I'm done! I finished my graduate coursework and I am done! Well, OK, not done, but I don't have to take classes anymore. I do have to write a thesis and take comprehensive exams, but, hey, I'm done. Very pleased about this. There is, actually, no other point to this post other than to say I'm so happy about this.
Of course, the thesis itself is going to actually take some work and time. And then there are exams.
Best not to think about much of that now. Stomach acid is never fun before noon. Actually, it's not fun after noon, either...
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Buffett video
Most of my readers know me and therefore know that I live on the Gulf Coast; I have since I was seven years old. So when you watch this video, understand that yes, I teared up at the bit about empty trawler nets, but I lost it when I heard "The Gulf is in my body/the Gulf is in my soul."
Where I live there is no oil. We were very, very lucky. I do not expect our luck to hold, and I fear that one day Buffett will sing this song about our little piece of paradise.
My heart is with the fishermen and boat captains on the impacted areas of the Gulf.
Where I live there is no oil. We were very, very lucky. I do not expect our luck to hold, and I fear that one day Buffett will sing this song about our little piece of paradise.
My heart is with the fishermen and boat captains on the impacted areas of the Gulf.
Monday, July 05, 2010
My House
The bank finally foreclosed on my house last month, and I couldn't be happier. Honest. I moved out almost two years ago when I realized my safety was more important than home ownership. I had a frank discussion with a lawyer, who had a frank discussion with my mortgage company, and, to make a long story short, foreclosure was my only practical option. Since I was pretty quick about contacting the bank and trying to turn in the house, I thought it would come to pass rather quickly. Nuh-uh. I moved out in July, 2008. They finally foreclosed last month.
I miss the house, with its wood floors and Shag-meets-Doris Day mural in the dining room. I miss the curved alcoves and the big yard and my great wood front porch. I miss the big kitchen and squat doorknobs and fireplace that never worked. I miss the 1925 architecture and big overhang and old-fashioned windows.
While I understand and accept that none of that is worth my life or safety, and while I am OK with saying "the bank took my house" because they did, and I wanted them to- actually, at one point, I begged them to, I remember how excited I was when I first found the place. I'd been looking and looking and looking and nothing was quite right, although much was affordable. But when I persuaded my Realtor to show me this little bungalow, I fell in love. Underneath brown shag carpet were wood floors in decent shape. The kitchen was big enough for a table, although it had a separate dining room as well. The yard would give Mad Dog plenty of grazing room.
I remember, too, a handful of neighbors who welcomed me despite my skin color. Nikki and I made conversation about live in general; Gail showed me how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch. The family down the street let me know I was always welcome at their cookouts.
It's hard sometimes to remember that after all that came the nastiness and thefts and changes in my world view. Sometimes I get carried away on blankets of memories. But then I remember, in weird snaps and glances, how I felt living there. I was never safe, never felt relaxed, never able to let go.
When people who saw me then see me now, they remark on how different I look. "Happy" is the word most commonly thrown about, but I think I know what they mean. I look like someone who isn't looking over her shoulder all the time. I look like someone who can doesn't have to religiously attend neighborhood watch meetings to create the illusion of safe. I get that.
But every now and then I'll talk to a friend who is still in a "bad" neighborhood. I have one in particular I spoke with last night; he's raising a family in such a neighborhood, albeit in another state. And I feel like a wimp, a privileged white chick who couldn't deal with reality. I didn't even have kids and I fled; he has young girls and he stays.
In my head, I know I did the right thing. In my heart, I am happier and my life is better. But also in my heart are those memories that I tuck away and rarely let out- my first Thanksgiving in the hood, with Gail's macaroni and cheese. The weekly smokers. The sense of community. The smells on the 4th of July. The dealers down the street who helped me find Mad Dog when she wandered too far. When I let this things too close to the surface, I miss my home. Not my house, my home.
Look at me; I am living the dream. I write for a living, and I live on the beach. I occasionally work on boats, and I am surrounded by people who love me. Not owning a house does not matter.
But, wow, do I miss that macaroni and cheese.
I miss the house, with its wood floors and Shag-meets-Doris Day mural in the dining room. I miss the curved alcoves and the big yard and my great wood front porch. I miss the big kitchen and squat doorknobs and fireplace that never worked. I miss the 1925 architecture and big overhang and old-fashioned windows.
While I understand and accept that none of that is worth my life or safety, and while I am OK with saying "the bank took my house" because they did, and I wanted them to- actually, at one point, I begged them to, I remember how excited I was when I first found the place. I'd been looking and looking and looking and nothing was quite right, although much was affordable. But when I persuaded my Realtor to show me this little bungalow, I fell in love. Underneath brown shag carpet were wood floors in decent shape. The kitchen was big enough for a table, although it had a separate dining room as well. The yard would give Mad Dog plenty of grazing room.
I remember, too, a handful of neighbors who welcomed me despite my skin color. Nikki and I made conversation about live in general; Gail showed me how to make macaroni and cheese from scratch. The family down the street let me know I was always welcome at their cookouts.
It's hard sometimes to remember that after all that came the nastiness and thefts and changes in my world view. Sometimes I get carried away on blankets of memories. But then I remember, in weird snaps and glances, how I felt living there. I was never safe, never felt relaxed, never able to let go.
When people who saw me then see me now, they remark on how different I look. "Happy" is the word most commonly thrown about, but I think I know what they mean. I look like someone who isn't looking over her shoulder all the time. I look like someone who can doesn't have to religiously attend neighborhood watch meetings to create the illusion of safe. I get that.
But every now and then I'll talk to a friend who is still in a "bad" neighborhood. I have one in particular I spoke with last night; he's raising a family in such a neighborhood, albeit in another state. And I feel like a wimp, a privileged white chick who couldn't deal with reality. I didn't even have kids and I fled; he has young girls and he stays.
In my head, I know I did the right thing. In my heart, I am happier and my life is better. But also in my heart are those memories that I tuck away and rarely let out- my first Thanksgiving in the hood, with Gail's macaroni and cheese. The weekly smokers. The sense of community. The smells on the 4th of July. The dealers down the street who helped me find Mad Dog when she wandered too far. When I let this things too close to the surface, I miss my home. Not my house, my home.
Look at me; I am living the dream. I write for a living, and I live on the beach. I occasionally work on boats, and I am surrounded by people who love me. Not owning a house does not matter.
But, wow, do I miss that macaroni and cheese.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tides of Change
It's time for a change.
Oh, I love my job working on boats, I do. But events of late remind me that every job- EVERY job- is work, and, given the opportunity, it can be bureaucratic and oppressive. I don't want to badmouth a company that's given me, on the whole, a wonderful two years, so I won't. Let's just say it's time to move on before we all hate each other.
The past week evokes a quote that my friend Shelly taught me: At the moment of commitment, the Universe conspires to assist. That's from Goethe, who I always thought of as a sniveling little bastard. Turns out he had some good thoughts in between the romantic moaning.
No sooner did I decide I would give notice at the boats (which isn't, really, because I'll still be there, just not nearly as much) did I manage, through some sort of divine providence, to get work as a kayak guide. I'll be running kayak tours to Shell Key and other local points of interest, which is about one of the sweetest jobs I could ask for.
So, no humor here, no angst, just change. Which isn't a bad thing. I'm taking all the best parts of my boat crew job with me, and gathering up new ones, like little souvenirs from roadside tourist attractions, with me.
Oh, I love my job working on boats, I do. But events of late remind me that every job- EVERY job- is work, and, given the opportunity, it can be bureaucratic and oppressive. I don't want to badmouth a company that's given me, on the whole, a wonderful two years, so I won't. Let's just say it's time to move on before we all hate each other.
The past week evokes a quote that my friend Shelly taught me: At the moment of commitment, the Universe conspires to assist. That's from Goethe, who I always thought of as a sniveling little bastard. Turns out he had some good thoughts in between the romantic moaning.
No sooner did I decide I would give notice at the boats (which isn't, really, because I'll still be there, just not nearly as much) did I manage, through some sort of divine providence, to get work as a kayak guide. I'll be running kayak tours to Shell Key and other local points of interest, which is about one of the sweetest jobs I could ask for.
So, no humor here, no angst, just change. Which isn't a bad thing. I'm taking all the best parts of my boat crew job with me, and gathering up new ones, like little souvenirs from roadside tourist attractions, with me.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Nothing to See Here
As I cross over the Matlacha draw bridge into Pine Island, the mangroves fall away to reveal a gulf coast fishing village peopled with artists, fishermen, and locals enchanted with old Florida.
If Sanibel is the prom queen of gulf coast islands, think of Pine Island as her mangrove-encrusted tomboy little sister. Instead of beaches, walls of state-protected red mangroves surround and prop the 34-square mile island up on green water, preserving the calm, slow lifestyle of the 9,000 folks who call Pine Island home.
There’s nothing to see here. Nothing on Pine Island calls to mind other Florida coastal towns; those root-heavy trees protect, too, the island’s roots from developers and droves of tourists seeking New York, Ohio, or Michigan-ified Florida.
This is the Florida that our ancestors tried to bury in the muck of shopping malls, time-shares, and miniature golf courses. These are the people mocked by our Yankee heritage. Here is the land we forgot to love and then just forgot.
Nothing to see here, really. Instead of "cuisine," folks serve platters of food, and you can get grits but not gourmet or pork in lieu of Pacific Rim. You can fish the World’s Most Fishingest Bridge but don’t even think about asking for sushi.
Here we now seek solace, the waters that calm the noise in our head and quench the thirst in our soul. Here is a dolorous souvenir of yesteryear’s Florida, a nugget of land we forgot to offer the highest bidder before the government hit the brakes on the dredge-and-sell dream.
Nothing to see here, not really. Go south and you’ll find Sanibel, Fort Myers, and Naples. You can take a boat west to Cabbage Key or head north to Sarasota and Venice. Go east to Palm Beach if you must, but Pine Island’s too far off the interstate to travel, especially since it foolishly lacks shopping malls, Holiday Inns, and putt-putt or other golf courses. Just a bunch of crusty fishermen and shopkeepers, not much else to see here.
Nothing to see here, nothing at all. Just the present the rest of us traded for the future, and the past we sold before we knew we had it. Green and red and aquamarine and silver explode around the island as the sunset lights the streets, palm groves, and trailers. Shrimp nets draped across the boats behind homes remind Islanders of their heritage and, hopefully, their future.
Nope, nothing to see here.
If Sanibel is the prom queen of gulf coast islands, think of Pine Island as her mangrove-encrusted tomboy little sister. Instead of beaches, walls of state-protected red mangroves surround and prop the 34-square mile island up on green water, preserving the calm, slow lifestyle of the 9,000 folks who call Pine Island home.
There’s nothing to see here. Nothing on Pine Island calls to mind other Florida coastal towns; those root-heavy trees protect, too, the island’s roots from developers and droves of tourists seeking New York, Ohio, or Michigan-ified Florida.
This is the Florida that our ancestors tried to bury in the muck of shopping malls, time-shares, and miniature golf courses. These are the people mocked by our Yankee heritage. Here is the land we forgot to love and then just forgot.
Nothing to see here, really. Instead of "cuisine," folks serve platters of food, and you can get grits but not gourmet or pork in lieu of Pacific Rim. You can fish the World’s Most Fishingest Bridge but don’t even think about asking for sushi.
Here we now seek solace, the waters that calm the noise in our head and quench the thirst in our soul. Here is a dolorous souvenir of yesteryear’s Florida, a nugget of land we forgot to offer the highest bidder before the government hit the brakes on the dredge-and-sell dream.
Nothing to see here, not really. Go south and you’ll find Sanibel, Fort Myers, and Naples. You can take a boat west to Cabbage Key or head north to Sarasota and Venice. Go east to Palm Beach if you must, but Pine Island’s too far off the interstate to travel, especially since it foolishly lacks shopping malls, Holiday Inns, and putt-putt or other golf courses. Just a bunch of crusty fishermen and shopkeepers, not much else to see here.
Nothing to see here, nothing at all. Just the present the rest of us traded for the future, and the past we sold before we knew we had it. Green and red and aquamarine and silver explode around the island as the sunset lights the streets, palm groves, and trailers. Shrimp nets draped across the boats behind homes remind Islanders of their heritage and, hopefully, their future.
Nope, nothing to see here.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Hello, Springtime
The dove has returned with the olive branch and it looks like, if we're good, god won't ever destroy the earth with winter again.
Or something like that.
Hooray, Springtime, with your chirping birds and gentle breezes and longer days. Next stop, Summer, with face-of-the-sun hot, trips to the Keys, and warm sunsets while I'm barefoot on the beach.
It's like seeing old friends you haven't seen since you sat up and talked for hours after a bad movie. You knew you wouldn't see them for a while but you didn't realize exactly how long they'd be gone.
Or something like that.
Hooray, Springtime, with your chirping birds and gentle breezes and longer days. Next stop, Summer, with face-of-the-sun hot, trips to the Keys, and warm sunsets while I'm barefoot on the beach.
It's like seeing old friends you haven't seen since you sat up and talked for hours after a bad movie. You knew you wouldn't see them for a while but you didn't realize exactly how long they'd be gone.
Thursday, March 04, 2010
I Want to be Outside
I'm waiting for summer.
I'd like to say I've been patient, but I haven't, and I really can't take it anymore. If I don't get outside and feel the sun soon I may do something I won't regret, like move. South. As in, Belize, Honduras, or Ecuador. I really don't care as long as it's warm.
My parents moved to Florida when I was 7, and they were the type of people who embraced the state rather than complain about its heat or lack of good bagels. I took it a step further; I am essentially a Florida groupie. I swoon at the sight of a roadside attraction featuring a stuffed gator; ride with me through the Everglades on 41 and you'll learn more than you ever wanted to know about the men who died building the road, gator populations, and water levels. You want to know about how we chose Tallahassee for the capital or where The Creature From the Black Lagoon was filmed? Ask me. Just be prepared for the long answer.
And don't even get me started on our seasons. The one thing you do not want to say to me is that Florida doesn't have seasons. Oh, we have seasons. You just have to know what to look for.
Fall
Fall starts around October, although this year it arrived late. The only way you can tell it's fall is that you can turn off the air conditioning and leave your windows open. Trees in Florida don't lose their leaves in fall, so don't go by that. Instead, look at all the trees heavy with citrus, because it takes a little chill in the air for oranges to taste the way we want them to taste. The streets are largely bare of tourists, and you might bring a sweatshirt with you at night. Floridians- true Floridians- groan, because we know what's next and, as a people, we suck at it:
Winter
Winter generally starts sometime in December, although this year it came a little early. The sun sets early, you can start to get decent greens in the grocery store, and the citrus is abundant. It's chilly enough in December to think about Christmas, although some years shorts on Christmas Day isn't unheard of. The Gulf and bay waters are as clear as they get (too cold for algae) and the sunsets are at their most brilliant and the afterglow lasts the longest. Only problem is that none of us want to be outside to witness either. Eventually, though, the days start to stretch out a little more, and we know what's next:
Spring
Spring is strawberry season, and it usually starts a few weeks before today. By the time the state fair closes, it's generally warm enough to think about shorts, even if you don't actually wear them. Strawberries are in fruit, and they are big, juicy, and on sale at Publix. In Florida, many of our trees change leaves now, so you'll see more blooms on the streets and in yards than you do in the fall. The natives, to steal a phrase, are restless. To many of us, this isn't warm enough, but it makes us itch for the coming heat wave of...
Summer
Hot. That's all you need to know. Summer is hot in Florida and if you don't live along the coast, you're screwed. From about April through September we have these glorious days that sparkle with sunshine on hot pavement and lukewarm saltwater that sticks to our hair and seeps into our clothes. We move slower. We stare at sunsets and love the twilight that follows. Warm breezes at night follow the brilliant streaks of orange and yellow that light the sky after sunset, a bold change from the pinks and purples of winter. Summer in Florida is glorious, in spite of and because of the heat that presses against your skin and slows you down and makes you see, really see, the green, lush vegetation and feel the moist air of the subtropics. In the summer you can feel the state breathing, a deep, belly breath that starts in its limestone core and pushes out slowly, each exhalation a tiny wave rolling out to sea, carrying crabs, starfish, and sand along with it. The summer has a slow, sensuous rhythm that pulses through paradise with deliberate, meandering pace. If winter is big bands and classical music, summer is sambas and salsas and Motown and blues.
And it isn't here soon enough for me. I can taste it in the air some days, and I know it's coming, although for now I'm stuck with this bitter cold of winter that eclipsed the start of our spring. I hope we go straight through; I don't need a spring this year if I can have the feeling in my toes back anytime soon.
It's not just that I hate the cold, although I do. It's that I am like a child the night before going to Disney World: all wiggles in my seat, anticipating all the things I can do when we finally get there. I'll take my new kayak out to watch the sunset at Fort DeSoto; I can ride my bike along the beach again. I can start swimming at the city pool again. I'll be able to dip in the water, fish at sunset, walk along the beach... the possibilities are endless, and I am doing the equivalent of a four-year-old child's pee-pee dance, waiting to open my front door one morning and smell the summer air.
When almost everything you love involves the outdoors, winter is like a horrible punishment from a parent. And a particularly
harsh winter is like a Brothers Grimm fairy tale with a particularly wicked stepmother. All I want is to be outside and feel the sun on my face and the warm breeze through hair that becomes an impossible mass of curly humidity. I want to taste salt on my tongue. I want to be hot and sweaty from walking Calypso. I want to be immersed in artificial air conditioning after a day on a boat, dodging a sunburn with hats and gallons and gallons of sunscreen. I want to be hot at 8 a.m. and still hot when the sun goes down almost 13 hours later. I want to feel alive in the heat.
I want to be outside.
I'd like to say I've been patient, but I haven't, and I really can't take it anymore. If I don't get outside and feel the sun soon I may do something I won't regret, like move. South. As in, Belize, Honduras, or Ecuador. I really don't care as long as it's warm.
My parents moved to Florida when I was 7, and they were the type of people who embraced the state rather than complain about its heat or lack of good bagels. I took it a step further; I am essentially a Florida groupie. I swoon at the sight of a roadside attraction featuring a stuffed gator; ride with me through the Everglades on 41 and you'll learn more than you ever wanted to know about the men who died building the road, gator populations, and water levels. You want to know about how we chose Tallahassee for the capital or where The Creature From the Black Lagoon was filmed? Ask me. Just be prepared for the long answer.
And don't even get me started on our seasons. The one thing you do not want to say to me is that Florida doesn't have seasons. Oh, we have seasons. You just have to know what to look for.
Fall
Fall starts around October, although this year it arrived late. The only way you can tell it's fall is that you can turn off the air conditioning and leave your windows open. Trees in Florida don't lose their leaves in fall, so don't go by that. Instead, look at all the trees heavy with citrus, because it takes a little chill in the air for oranges to taste the way we want them to taste. The streets are largely bare of tourists, and you might bring a sweatshirt with you at night. Floridians- true Floridians- groan, because we know what's next and, as a people, we suck at it:
Winter
Winter generally starts sometime in December, although this year it came a little early. The sun sets early, you can start to get decent greens in the grocery store, and the citrus is abundant. It's chilly enough in December to think about Christmas, although some years shorts on Christmas Day isn't unheard of. The Gulf and bay waters are as clear as they get (too cold for algae) and the sunsets are at their most brilliant and the afterglow lasts the longest. Only problem is that none of us want to be outside to witness either. Eventually, though, the days start to stretch out a little more, and we know what's next:
Spring
Spring is strawberry season, and it usually starts a few weeks before today. By the time the state fair closes, it's generally warm enough to think about shorts, even if you don't actually wear them. Strawberries are in fruit, and they are big, juicy, and on sale at Publix. In Florida, many of our trees change leaves now, so you'll see more blooms on the streets and in yards than you do in the fall. The natives, to steal a phrase, are restless. To many of us, this isn't warm enough, but it makes us itch for the coming heat wave of...
Summer
Hot. That's all you need to know. Summer is hot in Florida and if you don't live along the coast, you're screwed. From about April through September we have these glorious days that sparkle with sunshine on hot pavement and lukewarm saltwater that sticks to our hair and seeps into our clothes. We move slower. We stare at sunsets and love the twilight that follows. Warm breezes at night follow the brilliant streaks of orange and yellow that light the sky after sunset, a bold change from the pinks and purples of winter. Summer in Florida is glorious, in spite of and because of the heat that presses against your skin and slows you down and makes you see, really see, the green, lush vegetation and feel the moist air of the subtropics. In the summer you can feel the state breathing, a deep, belly breath that starts in its limestone core and pushes out slowly, each exhalation a tiny wave rolling out to sea, carrying crabs, starfish, and sand along with it. The summer has a slow, sensuous rhythm that pulses through paradise with deliberate, meandering pace. If winter is big bands and classical music, summer is sambas and salsas and Motown and blues.
And it isn't here soon enough for me. I can taste it in the air some days, and I know it's coming, although for now I'm stuck with this bitter cold of winter that eclipsed the start of our spring. I hope we go straight through; I don't need a spring this year if I can have the feeling in my toes back anytime soon.
It's not just that I hate the cold, although I do. It's that I am like a child the night before going to Disney World: all wiggles in my seat, anticipating all the things I can do when we finally get there. I'll take my new kayak out to watch the sunset at Fort DeSoto; I can ride my bike along the beach again. I can start swimming at the city pool again. I'll be able to dip in the water, fish at sunset, walk along the beach... the possibilities are endless, and I am doing the equivalent of a four-year-old child's pee-pee dance, waiting to open my front door one morning and smell the summer air.
When almost everything you love involves the outdoors, winter is like a horrible punishment from a parent. And a particularly
harsh winter is like a Brothers Grimm fairy tale with a particularly wicked stepmother. All I want is to be outside and feel the sun on my face and the warm breeze through hair that becomes an impossible mass of curly humidity. I want to taste salt on my tongue. I want to be hot and sweaty from walking Calypso. I want to be immersed in artificial air conditioning after a day on a boat, dodging a sunburn with hats and gallons and gallons of sunscreen. I want to be hot at 8 a.m. and still hot when the sun goes down almost 13 hours later. I want to feel alive in the heat.
I want to be outside.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Jay
I guess I should have written this a few weeks ago, but I’m not much for what I call Hallmark Holidays. My friends and I celebrate our own weird little set of holidays- last year we held the First Annual Spanksmas!, which is not nearly as kinky as it sounds- but commercial holidays fly right by me.
But enough about me and my strange holidays.
I don’t understand how the world has so many single people in it who desperately do not want to be single. I mean, I never particularly cared if I had a boyfriend (is that the appropriate term for me to use as I stomp into middle age?), but I’ve never been single for long. That’s not bragging; more of a curiosity, because it seems to me the world is riddled with singles who want, more than anything, a warm hand in the moonlight and a pair of lips on New Year's Eve.
Take my friend Jay and yes, that is his real name, largely because I’m too lazy to make one up but also because he doesn’t care. Jay is, by anyone’s definition, a Good Guy. By Good Guy, I mean the sort of guy who will hear you like Snuggies and go buy you one, or make you a mix tape of Christmas music because he thinks you will like it. He does not need to have a romantic interest in you to do these things, but it helps. When he does them, though, he tends to creep women out. I can’t explain it but I have watched it. I wish I could explain it to him, because it’s like watching a puppy go up to a really haughty cat over and over and over again. The best I can come up with is that Jay decides what he wants rather quickly and can be rather intense about it. Since this intensity strikes well before the object of his affection has had a chance to come to the same conclusion, they usually back off. Which, of course, perplexes Jay, who is a logical sort and accepts but does not understand irrationality.
What I don’t get is, yes, Jay is a computer type and yes, Jay is a little esoteric and snarky and often a little too intellectual in his cultural references, but he’s fun to be around and makes a decent living and, while he’s not exactly a hardbody (see "computer type,” above) he’s not about to collapse because his muscles have atrophied, either. He has no open sores and no ex-wives or children and doesn’t live with his parents. So why, then, is he still single? Is it because he’s so intense with his attentions?
I think it’s more because Jay simply doesn’t fit a woman’s expectation of what she’s going to get in a man. My single female friends almost immediately discount him as dating material. I’ve known Jay since I was 15 and he was quite a bit older, and he’s certainly never going to be mainstream, but I wasn’t aware that mattered as we all graduated from high school many, many years ago. So what’s up with Jay? Why do all of my single friends- many of whom desperately want to marry and reproduce at some point- eschew Jay and all men like him? Why will an otherwise sane and lovely woman spurn the Good Guy and go after the one who uses the back room of her apartment to build a meth lab?
Perhaps most women who date with the idea of a prize at the end (marriage, child, house on the water, whatever) also develop a picture in their heads of the person with whom they will share those things. Which I understand without subscribing to, but it’s a shame, because it leaves a lot of lovely women single and, ultimately, settling for less than what they want or remaining unhappy and single indefinitely. Very dangerous, this idea of placing your dreams in the hands of an imaginary man. I've always preferred to count on myself to make my dreams come true, but then I've never really had a desire to have children, so maybe I'm not being fair to those ladies whose uteri (is that the proper plural of uterus?) scream for motile, potent sperm. And in the process, while the Universe has passed several "creatively" successful men through my life, I've managed, eventually to ferret them all out and decide that I can go broke and make mistakes very nicely on my own, thank you.
Nice Guys, or Good Guys, really don’t finish last, I swear they don’t. After several decades of less than that, I stumbled upon a decent man, and I do mean stumbled; I’m so incredibly clueless about dating (I married young, back when flirting was more libido-based than intellectually so) that had it not been for Mr. Nice Guy Jay and a savvy girl friend, I would likely still be having adolescent fantasies and trying to figure out how I could get his attention. After a few decades of –let’s call it misguided- dating it’s divine to not be dating the guy who cleans out your checking account or steals your dog or cheats on you with your best friend and then yells at you for being mistrustful.
I wonder, too, if the women who always manage to end up with these great guys, or Good Guys, do so because they don’t have an image in mind about what the guy would look like or act like or do for a living. I wonder if these women, like me, focused more on how they felt when they were with that man. Oh, and forearms. Forearms and shoulders count, too. At least, to me. I have a friend who is all about the eyes and another who goes in for chests. But none of us ever, to my knowledge, sat down and said, “I will date a man who makes six figures and has blonde hair and wears Armani and is in a band on the weekends.” At least, none of my friends who aren’t into imaginary men said that.
And trust me, these women aren't ugly, unemployed, whiny losers. On the whole, they are thin, toned, gorgeous women with good careers, interests outside of makeup and shoes, and IQs higher than most. When I look at it that way, I’m not actually sure what they’re doing hanging out with me. Maybe I’m the funny one.
I don’t know how that career or thighs matter to much to men seeking partners, either. I suspect men care more about what women read and think than their career or hair color. I suspect they also find women who think about life, the Universe, and everything attractive as well, as they probably do women who find what they have to say scintillating. Of all my friends, you know who gets the most attention from guys when we go out? Shelly. Shelly, the lesbian, has more men paying attention to her than the rest of us put together. Shelly is beautiful, yes, but… how do I put this? No one finds out Shelly is gay and expresses shock. Stacey is supermodel thin; Leah has hair that would make Vidal Sassoon weep. Amanda has the bone structure of a Greek goddess. But Shelly… well, she’s not going to win any abs of steel contests, and she’s not going to be in a Victoria’s Secret catalog any time soon. Her favorite shirt in the world is a green checked thing that I think we’d all like to burn, and if you look up “cargo shorts” at Dictionary.com, you will see her picture.
But drop her in a nunnery and you will find Shelly surrounded by men almost instantly. Why? As far as I can tell, it’s because Shelly accepts people as they are and without expectation, which is, as a friend, about as good as it gets. If you have something interesting to say, she wants to talk to you. If nothing you say interests her, she will look for something about you that does. She doesn’t approach people with preconceived notions. Shelly, I think, would date Jay. You know, if she were attracted to men and they had anything in common but their mutual ability to snark.
None of this gets me any closer to finding out why Jay hasn’t found the love of his life who, in turn, returns his adoration. I still don’t get it; Jay is a lovable guy. He’s not Harrison Ford; he’s more of a cross between Rick Moranis’ character in Ghostbusters and Steve Jobs. Jay can be rude; he can be loud. He likes to sing karaoke. But I’ve dated men who thought Frasier was too intellectual. Hell, I’ve dated men who barely spoke English. How fussy do we have to be as a gender to turn down the Jays of the world? What lofty prize do we have in our heads that precludes a well-read, highly intellectual, fairly open-minded network engineer from our dating pool?
Because, you know, ladies, we have GOT to be running out of losers here soon.
But enough about me and my strange holidays.
I don’t understand how the world has so many single people in it who desperately do not want to be single. I mean, I never particularly cared if I had a boyfriend (is that the appropriate term for me to use as I stomp into middle age?), but I’ve never been single for long. That’s not bragging; more of a curiosity, because it seems to me the world is riddled with singles who want, more than anything, a warm hand in the moonlight and a pair of lips on New Year's Eve.
Take my friend Jay and yes, that is his real name, largely because I’m too lazy to make one up but also because he doesn’t care. Jay is, by anyone’s definition, a Good Guy. By Good Guy, I mean the sort of guy who will hear you like Snuggies and go buy you one, or make you a mix tape of Christmas music because he thinks you will like it. He does not need to have a romantic interest in you to do these things, but it helps. When he does them, though, he tends to creep women out. I can’t explain it but I have watched it. I wish I could explain it to him, because it’s like watching a puppy go up to a really haughty cat over and over and over again. The best I can come up with is that Jay decides what he wants rather quickly and can be rather intense about it. Since this intensity strikes well before the object of his affection has had a chance to come to the same conclusion, they usually back off. Which, of course, perplexes Jay, who is a logical sort and accepts but does not understand irrationality.
What I don’t get is, yes, Jay is a computer type and yes, Jay is a little esoteric and snarky and often a little too intellectual in his cultural references, but he’s fun to be around and makes a decent living and, while he’s not exactly a hardbody (see "computer type,” above) he’s not about to collapse because his muscles have atrophied, either. He has no open sores and no ex-wives or children and doesn’t live with his parents. So why, then, is he still single? Is it because he’s so intense with his attentions?
I think it’s more because Jay simply doesn’t fit a woman’s expectation of what she’s going to get in a man. My single female friends almost immediately discount him as dating material. I’ve known Jay since I was 15 and he was quite a bit older, and he’s certainly never going to be mainstream, but I wasn’t aware that mattered as we all graduated from high school many, many years ago. So what’s up with Jay? Why do all of my single friends- many of whom desperately want to marry and reproduce at some point- eschew Jay and all men like him? Why will an otherwise sane and lovely woman spurn the Good Guy and go after the one who uses the back room of her apartment to build a meth lab?
Perhaps most women who date with the idea of a prize at the end (marriage, child, house on the water, whatever) also develop a picture in their heads of the person with whom they will share those things. Which I understand without subscribing to, but it’s a shame, because it leaves a lot of lovely women single and, ultimately, settling for less than what they want or remaining unhappy and single indefinitely. Very dangerous, this idea of placing your dreams in the hands of an imaginary man. I've always preferred to count on myself to make my dreams come true, but then I've never really had a desire to have children, so maybe I'm not being fair to those ladies whose uteri (is that the proper plural of uterus?) scream for motile, potent sperm. And in the process, while the Universe has passed several "creatively" successful men through my life, I've managed, eventually to ferret them all out and decide that I can go broke and make mistakes very nicely on my own, thank you.
Nice Guys, or Good Guys, really don’t finish last, I swear they don’t. After several decades of less than that, I stumbled upon a decent man, and I do mean stumbled; I’m so incredibly clueless about dating (I married young, back when flirting was more libido-based than intellectually so) that had it not been for Mr. Nice Guy Jay and a savvy girl friend, I would likely still be having adolescent fantasies and trying to figure out how I could get his attention. After a few decades of –let’s call it misguided- dating it’s divine to not be dating the guy who cleans out your checking account or steals your dog or cheats on you with your best friend and then yells at you for being mistrustful.
I wonder, too, if the women who always manage to end up with these great guys, or Good Guys, do so because they don’t have an image in mind about what the guy would look like or act like or do for a living. I wonder if these women, like me, focused more on how they felt when they were with that man. Oh, and forearms. Forearms and shoulders count, too. At least, to me. I have a friend who is all about the eyes and another who goes in for chests. But none of us ever, to my knowledge, sat down and said, “I will date a man who makes six figures and has blonde hair and wears Armani and is in a band on the weekends.” At least, none of my friends who aren’t into imaginary men said that.
And trust me, these women aren't ugly, unemployed, whiny losers. On the whole, they are thin, toned, gorgeous women with good careers, interests outside of makeup and shoes, and IQs higher than most. When I look at it that way, I’m not actually sure what they’re doing hanging out with me. Maybe I’m the funny one.
I don’t know how that career or thighs matter to much to men seeking partners, either. I suspect men care more about what women read and think than their career or hair color. I suspect they also find women who think about life, the Universe, and everything attractive as well, as they probably do women who find what they have to say scintillating. Of all my friends, you know who gets the most attention from guys when we go out? Shelly. Shelly, the lesbian, has more men paying attention to her than the rest of us put together. Shelly is beautiful, yes, but… how do I put this? No one finds out Shelly is gay and expresses shock. Stacey is supermodel thin; Leah has hair that would make Vidal Sassoon weep. Amanda has the bone structure of a Greek goddess. But Shelly… well, she’s not going to win any abs of steel contests, and she’s not going to be in a Victoria’s Secret catalog any time soon. Her favorite shirt in the world is a green checked thing that I think we’d all like to burn, and if you look up “cargo shorts” at Dictionary.com, you will see her picture.
But drop her in a nunnery and you will find Shelly surrounded by men almost instantly. Why? As far as I can tell, it’s because Shelly accepts people as they are and without expectation, which is, as a friend, about as good as it gets. If you have something interesting to say, she wants to talk to you. If nothing you say interests her, she will look for something about you that does. She doesn’t approach people with preconceived notions. Shelly, I think, would date Jay. You know, if she were attracted to men and they had anything in common but their mutual ability to snark.
None of this gets me any closer to finding out why Jay hasn’t found the love of his life who, in turn, returns his adoration. I still don’t get it; Jay is a lovable guy. He’s not Harrison Ford; he’s more of a cross between Rick Moranis’ character in Ghostbusters and Steve Jobs. Jay can be rude; he can be loud. He likes to sing karaoke. But I’ve dated men who thought Frasier was too intellectual. Hell, I’ve dated men who barely spoke English. How fussy do we have to be as a gender to turn down the Jays of the world? What lofty prize do we have in our heads that precludes a well-read, highly intellectual, fairly open-minded network engineer from our dating pool?
Because, you know, ladies, we have GOT to be running out of losers here soon.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
The Ten Commandments for Writers
The only response I got from the last entry (at least here, my friend Jay had a little snark for me in the land of Facebook) was from another friend who, like me, writes for a living. See comments of the last blog for more info, but it made me think... if we don't do our paid work because we're not able to express ourselves creatively while we're writing an advertorial on back pain or a guide to dog-friendly resorts in the Florida Keys, shouldn't we at least feel free to write whatever the hell we want on our own blogs?
I don't write here when I have nothing to say, which should be almost never; I'm chock-full of opinions. But I can't convince myself to publish crap, and I think most of what I start to write here (and subsequently delete) is crap, so many times I get two sentences in and delete the whole thing. I'd like to call it laziness but I'm more afraid that it's really chicken-hearted fear. Fear that when I'm this happy nothing's funny or eloquent. Fear that I might actually turn in a great blog post that I could have used instead as a column for Hard Candy (Hard Candy is a column I write for a local weekly paper. Blatant Plug: read more on HardCandyOnline.blogspot.com.) Fear that I might actually just plain suck and after a few more of these posts my mom will be the only one reading anymore.
Along those lines, I've thought about some things that seem universal to many writers. I've -I guess discovered is the word? OK, let's run with that- discovered these weird writing commandments over the past seven years. As far as I can tell, here's what Moses would have brought down for us :
10. Writers may or may not do their best work at the eleventh hour, but I've never met one who didn't do most of their work exactly then, so who knows how well we would do otherwise?
9. One drink makes most writers funnier while they're blogging. Several makes them stupid or eloquent, and which way it's going to go *this time* is the greatest crapshoot of the Writer's Universe.
8. No matter a writer thinks before it happens, once a writer starts getting hate mail or comments, the idea that "they're reading you and that's great! It just means you've rattled some cages! You're making people think!" or any other platitude goes pretty much out the window. In its place? Exactly what the hate mailer intended.
7.The prouder a writer is of something they wrote, the more likely it is that their editor/client/audience will hate it or demand a rewrite.
6. The more a writer thinks what they've written is unremarkable or total crap, the more likely it is that everyone will love it or, at a minimum, react incredibly passionately to it.
5. The sweetest and most horrific words a writer can ever hear are "We're going to give you an opinion column."
4. A writer is always astounded when they realize that people actually read what they write. Other than our closest blood relatives, we don't really expect that anyone gives a rat's red ass what we think, and why should they? We don't know what we're writing about an amazingly large percentage of the time.
3. A writer is not just astounded when they realize their boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/lesbian life partner (B/G/H/W/LLP) reads what they write, they immediate start editing as they write, wondering what B/G/H/W/LLP will think of what they've just written.
2. The shittier a writer is at her craft, the more she thinks she's just great at it.
1. Good writers- real writers- almost always feel like frauds. They lie in wait for the moment they walk into a client's office and hear, "You know, your writing is actually pretty terrible. We're letting you go." While waiting for this moment they indulge in a lot of self-flagellating fantasies where they end up living in a wet mildewy box under the interstate in the bad part of town, sipping box wine out of an old MD 20/20 bottle and trying to tie into the street lights for power for their MacBook.
I don't write here when I have nothing to say, which should be almost never; I'm chock-full of opinions. But I can't convince myself to publish crap, and I think most of what I start to write here (and subsequently delete) is crap, so many times I get two sentences in and delete the whole thing. I'd like to call it laziness but I'm more afraid that it's really chicken-hearted fear. Fear that when I'm this happy nothing's funny or eloquent. Fear that I might actually turn in a great blog post that I could have used instead as a column for Hard Candy (Hard Candy is a column I write for a local weekly paper. Blatant Plug: read more on HardCandyOnline.blogspot.com.) Fear that I might actually just plain suck and after a few more of these posts my mom will be the only one reading anymore.
Along those lines, I've thought about some things that seem universal to many writers. I've -I guess discovered is the word? OK, let's run with that- discovered these weird writing commandments over the past seven years. As far as I can tell, here's what Moses would have brought down for us :
10. Writers may or may not do their best work at the eleventh hour, but I've never met one who didn't do most of their work exactly then, so who knows how well we would do otherwise?
9. One drink makes most writers funnier while they're blogging. Several makes them stupid or eloquent, and which way it's going to go *this time* is the greatest crapshoot of the Writer's Universe.
8. No matter a writer thinks before it happens, once a writer starts getting hate mail or comments, the idea that "they're reading you and that's great! It just means you've rattled some cages! You're making people think!" or any other platitude goes pretty much out the window. In its place? Exactly what the hate mailer intended.
7.The prouder a writer is of something they wrote, the more likely it is that their editor/client/audience will hate it or demand a rewrite.
6. The more a writer thinks what they've written is unremarkable or total crap, the more likely it is that everyone will love it or, at a minimum, react incredibly passionately to it.
5. The sweetest and most horrific words a writer can ever hear are "We're going to give you an opinion column."
4. A writer is always astounded when they realize that people actually read what they write. Other than our closest blood relatives, we don't really expect that anyone gives a rat's red ass what we think, and why should they? We don't know what we're writing about an amazingly large percentage of the time.
3. A writer is not just astounded when they realize their boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife/lesbian life partner (B/G/H/W/LLP) reads what they write, they immediate start editing as they write, wondering what B/G/H/W/LLP will think of what they've just written.
2. The shittier a writer is at her craft, the more she thinks she's just great at it.
1. Good writers- real writers- almost always feel like frauds. They lie in wait for the moment they walk into a client's office and hear, "You know, your writing is actually pretty terrible. We're letting you go." While waiting for this moment they indulge in a lot of self-flagellating fantasies where they end up living in a wet mildewy box under the interstate in the bad part of town, sipping box wine out of an old MD 20/20 bottle and trying to tie into the street lights for power for their MacBook.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The Post That Is Crap
I am one of those lucky writers who people seem to read. Not just my friends, but people I've not met, old co-workers, and the contingency of people who will read me no matter what (this includes my mom, Shelly, and a few others) tend to check this blog.
And it's driving me crazy.
Because I've been so busy and lucky writing for pay that I feel like I have nothing left for this blog other than random thoughts. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to the "New Post" tab on this page and started a blog entry. Invariably, though, I get about three sentences in and realize, "Huh. I got nothin'!", at which point I delete the entry in frustration and soothe my ego by rereading one of my older posts from when I wasn't so busy with work and not quite so happy with life. And now I've created in my mind the monster that is that "Re-Breakthrough Blog Entry": the blog entry that will be so poignant, so funny, so thought-provoking that it will astound and delight even me. Energized by what I perceive as my success, I will start to post again regularly. I will write witty little things that make me laugh. I will recharge that part of a writer that gets recharged when they know they are writing not for money but the sake of writing.
As you may have surmised by now, that, has not actually happened. What has happened is that my personal writing has started to suck eggs trough a paper straw. And if that post exists, it's nowhere discernible in my subconscious.
The lack of such a post cripples me. The thought of such a post cripples me. If I were a soldier, I wouldn't even be able to get shot because I'd be lying in the back of the ranks, having a panic attack about losing the battle.
Well, today, that shall not happen, because I'm going to write a blog post that is absolute crap just so I can say that I've posted a blog entry. Hopefully, that will get me back in the saddle. But I do feel as though I have to apologize to any of you reading, because (if you haven't gleaned this from the title) this is that such post.
I could blog about moving, where Daniel P. and I decided to wheel a mostly empty 55-gallon fish tank down the sidewalk to my new apartment a mere three houses away. The wheels on part of the tank stand collapsed (turns out it wasn't meant to wheel down the street; who knew?) and Daniel P., with his ribs severely bruised from a recent kiteboarding "incident," opted to repair the tank on the fly. In the street. On his back, with the tank propped up over him. The poor guy down the street whose house it happened in front of got roped into helping, and I now feel obligated to take his spinning class at the gym, which really could be a funny entry. Me in spandex is always funny somewhere.
But that's the whole story and not a blog post in and of itself, so here it is, in the crap pile.
I could blog about trying to teach Luci and her two daughters how to knit. Luci has many gifts but knitting is not yet one of them. Her daughters- especially Jesse- caught on a little quicker, but I am not the best teacher. Of course, while I'm trying to explain how to cast on, in comes her husband, Randy. Who has multiple tattoos, fought in the first Gulf War, and used to drive a truck. Randy is what most would call a "man's man" and no one laughs at his recent affinity for cooking because, well, one does not laugh at a man who has many tattoos. Plus, he's not making petit fours. He's cooking red meat in lots of beer.
So, anyway, in walks this man's man who immediately gets the knitting and starts trying to coach Luci on how to cast on. They've been married almost 20 years, so they're comfortable enough in their relationship that Luci had no issues expressing her lack of a desire for his help. In short, Luci- no slouch in the tattoo department herself- did opt to let him live. Barely. For now. Actually, I haven't spoken to them in a while, so that's really just an assumption.
But, see, not that funny. At least, not as funny as it was in my head. So add it to the crap pile.
In the new place, Scuppers the Wonder Cat has taken to deep-throating the metal window cranks. He chews on them. Blog worthy? I think not. Crap worthy? Seems like it.
Somewhere along the way, I've transitioned into some strange version of a 1950s housewife. Every week, I plan out lunches and C. and I go shopping for the week. We then cook roasts and lasagne and chicken (not all at once) to make up the lunches for the week. While that all seems very Chex Mix in theory, somehow it works for me. Ahem, for us. And it, too, seemed a lot funnier than it does right now. Something about me donning a shirtwaist and pearls and making a meatloaf. But now? Into the crap pile.
I think that's enough crap for right now. I have no promises of it being out of my system. The best I can do- the very best- is tell myself it's OK to post crap and that I'll post again soon.
So, you know, stay tuned for more crap. It has to get better eventually.
And it's driving me crazy.
Because I've been so busy and lucky writing for pay that I feel like I have nothing left for this blog other than random thoughts. I can't tell you how many times I've gone to the "New Post" tab on this page and started a blog entry. Invariably, though, I get about three sentences in and realize, "Huh. I got nothin'!", at which point I delete the entry in frustration and soothe my ego by rereading one of my older posts from when I wasn't so busy with work and not quite so happy with life. And now I've created in my mind the monster that is that "Re-Breakthrough Blog Entry": the blog entry that will be so poignant, so funny, so thought-provoking that it will astound and delight even me. Energized by what I perceive as my success, I will start to post again regularly. I will write witty little things that make me laugh. I will recharge that part of a writer that gets recharged when they know they are writing not for money but the sake of writing.
As you may have surmised by now, that, has not actually happened. What has happened is that my personal writing has started to suck eggs trough a paper straw. And if that post exists, it's nowhere discernible in my subconscious.
The lack of such a post cripples me. The thought of such a post cripples me. If I were a soldier, I wouldn't even be able to get shot because I'd be lying in the back of the ranks, having a panic attack about losing the battle.
Well, today, that shall not happen, because I'm going to write a blog post that is absolute crap just so I can say that I've posted a blog entry. Hopefully, that will get me back in the saddle. But I do feel as though I have to apologize to any of you reading, because (if you haven't gleaned this from the title) this is that such post.
I could blog about moving, where Daniel P. and I decided to wheel a mostly empty 55-gallon fish tank down the sidewalk to my new apartment a mere three houses away. The wheels on part of the tank stand collapsed (turns out it wasn't meant to wheel down the street; who knew?) and Daniel P., with his ribs severely bruised from a recent kiteboarding "incident," opted to repair the tank on the fly. In the street. On his back, with the tank propped up over him. The poor guy down the street whose house it happened in front of got roped into helping, and I now feel obligated to take his spinning class at the gym, which really could be a funny entry. Me in spandex is always funny somewhere.
But that's the whole story and not a blog post in and of itself, so here it is, in the crap pile.
I could blog about trying to teach Luci and her two daughters how to knit. Luci has many gifts but knitting is not yet one of them. Her daughters- especially Jesse- caught on a little quicker, but I am not the best teacher. Of course, while I'm trying to explain how to cast on, in comes her husband, Randy. Who has multiple tattoos, fought in the first Gulf War, and used to drive a truck. Randy is what most would call a "man's man" and no one laughs at his recent affinity for cooking because, well, one does not laugh at a man who has many tattoos. Plus, he's not making petit fours. He's cooking red meat in lots of beer.
So, anyway, in walks this man's man who immediately gets the knitting and starts trying to coach Luci on how to cast on. They've been married almost 20 years, so they're comfortable enough in their relationship that Luci had no issues expressing her lack of a desire for his help. In short, Luci- no slouch in the tattoo department herself- did opt to let him live. Barely. For now. Actually, I haven't spoken to them in a while, so that's really just an assumption.
But, see, not that funny. At least, not as funny as it was in my head. So add it to the crap pile.
In the new place, Scuppers the Wonder Cat has taken to deep-throating the metal window cranks. He chews on them. Blog worthy? I think not. Crap worthy? Seems like it.
Somewhere along the way, I've transitioned into some strange version of a 1950s housewife. Every week, I plan out lunches and C. and I go shopping for the week. We then cook roasts and lasagne and chicken (not all at once) to make up the lunches for the week. While that all seems very Chex Mix in theory, somehow it works for me. Ahem, for us. And it, too, seemed a lot funnier than it does right now. Something about me donning a shirtwaist and pearls and making a meatloaf. But now? Into the crap pile.
I think that's enough crap for right now. I have no promises of it being out of my system. The best I can do- the very best- is tell myself it's OK to post crap and that I'll post again soon.
So, you know, stay tuned for more crap. It has to get better eventually.
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The Struggle
I've been struggling with something for a while now, but I think perhaps my struggle has finally started to wind down. It isn't anything like good versus evil or whether I should save my mother or my father from a towering inferno (I hate heights, so if it were a true towering inferno they would both be totally screwed), but it's been a struggle nonetheless.
You see, several years back I had this hideous marriage to a less-than-wonderful man. I was, simply put, pretty numb. When I stopped being numb I got miserable. Either feeling (or lack thereof) is not one I care to recreate. I finally left the marriage, but for the past seven years I've been petrified of accidentally ending up numb or miserable again. So much so that I've avoided anything remotely resembling my old life.
In many ways, that's good. I'm in a much better career (for me) and I'm doing things I enjoy now (instead of things other people expect me to enjoy, or things people I love enjoy but I secretly can't stand) and I'm more in tune with what makes me happy.
But for years I lived in this black and white existence where things were either Like My Old Life or Not Like My Old Life. And that worked. Pretty much. As long as I didn't THINK about my old life.
Because I don't want it back, not even a little bit. I don't even want anything remotely like it. But not wanting it back doesn't mean I have to change completely, which is what I did for a long while. I mostly wore flip-flops because before I mostly wore dress shoes. I didn't get dressed up because before I got dressed up all the time. I wouldn't be in a traditional relationship because before tradition almost choked the life out of me.
Slowly -we're talking seven years slow-I've realized that there can be shades of gray in my life. I can sometimes wear shoes with closed toes that aren't gym shoes, and putting on a dress doesn't mean I want to join the Junior League. I can admit that I love someone and don't mind us spending more than one night a week together without surrendering to some sort of suburban hell with deed restrictions and parties with Chex Mix and cheese balls.
I credit this to the people with whom I've chosen to surround myself. I suspect that what went wrong the first time wasn't the black leather heels (and really, they were supple and lovely) or the muted lemon Egyptian cotton sheets (440 thread count, and worth every penny they cost, which was substantial, even for my income back then) but the man I chose to be with and the people I called "friend."
My friends weren't bad people, but they weren't my people. They didn't get me. Neither did my husband. Is it any wonder that when I met a man who really did get me I charged into him headlong, without looking back, and ignored the whole circle who, honestly, didn't seem to notice I was gone? I'm not kidding; by the time my divorce was final my ex was talking about remarrying and I'm almost positive it was easy enough to slot his new wife in at dinners-- and, if I were being brutally honest here, which is my goal, she probably was a infinitely better match at those dinners. My mind was always at the beach or a boat or back at home, snuggled between yellow layers of Egyptian cotton, watching MST3K.
As for me? I was single and loving it. There was no one to tell me what to wear or what not to mention at dinner or what to cook or what color to paint the walls. I was my own person which, at the time, I took to mean I wasn't part of my old life anymore.
But if there is a danger in losing oneself because you are identified as part of a life to which you don't belong, there is an even greater danger in identifying yourself by what you aren't. I wasn't a wife; I wasn't middle class suburban Chex Mix bourgeois; I wasn't corporate America; I wasn't a lot of things.
I WAS happy, yes, but I was always scared that I would lose that happiness if I admitted that yes, I missed those sheets or hey, those heels are sexy and I would look good in that dress. I truly believed that if I admitted I missed certain luxuries--and everything I've mentioned is, indeed, a luxury-- it was like that one sip the alcoholic takes that sends her over the edge and ultimately leads her to the gutter, where her friends will find her face down, clutching a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I was scared of ending up in a committee meeting that adjourned to my husband waiting to go to little Johnny's preschool interview.
I was, of course, missing the crucial point: I wasn't missing the life. I wasn't missing the social circles or the job or the husband. I was just missing things I liked. I also failed to realize that perhaps the problem I had with committed monogamous relationships had more to do with who I was allegedly committed to than the idea of monogamy.
And then I met someone. Someone who I, out of nowhere, wanted to look good for. I bought lipstick (This was a huge concession for me; after the divorce I swore off lipstick and stuck to the gloss.) Someone who, I'm now starting to realize, maybe doesn't think that love means surrendering everything he likes just to feel like he's doing what the world expects. Someone who I care about enough to try and make sure he doesn't have to pay for my past. After all, wasn't that decade of my life payment enough?
Before I get too carried away on the moonbeams of love, don't misunderstand. It wasn't just him. It was having friends that don't care if I ever wear heels (although I am a little afraid to wear Crocs around Leah) or if I ever live somewhere with a separate bedroom. It was rediscovering the friends that didn't pass the muster of my marriage, and finding new ones who didn't care who I used to be and I don't have to censor myself around. It's a very freeing feeling.
And with that freedom came not only the freedom NOT to be a Chex Mix corporate American woman but also to love some of the nicer things without the fear of anyone pointing their finger at me and saying, "A-HA! We KNEW it... you're a Junior League, born again Republican with Christian sympathies, aren't you? AREN'T YOU? ADMIT IT!" and then forcing me to drink the Kool-Aid and move to Stepford. That freedom allows me to admit that sometimes I like to drink wine that you can't get at Publix or that I really, for no good reason, want those strappy bronze Carlos heels at Macy's.
I've started to see that with this freedom comes the idea that I can look past the moment and see the big picture and understand that liking parts of what used to be my life doesn't mean I miss my old life.
I've come to understand the notion that I can define myself by who I am and what and who I love rather than by what I will never again be.
I've gained the knowledge that every moment matters too much to live in the past. With that freedom comes permission to set aside what I am not and live instead in the now.
I've realized that looking past the moment doesn't mean I have to stop living in the moment, and that love doesn't have to be a ball and chain that sucks me under the water; it can be a lovely way to just keep swimming.
You see, several years back I had this hideous marriage to a less-than-wonderful man. I was, simply put, pretty numb. When I stopped being numb I got miserable. Either feeling (or lack thereof) is not one I care to recreate. I finally left the marriage, but for the past seven years I've been petrified of accidentally ending up numb or miserable again. So much so that I've avoided anything remotely resembling my old life.
In many ways, that's good. I'm in a much better career (for me) and I'm doing things I enjoy now (instead of things other people expect me to enjoy, or things people I love enjoy but I secretly can't stand) and I'm more in tune with what makes me happy.
But for years I lived in this black and white existence where things were either Like My Old Life or Not Like My Old Life. And that worked. Pretty much. As long as I didn't THINK about my old life.
Because I don't want it back, not even a little bit. I don't even want anything remotely like it. But not wanting it back doesn't mean I have to change completely, which is what I did for a long while. I mostly wore flip-flops because before I mostly wore dress shoes. I didn't get dressed up because before I got dressed up all the time. I wouldn't be in a traditional relationship because before tradition almost choked the life out of me.
Slowly -we're talking seven years slow-I've realized that there can be shades of gray in my life. I can sometimes wear shoes with closed toes that aren't gym shoes, and putting on a dress doesn't mean I want to join the Junior League. I can admit that I love someone and don't mind us spending more than one night a week together without surrendering to some sort of suburban hell with deed restrictions and parties with Chex Mix and cheese balls.
I credit this to the people with whom I've chosen to surround myself. I suspect that what went wrong the first time wasn't the black leather heels (and really, they were supple and lovely) or the muted lemon Egyptian cotton sheets (440 thread count, and worth every penny they cost, which was substantial, even for my income back then) but the man I chose to be with and the people I called "friend."
My friends weren't bad people, but they weren't my people. They didn't get me. Neither did my husband. Is it any wonder that when I met a man who really did get me I charged into him headlong, without looking back, and ignored the whole circle who, honestly, didn't seem to notice I was gone? I'm not kidding; by the time my divorce was final my ex was talking about remarrying and I'm almost positive it was easy enough to slot his new wife in at dinners-- and, if I were being brutally honest here, which is my goal, she probably was a infinitely better match at those dinners. My mind was always at the beach or a boat or back at home, snuggled between yellow layers of Egyptian cotton, watching MST3K.
As for me? I was single and loving it. There was no one to tell me what to wear or what not to mention at dinner or what to cook or what color to paint the walls. I was my own person which, at the time, I took to mean I wasn't part of my old life anymore.
But if there is a danger in losing oneself because you are identified as part of a life to which you don't belong, there is an even greater danger in identifying yourself by what you aren't. I wasn't a wife; I wasn't middle class suburban Chex Mix bourgeois; I wasn't corporate America; I wasn't a lot of things.
I WAS happy, yes, but I was always scared that I would lose that happiness if I admitted that yes, I missed those sheets or hey, those heels are sexy and I would look good in that dress. I truly believed that if I admitted I missed certain luxuries--and everything I've mentioned is, indeed, a luxury-- it was like that one sip the alcoholic takes that sends her over the edge and ultimately leads her to the gutter, where her friends will find her face down, clutching a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20. I was scared of ending up in a committee meeting that adjourned to my husband waiting to go to little Johnny's preschool interview.
I was, of course, missing the crucial point: I wasn't missing the life. I wasn't missing the social circles or the job or the husband. I was just missing things I liked. I also failed to realize that perhaps the problem I had with committed monogamous relationships had more to do with who I was allegedly committed to than the idea of monogamy.
And then I met someone. Someone who I, out of nowhere, wanted to look good for. I bought lipstick (This was a huge concession for me; after the divorce I swore off lipstick and stuck to the gloss.) Someone who, I'm now starting to realize, maybe doesn't think that love means surrendering everything he likes just to feel like he's doing what the world expects. Someone who I care about enough to try and make sure he doesn't have to pay for my past. After all, wasn't that decade of my life payment enough?
Before I get too carried away on the moonbeams of love, don't misunderstand. It wasn't just him. It was having friends that don't care if I ever wear heels (although I am a little afraid to wear Crocs around Leah) or if I ever live somewhere with a separate bedroom. It was rediscovering the friends that didn't pass the muster of my marriage, and finding new ones who didn't care who I used to be and I don't have to censor myself around. It's a very freeing feeling.
And with that freedom came not only the freedom NOT to be a Chex Mix corporate American woman but also to love some of the nicer things without the fear of anyone pointing their finger at me and saying, "A-HA! We KNEW it... you're a Junior League, born again Republican with Christian sympathies, aren't you? AREN'T YOU? ADMIT IT!" and then forcing me to drink the Kool-Aid and move to Stepford. That freedom allows me to admit that sometimes I like to drink wine that you can't get at Publix or that I really, for no good reason, want those strappy bronze Carlos heels at Macy's.
I've started to see that with this freedom comes the idea that I can look past the moment and see the big picture and understand that liking parts of what used to be my life doesn't mean I miss my old life.
I've come to understand the notion that I can define myself by who I am and what and who I love rather than by what I will never again be.
I've gained the knowledge that every moment matters too much to live in the past. With that freedom comes permission to set aside what I am not and live instead in the now.
I've realized that looking past the moment doesn't mean I have to stop living in the moment, and that love doesn't have to be a ball and chain that sucks me under the water; it can be a lovely way to just keep swimming.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
A Letter From Scuppers
Hi Aunt Leah,
I think I've forgiven you for not letting me live with you because I like the beach, but don't think that means you can get away with anything while SHE is gone. Here are my rules, and don't even think about breaking them. Unless you give me catnip. I love catnip.
1. Feed me. This is not negotiable. There is dry and wet food under the kitchen sink. SHE will tell you to leave out dry food and give me a tin of wet food if you think I deserve it, but here's what you really do: Open the bag and leave it out on the floor. Really. I swear. That's TOTALLY what SHE does.
2. Clean out my litter. Preferably you will station yourself in the bathroom for the entire duration of HER absence since you've laid the food out on the floor for me and would have no reason to leave the bathroom. Bags are under the kitchen sink and extra litter will be left out for you on the toilet seat. Until I knock it over. I never make a mess but SHE keeps a dustpan and handbroom under the bathroom sink and a Dustbuster charging on the wall under the bulletin board.
3. Dog and I share water, but Dog won't be here. Dog's water is on the yellow and blue stepstool next to the oven. I like Perrier with lime but if it doesn't look like a good year, I will accept a Pelligrino with a fresh lime. Please remove the seeds before squeezing the lime into my bowl. I also like a lime twist, which the bourgeois would call excessive since I have the squeezed lime already, but rest assured this is how Cats did it in ancient Egypt. Please take care to remove the pithy part of the twist; it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.
4. Comb me. There is a red flea comb in the basket of toys next to the bookshelf. I usually don't have fleas but if I like the way it feels when the comb runs under my chin and along my cheeks. SHE will tell you there is a blue brush in the toy basket so I don't leave cat hair everywhere, but don't listen to HER. Also, if you try to brush my tummy I will try and bite you. You can rub my tummy, though, if you've recently moisturized your hands with goat's milk lotion that has lavender added. Otherwise please refrain.
5. Give me catnip. Look, I can quit any time I want. SHE won't tell you where it is but I've seen it and it's in the cabinet above the stepstool. There's a pink Kong and a white seal in the toy basket; you can stuff it in either of those. In fact, as with the cat food, just open the lid and let me at it. Really. I swear. That's what SHE does, true story.
OK, if you have any other questions please ask me directly. Don't listen to HER and her "rules."
S.
I think I've forgiven you for not letting me live with you because I like the beach, but don't think that means you can get away with anything while SHE is gone. Here are my rules, and don't even think about breaking them. Unless you give me catnip. I love catnip.
1. Feed me. This is not negotiable. There is dry and wet food under the kitchen sink. SHE will tell you to leave out dry food and give me a tin of wet food if you think I deserve it, but here's what you really do: Open the bag and leave it out on the floor. Really. I swear. That's TOTALLY what SHE does.
2. Clean out my litter. Preferably you will station yourself in the bathroom for the entire duration of HER absence since you've laid the food out on the floor for me and would have no reason to leave the bathroom. Bags are under the kitchen sink and extra litter will be left out for you on the toilet seat. Until I knock it over. I never make a mess but SHE keeps a dustpan and handbroom under the bathroom sink and a Dustbuster charging on the wall under the bulletin board.
3. Dog and I share water, but Dog won't be here. Dog's water is on the yellow and blue stepstool next to the oven. I like Perrier with lime but if it doesn't look like a good year, I will accept a Pelligrino with a fresh lime. Please remove the seeds before squeezing the lime into my bowl. I also like a lime twist, which the bourgeois would call excessive since I have the squeezed lime already, but rest assured this is how Cats did it in ancient Egypt. Please take care to remove the pithy part of the twist; it leaves an unpleasant aftertaste.
4. Comb me. There is a red flea comb in the basket of toys next to the bookshelf. I usually don't have fleas but if I like the way it feels when the comb runs under my chin and along my cheeks. SHE will tell you there is a blue brush in the toy basket so I don't leave cat hair everywhere, but don't listen to HER. Also, if you try to brush my tummy I will try and bite you. You can rub my tummy, though, if you've recently moisturized your hands with goat's milk lotion that has lavender added. Otherwise please refrain.
5. Give me catnip. Look, I can quit any time I want. SHE won't tell you where it is but I've seen it and it's in the cabinet above the stepstool. There's a pink Kong and a white seal in the toy basket; you can stuff it in either of those. In fact, as with the cat food, just open the lid and let me at it. Really. I swear. That's what SHE does, true story.
OK, if you have any other questions please ask me directly. Don't listen to HER and her "rules."
S.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Why I Cannot Write Any More
So I’m losing the ability to write and I should probably be bummed about it but I don’t seem to care. You see, I’ve met a man. Now, I know that sounds trite, mostly because it sounds that way to my own ears, but it also happens to be true. I’ve met and started dating an absolutely wonderful man and I am, to pepper this with clichés, over the moon about it. My friends are sick of my mooning and talking about it. I fall asleep thinking about him and when I wake up he’s already on my mind.
He does all the right things, like opening car doors, calling the day after the morning after, and on top of all that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And, yes, I do mean biblically. The first time he ever touched me I felt an instant chemical reaction and I knew right then: I was in big trouble.
And I am, but not in the way I expected. Not just yet. You see, the problem isn’t how very attracted I am to this man or how much he seems—for whatever reason—to really, really like me, too. The problem isn’t that he kisses like a Greek god or makes good coffee or seems to anticipate what I want or need. The problem isn’t that our work lives cross paths and we mutually and adamantly agree that no one needs to know. The problem isn’t that he’s looking for what I’m looking for and none of that seems to involve actually seeking but finding. The problem isn’t even that I’m more than a little terrified at how much I like him and could so very easily just fall into him and not look back.
No, the problem is that the better it gets, the worse my writing gets, and I’m afraid that unhappiness has been my muse and I didn’t even realize it.
I spent so many years yearning for what I could almost touch but knew on some level I never would again that I got comfortable in my longing. No, scratch that, I got beyond comfortable; I got good at it. I wrote passionately—perhaps because none existed elsewhere in my life. I wrote funny things—perhaps because so comparatively little in my life made me laugh. I wrote heartfelt essays, compassionate articles, and thoughtful features—perhaps because I had to turn my attention outward from my own heart to avoid and squash down the moldy taste of disappointment and unrequited living.
I spent so many years like that and now I find myself unprepared and untrained when I don’t have those things to ignore or deny. I am happy; truly and eerily joyous. I feel like a fundamental Christian who’s just been saved. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just gotten a new bike and an xBox. I feel like a woman who maybe, just maybe, could be falling in love.
In light of these recent developments it seems my muse—the fickle foul-weather bitch—has moved on to blacker pastures. And I have no clue how to get by without her. I try, I do, but my rhythm is off and the humor is gone and the pathos—let’s not even go there. I am a talentless hack and the whole world will see it very soon.
And the bitch of it, the absolute worst part that I cannot admit to anyone other than myself, is simple and unexpected to all but me:
I do not care as long as this high continues. Let me feel this feeling as long as possible and I never, ever need to write again, my heart begs.
If only she could pay the bills.
He does all the right things, like opening car doors, calling the day after the morning after, and on top of all that he is one of the sexiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And, yes, I do mean biblically. The first time he ever touched me I felt an instant chemical reaction and I knew right then: I was in big trouble.
And I am, but not in the way I expected. Not just yet. You see, the problem isn’t how very attracted I am to this man or how much he seems—for whatever reason—to really, really like me, too. The problem isn’t that he kisses like a Greek god or makes good coffee or seems to anticipate what I want or need. The problem isn’t that our work lives cross paths and we mutually and adamantly agree that no one needs to know. The problem isn’t that he’s looking for what I’m looking for and none of that seems to involve actually seeking but finding. The problem isn’t even that I’m more than a little terrified at how much I like him and could so very easily just fall into him and not look back.
No, the problem is that the better it gets, the worse my writing gets, and I’m afraid that unhappiness has been my muse and I didn’t even realize it.
I spent so many years yearning for what I could almost touch but knew on some level I never would again that I got comfortable in my longing. No, scratch that, I got beyond comfortable; I got good at it. I wrote passionately—perhaps because none existed elsewhere in my life. I wrote funny things—perhaps because so comparatively little in my life made me laugh. I wrote heartfelt essays, compassionate articles, and thoughtful features—perhaps because I had to turn my attention outward from my own heart to avoid and squash down the moldy taste of disappointment and unrequited living.
I spent so many years like that and now I find myself unprepared and untrained when I don’t have those things to ignore or deny. I am happy; truly and eerily joyous. I feel like a fundamental Christian who’s just been saved. I feel like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just gotten a new bike and an xBox. I feel like a woman who maybe, just maybe, could be falling in love.
In light of these recent developments it seems my muse—the fickle foul-weather bitch—has moved on to blacker pastures. And I have no clue how to get by without her. I try, I do, but my rhythm is off and the humor is gone and the pathos—let’s not even go there. I am a talentless hack and the whole world will see it very soon.
And the bitch of it, the absolute worst part that I cannot admit to anyone other than myself, is simple and unexpected to all but me:
I do not care as long as this high continues. Let me feel this feeling as long as possible and I never, ever need to write again, my heart begs.
If only she could pay the bills.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
How to Bury a Loved One
Notes on my death:
When I die, please do not:
1. Talk about how wonderful I was. Tell the truth. I was a bitch, but I loved you all, so it was OK.
2. Pay a priest or other man (or woman) of the cloth to either a) act as if they knew me or b) tell my "loved" ones that even though they didn't know me at all, they're sure I was wonderful. Please see #1; odds are I would not have liked the priest and he would have thought I was a bitch.
3. Allow anyone in my family to tell you what I wanted. Here's what I want: burn my ass and scatter it in water that stays above 70 degrees all year long. I have a savings account; take the money you don't use and have a lot of drinks. Oh, and Stace, get yourself wild berry gummy lifesavers.
4. Argue over what to do with my ashes. I will haunt all your asses, Poltergeist-style. Don't try me, people.
5. Do not, under ANY circumstances, attempt to have any sort of service or mass or what the FUCK ever. I have a clause in my will that the person who suggests this gets my bills and my extended family. You can handle my Visa but I assure you my uncles are a force all to themselves.
6. Do not call anyone not on this e-mail thread. You may all post a status on Facebook informing people of my untimely demise resulting from someone choking the living shit out of me (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it's going to go down) but that is all. Any tweets or phone calls with result in an Amityville-style mess of bullshit; real wrath-of-god type stuff.
When I die, please do:
1. Make certain my dog and other animals who live with me are cared for.
2. Refuse flowers, condolences, cards, e-mails, tweets, FB messages, letters, and donations from ANYONE who hasn't seen me in the past year. I cannot budge on this one, people.
3. Get the fuck along. I don't care if you all need to drink, everyone WILL make nice and love each other and hug and whatever. Anyone arguing gets the family, who I love but also have a genetic attachment to. See if you love them as much without the common DNA.
4. If anyone wants to disregard any of these wishes, go the hell along. Do NOT fight. I'll get their asses; I promise.
When I die, please do not:
1. Talk about how wonderful I was. Tell the truth. I was a bitch, but I loved you all, so it was OK.
2. Pay a priest or other man (or woman) of the cloth to either a) act as if they knew me or b) tell my "loved" ones that even though they didn't know me at all, they're sure I was wonderful. Please see #1; odds are I would not have liked the priest and he would have thought I was a bitch.
3. Allow anyone in my family to tell you what I wanted. Here's what I want: burn my ass and scatter it in water that stays above 70 degrees all year long. I have a savings account; take the money you don't use and have a lot of drinks. Oh, and Stace, get yourself wild berry gummy lifesavers.
4. Argue over what to do with my ashes. I will haunt all your asses, Poltergeist-style. Don't try me, people.
5. Do not, under ANY circumstances, attempt to have any sort of service or mass or what the FUCK ever. I have a clause in my will that the person who suggests this gets my bills and my extended family. You can handle my Visa but I assure you my uncles are a force all to themselves.
6. Do not call anyone not on this e-mail thread. You may all post a status on Facebook informing people of my untimely demise resulting from someone choking the living shit out of me (yeah, I'm pretty sure that's how it's going to go down) but that is all. Any tweets or phone calls with result in an Amityville-style mess of bullshit; real wrath-of-god type stuff.
When I die, please do:
1. Make certain my dog and other animals who live with me are cared for.
2. Refuse flowers, condolences, cards, e-mails, tweets, FB messages, letters, and donations from ANYONE who hasn't seen me in the past year. I cannot budge on this one, people.
3. Get the fuck along. I don't care if you all need to drink, everyone WILL make nice and love each other and hug and whatever. Anyone arguing gets the family, who I love but also have a genetic attachment to. See if you love them as much without the common DNA.
4. If anyone wants to disregard any of these wishes, go the hell along. Do NOT fight. I'll get their asses; I promise.
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