It was only a dream...

Okay, I will admit I have a few little OCD tendencies. My toenails must always be perfectly painted, I must always have lipstick close at hand, no one sees my house unless it is super clean, and my underwear almost always match what I am wearing.

Oh, and one other thing.

In the winter, my driveway is always immaculately shoveled.

Yes, even I go a little bit guy now and then.

I think it may be an illness of mine, and I believe I can even pinpoint the root of it. It stems from an unholy loathing of he whom I have deemed, "the god damned plow guy".

You see, I live in a townhome development. Every month, I pay a ridiculous amount of money to keep my lawn mowed, the pool staffed, and the driveways plowed. Really, I'm not sure what they do with all of the money, but it obviously isn't used to hire the most skilled of laborers to maintain my property. I'm starting to think that someone must be getting inordinately rich off of my assessment. Either that, or they are complete frickin morons.

The first winter I lived here, I was so naive and excited about the prospect of having someone plow my driveway. "How wonderful!" I thought. "All I'll ever have to do is shovel the sidewalk. This is beautiful."

Until the god damned plow guy came.

And kept the blade about 3 inches off the ground, packing everything down into one big sheet of ice.....until he got to my garage, where he pushed a bank (I kid you not) two feet tall against the door.

How could this be? Why is it that I now have to spend twice as long shoveling to chip away at the glacier that has inhabited my pavement? Is there no hope for humanity?

I called and complained. I was told they'd do better the next time.

So the next time? A repeat performance, with one exception. He also plowed about 10 square feet of grass in the corner of my yard against the garage door. It took until July for the lawn to grow back properly.

I called again. The nice lady apologized, and said they do their best, and she'd pass on the information.

They skipped my whole street the next time it snowed. Half of me was perturbed. The other half delighted in the fact that it only took me a half hour to clean my driveway.

I even salted, so it would look extra-nice.

Since then, it has become an obsession. If I know it's going to snow at night, I set my alarm super-early for the morning. It has become a race - I must get out there before the god damned plow guy arrives. If it's clean before he shows up, he leaves me alone.

Somehow in all of this, my neighbors stopped caring, and it drives me bat-shit crazy that they never lift a single shovel. One year, I even did their driveway several times, just because it looked so horrible. After all, how can anybody LIVE with that mess?? Their driveways are complete wastelands until a good thaw comes, and they slide like penguins toward the curb every time they go for the mail. They have given up the good fight. They have surrendered to the god damned plow guy.

Not I. It has become my mission to keep my driveway cleaner than the sidewalk at the old folks' home. Whether it snows a half an inch or a foot, I am out there, zealously shoveling, salting, and shaking my fist at the sound of the approaching plow. The lady next door actually said to me one day, "Gee, I wish my husband shoveled my driveway as well as you do yours!"

"Poke him," I said. "Or the god damned plow guy. Which ever makes you feel better."

Oh, and god damned plow guy? If I ever find out who you are, I'm calling your mother.

Then I'm going to have my kid come kick the crap out of you. He'll do it, if he believes it will get him out of shoveling just once.

-Denise Levertov

If it's chariots or sandals,
I'll take sandals.
I like the high prow of the chariot,
the daredevil speed, the wind
a quick tune
you can't quite catch
but I want to go
a long way
and I want to follow
paths where wheels deadlock.
And I don't want always
to be among gear and horses,
blood, foam, dust. I'd like
to wean myself from their strange allure.
I'll chance
the pilgrim sandals.

I want to write today, but I have no good topics. I think it's because I'm getting sick, and my brain is kind of whacked.

The one thing that's floating around my head today is light...how different lights affect how things look, and it varies from winter to summer, morning to evening, sun to bulb to flame, and inside to out.

I like snow-white morning light shining through my window the least.

Cold, antiseptic, bleached out and stark.

The best are the summer afternoons, fall campfires at sunset, and darkened rooms full of candles flickering in the wind.

Warm light. Yellows and oranges and reds.

Have I mentioned that I hate winter? I also hate being sick.

I need more tea.

Renee called a week or two ago, raving about a book she bought. This is not a common occurrence for her, as she's one of those crazy-busy-just-enough-free-time-to-breathe kind of people. Plus she's not terribly excitable. So I was moderately intrigued.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be a book that Oprah has raved about time and time again. Honestly? I think I'd generally rather dig my eyes out with a spork than join Oprah's book club. Call me a non-conformist. It's just one of those things. I smiled and nodded, and thought it was delightful for her.

She called back a few days later. "Have you read the book?" Um, no. I hadn't read the book. I haven't ordered mashed potatoes from KFC in ages, and am therefore running low on my spork supply. Sorry, but it's probably not going to happen. But really, I'm glad it's working out. That's fabulous.

Another few days, and the phone rings again. "You have to get the book," she says. By this point, I'm actually kind of intrigued. Since when does she feel so strongly about something that she insists I do it? Pretty much never. I decide it may not kill (or blind) me to check it out.

Today I found myself with my entire to-do list completed by early afternoon. I am on vacation this week, so that list included such gems as packing a box for mailing, washing the wine glasses in the sink, and napping. At 1:30 this afternoon, after deciding that sleeping 12 out of the last 24 hours was enough, I felt the need to get out of the house and forage for some food. First, though, I would stop by Barnes & Noble and see what all of the fuss was about with this book.

Oh, the title? Yeah. He's Just Not That Into You. *cue ominous music here* Written by a guy, aimed at smart, pretty women who just don't get it. Interesting concept, despite the Oprah endorsement.

I arrived at B&N, did my best furtive/nonchalant mosey into the self-help section, grabbed the book, and found a big comfy chair to sit in. I figured I would leaf through it, just to see if it was worth buying. After all, I wasn't about to spend $21.95 on something that didn't come with its own spork without at least taking a peek at it first.

Surprisingly enough, it was pretty funny. And thoughtful. And probably pretty accurate. And although it didn't change my life like I think it did Renee's, it reinforced a few things that I have known all along, neglected far too often, and have been starting to contemplate again as of late.

The one paragraph synopsis...

People do what they want to do (I actually said that to someone very recently...how apropos). You'll know when a man is into you, because he'll TELL you that he's into you. Excuses, disappearances, and bad behavior are, almost without fail, attempts to avoid admitting he's not really all that interested. Women, however, are pretty dumb sometimes. It's not rare for men to even say, "You know what, I'm not really interested..." and women to hear something totally different, like, "maybe I'll be interested if you wait long enough." (guilty as charged, I am ashamed to admit). If someone wants to be with you, they will make the time. Wild horses won't stop a guy from showing a girl he's really interested in that he wants to be with her. Women need to stop making excuses for men who aren't interested. It's not a character flaw. It's just the way the world works. Move on, and look for a better situation...because when it's right, you'll know.

So you know what? I ended up taking a lot of this to heart. I remind myself of the following:

• If he's not calling, you, it's because you are not on his mind.
• If he creates expectations for you, and then doesn't follow through on little things, he will do the same for big things. Be aware of this and realize that he's okay with disappointing you.
  
• Don't be with someone who doesn't do what they say they're going to do.
• If he's choosing not to make a simple effort that would put you at ease and bring harmony to a recurring fight, then he doesn't respect your feelings and needs.
• "Busy" is another word for "asshole". "Asshole" is another word for the guy you're dating.
• You deserve a fucking phone call.

Yeah, I read the whole book while sitting in the big comfy chair, and ended up buying a copy for a friend of mine. If nothing else, it's food for thought. Men aren't evil, and they aren't stupid. Women just don't always understand that they are very different from us. We have to stop imposing our own ideas onto their actions. If he's into you, you'll know. Lying to yourself doesn't do anybody any good, after all.

He's Just Not That Into You
(Go ahead, click the link. You know you want to...it's a quick, fun excerpt. No spork required).

My grandpa just called. He wanted to make sure I was okay, because yesterday, while we were celebrating Christmas at my parents' house, he said I looked so tired that "the funeral home guys should have been waiting right outside." He told me that I should rest and take a few days off, because at the rate I'm going, I'm not going to make it much longer.

I told him that I am fine, and I was just tired. I promised to take it easy this week, since I'm on vacation and finally have very little left on my to-do list. I didn't tell him anything else. He's almost eighty-two, and doesn't need to worry about me. He is the sweetest, most wonderful man in the world, and he deserves to believe that everything is okay with the world.

It's funny, though. As I hung up the phone, I remembered that it was recently pointed out to me that I am fiercely (if not over zealously) protective of my pride. I couldn't argue the point, of course. It is a completely true statement.

I fully realize that I am a high-maintenance, very emotional person. I also realize that it is not fair to inflict my moods on the rest of the world. I am therefore painstakingly careful to keep as much of the rollercoaster as possible to myself. I will do everything in my power to avoid being accused of playing the drama queen, and I will think twice (if not more) before responding to an issue to which I have an emotional reaction. If I can at all help it, the worst the world will ever see is that I am, in fact, tired.

I hate a lot of things that are going on right now. I am angry, hurt, and burned out on the world. But I laughed on the phone with my grandpa, and I sent a level-headed, careful text reply to someone who crushed my day today. I called my mother to wish her a Merry Christmas, I called my son (who is with his dad all week) to tell him I love him, I took a long hot bath, and I am now writing to remind myself that when you have nothing else, it is good to at least be able to hold on to your pride.

If you handle yourself with dignity in the face of adversity, you can stay warm, even when you're completely alone. No one can take away your pride unless you let them.

As long as I can maintain that poise, I can not be broken.

I refuse to be broken.

I read this today, and it gave me a great chuckle.

Mr. Fabulous strikes again.

...and never look back.

There is no peace in the past.

Don't assume it is passive
or easy, this clarity

with which I give you yourself.
Consider what restraint it

takes: breath withheld, no anger
or joy disturbing the surface

of the ice.
You are suspended in me

beautiful and frozen, I
preserve you, in me you are safe.

It is not a trick, either,
it is a craft:

mirrors are crafty.

-Margaret Atwood
"Tricks with Mirrors"

I was talking with my best friend, R, tonight. She's been going through a lot over the last year or so, and there have been stretches in which we haven't spoken at all...for months, even. As she lives in Pennsylvania, it's not like I can just drop in and check on her whenever I feel like it. But when one of us really needs the other, we're always there.

That's the great thing about best friends. You don't HAVE to talk all the time. You can always just pick up where you left off.

Over the last month or two, we've been catching each other more often, which is good. And tonight, we talked about what's been going on, what we've both been up to, and how bizarre our lives are. We came up with a few conclusions.

1. Everyone in the world really is fucked up in one way or another. Don't believe me? Think of the ten people to whom you are closest, and do the math. They all have their own special freakiness, don't they?

2. The key to life is surrounding yourself with people whose fucked-up-ed-ness you can identify with. Whose odd little tendencies are not only tolerable, but almost endearing? Those should be your friends, lovers, and confidants. Find them, hold on to them. Forever.

3. Everyone also has their own insecurities. They get us in a lot of trouble, don't they? We tend to talk about those ad nauseum, and focus on how we need to get past them. On the flip side, however, are the little vanities that are equally dangerous. We tell ourselves, "Hey, I can do this! I can make this (job, relationship, situation) work. I'm good enough to do this, and nobody can stop me!" What we tend to forget is that there are some things that can be done, but shouldn't. We confuse strength with stamina. Sure, you can do it....but can you do it for an extended period of time? And do you want to? (We focused mainly on relationships, but I have to be fair and apply it across the board. Really, though, think about how many relationships begin with an assumption that a person's idiosyncrasies drive you nuts...but you just know that you can put up with them if you try hard enough?)

4. Communication is a lot harder than it looks. Deciding how much to say is always the biggest issue, I think. You can't bottle everything inside forever, because it's likely to fester. You also can't just spew out every thought that comes to mind...because then you lose credibility and perspective. If you're always talking, then the important things get lost in the shuffle.

5. Remember, fun is the center of dysfunction.

6. If you can't make a decision, it's often best not to force it. Wait until you have enough facts, and a clear enough mind, to take a position. More often than not, the right answer will come to you, given enough time.

7. Ice cream is good for the soul.

8. A good friend is someone who sees you for who you are, and not what you present to the world. R made it a point to laugh after telling me that if she didn't know me better, she'd think I was some kind of superwoman. (I laughed, too. It's actually pretty funny.) "You work hard, you raise a child, you are always going to these soirées, board meetings, social events...and your house is always clean! If they only knew that you go home and lay awake all night with neurotic worry, and just how screwed up your view of the world is, their image of you would be blown." I love her for that, because she can say such things completely without malice - and my fucked-up-ed-ness is endearing to her (and vice versa).

9. The people we love can be taken from us at any time without notice. Cherish them. (I've been thinking of this one a lot lately. It seems I've seen more than my share of death and dying lately. I'd like it to stop soon, please.)

10. You can't always be you. Sometimes, life throws you curve balls, and it throws you off kilter. You have to adapt to the situation and deal with it...but you can't forget who you are in the process, because sooner or later, those inherent traits that make you you will find a way back in. No matter how you change and grow, some things just are. Hold on to them, because they're the reasons that the people closest to you love you.

Now it's time for me to go lay in bed and worry...lol. If you have a bottle of wine, feel free to stop by and share neuroses!

A friend of mine used to say, "Every action you take should be designed to bring you one step closer to your goal."

He wanted to be a musician. He made sure he studied with the best teachers, and went into debt in order to pay for the most prestigious school possible. He went out of his way to meet the right people, and was careful not to burn any bridges. He religiously practiced scales, arpeggios, and long tones, and played in as many ensembles as he could find. When he wasn't playing, he was listening. He was always taking more in, paying more attention, and working harder than everyone else. And you know what? He became a fabulous musician. He reached his goal.

What an awesome theory, right?

Well, kind of.

He's currently one of the least happy people I know. After all, when you spend every ounce of your energy to reach your singular goal, what do you do when you finally achieve it?

You make another one, I guess, if you have the energy. What else CAN you do?

The problem is that he spent so much of his life becoming a musician that he never developed any other part of his existence. He's socially inept, a financial nightmare, lonely, egotistical, and....well, he's more than a bit jaded.

Of course, this doesn't happen to everyone. There are some who are able to zero in a goal, takes steps to reach it, and then live happily ever after. Kudos to them, I say....but how many of those people ARE there in the world? Not too many, I would think.

The other night, I was on the phone discussing how hard life can seem when you don't know exactly where you want to end up. How can you plan for a future if you don't know specifically what you want said future to look like? When you look at it in that light, it seems every move is futile, if it doesn't represent a specific piece of the puzzle you're trying to build, but can't see.

It's awfully intimidating sometimes to see all of these people with laser-focused ambition, speeding along to wherever it is they are going...when it looks like you're just ambling along at a fraction of the pace.

As I thought about it, though, it occurred to me that specific direction does not equal happiness. I thought of my musician friend, and how impressed I had been with him at one point. "There's a guy that is going somewhere," I would think. And I was jealous. It appeared that he knew so much more than I did, and he was on a path to a satisfaction I would never know.

Today, though, when I look at how my life differs from his, I am surprised to see how much more content I am, in the overall picture. It took some thought before I came up with a reasonable explanation.

You see, it's not that I am less ambitious. It's not that I lack direction. It's just that what I have always wanted is harder to define. I can't say, "I want to achieve 'X', and then I'll be happy." To me, happiness is more about the journey.

Don't get me wrong, I love my career. I very much enjoy what I do every day, and I have worked pretty damn hard to get where I am. I also passionately adore my son, my family, and my friends. I'm happy with my house, I have a pretty respectable social life, and I spend a lot of time doing things I consider fun. And you know what?

That's what I always wanted.

There isn't a particular place in which I want to live. I don't have a dream job. I'm not salivating for the day when I can say I have a million dollars in the bank.

I just want to surround myself with people that I love, and spend every day growing and learning about the things that excite me. And there is nothing wrong with that. Each person is wired differently, and we need to be as compassionate to ourselves as we are with others when we look with the inescapable judgmental eye.

The fact that you're not moving in a straight line can seem like a failure on the surface. But if you're always trying, watching for opportunity, and taking chances when they appear, you're most likely evolving more than you realize behind the scenes. You can expand in many different directions at the same time and not appear, from the outside, to have moved much at all. It's terribly frustrating if you're unable to put things in the proper perspective as you live them, isn't it? Picturing yourself as others see you is nearly impossible, and seeing your personal growth in a fair light is a constant challenge.

I'm not insinuating that floating aimlessly is the preferable way to get through life. What I am suggesting is that perhaps it's beneficial to simply pick directions, in lieu of destinations. For instance:

I am looking for a fulfilling career in a certain area, which enables me to profit intellectually and financially.
...for which I will work hard, and keep attuned to opportunities that will allow for advancement.

I want to build a healthy relationship with a person who enables me to be a better person.
...and I will evaluate each person I meet, in order to determine which qualities I admire in an individual, and what sort of characteristics make me happy.

I would like to become more adept at a specific hobby.
...so I will purposely set aside time on a regular basis to learn and enjoy it.

I want to travel and see more of the world.
...in which case, I need to save money and vacation time so that I am able to do so.

With goals such as these, one retains a level of fluidness in their operations. There is flexibility to focus more on certain issues as life ebbs and flows around us. It also allows for change, when we discover that our priorities have evolved with us. Oddly enough, living this way, I've even found that destinations and milestones tend to appear when you least expect them. You don't need a grand vision to be happy. (Again, there are a select few who have that vision, and manage to live happily along the straight line their whole lives. I am, however, not one of them.)

This morning, as I sat on a conference call in my office, my mind wandered to the task of Christmas cards. It has been years since I've written a letter to include in them, so I thought perhaps I would suck it up and put one together. I jotted notes as I half-listened to the question and answer session, and was absolutely floored when I finished the list of everything A and I have done this year.

You see, I still have a lot to do in this life...which is good. But I couldn't believe the changes that have occurred recently. I never imagined I'd be where I am today, and am...dare I say...proud of myself for what I have accomplished. I stopped to see where I've made progress, which milestones I have passed, and what areas need more work as I move forward. I reevaluated my position, and adjusted my viewpoint accordingly.

Next year, I hope to do more of the same. I can't tell you what opportunities will arise, or what challenges I will face. But I can assure you that I will grab hold of the things I want, and continue purging the things that hold me back. I'll keep getting better. And I will try my very best to suppress the self-defeating voice that tries to convince me that I am not doing enough.

Because I really am, in fact, doing more than enough. It's just hard to see sometimes.

And life? It's not a puzzle after all.

It's a canvas. Paint what you love with the colors you are given.

I have to post this link.

No, I swear I haven't gone to the dark side. It's just a great song, even for those of us who shudder at the concept of bluegrass music.

I have moved my blog! I sort of like the fresh digs. Below are posted the entries from the old blog that I thought were worth keeping. Welcome to the new place :)

Reposted from 11/8/07

I am happy.

And by that, I mean utterly, ridiculously, stupidly delighted with my little world. It is so great to be me.

I love artists. I love the passion, the openness, and the vibrancy that they portray. I love the hum that inhabits their air. I love how very alive it all makes me feel.

Tonight, for the first time in ages, I felt at home in the arts. Without revealing too much about the event, I will simply say that it was breathtakingly beautiful...with a group that has invited me (me!! omg, they invited ME!!) to join them. Yes, there were hundreds of people with too much money standing around looking important. And of course there were odd people with bizarre senses of fashion that were nothing short of amusing. But I sat next to a man at dinner who just finished writing a musical. He used to be a professional circus clown. How often do you come across someone with a resume like that?!

Earlier in the evening, I met a woman whose paintings have been displayed in some of the nation's most prestigious galleries. I don't even remember her name, but she was wearing a brilliant blue dress that matched her eyes. I imagine her paintings show that same ability to draw light from color...

After dinner, the band began playing Latin music, and couples were dancing (I should know more. Was it the samba? Tango? Lambada? I have no idea). Young couples, older couples, waiters and waitresses. Gracefully, gleefully circling each other in front of a wall of windows overlooking the city. They were marvelous. I was entranced. If I was at all graceful, I would have wanted to try it for myself. But it was enough just to watch. I couldn't stop grinning.

The entire evening flew past. Luckily for me, I was accompanied by my dear friend, B...whose calm stability keeps me grounded. Once he arrived, I didn't feel so much like I was going to throw up out of sheer nervousness - or cry out of some unharnessed, overwhelming humility. I bottled it up, and took it home with me, instead...where it can keep me warm tonight. He's a good anchor like that.

It was the music I loved the most. Standing at the edge of the dance floor, listening and watching as people spun past us to the tune of Oye Como Va. Laying here now in my bed, I can still hear the horns and feel the bass in my bones. In my mind, I'm as free and uninhibited as they were...dancing without motion, singing without sound.

I feel like I visited home tonight. I feel alive.

I am happy.

Reposted from 10/12/07

I'm sitting in this horrible dive of a restaurant in DFW airport, and I'm crying.

Not because the food is horrible (in fact, it's inedible...but I've already eaten so much fabulous food since arriving in Texas that I'm sure I'll survive), but because I've just had a brush with great humility.

I've always thought of the midwest as the friendliest area in the country. I love my city, I feel at home wherever I go in the area, and I don't think twice about telling people how warm midwesterners are as a rule. Dallas, though, has been surprising. I've only been here once before, and I don't recall it being quite this welcoming. Every single person I've dealt with since arriving has been genuine, polite, and kind - examples of southern charm at its finest, I suppose. But none of it prepared me for my arrival at the airport this afternoon.

The driver stopped at the terminal entrance, and carried my bag inside to the check-in kiosk. An American Airlines agent immediately stepped up, said "You look tired, young lady. Let me help you with that", and checked me in. He reassigned me to a bulkhead seat so I could 'stretch out those long legs'. I had to chuckle at that, but was grateful that it put my in Boarding Group 1, which gets to slip through the First Class security lines (which were still quite long). I took my place in line, and watched as three young Marines fell in behind me.

The youngest, who was directly behind me, was on the phone with his mother. "I think I can get on the earlier flight. I'm on stand-by, and I should be home by three......unless they bump me, so I don't know......no, I don't know how full the flight is, but I'll call and let you know when I have a better idea of what's happening......I know, Mom........I know. I love you." I could hear his mom crying on the other end of the line. He hung up and quietly tucked the phone back in his pocket.

I rarely talk to people in airport lines. But I had to know. I turned and smiled.

"Coming home?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Where from?"

"I just got in from Kuwait a few hours ago," he answered.

"Oh." I didn't know what to say. He didn't seem terribly talkative, and I'm not one to pry or ask a lot of questions. But he looked so.....forlorn. "Welcome home," I said.

He smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. It's only for two weeks, though. I still have six months left to go in Iraq before I can come home for good."

"Oh," I said again. Surely he thought I was an idiot by now. "I bet it feels good to be back, even if it's just for a little while. Where's home?"

"Arkansas. Most of my family is there. My mom's waiting for me to get in." He blushed and lowered his head a bit.

"Well, let me tell you this. If anybody bumps you off your earlier flight, they need to be hurt. You need to get home, honey. Anybody gives you trouble, you come find me, huh?"

He laughed. After all, the thought of me defending a Marine is terribly funny.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Can I ask what you do in Iraq?"

"I've got it easy," he said. "I work with money. Most of the transactions there are done in cash these days, so I spend a lot of time counting and moving a lot of money from place to place. It's not very dangerous."

"Wait a second," I interrupted. "You move the money? Like how?"

"In a truck."

"So you mean to tell me that driving a truck filled with cash through Iraq isn't very dangerous?"

"It could be worse," he answered matter-of-factly. "It's just a job." The lack of any inflection in his voice stopped me cold. I shuddered to think of his frame of reference.

"But, hey, in six months I'm out. I'll be going to college, because I'll finally have the money to pay for it. I'm going to Florida State. I can't wait."

Oh, yes. The GI Bill. I'd never thought of it as bribery until that moment.

"I want to be a pharmaceutical rep when I get out of school. I hear the money is pretty good, and it sounds a lot better than counting other people's cash, don't you think?"

I laughed, suddenly feeling that my cushy financial job was a huge waste of time, comparatively speaking. "It sure does. Maybe I could learn a few tricks from you, if I hung around long enough."

At that point, the man behind him picked up his phone, which was ringing. "Hello, baby." He said. "Yeah, I'll be home for dinner tonight. You listen to mommy, and be a good girl, okay? Yes, I love you too, princess.....eighteen days. Daddy loves you, and we're going to have the best eighteen days ever. Now put mommy on the phone, okay?"

By then, we'd reached the security checkpoint. The third boy in the group hadn't spoken a word.

"Please, you boys go ahead of me. I've got over an hour before my flight leaves. You go. Get on your planes, and get home."

I pushed them ahead of me. Three young men, all over six feet tall and built like tanks, and I'm pushing them toward the agent and trying not to cry.

"You can leave your boots on, boys." The security agent grabbed their bags and placed them on the scanner belt. The young one emptied his pockets into the gray bin. I watched as he dumped in his cell phone, three wads of cash, about eight pieces of chewing gum that had fallen out of the wrapper, a handful of receipts, two bite-size candy bars, a crumpled boarding pass, his military ID, a coffee stirrer, and several packets of Splenda. Just like any young kid who didn't have a particular spot to carry things, everything had landed in his pockets. He reminded me of my own son, and how frustrating I find it when I have to search every pair of pants before putting them in the laundry, for fear of cementing gum to everything I own. I choked a bit, and stood there with my shoes in my hand.

One by one, they went through the line. I followed behind, and noticed that the third boy still hadn't spoken. He kept his head down, except to look up at the TSA agent and nod politely as he grabbed his bag.

These boys, these babies, were coming home to visit their mothers before going back to the desert. They had gum in their pockets, hoped they wouldn't be bumped from the early flight so they could be home in time for dinner, and engaged politely in conversation with a dumb-struck woman from Chicago who just wanted to hug them.

"Hey," I said. All three of them turned.

"You guys take care, huh? Be careful." I felt so lame. I didn't know what else to say.

The quiet one, who hadn't said a word up to that point, stepped up beside me and smiled sadly. "That's what we do." He said.

Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and turned away. The very nice people in Dallas walked around me without complaint as I stood there, shoes still in hand, crying for the boys who were too young to drink a beer in the airport bar, but old enough to travel to the other side of the world to fight a war...because it's an honorable way to pay for college.

If you pray tonight, put in a word for the boys from Arkansas who are in the arms of their families for a few short days. And when you see honorable men that makes a difference?

Thank him.

I can't believe I forgot to thank them.

Reposted from 8/29/07

I know I haven't blogged in a while. Nor have I been good at keeping up with others. Nor being social, keeping up with good gossip, emptying the lint filter, blah blah blah...

...but I digress. It's been overwhelming, lately. But I thought I'd jot down a few helpful tidbits I've picked up over the last couple of weeks. You never know when some of these will come in handy.

For instance...

Sunday night is still hot single guy night at the grocery store.

Any time someone starts a sentence with, "Hey, I think you should ask so-and-so about....." ....just don't.

Rockstar and Riesling are not friends.

The false eyelash glue people have a different concept of waterproof than the rest of the world.

Just because there are other people in the house, that doesn't mean you can't drink alone.

Good friends generally know which men to hate and which ones not to hate on your behalf.

If you're going to volunteer to help friends move, make sure you ask how many other friends they have.

Humiliation isn't pretty.

If you have a two-hour training conference call at 1:30 pm, it's not the right day to break down and let the cute guy from down the hall take you out to lunch at the newly remodeled Chinese restaurant down the street. Unless you have a caffeine IV handy. Which I don't.

Wearing really low-cut tops to work is a constant source of amusement when you work in an office full of uptight men.

If you really want to know the answer to a question, don't ask it. If you don't care, then ask away.

Chicken wings are the single most pointless food on earth.

There are many different definitions of okay.

Mosquitoes are actually very attracted to the smell of DEET.

I have successfully reached a point at which I am completely incapable of effectively expressing meaningful emotions. I win.

This, too, shall pass.

You can actually fit at least 14.339 gallons of gas into a 14 gallon tank.

The best time to test a tornado alarm in an office building is four days after the front doors implode in a storm.

Some people you never thought would grow up actually do.

There is always room on your elbow for another bruise.

I think that's all for now. Feel free to add your own pearls of wisdom. I can use everything I can get.

Reposted from 8/12/07

I've been avoiding the back yard for the last couple of weeks. It seems that hornets have made a nest INSIDE of the porch light right outside the back door, and they've taken over the area.

Needless to say, I've been kinda pissed with the whole situation.

For instance yesterday, while I was outside cleaning the glass of the sliding door and grumbling to myself, I decided that if one of those fuckers even had the balls to come near me, I was going to have to think of new and interesting ways to end their miserable existence. Of course they didn't stay away, and weren't entirely happy with my presence. I had to shy away a few times to keep from getting stung. The thought of hairspray and a cigarette lighter even sounded moderately amusing at that point.

Here's the thing, though. They are living inside of the light. Did I mention that part? There's this tiny hole, smaller than a dime, in the bottom where they fly in and out. At any given time, you can see about twenty of them on the inside of the glass, gleefully going about their merry business.

Getting them out wasn't going to be easy. But I wanted my yard back.

See, I could get my little can of Raid wasp killer spray, put it up to the hole, and fill the whole thing with foamy goodness, but then I'd run the risk of a bunch of them flying back to the hive while I'm spraying. And I'd have to disassemble the entire light, clean it from top to bottom with two or three different products, and then put it back together. What a pain in the ass.

Not gonna happen.

So this afternoon, while I was on the phone with my mom, I got to thinking. And then I started to laugh. An evil, horrible, super-villain kind of laugh. She got worried. She knows that laugh too well. I think the last time she heard it was right before I fed her dog a peanut butter sandwich. That, of course, was funny in its own right.

The thing is, I figured out how to kill the little flying bastards. And now my mother thinks I'm a (more) horrible person. But it's just so worth it! Evil can be fun, you know.

So tonight, as the sun was setting, I whistled happily as I went out to the garage to get the duct tape. I tore off a small piece, slightly larger than the size of a dime. I tiptoed out the back door, checked the perimeter for intruders, and stuck the tape over the hornet hole on the light.

And then, my friends, I swaggered back inside, and did a very mean thing.

I flipped on the light switch.

I figure that by now, it's got to be about 150 degrees inside that light. By morning, I should have hornet flambé. Unscrew the bottom of the light, shake it out a bit, and let the carcasses fall to the ground as birdie breakfast.

If you listen closely tonight, you may be able to hear the screams of an entire hive of dying hornets.

I never claimed to be a nice person. Good thing I have a sense of humor to fall back on...

Reposted from 7/18/07

It was muggy in Chicago today. Even with the breeze, the humidity made it feel like it was at least ten degrees hotter than it really was. I was downtown for a dinner meeting, and the thick clouds were pressing the sky down against us. It was the kind of evening where you just pray that it rains...anything to snap through the feeling of swimming down the sidewalk.

We walked from the office, about ten blocks north and east to the restaurant. Crossing the river, everything seemed a bit quieter than usual, like the city was packed in cotton, waiting to be unwrapped. We were all a bit wilted when we arrived. Neither the great steaks, cold beer, nor delicate background music could shake the stickiness.

I left a bit earlier than the others, as I live the farthest out. It was already 9:00, and I had been up early. I stepped outside, and was immediately startled by the spray of raindrops against my face. The awning was no help. The wind was swirling madly enough to drench everything immediately. I had no umbrella.

The valet hailed a cab, and I ran to the curb and slipped in. My shoes were already soaked, and the portfolio I had been holding over my head was drenched. I laid it on the seat beside me, and looked out the window at the young couple on the sidewalk huddling beneath their umbrella. They looked very small.

It's amazing how everything changes in those streets during a nighttime thunderstorm. The lighted signs glow brighter, the sheets of rain seem movie-unrealistic, reflecting headlights and thundering against the roof of the taxi. Lightning branches across the sky, and the crackling thunder takes on a surreal quality. It's like being in a movie, where everything is exaggerated for effect. The tops of the buildings are swallowed by clouds, the air smells of city things and ozone, and every silhouette is sharper, cleaner, and more vivid than usual.

The Civic Opera House had letters missing from the marquis. I've never seen that board less than perfect...but noticing that made me realize that I was as hyper-aware of my surroundings as one would be in a slow-motion dream. Every detail struck me as relevant as we traveled south on Wacker Drive. Lower Wacker was barricaded closed, and policemen stood beside large white vans, keeping people from sneaking down the ramp. I remembered a story I'd heard on the news about the filming of the new Batman movie beneath the city, and how Heath Ledger had been seen in full Joker makeup directing traffic a few days ago. I imagined him standing in the rain, and the macabre scene it would create, with the colors melting down his cheeks. All I really saw, though, was a weary policeman in a poncho, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world but there.

At the corner of Wacker and Adams, there was a (presumably) homeless man standing beside a newspaper machine. He had a push cart full of belongings, and was carefully, methodically trying to cover the cart with papers. The wind was grabbing the corners, tearing pages from his hands, and blowing them into the river of rainwater rushing along the curb. He made no attempt to cover himself...and hadn't even raised the fur-lined hood of his thick parka against the torrent. He blinked and watched the papers fly away as I passed.

The cab pulled up beside the office. It was pouring even harder by then....oceans of fat drops splashing on the sidewalk, and me in a suit and heels. I felt out of place as I paid the driver, opened the door, and paused for a moment.

I took a deep breath (and wondered at how the smell from the Blommer Chocolate factory can travel so well in the rain), held it for a moment, and took off across the sidewalk. It was less than twenty feet to the door. By the time I got there, though, I was soaked to the skin. My pants were plastered against my legs, my shoes filled with puddles, and my hair dripping down the back of my neck. I crashed against the door, and smiled ruefully. I felt like a little kid.

Inside the door, I hunched down the escalator to the walkway that leads to the parking garage. I stopped to shake my clothes free, and looked up. On the wall is a larger-than-life picture of several people in my group...a cheesy PR shot that's supposed to inspire confidence and trust in our services. It struck me that beneath the plastic smiles, they all looked sad. One, I knew, always carried that look. His wife is dying of cancer. The others I couldn't explain. I wondered if I looked as hollow as they do when I smile at my clients.

I made my way to my car, slipped inside, and started the engine. The seats were still radiating the heat they'd absorbed earlier from the hazy sun. The radio was too loud. The water was pouring onto the windshield from one of the upper levels of the garage, and I was fascinated by the thought of its journey downward, like from the bucket in the game Mousetrap. Winding, following gravity along a meandering path, driving furiously toward the ground. The deluge against the glass had a strange, lonely beauty of sorts. I sat watching for a few minutes before pulling out of my spot.

The Kennedy was packed, but moving. Everyone wanted to get home. The lightning skittered across the sky, and I picked up the phone. I wanted to talk about the clarity of the last few moments. I needed to share adjectives about the smells, and wind analogies around the differences between the vibrant city and the quiet hum of the suburbs. I felt such a strong desire to ramble on about all of the details, and see where they took me.

But then I realized that there wasn't anyone with whom I could have that conversation, so I just picked up my text messages. There was one from a friend about the rain. I decided to call him. I could talk to him about what a long day it had been, and he would tell me about going to Starbucks for a mocha.

He didn't answer. I sighed, in both chagrin and relief.

Instead, I counted seconds between the thunder and the lightning as I drove, and plotted an outline for a blog entry. Sometimes it's a blessing to be able to pour everything into something that means nothing, after all.

Reposted from 5/14/07

Sometimes, I admit, I am a terrible lover. My attention wanders, and my heart falls cold. I forget my true love in the mundane happenings of my days. I lose focus. I meander off from that which makes me whole.

Tonight, though, my love took my heart in hand, and squeezed until I could not breathe. I was pulled back home, gasping and in awe. Reminded of my place...and humbled by its beauty.

Each time, I ask myself how it could have gotten this far. Why did I leave? What is it that pulls me away? How can I live a day without that connection, that bone-jarring intensity that makes me feel so alive?

And then I remember what, how, and why. My heart breaks.

There was a time, years ago, that I would answer the question, "What do you do?" with a simple sentence.

I am a musician.

There is no feeling on earth like being cradled in the arms of the sound, the passion, and the strength of music. It is the thread that connects my fabric. It is the warmth that fuels my being.
______________________

The Civic Opera House is one of the most beautiful venues in Chicago...tucked just south of the bend in Wacker Drive, right on the river, in the heart of my city. About an hour before the show, we walked past the side doors on our way to grab a drink at a little open-air place across the street. It was warm, and the sun was still shining.

There, huddled against the door, was a thin man in faded jeans and a blue hoodie. He was furtively smoking a cigarette, glancing up from time to time before shrinking back into the corner. My friend veered away a bit, as you do with crazy people in doorways.

I stopped.

I looked at him as he raised his eyes, and I smiled. He looked briefly panicked, shuffled his feet, and threw the butt into the street. He then opened the door and scuttled in before I had a chance to say a word. It was Damien Rice, having a smoke before the show.

He looked so small.

About 8:15, five people took the stage. Damien sat at the piano, and began to play. Have you ever really stopped to listen to someone melt into their instrument? It becomes a part of them, an extension of self. His introduction was not a list of thank-yous or welcomes. It was a lament, a soulful sadness of the heart...a bittersweet tale that led into 9 Crimes.

He played without a break for two hours. He laid himself open on that stage, with the vulnerability and trust of a man who loves his art. He told us his story, which swallowed the entire world for that brief time.

From unrequited yearning for a girl with beautiful eyes to the admission, "What I really need is what makes me bleed," it was magical. I never wanted to leave. I was home.
______________________

I know why I walked away. I understand the need to live this life I've chosen. If I hadn't left, I would have been slowly eaten alive by this agony that comes with separation. I am not strong enough, and I can not live on the razor's edge without experiencing the blood. I can not make that transition between rapture and reality every day. It was killing me, as sure as it was how I lived.

But sometimes I wonder what that short, vivid life would have been like. I feel the hum in my bones, and the crush in my chest, and I wish, for a few moments, that I had stayed.

I would give almost anything, at this moment, for another day there.

But love forgives. And as long as there are men like Damien Rice, who can walk out onto that stage and share their passion, it will be okay.

I'll be back from time to time. Don't forget the breeze.

Reposted from 5/11/07

Dude. Stay back. Whatever this is just may be contagious.

I'm boring, see? I really am a pathetic boob of a geeky human being, I swear. I'm a single parent with a conservative job who lives in an uptight suburb and doesn't go out very often. I wear dorky tee-shirts to the grocery store, spill diet coke down the front of myself before big meetings, and have a tendency to fall down the stairs for no apparent reason several times a month. That's the level of excitement that I'm used to. Very rarely does anything truly noteworthy happen in my world.

I blog about pine needles taking over my house at Christmas time (because that's as interesting as it gets around here), for the love of all that is holy. You can laugh at my expense if you really want to. I'll totally understand.

But yesterday, I was somehow sucked into a swirling vortex of freakish events. It started off as a completely normal day, spending five desperate minutes swearing and searching for my car keys before work. Then, somehow, I drove through a warp in the space-time continuum between my house and the office. I have no idea how it got there, or why it chose yesterday. I will admit, I am still a bit bewildered. All I wanted to do was get some work done. It sounded so simple. But one by one, the dominoes fell. It was like an entire season of Seinfeld, mashed into one bizarro day.

When I got to the office, there were a dozen stale donuts sitting on my desk. I stopped eating donuts 40 pounds ago, but there they were, and no one would claim to know how they got there. I put them out in the hall, where nobody touched them all day. I think maybe they were poisoned, and someone is trying to kill me. I can't prove it, but it's a distinct possibility.

A few minutes later, while I was on the phone with a client, the one guy on my floor that I don't like came into my office (we'll call him Bob, for the sake of illustration). He's one of those misogynistic, egotistical fucktards that think that women belong barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, and not out in the real world doing MAN'S WORK. While I was on the phone, he tried to bully me into doing some ridiculous thing he thought was a good idea, and I did something I never, ever do. Even at work. I politely excused myself from the client conversation, hung up the phone, and I told Bob, very loudly, that he was behaving like an ass, and needed to keep his nose in his own department's business, and out of mine. I asked him to leave my office, and think about how he treats women for a while before he decides to come back.

I did this in front of six women that work for him. He stormed off in a huff, and they all hugged me. I felt like some perverted Moses, with a throng of slaves waiting to be led through the dessert. They all fell silent every time I walked by for the rest of the day. It was creepy.

I also planned two more out-of-state trips today. I now have four in June. Cleveland, St. Louis, Seattle, and northern Michigan, and the only one promising to be a bust is Cleveland. The others are going to be absolute parties, with fun people, plenty of alcohol, debauchery, and lots of giggling. When did I end up with that many friends? Where did they COME from??

Are any of them responsible for donut-gate?

Oh, and somehow, when working out the details on the Seattle trip, tentative plans were made to roll around naked in a pile of Kurt Cobain's flannel shirts before his crack whore widow sells them all.

Or something.

Then I did something evil on my lunch break. No, I'm not going to tell you what it was. But it was wrong. The good news is that I ended up finding a new shade of lip gloss while I was out. The bad news is that my assistant told me it makes me look like a cheap hooker. Cheap? pfffffft.

On the way home, I was stopped at a light. I had the radio on, and the windows down. The cabbie next to me stuck his head out of his window, yelled, "Nice car!" and then spit a huge green glob out against my passenger-side door and drove away.

huh?

The strangest thing, though, happened while I was waiting for A to get out of his guitar lesson tonight. A very sweet older gentleman that I know called me up, and told me about a few things I need to do in order to make an upcoming project come together. While we were talking, he asked me, "Hey, you're not married, or engaged, or anything, right?" He's really helping me out with this project, so I feel it only proper to be honest and humor him a bit. "No, I'm not. You know that!" I chuckled.

"Good," he said. "I'm on the way home from the Cubs game right now with my friend, ****. I told him he should take you out some time. Here, talk to him. I'm handing him the phone."

Oh. My. God. Instant, total bewilderment. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't think fast enough. My jaw fell open. I stammered. I hemmed and hawed, and somehow...

I ended up being set up on a blind date with a guy who I think said he works in public relations. Older gentleman promised to give **** my phone number, so we can make plans at our convenience. I will admit it here, with only a little bit of shame. I have never, in all of my life, been set up on a blind date. How do these things work? What if he's a troll? What if I spill coffee on myself, trip down the stairs, and end up completely humiliated?

And at 10:30 pm, my phone buzzed with a text message. "Nice chatting with you today...even if both of us were put on the spot. Heading out of town tomorrow for Mother's day...maybe we can catch up some time next week?"

Is there a 72-hour malaria going around that I can catch? Is there some way to politely decline without jeopardizing this project (which is really one of the most important things that has come up for me in years)? Am I going to have to get naked to make it all work out?

I think I want my boring back. I'm not sure I can manage to juggle all of this without my brain leaking slowly out of my ear.

If you walk by and see a gray puddle on my shoulder, please just funnel it back in where it came from. Nobody will know the difference, really.

Now I've been up since 4am, wondering what kind of odd shit can happen today. I can't help but wonder if I'll have to drive all of the way to work in reverse today just to get out of this vortex. Whatever you do, don't watch Chicago news today...it may not be pretty.

Reposted from 5/1/07

or

A System of Checks and Balances

My internal government, it seems, has been hard at work over the last few days. Due to long-term environmental pollution, erosion of topsoil, mismanagement of resources, and the recent unforeseen terrorist attacks, congress decided today that it's time to take action. Its first duty must, of course, be to maintain border security and protect precious natural resources from the threat of ill-intentioned outside forces.

For years, the administration has managed to hide its lack of ability to properly manage foreign affairs behind a flurry of feel-good Pork Barrel projects. Although long-term positive relations are being maintained with many friendly neighboring states, it would appear that the process of building strategic alliances with new global partners proves to be far too daunting a challenge. As such, a bill was introduced over the weekend to limit the powers of the executive branch in matters of foreign policy. The debate was lengthy and heated, but in the end, enough votes were garnered to override any threat of executive veto. As of this evening, my friends, there is a new law in the land.

From this point forward, the administration is hereby prohibited from all official negotiations involving partnerships with any nation governed by y chromosomes (the y's). Time and time again, this branch of government has proved itself to be reckless, irresponsible, and inexcusably corrupt in its choices of allies; the results of which are a startlingly low domestic approval rating, a myriad of national security loopholes, and a general malaise affecting approximately 72.6% (+/-2%) of the population. Although participation in goodwill events will continue (i.e. peacekeeping activities, major sporting events, and Olympic Games), pursuit of formal ties with any of the y's will be strictly prohibited.

This is not to say that all y governments are corrupt - only that the current administration has failed to act in a prudent manner while choosing the ones with whom they will conduct business. Because it has a history of aligning itself with unsavory y's, the authority of the executive branch in such matters is hereby terminated.

Note that properly documented y's are still welcome to visit and experience many of the wonders of our land for short periods, as outlined in their visa paperwork. Certain secure vital locations (such as nuclear reactors, water supplies, and centers of government influence) will be off-limits to foreigners until further notice.

If circumstances should change at any point in the future, new legislation will be introduced within sixty (60) days of receiving written proof of administrative competency from an independent council appointed by congressional leaders. Such a bill may provide for relief, remedy, or revocation of current guidelines, as is deemed appropriate at the time.

The constitutionality of this law is already under the careful scrutiny of key justices of the Supreme Court. A formal ruling is expected within days. Procedural clarification and final guidance are expected to follow shortly thereafter. In the meantime, any affected y's must refrain from filing any formal protests, amendments, or grievances until such time that they are officially notified of the opportunity to do so.

Your cooperation and understanding are appreciated. As world citizens, your opinions are valued and welcomed as a part of our overall strategy to create a better world for our citizens, their families, and loved ones.

So long, and good night.

Reposted from 4/5/07

This website, in which the theory is put forth that any line in Star Wars becomes funny if you replace one word with "pants", has become a staple of good laughter in my household. Am I a geek? Sure. Is it funny living here? Oh, yeah.

It's true. Pants are funny. For instance:

I find your lack of pants disturbing.

You are unwise to lower your pants.

Chewie and me got into a lot of pants more heavily guarded than this.

That's some good stuff.

So anyway, tonight A and I went out for a little celebration dinner, as I just found out that A was accepted to a great summer program he wants to attend. The fact that we both have three-day weekends just made it better.

We went to his favorite spot, TGIFridays. Those of you who have been there know that they have a ton of pop-culture paraphernalia on the walls, with everything from surf boards to movie posters. They also have signs, to which A decided it would be funny to apply the "pants" theory.

Menu - Everyone needs more Fridays
Becomes - Everyone needs more pants

Poster - No Fishing From Dock
Becomes - No Pantsing From Dock
(Mom, you know what it means to get pantsed, right?)

Sign - No Trespassing! Destroying of trees and shrubs prohibited.
Becomes - No Trespassing! Destroying of pants and shrubs prohibited

It is as this point that the funniest word in the world hit me.

You guessed it.

Trespantsing!!

A thought all of his ideas must have been the most hilarious ever, because I was laughing until my sides hurt. Quietly, of course, so as not to disturb our esteemed neighbors, but all I could think of was how funny it is to not allow trespantsing.

I hereby decree that from this day forward, trespantsing is not allowed on my premises.

Violators will, of course, be pantsed.

Reposted from 3/4/07

I love weekend naps. It may even be fair to say that I have a mild addiction to them. I honestly believe that there is nothing better than curling up on the couch in the afternoon with my favorite blankie (that my mommy made for me) and drifting off for a couple of hours. *sigh* Good times, good times.

Except today. Today was just bizarre. By the time it was all over, I was confused, cranky, and out of sorts. It was a buzz kill of the extreme sort, really.

See, I made the mistake of turning on the tv. I so rarely watch television that I'm not exactly sure what possessed me to nap with it on...but alas, I did.

One of those goofy upper channels was playing, "Independence Day". All in all, not a bad movie. It was almost over when I flopped down on the couch, so the last thing I remember was Jeff Goldblum saying to Will Smith, "Forget the fat lady! You're obsessed with the fat lady!" I knew the world was safe once again, and fell asleep with a little smile on my face.

I vaguely remember waking up to a strange commercial about Chef Boy-ar-dee, and rolling over.

Then, strangely enough, I heard Will Smith say to Jeff Goldblum, "What fat lady? I don't hear any fat lady!"

Huh? Must have been a strange deja-vu type dream. Odd, but what can you do? Smush up the pillow and fall back asleep. That's what you do.

But then, much to my dismay, I awoke suddenly to see Bill Pullman walking down the hallway in the White House. What?! How can this be?

Ack! Time is suddenly going backwards! Or they are playing the movie backwards, like some bizarre rip-off of a Seinfeld episode! Or...could it be that I'm just losing my mind? Did I knock my head when I fell down the stairs earlier? (yes, I fell down the stairs again. It happens all the time, sadly enough. Can't blame the glasses today, though, so I'm calling it slippery socks)

I was freaking out. I didn't get it. I was half asleep, disoriented, and found myself wondering if they made an Independence Day II somewhere that I didn't know about. maybe they rebuilt the White House and Bill Pullman got re-elected.

Cut to commercial.

"We'll return to our 'Independence Day' marathon after these messages!" said a cheery voice.

Oh. Turns out I'd been asleep for about two and a half hours. I caught the end of the first showing, the end of the second showing, and then the beginning of the third. It suddenly made sense, and yet also made me very angry. How rude to mess with my mind like that. Now I remember why I never watch tv.

Stupid Bill Pullman. I hope he gets eaten by aliens the next time they play it.

Reposted from 2/26/07

The simple passion of Pablo Neruda's poetry has enthralled me since I first read him. The translations from Spanish are direct, pure, and heartbreakingly honest. He was a challenging man, but an amazing one. I just adore him...

Wind on the Island
-Pablo Neruda

The wind is a horse:
hear how he runs
through the sea, through the sky.

He wants to take me: listen
how he roves the world
to take me far away.

Hide me in your arms
just for this night,
while the rain breaks
against sea and earth
its innumerable mouth.

Listen how the wind
calls to me galloping
to take me far away.

With your brow on my brow,
with your mouth on my mouth,
our bodies tied
to the love that consumes us,
let the wind pass
and not take me away.

Let the wind rush
crowned with foam,
let it call to me and seek me
galloping in the shadow,
while I, sunk
beneath your big eyes,
just for this night
shall rest, my love.

Reposted from 2/20/07

My friend W called me last night - he and I have been buddies since high school, and share the same ridiculous sense of humor.

W was lamenting his birthday later this week. "Can you believe we're both turning 34 this year?" He asked solemnly.

"Yeah," I agreed. "It's ridiculous."

"You realize what this means, don't you?"

I could only guess. His mind is a frightening place.

"As of this year, we've officially out-lived Jesus."

Wow. I got nothin'.

Reposted from 2/18/07

Friday morning, I was talking to my friend Tom at work. Tom is, in short, the most charming, wonderful gay man I know. I just adore him.

"You know," I said, "You're a dying breed."

Tom looked puzzled. "Why is that?" he asked.

"Look at you!" I said. "You're a perfect specimen. You are the classic stereotype of your orientation. Your picture is in the dictionary next to "gay man'!" I giggled.

It's true. Tom is always perfectly dressed in bold, yet tasteful colors, incredibly well-groomed, enunciates each word with care, keeps beautiful live plants thriving at his desk, and has his customer files organized by some intricate color-coding system that I'm afraid to even ask about. His partner is a pastry chef, and they live in a beautiful apartment full of antiques with their pet birds. He's fabulous.

Tom frowned, and his immaculate eyebrows came together as he thought.

I continued. "Look, all I'm saying is that a lot of gay men I know are trying to break that mold. They want to be seen like a het, you know? They don't want to be picked out of a crowd easily, and they don't have the same sense of pride in the gay image. One of these days, you're going to be an old geezer in the gay nursing home, and you're going to look at all of the young whippersnappers out there dressed in baggy jeans and sweatshirts with messy hairdos and lament the good old days when gay men knew how to present themselves."

This may or may not be true, but I love pushing his buttons. Apparently he enjoys the game as much as I do.

"Look here, precious kitten." His voice dropped dangerously.

Yes, he calls me precious kitten. And for some reason, it makes me feel all tingly and giggle like a school girl. I don't know why, but it's ten times sweeter when coming from him.

"Look here, precious kitten. There's no need for you to worry your pretty little head about any of that, because you would never make it in this world as a gay man."

"What?!" I protested. "You're full of it. I would be the best!"

"Sorry, gorgeous. Look at me?? pfffft. Look at you!"

So I looked. I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

"First of all, you don't iron nearly enough. The whole knit top under a suit look is cute and all, but it screams to me of someone who doesn't take their laundry seriously."

Point one for Tom.

"Secondly, you have your assistant do your filing! She just throws things into your files, and sometimes you can't find what you're looking for. Am I right?"

"Well, sometimes. But..."

"Third," he continued, "you don't take care of yourself. What did you have for breakfast today?"

I just looked at him, and wondered why I had started this conversation in the first place. "Um, some potatoes?" I gave a wobbly grin.

"You had a bag of Baked Lays potato chips at your desk! I saw you!" He protested.

"Well, yeah, but they're only 120 calories or something! I ran out of oatmeal packets!" I was starting to whine. It was unattractive.

"If you were gay like me, you'd have fresh melon. And by the way, look at your shoes!"

Sure enough, they are a little scuffed. I'm the kind of girl that would rather buy new shoes than polish them. It's sad, I know.

"Really, you're just as bad as those hypothetical baggy-jeans wearing boys. Don't even start with me, little girl. You stick with your smelly beefcakes, and leave the gay image to me. I'll keep it where it belongs."

Then he winked, turned on his highly polished shoes, and walked out.

Sometimes losing can be half the fun.

Reposted from 1/21/07

Since I was bringing a ton of work home for the weekend anyway, I decided to leave the office a few hours early on Friday to go get my hair cut. I've been trying to grow it out, and it's been driving me crazy the last few weeks. I had to have something done, or I was just going to have to chop it all off.

Generally speaking, I live relatively frugally. But a great stylist is just something I have to splurge on. I love the young girl that does my hair, and the salon where she works is one of those fancy places where you can feel your wallet getting lighter as soon as you walk in the door. I can't help it, though. It's worth it.

So Friday afternoon I walked in to see that they had a new boy there. He greeted me as I sat down, and handed me one of those little black robes that has no purpose but to make you feel like you're in the salon. "Hello, I'm Stephan," he said. Not Steven, not Ste' fen, but Stephaaaaahn.

Wow.

He's got to be about 20, and he has this perfectly messy mop of dark brown hair. But that's not what caught my attention. It was his eyes. Bright, sparkling, unbelievably blue eyes. He is a god in training, this one. As he smiled at me, I shivered.

Everyone who knows me knows that I don't usually care much for younger men. They're not ripe yet, and I get tired just thinking of how long it would take before they really understand what they're doing. But Stephan here, he transcended all of that. I wanted to stand on my toes and kiss him right there in front of the beautiful blonde clientèle. It was so unlike me that it was unnerving.

He took my coat, hung it in the closet, and walked me back to the shampooing area. As I sat down, he reached out and gently brushed the hair from my forehead. He laid a towel across my shoulders, and carefully reclined the chair so that my head was over the sink. Then he smiled again. "I understand Dina is cutting your hair today. Isn't she the best?" he asked. I smiled back with the most charming smile I could muster. "Yes," I said. "She's marvelous."

"Just relax now," Stephan said. "Remember, you're here to be pampered."

How can a boy this young have such charm? I simply must know.

He was humming quietly as he turned the water on. He began his work, rubbing the shampoo into my hair. And then, oh.....and then. He massaged my scalp. Those fingers worked their way through my hair, carefully but firmly pressing, rubbing, and melting me into a puddle right there in the shop. I never knew that the little spot just behind the top of my ear was an erogenous zone. I was stunned. It was as if this man-child was trying to steal my soul...I don't know how long I was there, but it had to have been the longest shampoo of my life. At one point, he asked me, "that's not too hard, is it?" I somehow found a confident voice to reply, "No, this is the best part of my day." He chuckled, a low, knowing sound, and continued.

I am convinced that this boy knows his way around a woman better than 95% of the population of the planet. Just from having his hands in my hair. When he finished, I opened my eyes. He was inches from my face. "You still with me there, beautiful?" I looked, and there it was. That grin, with a hint of a smirk. The intensity in those blue eyes that said he knew exactly what he had just done to me. All I could do was nod.

"Stay here for just a minute," he said. "I'll let Dina know you are ready."

It was good that he left then, because I couldn't have stood if I tried. It only took me a moment to compose myself, and then Dina was there. "Oh, you had Stephan today. Isn't he wonderful?" I laughed, in spite of myself. "Who IS he??" I asked.

"He's Mario's nephew." Mario is the owner of the group of salons. Mario is known throughout the greater Chicagoland area as the king of creating beautiful hair. Mario is a god of sorts, himself. "Rumor is that he's training Stephan to take over when he retires."

Oh. That would be delightful.

"You were over there a long time. He must think you're cute. He spends more time with the ones he likes."

*insert appropriate guttural noise here*

She went on to cut my hair, and we chatted about all of the little gossipy things one chats about while getting their hair cut. Before I left, though, I did something that I never, ever, ever, EVER do.

I walked up to Stephan, I smiled, and laid my hand against his cheek.

Then I turned and walked out, feeling like the most beautiful woman on the planet. It was worth every penny.

Reposted from 1/10/07

So last night, we got everything done early. I can't say exactly how it happened, but by 7:30, the housework, homework, work-work, and such was all complete. So I took A to Dairy Queen for an ice cream cone.

Yes, I talk about ice cream a lot. Such is life.

So we walk in and order two small vanilla cones dipped in chocolate. We sit in a booth and chit-chat a bit, giggling and being silly.

Yes, we're often silly. Don't look so surprised.

Then, as was bound to happen, two people walk in. A woman and her daughter, I was guessing. They walk up to the counter, and the woman asks the girl what she wants.

The girl looks the girl-in-the-Dairy-Queen-apron in the eye and says, "I want ice cream with a hard on."

The entire store falls silent, except for my A. He keeps talking about how he plans to read his future in the soap bubbles in the shower (he's mine. He can't help being a bit odd).

But the rest of the store is dead-quiet. The woman is stunned. She asks hesitantly for clarification as apron-girl tries to pick her jaw up off the floor.

Girl says again (a bit belligerently this time) to woman, "I want it with the hard-on. You know!"

Obviously, she doesn't know. Neither does apron-girl. Nor do I, but I'm the only one getting the giggles.

It's tough to keep that sort of thing under control once it starts. Especially with A looking at me as if I've lost my mind.

The debate rages between woman, girl and apron for a few minutes, as everyone starts to think that there must be some HEART-shaped sprinkle to go on top of which we've been previously unaware. You know, ice cream with a heart on it. Something like that.

I can't breathe. My face is turning red, and my entire body is shaking. Tears are threatening to run down my face. I dab at my eyes with the napkin.

Then, as if in slow motion, short turns to A and I. She points at A. She says...

"I want the hard on, just like his!!!"

I swear to you, I can't help it. The uncontrollable, nearly sobbing laughter escapes. I try to cough to cover it up, but that only makes it worse. The bewildered look on A's face is more than I could possibly hope to handle. He thinks I've gone stark-raving mad.

"What?!" he mutters angrily under his breath. "So she wants her cone dipped in chocolate, too...what's so funny about that? You're embarrassing me. Could you please stop?"

At this point, apron figures it out. Woman does too, obviously, and practically throws money across the counter. Apron makes the cones in record time, and woman and girl fly out the door.

I'm still shaking. The occasional giggle escapes, but I try to control myself. Until I look at apron, who is still staring out the door as if she's been hit by a truck. Then I lose it all over again.

Ice cream with a hard-on. I'm still laughing now, just thinking about it.

A makes me leave the store shortly thereafter. He shakes his head and says to me, "You know, I wonder about you sometimes. It really wasn't that funny."

I'm just proud that I resisted the temptation to tell apron that I wanted MY ice cream that way too, but my odds looked pretty slim. Honestly, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried. Life is too damn funny.

I think I need another napkin...

Reposted from 1/1/07

It's a plague, I tell you. It's not pretty.

Pine needles have taken over my house. They are everywhere...hiding in the pile of the carpet, poised and waiting to strike under the door thresholds, and climbing the bookshelves. They are everywhere. I spent two hours vacuuming after taking down the Christmas tree today, which can be described as nothing short of surgical removal of the green monsters. And yet I keep finding them. If it's really quiet, I can hear them laughing at me.

This wouldn't be such an issue if I weren't, as macabre as it may seem, allergic to pine. Every year, when the tree goes up, and when the tree comes down, I end up covered in hives. I'm red. I itch. I scratch. I gnash my teeth. And those needles, the little bastards, love every minute of it. I want to find them, one by one, and exterminate them, the fuckers.

I think my biggest mistake happened years ago when I decided that every kid needs a real Christmas tree. When my son was very small, we started the tradition of going out to the tree farm the weekend after Thanksgiving, picking out the biggest pine monstrosity we could find, and then hauling it home to plot the demise of my living room. Of course I was married back then, and it was relatively easy to convince the other half to do most of the legwork. But even after we moved out on our own, I refused to rob the boy of the smell of a fresh tree and a holiday tradition. So we continue to allow the beasts into our home. It's insane.

Now the carcass of the tree is at the curb, waiting for the nice men to come take it away. But the needles have infiltrated the compound. I went to the bathroom a few minutes ago, and there were several stuck I-don't-want-to-know-where that jumped ship when I unzipped my jeans. I went down the stairs to work on the laundry, and three of them found their way into my socks. In the kitchen, getting a glass of water, I found two of them giggling under the corner of the throw-rug.

I want to bathe in calamine and develop a benadryl addiction. I want to hunt the damn needles down and fry them with a blowtorch. I want to sleep tonight knowing that when I wake up in the morning, there won't be a young forest growing next to the couch. I want, more than anything, to stop ITCHING.

For now, though, I'm going to have to just keep vacuuming. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll be able to hear the needles scream as they're sucked up into oblivion....

reposted from 12/17/06

Antonin Dvorak's 8th Symphony, that is. The one he wrote before the famous 9th, the "Symphony From the New World".

I personally like #8 just as much as the rest of the planet seems to love #9. I'm listening to it now, and it's a bit bittersweet. You see, it's the last piece I ever played with an orchestra. It was April, 1994. I was in my prime as a flutist. It was a lifetime ago.

I remember getting frustrated with the timing of the pickups in the first movement, and working my ass off to nail the nearly impossible fingerings in the fourth. I would go the practice rooms in the basement of the theater on Saturday nights before they locked the doors, and drink bottles of cheap wine while I practiced until the wee hours of the morning (yes, I know what a bad idea that was, on many levels. I was young and foolish, but wouldn't trade the experience for anything). I would slowly walk home afterwards in the dark, singing quietly to myself.

That was a tough spring. I was working on several orchestral pieces, as well as some solo works. The toughest one was a piece by Schubert - "Der Tod und das Madchen", or Death and the Maiden. Hardest piece I ever played. But I was on. I could play anything I set my mind to. I was invincible.

I remember that last concert, and the solo performances I did shortly thereafter, like they were yesterday. The heat of the stage lights, and the cool darkness of the surrounding theater. The shaking, sweaty hands, and having to consciously breathe slowly, deeply, rhythmically. Being enveloped by a wave of sound and emotion. Focusing on each moment like the next may never come...until suddenly I found myself bowing solemnly before a sea of faces.

A month later, I left. I never went back.

Now, as I lay here on my couch, getting lost in someone else's orchestra playing my symphony, I can't help but wonder how my life would have been different if I would have stayed. Where would I be if I had not chosen to distance myself from the world of music?

I'd be dead by now, probably. Or at least in a gutter somewhere. And I wouldn't have the charmed life I've found.

But you always have to wonder. Maybe one day I'll find my way back, and make new memories.

Anything is possible.

reposted from 12/14/2006

I was finally hit with the Christmas Spirit tonight. Upside the head, like a ton of bricks. It was so cool.

My grandpa called, and we got into the same argument we have every year. It's a tradition...kind of like bad fruitcake, or a hand-knit sweater. I look forward to it, and I always provoke it. It's like clockwork.

It all started when I asked him what he wanted for Christmas.

"Oh, don't you go buying me anything!" He yells. "I don't need anything, and if I do need something, I just go out and buy it! Save your money and spend it on your son."

"But Grandpa," I complain. "You have always taken care of us. Isn't there anything you want?!"

"No! I don't want you to go doing anything. If you spend money on me, I'm just going to be mad at you. You don't want me to be mad at you on Christmas, do you?"

"No," I sigh. "I don't want you to be mad. But can't you just think of something small so I don't fee bad?"

"Well...." he hesitates at this point. He always does. And this is where the fun begins. "you aren't making pies this year, are you?"

Am I making pie. pffffft.

And so the negotiations are under way. After fifteen minutes of intense dickering, I have my list.

One pie - pumpkin, frozen in individual slices
One pie - apple, with streusel topping, also frozen
Two dozen cookies - heavy on the chocolate chips
Chicken stew - extra carrots, no corn, frozen in single serving containers.
Banana bread - just a whole loaf. It will be gone within a day, anyway.

Cooking and baking these things will be the highlight of my season, because I know he will delight in it all. He doesn't eat enough anymore, and never has home-cooked food in the house. He'll invite his buddy over for lunch, and only give him a half a piece of pie. Then he'll have two pieces for himself later. With fat-free cool whip. I don't know why it's fat-free cool whip. It just always is.

You see, this is the man who, to this day, will slip me $20 every time he sees me, so that I can get myself some ice cream. When I visit, he fills my car with gas and cleans the windows. He still tweaks my ear, and expects my tongue to pop out when he does it. He calls to tell me dirty jokes about nuns. He hugs me so tightly that I fear for my ribs, and kisses my forehead so I smell like cherry-flavored certs all day.

And he lets me bake for him, because it's the thing he misses most about my grandma.

My Christmas wish is for all of you to have someone to love you like that.

Happy Holidays

reposted from 12/8/06

I'm starting to think that I am really, truly evil. Not like your typical, run-of-the-mill serial killer or anything. We're talking soul-curdling, pits of hell type evil. It's getting a bit disturbing. Here's the evidence, as it stands today:

A couple of weeks ago, I went out to get the mail. As I crossed the street, a little kid was riding his bike past me. He glanced up, looked me in the eye....and promptly keeled over sideways, right off his bike in the middle of the street. No warning, no look of surprise - just BOOM. I tried to help him up, but he cringed away and didn't say a word. Just got up and limped down the street, pushing the bike home....totally dazed.

Last week, the crazy lady across the street lost her dog (again). He was running around, as dogs are wont to do, trying not to be caught. He came into my yard, where I was watching with sheer amusement. I looked at him and said, "Sit, Zinger!" (that's his name, in case you were wondering) So he looked at me, peed down his leg, tucked his tail beneath him, and ran home, straight in through the door.

Then, this afternoon, I was making Christmas cookie dough in the kitchen. Nothing really out of the ordinary for me...just hanging out baking. All of a sudden, the light bulb in the range hood went *pop* and burned out. No big deal, right? So I got another bulb out of the pantry, and walked back towards to stove. As I stepped beneath the ceiling fixture, *pop* went one of the bulbs right over my head. Freaked me out just a little. So I changed both bulbs, and grabbed a can of Diet Pepsi from the fridge. I opened the can, which had just been sitting quietly on the shelf, and the damn thing EXPLODED all over me. Fizzy pop all over my shirt, the floor, the counter...everywhere.

There are several other examples I could share, but these are the highlights. Some horrible force has obviously penetrated my entire being, and is polluting everything around me. My very presence in this world is creating a warp in the fabric of the universe, and I'm getting nervous.

This emanating evil has got to be curtailed!! I'm becoming a hazard to everyone and everything in my path. What do I do? Call a priest? Those haunted house people on tv? If I'm not careful, everyone around me is going to start dropping like flies. I've already bought them Christmas presents!!

Maybe I should save the receipts, just in case.