadmill. The belt moves your feet in relentless, unyielding, (sometimes seen as unforgiving) constant motion. It’s even easier to stay focused when you run with a friend. I can’t tell you how big the smile on my face was when S broke into a run, but I can tell you I was proud, proud, proud. This girl rocks, really. I’m sure I looked goofy, positively goofy with that big-azz smile but it made my run that much easier.

In addition to running with S, BubbleGum, ysris. Robinella, Rob Thomas and Natalie accompanied me. Finished product: 4.1 miles in 50 minutes (that includes 15 minutes of warming up and cooling down). Very cool.

Mexican Amazing

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Tonight I made “Red Chile Chicken and Rice with Black Beans” from Mexican Everyday by Rick Bayless (my hero). Yesterday it was some seafood au gratin thing. Tonight was so, so much better, but I think that’s because this recipe didn’t involve cream anything. This could have easily been a veggie meal with tofu…if my husband were blind. The chipotle chile powder gave everything a delicious burn. Loved, loved, loved it.
The cool thing about this recipe is that it’s flexible. I could have used green onions or epazote or hoja santa but opted for cilantro instead. I could have switched out the chipotle chile powder for smoked paprika (and the recipe actually called for ancho chile powder). I could have given it a Yucatecan twist by adding achiote paste and lime juice. It was super easy as it was. Here’s the coolest thing: my meal looked exactly like the photograph in the book. How often does that happen?
Rick Bayless

Bayless, Rick. Mexican Everyday. New York: Norton & Co., 2005.

Christmas Goofy

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Grinch I feel like the Grinch after his heart grew three sizes. I’m not moved by roast beast, but I suddenly “get” it. I’m in the Christmas spirit. Probably the biggest spirit I have ever seen. I want white twinkle lights on my ceiling, the smell of balsam & cinnamon in every room, pine needles on the floor (yes, I want a real tree), hot apple cider mulled wine, and Mel singing ‘Some Kind of Winter’. Okay, I would like Christmas here, now. One of my oldest friends confided that she *might* be moving home and that alone was a gift. Christmas in a phone call. Only 35 days early, too!
I showed my husband the Christmas presents I bought yesterday with G. I love, love, love the idea of getting something for everyone in my heart – seriously. My gift to you might be small, tiny even, but know that when you open it I was thinking of you. Still am. Will continue to.
More gifts came in the mail today. I can’t wait to sit on the floor, surrounded by gift paper, ribbons & bows, clever tags and tape. Can’t wait to start wrapping. I bought something for a special space. I bought something for a beautiful face. Well, a few of those actually…
My husband gave me gifts last night: new music on my mp3 player. Gary Jules and BubbleGum and Robinella … I’m not sophisticated enough to do all that transferring by myself. In order to make room for this new stuff I gave up songs like ‘Boris the Spider’ and ‘Highway to Hell’. Great songs to run to, not so good for cooking. I kept ‘Miss You’ because I miss him. I kept KT because it reminds me of a girl. Songs are like gifts, they bring me to you. One way or another. So, I need James Blunt so I can miss my sister. I want your favorite song so I can think of you, too.
I have one Christmas dilemma…I need to research a gift for my nephew. He needs books on tape. Nothing visual, just audio. He’s this side of three so he needs something sturdy – something he can knock around, something that can occupy him while little brother is sleeping/nursing… Truthfully, I wanted to get him something drum-like. Something to bang, but I don’t think that will go over too well with his mom! Any suggestions on the audio book thing?

Heart Warming Heart Thawing

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I used to be one of those people that grumbled about hearing Christmas music while still seeing Halloween decorations. I used to be the person claiming it was never “too late” to put the decorations out. In fact, the later the better. I also announced I’ve never had a good Christmas. Well, things must be different this year. I have silver bells and boughs of holly on the brain. A friend was driving us to see sirsy when she spotted Christmas lights strung along a fence. I thought they were pretty and added some cheer to the dying light of this November night. She scowled. I tried to appear concurrent and said, “oh I know! I’m hearing Christmas music in the stores already!” But. But, secretly, I liked the lights. I have to face facts – I’m starting to like Christmas again. Here’s an example of my past Grinchiness: I kept a meticulous Christmas card list. Anyone who didn’t send me a card for two years running was automatically crossed off my send list the following year (note: I didn’t even wait for the three strikes you’re out rule). The only exceptions to that “banishment” were 1) friends I’ve known for a verrry long time, 2) people who I knew sucked at writing anything, much less a Christmas card ( read: bachelor friends without even girlfriends) and 3) relatives who would read into not getting some scrawl from me by December 26th. 
Not this year. I’m rewriting the “list” and throwing out the rules.
Maybe it’s because I have a partner for life to share the holidays with. Maybe it’s because I’m happier than I used to be (although that’s hard to believe as of late). Maybe it’s because I am not obligated to wait for the black cloud of Christmas yesteryear to settle at the table like an unwanted guest. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen The Mood on a 12/25 in a long time.
So, corporate America, bring it on! Play your holiday commercials, sing your Christmas jingles. You won’t annoy me this year. I’m a holiday shopper with a smile on my face and a thawing heart to boot.

For Ruth

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Blueberry Yum

Ruth Etta Ives, 59

PEMAQUID — Ruth Etta Ives, 59, of Pemaquid, passed away on Nov. 13, 2006, from a malignant brain tumor. Ruth was born on Jan. 17, 1947, the daughter of Charles and Velma Drake and stepfather Robert Sutter of Wiscasset. Ruth is a 1965 graduate of Wiscasset High School and 1969 graduate of the University of Maine at Orono.

From 1971 to 1972, Ruth studied theology at the University of Edinburgh, Scotland where she met her husband, the Rev. Robert Ives. They married in 1973, and moved to Monhegan Island, where for two years they taught together in the one-room school house while Robert was the island minister. They moved to Loud’s Island in Muscongus Bay for two years (1975-77) where they served as the island ministers in the summers and in Sheepscott in the winters. After serving the New Harbor and Round Pond United Methodist Churches from 1977-1979, Ruth and Robert founded the Carpenter’s Boat Shop in Pemaquid. For 27 years, they have welcomed apprentices into their home to learn the craft of wooden boat building and to discern direction for their lives. Ruth always welcomed any person, offering a cup of tea and a blueberry muffin. She corresponded with thousands of friends and former apprentices, and wrote over 50,000 letters while at the Boat Shop.

Ruth also helped found the Community Housing Improvement Project (C.H.I.P.) in 1984, and for nearly 15 years helped coordinate the annual ecumenical CROP Walk to benefit world hunger relief. Ruth was an active member of the Second Congregational Church, U.C.C. of Newcastle.

Ruth leaves behind her husband of 33 years, the Rev. Robert Ives of Pemaquid; children Hilda Ives Wiley and her husband Peter of Cambridge, Mass., Jonathan Ives and Hannah Ives of Pemaquid; and her brothers Bob and Bill Sutter of Wiscasset, and Scott Sutter of Boothbay.

The memorial service will be held at St. Patrick’s Church in Newcastle on Saturday, Nov. 18 at 1 p.m. A family burial will be held at the Harrington Meetinghouse Cemetery in Pemaquid.

In lieu of flowers, the Ives family requests that gifts be given to: C.H.I.P (Community Housing Improvement Project) P.O. Box 6 New Harbor, Maine 04554 or any organization that is working to promote justice, love, and peace within your local community. Ruth always tried to think globally and act locally. Ruth Etta Ives

Portland Press Herald November 15, 2006

Seriously Searching

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www.nataliedee.comMy friend wraps friends around him like a blanket when he hurts. I shrug the blanket off and shiver in the cold of solitude without a second thought. It’s my nature. I prefer to coil snake-like up and scare everyone away with my forked tongue. I say things unkind and push harder than I mean to. I’m grateful for the people who push back. The ones who don’t go away just because I tell them to.
Last night I tried to pull the blanket back over my shoulders. Meeting S&G, traveling with A, I was trying to get back to where I thought I belonged. Self diagnosis & self medicating. We went to see sirsy again. One week after Kinsale I was back again. This time in CT. Manchester. Home of David’s Bridal House of Hell. I seriously hope sirsy gets another gig at this Main Pub (nowhere near Devilish David). While the food is borderline healthy and almost anti vegetarian (one veggie sandwich to speak of, no veggie salads worth mentioning…you get the picture), it was decent. Buried on the Fried Food Fantasia menu I found something worth digesting. The place had a cool atmosphere, a hum of a vibe…and fauxs!
But, back to the music. Carnival – instead of Natalie being naked she’s now hooking up with Sting. How bizarre. At least I heard my name. With eyes closed I sat bar stool still for ‘Still’. When Mel explained the backstory I wanted to order a glass of Merlot and doctor it with salty tears. This was the first time I was able to listen to everything (no offense Kinsale boys). I think November might be my new month of misery.
As with before, I am not going to review the night – not saying good or bad – except to say someone told me she told me she doesn’t like the new “thing” in WFR and I disagree. Strongly. Folsom Prison Blues was a good addition to the setlist. I’m not sure if it was meant as a Fraggle Rock joke, but I really like that song. Take it seriously because you do a good job with it. Really. PLMB is my stumbling block. I am trying to listen to it like I’ve never heard it before so I can love it again. I’m getting there. Still.
Despite having a headache from hell I was happy to be out of my element. For the night. I am supposed to do it all again tomorrow night, but I’ve decided to shrug off the blanket of friends and find my own hero. We haven’t seen each other all week. He might have to work the overnight a g a i n. If not, we have Tivo to catch up on. We have each other to catch up on.
But, back to the music. I’m not where I want to be where seriously is concerned, so I’m searching for the trust. Trust me. I haven’t given away my blanket of anything.

What Makes A Woman?

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I was watching tv last night when I heard a man say, “I love everything about a woman. From the way she puts on her makeup to the way she walks out the door. Everything about a woman is fascinating.” Right. Why do I get the feeling he just wants to get laid? But, his statement got me thinking. What makes a woman, well, a woman? How would you describe ‘Woman’? I’m grappling with it because I don’t want to lose sight of it. I am afraid of an identity crisis if I don’t identify the word for myself. I’m not bothered by what Mr TV said. I’m not having gender issues, per se…but rather physiological ones. If you take away every physical feature that makes her female – her breasts, her ovaries, her uterus – will she lose something, her identity? Will she lose who she is on some fundamental, basic level? Maybe I’m grappling with something more psychological, something more complex on the spiritually level. The headcase level.
It’s not enough to read the medical journals, scan the health sites, or get second (professional) opinions. I need first hand experiences. The real deal. I want to talk to women who have gutted their womanhood for the sake of safety, for their survival. Better yet, I should talk to the man who loves everything about a woman.

Here First

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Krupat, Arnold, and Brain Swann, eds. Here First: Autobiographical Essays by Native American Writers. New York: Modern Library, 2000.

Here First was, well, here first so I’m reading it first. I’m a little over 100 pages in and my first reaction is voyeurism. I’m peering into lives and seeing cultures I know little to nothing about. There is bitterness in their words, humor on the surface. Poetry in pieces. I’m having a tough time with the prejudice because I’m one of Them (being white) and not them. A perfect example is a favorite quote:
“The neighbor boy pointed to the screen laughing at the hooting Indians being chased by cavalry and told her that she was an “Indian.” I hugged my heartbroken daughter and said, “But you are an Indian.” She told me right back, “But I’m not that kind of Indian.” None of us are.” (Bird, Gloria. Autobiography as Spectacle: An Act of Liberation or the Illusion of Liberation? p65)

Booklust Twist: Categorized as “American Indian Literature”, (Book Lust, p.23).

Last River

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Balf, Todd. Last River: the tragic race for Shangri-La. New York: Crowne Publishers, 2000.

This just came in for me. Not only is this a BookLust mention, but Todd Balf is a Massachusetts man. I’m curious about this (nonfictional) story because I have a near & dear friend who does the whitewater thing. When I’m not worried about him cracking his skull open, I’m proud of him.

EDIT: I’m still reading Here First so River will just have to wait. 11/21/06

11/23/06: I gave up on Here First so I could jump into Last River.
11/25/06: Wanna hear something weird? Back when I first ordered Last River I said I was curious about the story because I have a friend who kayaks. I’m 60 pages into it and already Balf has mentioned HACKS, which my friend is a member (okay, president), and Falls River where my friend lives AND the very house my friend lives in. It doesn’t take much to excite me. I know I won’t see his name in this print, but it thrills me to know I’m delving into his world.

11/27/06: I finished Last River. Once I really started reading I couldn’t put it down. Was it the sense of imminent doom? I did know someone would die tragically. Balf was clever never to let on who would meet his doom on that monstrous river. I think that was part of it, but I think it was more out of fascination for Balf’s respect for the Tsangpo Gorge and everything that went with the October 1998 expedition. I have a deep rooted respect for the places I’ll never see, the things I’ll never do and the dangers I’ll never comprehend. This book opened my eyes to a different way of life: a life challenged and driven and obsessed by whitewater. In the end, I think I understand my friend a little better too.

Booklust Twist: Categorized as “Adventure By the Book” the kayakers are called, “gung-ho”, (Book Lust, p.8).

Debris From Tornado I

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On a Kashi-Good-For-You lunch break I have decided to go back and pick up the pieces from the tornado I blog. I have to wonder if any of those pieces were worth discussing at this point since time has marched on. I definitely could go back to the friend piece because that’s what had me so high on Friday night in the first place ~ that, and two huge glasses of Merlot. I spent a good portion of the night trying not to be an emotional train-wreck. First, there was G. and his heartbreak and glasses of water. I think the waiter wanted to strangle him (if only we had BubbleGum Jr. as our waiter…sigh). Then, there was the worry-worry-worry about a near no-show friend. His absence would have killed me. Just when I had given up, had stopped watching the door, he graced me with his “I’m okay-ness” face. The 11th hour reprieve – he brought the promised people, too. We were the eight I thought we would be.
I’m grateful to C for his advice, because I took it, I used it. I let it help me. Thanks. During PLMB I closed my eyes and, “listened like it was the first time.” I knew “my” line would come and go without the nod, so I didn’t feel the need to make eye contact with anyone. It worked. I closed me (suddenly, I’m Irish) eyes to hide the tears, but I also closed my eyes to Let Go of the past. I. Am. Getting. There.
Normally, I would recap the whole music scene that has me so emotional, but this is where the advice of another friend comes in. This person is lodged in my heart and I trust him with all of it. When he said things like, “don’t say anything” and “hypersensitive” and “better if you do” I listened and listened. It helps that sirsy hasn’t posted a setlist from the night, but I’m also deflated because when something makes me happy I want to say something about it. This whole leaving things unsaid is going to be tough, out of my M.O., but I know I should listened my friend.

As for everything else in that blog – the thrill  I mean, thought is gone. So, no ping pong balls.

We Interrupt This Blog

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This is something I wrote on MyBadSpace on Wednesday, January 04, 2006. This is the lesson I should have learned. More on that later.

Freak
Current mood: embarrassed

I’m always freaked out when I see how many times a blathering (blog) of mine has been read. Especially on the days I don’t post anything. Like today. I hadn’t said anything yet but somehow 12 people read something. Is it one person going back to read an entry 12 times? Freak. Is it 12 people all reading one blog? I have to be careful not to let the numbers thing whack me out. Case in point: someone subscribed to my blog…he was the first one…and then he mysteriously left myspace all together. I immediately thought it was something I said. I practically gave myself the proverbial underarm sniff test for days, wringing my hands and whining, “what’d I do?” I scoured my blogs for something offensive, something inexcusable. But, here’s the real problem: I am self-conscious and naked feeling. I write these things for me, myself and I. When I’m writing about the high I get from sirsy, the low I get from cancer; when I write about all the heartache and heartbreak I’m looking inward for the audience. Me, myself and I – we forget you’re in the room when I undress my feelings. Don’t look at us sideways because we might think you’re laughing at us!

Gerbil on a Rampage

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The gerbil got back on the treadmill yesterday. Yeah, that would be me. Well, me, myself & moi because we were all trying for something different. Me, I was running just because the date of the domestic violence run  is starting to loom large. Another part of me, she was running because, well, she hasn’t. Plain & simple.  Yet another motive of moi was running as support for my husband who has this BuffBodyByBowFlex plan. While he elipticalled, I ran.
This run was right up there with all things that suck. First, why is it that when I don’t play by the rules I get by just fine – yet, when I follow “procedure” it bites me in the ass? I’m talking about running shoes. When I started training a year ago I didn’t have running sneakers, per se. I think I had cross trainers which, incidentally,  had already logged a bunch of miles (I used to do “garbage walks” around town in an attempt to clean up the loser lottery tickets and empty butt boxes). I walked a lot. When it came time to get new sneaks I went to professional and professionally got burned. I hate the new digs for my feet. Okay, hate is a strong word, but when your heels start to bleed after 25 minutes something is really wrong.
This run also sucked because I couldn’t grab a groove, uncover a rhthym, or heartbeat, something, anything steady to keep me sane. I felt knock~kneed and nerdy. Simmons across my ass, black cats across my chest. I couldn’t get more childish and teeny bopper if I tried. All I needed was BubbleGum to snap.
Still, I ran through the blood and the feeling foolish. I have a bloody sock a la Curt Shilling, but I got in a run. For those of you who know, that’s enough. 

2.81 miles in 25 minutes with blood

BubbleGum Bound

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…or Dreamy Johnny Bound.

My husband sent me an email with the subject line: Dreamy Johnny. I’m oh so skeptical when my husband calls anything, “dreamy.” He’s usually drunk.  But, it’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s supposed to be at work. So, anyway I get this “dreamy” email and am prepared to be all sorts of confused. I’m not. I’m stunned. J is sending me an update on BubbleGum’s tourdates. “Can we? Can we?” is all I wrote back. I was kidding. Sorta.

This Saturday we scored tickets. I’m going to see BubbleGum!

Cintinuum

Tornado Part II

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When I went to bed last night I realized I had more things swirling around than I had originally thought. In addition to everything else I mentioned, here’s more: a television commercial has had me Hostage for a few weeks now. Dreamy Johnny is all I can talk about these days. Guys, I swear I saw the BubbleGum version working at The Kinsale Friday night. I kid you not. I’m hung up on a tragedy that I don’t know how to put into sane words. All I want to do is spew fiery swears. Not good for the kids.  My husband’s work life has been turned upside down. Everything has him on pins and needles. The sad thing is, when he says he’s paranoid, he’s usually right. I tortured myself with B&N last night. Holding books, cracking them open to reveal the words and pictures inside has, become a passion. Remind me not to go in there again. At least not for awhile. I almost bought The Biggest Loser Cookbook but I just bought How to Crack an Egg and Everyday Mexican through The Good Cook. I’m still reading Happyness  and Booklust, but now I’ve added Here First.
Anyway…At some point I’ll capture the thoughts and kill them in print. Or. Maybe they’ll disappear on their own before I can get to them. I don’t know. So much to think about. For now, I have to get to work. My last Sunday. Something else to say.