Tag: selfish

Homeward Not

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The Sign

I have lost my way home. In every sense of the word it is gone. Let’s start with the obvious. No trek to Maine. No boat ride. No getting back to good. Not this time. I will mourn a Memorial Day not on Monhegan. A junkie without her fix, no cure for the homesick. I don’t know what to make of this.

My current address is slipping away. My days there are numbered and all of a sudden I have this urge to be a homebody in this home. Soon, what I call mine will be someone else’s rent. I spent the weekend cleaning closets and scrubbing floors. Like visiting a dying friend I wanted time with my kitchen. For a mid~morning brunch I made a Maine inspired stratta. Homemade bread from the weekend before, spicy vegetarian sausage, crisp green broccoli, sweet Vidalias, creamy eggs+Tabasco+milk, a sprinkling of sharp cheddar cheese. Baked until golden and puffy. More hot sauce for me. For dinner I explored Mexico with a pan-sauteed mix of shredded golden potatoes, spicy Mexican sausage, shiitakes, cilantro and Vidalias. Served with homemade roasted tomatillo and garlic salsa. From scratch flour tortillas. I’m learning to control steam, if there is such a trick. And just to get ahead on the weekday dinners, roasted (skin-on) chicken, smoked with oak chips and cloves of garlic. I’m imagining that will be added to a white bean chili (served with the leftover salsa, of course) and maybe a twisted chicken salad…something smoky and sultry. Trying to reclaim something that isn’t mine. Is not.

The Other Home doesn’t exist yet we sat in front of a loan officer just the same. We spoke the language of calculations. Questions in the form of dollars were answered with quotes. Bank statements and pay stubs. Numbers spilled from our lips easily, as if we memorized our speeches and imagined our lasting impressions.

At the same time we gathered up the dollars to downpay our vacation. Home away from Home. To look forward to the date is to wish summer away, and yet – yet I cannot wait. We’ll start in the cottage of our honeymoon and end in Big Brother just across the way. I’m already tasting lobster and luna.

Such an odd place to be. I’m laying down the disappointment of missing homehome while prepaying on a later visit; I’m turning away from our here and now while it’s still our address and planning payments on an unknown one. We haven’t gone anywhere but I have lost my way home.  

Numbers Don’t Matter

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RockingBubble

Last Saturday I spent $30 to walk with a friend around a park. 6.2 miles. Seems kind of odd when you look at it that way, but that’s the way it was. I wasn’t there to run in a race and I didn’t think of it as a charity event, even though it was both of those things. Smiley said she was walking by herself and I said that couldn’t be. I wouldn’t let it be and I didn’t. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It turned out to be a beautiful day to talk and walk, walk and talk. It was worth $30. Even better than we didn’t come in dead last.
Last night I got on the gerbil’s wheel and wanted to go nowhere. Not really sure what I was doing except giving in to the guilt. I couldn’t remember the last time I ran. As soon as I started to move I knew I was in trouble. Every song irritated me and I felt tired even moving 11.7 mph. This was going to suck was all I kept saying to myself. I don’t know how I know it but I always know a suck run. I recognize it long before it actually gets to me. Know those commercials about the love/hate relationships with running? I was on the other side of love with this run. It sucked.
But, here’s the beautiful thing. Despite wanting to get the fukc off and quit, despite wanting to make a mad dash to the bathroom and puke, despite my ears revolting against every song ipod could spit out, I did not quit. I did not stop. I kicked it up to a 11 mph run and for 40 long minutes I thought about counting up the demons. I determined I have more than one for every day. I listened for subliminal run songs (Rob Thomas, “I’m running but you’re getting away”). I fast forwarded through the likes of Norah Jones, Corrine Bailey Rae, Billie Holiday and Jewel. Rewound Metalica, AC/DC, Def L, Aersosmith, even Led Z. Confronted the pain of a MotherMe lost. In the end it was 3.64 miles. 3.64 miles further than I thought I could go. But, like the numbers of the walk on Saturday, they don’t matter.

Dear Mr. Liar, Fork You

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Dear Mr. Liar,

I’m finally onto you. I finally figured you out. It took me awhile (stupid me), but I finally got you straight. I don’t know what made you lie in the first place or why you insist on continuing (Yes, you keep doing it) but, so be it. The good news is I can walk away from you and your mouth and the things that come out of it. I’m through with pretending you+me=friends.
What brought this on? I came across a present I meant to give to you. Pretty ribbons, pretty paper, pretty well meaning of me. It was meant for Christmas but I thought it could make a good birthday gift. Except I didn’t know where to send it. “You have vanished. Heaven knows where you live. Heaven only knows.” The numbers didn’t add up. That’s when the lies began. If I wasn’t meant to be that part of your life you could have said so. It wouldn’t have hurt my feelings. I don’t have secrets (ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies)so I didn’t understand your secrets, your lies. They were stupid until the truth came out. It must be tough to lie lie lie all the time. Really tough. One thing has to cover up something else, right?
You made yourself out to be more important than you really are. What’s the sense of that when you can’t back it up? You said you knew stuff but have yet to prove it. It’s not enough for you to talk. I’m onto you. Take it on the run. Prove it, if you can. Until then, I am out. So out.

The Bottle Has Been

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My worst enemyWe debate the alcohol thing. We go back and forth, forth and back again on what makes one the “ic” of the word. Al-co-hol-ic. Obsessed with the bottle. In love with the devil inside. Is it a drink a day without fail, failing to quit? or is it the excess? Can’t stop until can’t stand up? I wish I knew. I know both kinds.

There’s this woman. She has a drink a night. Like clockwork she opens the bottle. Tells anyone who will listen just how much she “deserves” it after a day like the one she’s had. Let her tell you. She’ll go on and on about the day she’s had. Suggest a night without a drink and she’ll accuse you of not hearing her. Didn’t she just tell you what kind of day she just had? Didn’t she just say she deserved it?
There’s this guy. He drinks once or twice a month. Unlike the steady drinker of just one a night he makes up for lost time and downs doubles until he can’t see straight. Can’t walk a fine line. Can’t remember his own name. Passes out while knocking on a stranger’s door. Six packs become thirty packs which in turn become the icebreaker for 151 and SoCo cold. Wakes up with blood bruised knuckles face down in his own vomit on an unfamiliar street. Doesn’t happen all the time. Just whenever he drinks.

I’ve been listening to Natalie quite a bit and one song that has been tearing me up is “The Living.” I don’t know how to describe it other than it’s about alcoholism – that relationship with the bottle. She took inspiration from knowing someone who had it all, someone who didn’t need anything until the drink came into his life. Then, the drink became his life. As Natalie says, “the bottle’s been to me my closest friend and my worst enemy.” She makes no secret that this person was someone great until he threw it all away for the devil inside.

We debate this thing. Back and forth. What puts the “ic” in alcoholic? When is enough enough?

Spread Too Thin

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Sometimes I think I take on too much. As my husband says, I don’t know no. I cram to the point of gluttony. Once I invited everyone I could think of to hear my favorite music. On the surface it was the attitude of TheMoreTheMerrier, and thinking Exposure is Good. But, underneath it all I wanted to see each and every person. Here’s the problem: I couldn’t spread myself that thin and some people’s time fell short. I don’t know if they got mad at me, but myself did. I could only imagine getting an invitation to hang out only to be hung out and ignored.
I’m trying to learn from my mistakes. While I was in Florida I knew I was thisclose to two other friends. I was so tempted to look them up & book time with them. Just to see them and not have to say I can’t remember the last time I saw you. But, had I done that I would have squandered time with someone else. It’s a matter of becoming less greedy with someone else’s time. Soaking up the value of spending time.
But, what about family? When does it become okay to squeeze in time? To rush from one place to another just to replace Wish You Were Here with Thanks For Coming? I’m having a hard time deciding if less is even worth face value. Especially when they say “whatever you want to do” with a sigh of resignation and a barely contained eye roll.
What about work? When does it become okay to not take on that next big project? To not give something your all because it’s not worth your anything in the first place? I sat across from someone in my office yesterday and went over the same ole, same ole. Could she tell I was defeated? Tired of parroting the purpose? (If I have to explain your job to you what’s the point of you trying to do it?) I came close to putting my head on my desk and asking her to shut off the light and close the door on her way out. I was picturing that perfect reprieve with eyes closed and fight forgotten.
Kisa says I don’t know no so my mantra has become, “Never again, no, never, ever, not on your life…”

 

Lock & Key or Not Your Puppet

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Lost

There is only so much you can do to protect your heart. I think of you and wonder how far you are willing to go. How much blame you are willing to balance? Take as your own, distribute to others. How fair will you be if you don’t have the facts?
A few weeks ago someone heard me wrong. Well, heard one side of a conversation and filled in the blanks with slightly off-kilter information. What’s worse is that the misconception went uncorrected for all that time because it wasn’t questioned. I would have hated to be in that head space with all that wrongness swirling around. It’s just not right.
Here’s why I say all this. I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me what is wrong when it’s wrong and not three weeks later. I am really good at identifying my heart when I’m faced with feeling it at that moment. Not three weeks later when me, my heart, and moi have moved on. Or forgotten (which is worse).
But, it’s not all you. I’m walking away from some relationships and nudging closer to others. It’s something that I’ve been meaning to do for some time now. Certain people deserve more while others have overstayed their welcome. I am not a dullard strung on a wire, waiting for someone to play me. I am no Happy Puppet, waiting for your command. Occasionally, I need to change the locks and get a new key. Let’s just say it’s long overdue.
So, back to you. I’m glad Jessica Simpson isn’t joining us for dinner. Sorry I set a place for her. Thank you for speaking up and not lashing out. My only request is do it sooner, while the conversation is still breathing and has life. No one wants to rehash DOA unless they really have to.

Educating Esme

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Educating EsmeCodell, Esme Raji. Educating Esme:  Diary oi a Teacher’s First Year. Chapel Hill: Algonquin Books, 1999.

Word to the wise: if you want to celebrate education month and you need something really quick to read, grab Educating Esme. Barely 200 pages it’s an entertaining, fast and funny book. This one interested me on so many different levels. For starters, at one time I thought I might be a teacher – even declared Education as my major for a while (until I found out that you never have time to read anything, you just pretend you do). It also interested me because I know two different people who have gone through that “first year” of teaching. They had completely different experiences and I wanted to compare notes.

What went on LibraryThing:
Educating Esme: Diary of a Teacher’s First Year  is smart and funny. It’s a journey inside the mind of a young, fresh-minded educator hell bent on doing things her way. Her lessons and style of teaching are engaging. They allow students to be themselves and in the process learn something.  The students are not bribed or cajoled into lesson plans. Codell disguises education in a safe, fun environment. This is not to say she doesn’t have her share of problems. Chicago has it’s gang culture, it’s broken homes, it’s drug addled families; not to mention a difficult hierarchy within the school system. Codell encounters it all with grace and strength.

Funny quotes: “The way they sassed patrons they didn’t like. The way they seemed to know too much. A little like librarians” (p 62). You would think this quote would somehow offend me on some level…especially considering the fact Esme is describing prostitutes! LOL
“What sort of Jedi would I be if I don’t really face the Dark Side? Mr. Turner may be Vader, but is there an enemy that remains to be revealed , like that bossy old wrinkled guy who told Vader what to do?” (p 112).

BookLust Twist: From Book Lust in the chapter “Teachers and Teaching Tales” (p 230). I love how Pearl calls Codell “relatively” hip (p 231).

Spider Woman?

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Spider

A month ago I developed a weird spot on my thigh. A nursing student took one look and said basal cell carcinoma. Freak Me. For a month I held denial’s hand and didn’t do anything about it. Nothing except stare at the spot and watch it mutate. I didn’t WebMD it, didn’t do anything. This river in Egypt ran deep. Finally I went to someone a little more professional. Someone with an actual degree and not just in training for one. She took one look and said arachnid. Whaa? Come again? Bug bite, possibly spider-ish. Maybe tick-ish. Either way I’m having a reaction to the saliva. I’m allergic to bug spit of all things.

Whatever. All I know is that Friday (after the bug appointment) I decided to hit the Gerbil cage. 45 minutes. 4.26 miles. Felt freakin’ great. My new tempo pace is 10.2. I can sing while moving that speed. Love it. Then, last night I decided to hit it again. Chicken thighs were in the smoker getting happy with the alder chips (can’t call it smoked chicken chili without the chips…) and I had the time for a sweet 20 minute run. At first I wanted to really kick it. See if I could get more than two miles in. But, my knee gently reminded me it hadn’t even been 24 hours since the 4.26…I’m supposed to “take a day” between runs, remember? Oh yeah. So, I decided to crank the incline and work on hills. Run slow…but UP-up-UP. Bottom line: 1.8 miles in 20 minutes. I’m happy with my energy. I’m in love with my knee. I’m feeling better than ever. Could it be the spider spit? Just call me spider woman!

Glad You Think It’s So Funny

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pukeI had another one of those failed restaurant meet-ups a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet someone for dinner. He thought 7:30pm. I thought 5:30pm. I sat there wondering if he was waiting outside while I was inside doing the exact same thing. Toying with my wine glass, fiddling with the silverware, smoothing the tablecloth with my fingertips, reading the menu until I had it memorized, staring at the artwork on the walls. I’m sure the waiters thought I either had a kidney problem or I was having an affair as they filled my water glass for the eighth time. My friend never came. Until 7:30pm

This week we were able to connect and I’m almost wishing we hadn’t. Before me sat a BBQ burger with BrianFries and crunchy pickles. I was ready to dig in. Before I could take a single bite my friend eyed me and asked the WhatsNewQ. I knew I should have started eating first. After I told him my latest he threw his head back and laughed. Laughed and laughed. Laughed so loud other diners turned with curious looks. Laughed and laughed until he was crying. When he was finally finished and had swallowed the last chuckle he managed to ask, “how in God’s name do you get yourself into these messes?” A tear hung in the corner of his eye and a giggle escaped. I could feel another bout of uncontrolable laughter coming my way. Through gritted teeth I admitted I had no idea. And added it wasn’t funny. Burger aside I had to explain. Or at least try to. My life is one big soap opera minus the orphaned surgeon who never knew he was sleeping with his sister and actually died 3 episodes ago but still managed to seduce the bull fighter’s CIA wife in Africa last week. When I said I was done with drama I should have said I’d like to be done with drama. I’m dreaming if I think I can ever fully escape it.
I never did finish the burger…or even touch the fries.

Boy Bomb

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I’ve got this guy close to my heart. I think he reads me but then again, I’m not really sure. Maybe not. He’s a road warrior. Hardcore. If he does read me, that’s cool because I want to thank him for being so freakin’ cool. Okay. That was cryptic. I DO mean “read me” on a couple of levels. One maybe more than another.
Yeah. I can hear some of you now. Yes, I’m a married woman. So be it. But, I have this friend. I’ll call him Joe. We’ve had 22 years of something. Friends, lovers, roommates, coworkers, enemies, siblings, classmates, partners, pen pals. I’ve read to him. He’s drawn me. Been there. Done that. I think we have been just about everything to each other at one time or another. I guess I could say we have ultimately ended up where we started. Full circle friends. Only this time he’s not hiding more than several cans of beer in a multi-pocketed jean jacket and I’m not climbing out back windows at 3am. Friends of another era. Kisa’s cool with that. I’m cool with that. It’s not that complicated. It’s cool because I’ve grown to hate complicated.

I go through stages where I miss the snot out of Joe. Then, he’ll call. As if he knows. He gets me laughing. Gets me crying. I want to tell him everything crazy, but his phone crackles and we lose connection. He’ll call back but only to say see ya. Next time. Later, baby. On the road again. And again. My favorite question is not Can you hear me now, but Where are you now? He just laughs. My brilliant boy bomb.

Here’s what I meant to say to him: Boompa: thanks for Arizona. If I could get the darn pic off my phone I’d post it here. I’ll think dream about Zion. I’ve always trusted your travel sense. Congrats on the camp. It’s where you belong. You’re good at everything Weld and you know it. I’ve got issues but we’ll talk about those another time….when you’re within calling range. You know you owe me, myself & moi lunch. 

Oh, and one more thing, don’t pick on the girls too much. We bite. Really.

May is…

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May is one of my favorite months. I love the one month of lilacs. I love the urgency of spring in the air. Days are warm but nights stay cool. Plus, there is Mother’s Day for all those mums out there.
Here is how I am going to celebrate May (besides trying to quell the homesickness):

  • Mother’s Day: Reading: True Confessions by Mary Bringle. Personally: Taking my two favorite mothers to see Natalie Merchant at the end of the month.
  • Merle Miller’s birthday: Plain Speaking by Merle Miller – which is really funny because this is about Truman and his birthday is in May, too…a-n-d…I just finished reading about Roosevelt.
  • National Education Month: Reading: Educating Esme by Esme Raji Codell (nonfiction). Personally: taking my staff out for a Middle Eastern lunch.
  • National Music Month:Reading: Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie (The big question is will I be able to get it out of my head that he did a little acting in that “Bridget Jones” movie?). Personally: I’d like to see Sean Rowe this month. Sirsy would be on the list but their closest show is on a Monday night. Boston Symphony Orchestra is probably the classiest way to celebrate National Music Month, don’t you think?

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And if there is time:

  • Best time to visit Russia: Murder on the Leviathan by Boris Akunin
  • National History month: Dreamland by Kevin Baker

I have one Librarything early review book: TBA (which means they told me I’m getting one but I haven’t got it yet…if that makes sense.)

 

Music to Fly By

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As promised. Here is the setlist to Run For Darfur. As you probably can tell, I was hoping for the very angry woman run. It didn’t quite turn out that way. Madness was replaced by magic.

  1. KT Tunstall ~ Suddenly I See. I chose this as the first song because it reminds me of someone.
  2. Maroon 5 ~ Wake Up Call. Because I got my wake up call. Relates back to suddenly being able to see…
  3. Carrie Underwood ~ Before He Cheats. No reason. Just a damn funny song about an angry gal.
  4. Avril Lavign ~ Girlfriend. Because she can be a pain in the azz.
  5. Rob Thomas ~ This is How a Heart Breaks. My first training song, way back when. “Make the most out of life…” Don’t I ever!
  6. Mickey Hart ~ Baba. Kisa’s special song. This is what kicked me in the pants. Spiritual.
  7. Nickelback ~ Rockstar. Another funny song.
  8. Finger Eleven ~ Paralyzer.
  9. Matchbox20 ~ Disease.
  10. Lady Sovereign ~ Love me, Hate Me.

These are not completely in the right order because I forgot to turn off the shuffle function. It’s not that I had them in any particular order. Funny thing was, it was perfect just the way it came up. I didn’t get to hear all of Nickelback and I never got to Lady Sovereign at all. It’s ironic because I was specific about LS and why I wanted all those “fukc yous” at the end. Turns out, I didn’t need them. At all.

So, there you have it. BEB, thanks for setting the fire. I love you.

Most Ridiculous

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wtfI’m calling the Darfur run “most ridiculous” for several reason. Where do I begin? First no sleep the night before. Tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, listened to drunks outside the window at 2am, worried about cracking my head on the nightstand, missed kisa…

The next morning checking in was odd. Confused by the box of cookies for sure….

But, here’s where it gets really ridiculous. Initially I was scared to run. I won’t lie. I wasn’t feeling up to it. A friend hadn’t shown, I kept thinking about the last time I tried to run anywhere (and failed), and I was dead tired. Suddenly, everything didn’t seem important enough. I didn’t feel important at all.
Then, the race began. Uphill. Within a few minutes I lost focus on the race and lost myself in a cemetery of souls. I will say this a million times to anyone who will listen. This was the most beautiful race of my life. From just a few minutes into it, I forgot I was running. The course was beyond spiritual. Beyond gorgeous. Beyond meaning. If I wasn’t staring at graves or flowers or water I was gazing up at some of the oldest trees I have ever seen. We went up crazy, slippery, gravel hills but I didn’t see them. We went down crazy pounding hills but I didn’t feel them. Instead, I craned my neck to read tombstones, did the math on who died when. How old? At times I would turn around and run sideways, even backwards to look one last time at someones angel in stone. From Amalia on I was lost in names. My husband’s secret track was all drums and I started to cry. Darfur’s genocide, the friend that didn’t show, these graves, and the trees that seem to live forever. The impact of everything finally overtook me.
Towards the end of the race a man yelled to me, “sprint it, baby!” and suddenly I was brought back to the race. Back to reality. Sprint it? What do you mean, ‘sprint it’? Where am I? How much more of the course is there? I honestly had no idea how far I had come or what was left. Suddenly I recognized the pavilion where we checked in, the gazebo right before the finish line, the flags for the end. I remembered I was in a race and the urge to really run kicked it (it meaning me…in the azz  🙂 ). I sprinted the last 30 seconds.

27:49. I’m irritated with myself. This is my best time ever, but I didn’t even try. I can tell. No red face. No coughing uncontrollably. No cramps. As far as running goes I didn’t give anything. I was too busy gawking at people’s final resting places. I was too busy communicating with trees. I was too busy remembering the dead. Darfur’s dead.
To Darfur, I gave everything.

Scammed By Schenectady

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course mapFor weeks now I have been trying to find more information on the upcoming run. Okay, I admit it. I really wanted to check out the course and scope out the hills. Yes, I’m afraid of hills. If you have knee problems then you know what going d-o-w-n hills can feel like. But, as time went on and I wasn’t finding the slightest bit of information I began to think I was being scammed. I actually started to believe I sent money in to a race/charity that didn’t exist. Despite claims that the run was sponsored by Amnesty International I couldn’t find anything on their site supporting that. I kept finding the same website that brought me to the run in the first place.

Then, just last night – two days before I am to make the trip to NY – I get a packet of information. Scammed by Schenectady not. Directions, check-in times, and that all-important course map. Of course, hills aren’t marked but at least now I know where I’m going. At first glance I thought we would be running through a cemetery. How cool would that be! I pictured Vale souls cheering me on from beyond the grave. I love the idea of ghosts and spirits by my side. I already have an angel and a few demons, why not have a whole party?

So, now my mind is at peace. I’m not thinking the worst of this run. Instead, I’m using it to free me from the crap that haunts me, the sh!t I need to leave behind. I’ll have Daoud Hari’s courage and determination to make me strong.
And just in case that doesn’t work I’m using music from BB’s Gasparilla run to kick my azz. Forget the African beat (for now). Setlist to follow…

Everything is Wrong

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moo cow

I cannot tell you how frustrating it is to misplace focus, to break a promise. I got on the tread last night, intending to do a quiet 35 minute tune-up session. Everything was wrong. Wrong from the very start. Everything. First of all, you and your Saturday night phone call. I know in my heart of hearts you are right. Three and a half hours of heart to heart and yes, you are right. I know what I need to do, thanks to you. But. But, but I don’t like it. I don’t deserve this. Yeah, yeah, yeah – Harry met Sally and the moral of the story is they couldn’t be friends. I hear ya. I still don’t like it. Last night I went beyond ThatSpace and deleted the phone number. Removing temptation. Cutting things off before they can cut me. I can’t bleed anymore. You are right.
Anyway. So, I thought of you and your words before I ran and they didn’t make me angry. I didn’t find the fire. Instead, they made me sad. I can’t run blue. So, the mood was wrong, the music was wrong, everything was wrong. For the first time ever I skipped Paint It Black and Have Fun Go Mad. I couldn’t find a rhythm I liked. Thanks to a friend I found Fleetwood and tried that. After 25 minutes I admitted defeat and decided nothing would help. I stopped cold. I couldn’t even rock the Aerosmith shirt I bought while shopping with RT. I couldn’t rock anything beyond 2.26 miles.

I’ve never stopped a run before. Not like that – not stopped cold. I’ve had plenty of other I Don’t Feel Like It moments. But, in every other instance of tired I struck a deal with myself and moi – run slower but don’t quit. Lower the incline to nothing, but don’t quit. Don’t you dare quit.

When I got off the tread and paced in front of my husband he was quick to offer kindness. Not your night. You just cooked a huge meal. You are tired. Work is tressing you out. I heard excuse after excuse and headed for the fridge. Chocolate Moo Cow for this quitter. 
Maybe another glass of whine…from a box.