Tag: selfish

Lost Without It

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Me without my right hand ring is like not having a right hand at all. Friday night seemed normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary. Exchanged texts with a friend and laughed about his upcoming gigs. Worked out. Took a cold bath but washed my hair standing over the tub, bent under the faucet. Later, I read a chapter in bed, a cool sheet draped over my knees. Coming into the home stretch of a really good book I got sleepy. When kisa came to bed I curled around his hip, grateful for the sleep that was coming fast & easy.

I couldn’t tell you what made me notice; what made me panic, but all of a sudden I felt my thumb ring was gone. For nearly 7 years this silver band with cod worn smooth swimming clockwise has not left my right hand. It’s my symbolic home away from home and suddenly it was missing. A strip of pale white skin marked where the ring should have been. Wide awake with panic I jumped out of bed. Kisa frantically asking “what? What? What’s wrong?” but I couldn’t answer him. It all seemed too stupid. This piece of metal was an extension of my, myself & moi. How could I explain that without it I was completely lost? Even now I don’t expect anyone to understand this whatsoever.

Like a madwoman I retraced my steps. Back to where I lifted. Did I fling it off mid tricep kickback? Wouldn’t I feel something like that? Back to where I undressed for the bath…back to the…bath. Oh no. With dread I remembered standing over the drain, my soapy hands scrubbing my scalp, the force of water when I rinsed (Why did we have to have such great, rushing water pressure?!), the open drain….I pictured the ring slipping off oh so easily and sliding down the drain to be lost forever. It was the only logical explanation. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. That had to be it. Kisa lured me back to bed and with the sulk of a child I went.

By 4:30am I was awake again and crawling around the living room on my hands and knees searching under the couch and in the folds of the fabric. I pictured calling my sister and asking her for the phone number to the shop where I got the ring 7 years earlier. I was getting desperate enough to have another one shipped to me although in my heart of hearts I knew it wouldn’t be the same. Not finding anything downstairs I was drawn back to the bath. Hypnotized by the thought of the ring going down the drain I tested my theory…with my wedding ring. My $1,000+ wedding ring. Holding it tightly I tried to push it down the drain and discovered…it wouldn’t fit. There was hope my ring of fishes didn’t fit either. 

In the end it was tangled in a tank top I had taken off earlier. Somehow it had lodged itself in the built-in bra and didn’t come loose even after I shook the shirt. I think Kisa was relieved I was happy again. I was happy I found my sanity.

You Got Sun

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How many times can people point out the obvious before you want to either bite their heads off or say ‘No Sh!t Sherlock’ which I guess is one and the same… I can gauge my level of tolerance by how soon I start counting things. When I start noticing just how many times something is brought to my attention I know I’m near my annoyed stage, soon to be moving onto my pissed off stage. Scary, but true. It’s like counting to ten before dishing out the punishment to a small child. “If you don’t cut that out before I count to ten! One…two…” Yup. I’m childish. I count.

On my 6th day in California I got the “you got sun” comment 27 times. 27 times. Sometimes more than once by the same person, punctuated by an oohing sound, as in “oooh, looks like you got sun.” You would think I would know how burnt I was by the flame red parboiled look of my taut skin, the faint stingingsensation I felt whenever anything brushed my shoulders….but, no. People still felt the need to point out the obvious. You. Got. Sun. As if I wasn’t embarrassed enough by the fact that the SPF 50 I slathered on earlier had no effect. As if I wanted to be this burnt. I like my skin. I like not having cancer. Lamenting and tsk tsk-ing over my overexposed epidermis only made things worse. It’s not like I went for the singed look on purpose. It’s not like I was enjoying my new look.

Yes, I got sun. Now leave me alone. Go away. But, hey. Hand me the aloe before you go.

Surfing the Words of Others

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I wanted to title this blog, “write something damn you!” But, I decided that was a little harsh…You see, I have friends who blog. WordPress people. When I added them to my blogsurfer I thought, “cool. a new and different way to keep in touch. awesome.” Not so awesome. Only a few people actually write with regularity. I get bored. So, I started the hunt for new and interesting people. That in itself has a curse attached. I found Frogshake. Added the blog to my “list.” Soon after the words stopped coming. Same with someone else. And someone else. Huh. Started (again!) searching for other words; other people with interesting things to say. Added them to the surf. The words rolled to a stop. Flat calm seas. Again. What, exactly, is going on? Am I cursing the blogging universe by wanting to read them on a regular basis?  

I like words. I like them even better when they are strung together in thought-provoking, insightful, even funny sentences. Best is when they are from people I adore. John Mayer is good with words. I’d read him more often if he gave up the silly singing career and devoted his time to putting pen to paper…like that’s gonna happen! That’s not to say I don’t enjoy his music or his lyrics…he’s just good with the words no matter how he gets them out.

So. Here’s a request. Tell me your favorite blogs. Do you have one I haven’t read? Where do you go for words? I know someone who stalks a weasel. But, what else is there? Email me. call me. text me. comment me. write on my wall. whatever. You will be doing me a huge favor. I won’t add them to the surf or the roll, though. I wouldn’t want to jinx anything!

ps~ a word on my links, speaking of blogs… You may have noticed a change in favorites. Yes, this was deliberate.
Sometimes, you outgrow a life. Sometimes you just grow up. I think I did a little of both.

Seaweed Queen

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 SeaWeedQueen

I have always been a seaweed queen. When I was a child I would crouch down over tidal pools, push the algae aside and watch for minnows. I was never afraid of the slime green vegetation. When the tide moved in it was fun to watch the long, dark, bumpy strands of seaweed sway along the shore. To me, it was a forest of brown dancing under the waves. Mermaids hair as they hid among the rocks just out of reach. On luckier days after hurricanes giant strings of leafy kelp would wash up onto the beach and suddenly my friends and I had skirts from the sea. Wet and slimy, wrapped around our bodies and staining our clothes. We were queens of the ocean come ashore to live in landlocked exile. My imagination took me to an underwater world that continues to fascinate me to this day.
When I grew older (and bolder) I learned seaweed was actually edible and began drying it as a kind of vegetarian beef jerky. Adding it to my diet of raw periwinkles and mussels, crab apples, sour clover, and blackberries I ate like royalty foraging all day long.

I’ve since stopped watching for mermaids. I no longer wear kelp for fashion. I’ve lost the taste for the salty sea. But, I will always, always be a seaweed queen.

Finding Sean

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The slightly negative imagery is the only way for me to explain what has been happening. While this sounds bad it’s not. It’s a good thing. Honestly.

I’m getting tripped up in Sean Rowe’s music. Here’s that awful analogy – it’s like trying to escape from a sticky situation and finding yourself more and more entrapped & entangled. It’s starts off uncomplicated, of little consequence until it’s all consuming. I know I’m not making sense but I can’t explain it. For the longest time I was fixated on another kind of music. Some say obsessed. I’d say they weren’t that far off. It took getting over the addiction to open my ears to something else. And that something else led me to Sean Rowe. Here’s another analogy – being stuck in a room full of smokers, choking on fumes, unable to find the door. Fumbling, stumbling until I can open a window and breathe. The fresh air is the new music I am craving. 

Everyone knows I am locked in by lyrics. Anything beyond Ooh Baby Baby, anything with an ounce of thought gets my attention. I can remember sitting with Melanie from the band sirsy and listening to her explain the research behind Mercury. Before even hearing it the song became a favorite. Why? Because there was some intelligence in the process. There was some thought to the theme.

Such is Sean’s music. The last time I saw him I called ‘Jonathan’ creepy. I was worried I would offend, but truly it was the only way to explain how the lyrics moved through me, pausing to strangle my heart and moving on to choke my emotions. It was creepy the power this song had (and still has) over me.

This last time to see Sean was something else. This was the first time hearing covers. This was the first time I had to shut out the obnoxious barflies who simply wouldn’t shut up. I shut my eyes and concentrated on the words. I had to shut down the urge to kill the useless conversations around me.
I still like ‘Wet’ best. It’s like a beauty born out of tragedy.
‘Trademark of Fools’ is still amazing as is ‘Alone.’

We thought that July 11th might make for an interesting trip, but I have carrots with my name on them. I think 8/1 is the next fix. I’ll wear my new shirt 😉

Forest Gump Stumped

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IMG_1930

How many times have you seen the movie Forest Gump? How well do you know the story? How about the details? Well, if you ever go to Bubba Gump’s for lunch, you better bone up on your Gump trivia. As soon as we sat down our waiter pounced on us with “What were the name of Forest’s friends? What sports were played in the movie? What actress played his mother?…” All we wanted was to read the menu.
Here’s another thing. If you are trying to eat clean, Bubba’s is not the place to go. Almost every item on the menu was fried-fried-fried. Either that or it was drowning in mayo and disguised as a “salad.” The healthiest thing on the menu didn’t even have shrimp in it and sounded incredibly boring and tastless (I don’t even remember what was in it except the main ingredient was “iceburg lettuce”) so I went for the only nonfried, nonmayo’ed shrimp dish – the dipping pot. Crusty bread (white) and sweet, nutty Jasmine rice served with a pot of steaming hot shrimp “soup.” The shrimp were swimming in a stew of butter, garlic, fresh herbs, and seafood broth. The concept of the dish was to have fun with this very interactive meal. I needed to fish out the shrimp from the broth and eat it with a scoop of rice. The bread was for the dipping pot. Very entertaining.
When the meal was first placed in front of me I was impressed with its presentation. So much so that I took the above picture. What I didn’t know was that the lid to the “soup” was roasting hot. As I was innocently snapping my pic our flamboyant waiter approached and demanded to know who brought us our meals. Guy or girl? he snapped? Red shirt or blue? Bewildered, we told him what we knew and without another word took a dishtowel to remove the lid of my pot. “Seriously hot” he snarled as he walked away. Woah. We all looked at the pot in amazement. That would have hurt. Seriously. I snapped another picture.

Book Connected

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I finished three books while away for the week: The Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler, The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffennegger, and The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. For some reason I thought bringing the first two would be enough. I vowed I wouldn’t read while Kisa drove, I wouldn’t read in front of hosts or family, & lastly, I wouldn’t read when I could be doing something else. Here’s when I did read: right before bed, when I first woke up, a few times by random pools and on the plane, of course. Somehow that gave me enough time to finish all three books.

What I didn’t expect to do while on this trip is talk books. I didn’t expect to make a connection with anyone about reading. It was nice to discover that someone else on Kisa’s side of the gene pool enjoys a good read every now again. She reads mostly nonfiction whereas I’m trying to catch up on all the must-reads of every genre. She even has a top 25 going for someone. Maybe when I finish the BLC I’ll ask for her recommendations.

Get a Room

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There is something illicit about hotel rooms. Anonymous and secretive. I don’t know what it is. When I was a kid I used to give myself chills thinking how far away from home I was, how disconnected I was from everything “safe.” I used to look at the people around me and think it a small thrill that no one I knew knew them. Yet, here I was, with them. I felt like I was getting away with something; that my life was in danger in a happy way.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s what it’s like to have an affair. Kisa and I were at our second hotel. He wanted to swim and I was chapters deep in my book. I agreed to read by the pool to keep him company. That really wasn’t necessary because frolicking in the deep end was a rather loud, giggly couple. It was obvious they were in the mood for more than a swim, but rude enough to stay where they were. Discretion be damned. Later, kisa told me he thought the man was married to someone else. It was the way the man explained things to his chirping companion as if they had just met, yet he wore a wedding band. Was this man really renting a room for romance? Did he really have a patiently ignorant someone at home?
It didn’t matter to me. All I wanted them to do was use the room they paid for.

Plastic Bags Make Great Music

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Stomp

“This had better be good. All I can say is this had better be good.” That was me, grumbling to kisa about our free show after spending nearly three hours trying to be talked into buying a time share. We had already gotten tickets for one Vegas show and I was thinking that was enough. Silly me.
Anytime anyone takes a stick and bangs on something I sit up and listen. I should have known this would be good. I’m fascinated by rhythm, no matter how it’s made. Add a dozen or more people all banging on things and I’m in percussion heaven. Such was Stomp. Of course I wasn’t allowed to take pictures but I did manage to take a picture of the theater before the performance (above isn’t it).
The thing that amazed me the most about the show was the idea that anything can create music. Anything can be played. Newspapers, boxes, brooms, garbage cans, even plastic bags. My eyes and ears couldn’t keep up with all the music being made. My favorite part was a water segment. Guys banging on cups as they poured water out of them in front of a huge fish tank. The changes in sound as the water left the cups were fascinating.
So, yeah. I may have been grumbling in the beginning but in the end kisa rocked my world. See below for the “set” pic of Stomp.

Stomp Set

Island Rescue

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art hill
I think the fates know I am homesick. Every so often I am surrounded by the reminders of where I really would like to be. Little reminders are dropped just outside my periphery. I catch glimpses of where I miss. A few weeks ago my family meandered around Boston, looking for a decent place to eat. By chance we stumbled on (and into) a cute noodle place with exotic offerings like seafood pad thai and mango curry. It wasn’t a first choice but we chose it. The tablecloths were nice. Fresh flowers on every table. Calming colored walls. Pleasant atmosphere. Within a few minutes someone noticed the paintings. Look! There’s home. The bell, the boat, the lighthouse. Same old in an unexpected new place. And there’s another. Same scene from a different angle. The wedding site. Art on the walls but more to me.
Yesterday I got an email from a professor in New Jersey. He wanted to know my opinion on a legal database I’ve only used once. His signature on the email was a link to a tiny art gallery in a town I used to frequent (way back in the day). Curious, I clicked on the link and was confronted by the colors of home. Red House. Pink Carina. Gray fishhouse. Yellow cochrane. The artist was asking $1,000 for each painting. It was if Jersey had never seen the coast of Maine.
Last night someone from New Hampshire invited me to an artist’s reception. He thought I would like the poppy paintings. Reminiscent of Georgia big flowers. That sort of thing. While trying to figure out the schedule (could I fit it in?) I noticed the gallery featured another artist I know and like and well, almost dated back in the early 80’s. Woops. Small world not really.

So, all of these reminders are here for a reason. Telling me to go home. Urging me to sit by the sea. Soon enough.

Never Should Have

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I never should have listened to you. I never should have got my hopes up or my heart set. Shame on me for being so optimistic, so g-damn hopeful.
This was her house. Sacred ground of a grandmother not mine. Home to the perfect grandparent. Cookies at Christmas instead of before-during-after cocktails amany. Real hugs and kisses instead of Don’t Muss the Makeup air fakers. She wouldn’t have bought me patent leather shoes and insisted on making us match. Twins not born on the same day, or even in the same year. I honored this woman because she was real. It would have been a real honor to live in her home. Her ghost walking my floor.
You never should have got my hopes up or my heart set. I dreamed of living with like a queen. A queen with an angel on her shoulder. You never should have convinced me this could work. the perfect lawn, the perfect garden, the perfect life – mine for the taking. I’m angry and hurtful for letting you allow me to live the American dream. I had a white picket fence in my sleep.
Disappointment hurts deep. I will walk away from the red house. Don’t hate me if I turn my back forever. Even if chance does change I won’t turn around. Condescending tones. When I was your age bullsh!t. I don’t need that. Not at my age and my intelligence. Don’t insult me further by saying there might be a chance because I’ve closed that chapter already. I’ve moved on from that nightmare. Let Grace haunt the halls for someone else.

Pass the Party Perfect

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My aunt is Mother of the Bride for the first time. As I talked to her I could hear her nerves rattling along the wire. Nerves were bordering on wired nervous. A little over two weeks to go before her little girl becomes Mrs. Someone Else. She wants everything to be perfect. I tell her it’s not going to be. I’m not being mean, just meaningful. My mother wrote a list of everything that went “wrong” at my sister’s wedding. Live and learn I thought. When my day came two years later I tried to remedy all previously made “mistakes.” While I didn’t make my sister’s faux pas, I created my own. It was inevitable. My dress didn’t fit properly. The food line was too long. Father-in-law had the first dance…with his son-in-law. Someone stole a golf cart and a groomsman ended up sleeping the night off in a ditch. Yup. Classy. But the real question is did we have a blast? Yup.

No one has the perfect party. There will always be something wrong with something or somebody. Even if you don’t notice, someone else will. Kisa and I wanted to use stolen champagne flutes for our end-of-night toast. We opted for my great-grandmother’s glasses. Unbeknown to either of us one glass disappeared forever. That has become my deepest regret even though I didn’t know it at the time. So, pass the party perfect. It aint gonna happen. What it will be is a great time!

Guilty of Anything

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Forgiven

There are some people in my life who think that my rants are about them. They take my words and somehow see themselves. Yet, while they see words that might work, they dismiss full sentences because they don’t add up. It’s almost like they want the whole thing to be their private Carly Simon moment… but it doesn’t quite fit. Take Dear Mr. Liar, just for hahas. I gender bendered on that one. It’s about a GIRL. Well, sorta. There’s a guy component and he knows his part. Don’t worry. That deletion will happen a n y day. Nothing more to tell. End of that story. So, back to the chick component. I hate fake. When I was finally clued in just how fake this fake really was I decided to lash out a la language style. Words and words upon words. I don’t know. It made me feel better. Now, if I could just delete her from my blogroll…

Then, there’s The Bottle has Been. People have questioned the consumption before. If you knew what bottles I tilt in the air you wouldn’t worry so much. And no, I didn’t write it about You either- not your past, your present nor your future. Not You. I know someone who knows someone who knows someone who drinks too much. We (this different someone and I) got into a discussion about “too much” and, more importantly, who are we to say what much is too?
I have a favorite scene in The Fly. Geena Davis is trying to deal with an exboyfriend who simply won’t go away. Or, more importantly, she decides she hasn’t dealt with the ex in the most proper of ways. In the middle of an epiphany she storms off to do what she should have a long time ago.
That’s me. I’m dealing with things I should have addressed eons ago.

So, here’s what I want to say to you. You are not guilty of anything if not everything. Don’t let it (or me) go to your head.

Power of Privacy

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For the longest time I wanted to share my yoga practice with the blogging world. It was nice to mention moves that confounded me, brag about the small successes improvement brought me. But, somehow I have discovered I have more potential when I keep these things private. I think that is, in part, why I stopped going to group classes. The instructor’s voice calmed me, instilled confidence & control, and yet…I felt constricted, caught up. How to explain this? Certain poses create a cocoon of peace for me. Sometimes, I am so grateful for the respite that tears flow and sighs emerge. I find dare more, try more when alone. And I breathe. Often times I found myself not ready to move on from a particularly comforting pose when everyone else in the class was. Unlike other embarrassing moments in a group setting (falling over with a resounding solid thud, belching air out my azz or falling asleep during shivasana), this show of emotion, this lingering was not something I want to share. I didn’t want to hold up the class by holding a difficult pose for just that much longer (think Warrior III or half moon pose, two I have trouble with). I have more strength when I’m alone. There is power in privacy.
Oddly enough, this privacy issue has been carrying over to other parts of my life. I say I want to run with others but I won’t. I can’t. It’s too personal. It’s my time that I can’t  won’t share. I’ve run with only one other person – my sister – and she’s it. I won’t cook for anyone but family and the closer of friends. I won’t let anyone except my husband handle my Lamson & Goodnow.

So be it.

Sunglasses at Night

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fish beach

This is not the blog that was scheduled to leave my mind today. Like a security escorted entourage this one took precedence and took over. I want to stop a moment and thank someone for seeing me so clearly from so many miles away. She wrote a blog that punctured through everything I have been feeling. It’s as if she had been a ghost in my kitchen, hovering over the conversations kisa & I had, but hearing my heart instead.
I am not afraid of change. I am the girl who took charge without knowing the challenge. I’m the girl who said yes to upheaval just to have something different. Hell, I even hacked off 9″ of hair this weekend. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, to imagine my life as something someone else can predict means I’m not living up to my potential.
Here’s what scares me. I’m in the crossroads of what next? Should I stay or should I go? Right now, I am unfocused, drifting, shoreless. No direction home. I don’t like planning for something without a game plan. I don’t like the potential for powerless. Here’s an idea: Imagine not knowing which people (if any) will be in your life a year from now. Does it make a difference to you? The same could be said for my sanity.

Maybe it’s the fact I am dressed in black today, ready to mourn the loss of someone’s mother. Maybe it’s the fact I’m in uncharactistically high heels and do not look anything like myself (and it’s not just the haircut). Maybe it’s the weather (what a cold and rainy day) and apathy has set in.

So, I thank my friend for getting it, getting me, and getting to the point. I may be standing on the platform in Indecision City, but I know someone out there has my direction home.