fight

Husband and I had a fight Saturday night. We hardly ever fight, we hardly ever even get snippy with each other, unless he's drinking or I'm hormonal. We had both going on this weekend. Not good. 

There was a baseball game on the tv Saturday right as he got off work. We were playing our biggest rival, so he went up to our favorite bar, grabbed a stool, and proceeded to drink about 4 Miller lites  before I got there. I had been shopping with my mom all day and hadn't eaten any lunch, so screw the game, I needed food. But being a nice little wifey, I sat and watched the last two innings with him. 

I think I create problems sometimes. I know I do. The whole time we were there I was counting his drinks. He doesn't drink often, but when he does he has trouble stopping himself, and the more he has the less like himself he gets. He gets angry or rude or brash when normally he's sweet and charming. So I know he saw me counting those drinks, watching him like a hawk. And in my mind I'm building up to this big blow up, just knowing it's coming. Whether it is or isn't, in my mind it's a sure thing, and I think that makes it happen.

But he knows he's like that and does nothing to stop it. So we're both to blame.

As we were leaving, trying to decide on dinner, a woman passed us presumably looking for a parking spot. He tried to wave to her to show her we were leaving so she could have our spot (there's that sweet charming guy), but she didn't see us, and an angry mean man came out. He called her (and no she couldn't hear or see us, but that's not the point) a bitch and a fat cow. WOW. So I called him on it, of course I did, looked him in the face and told him that wasn't appropriate. He took offense at my taking offense, saying that he was just blowing off steam, he wouldn't have said it if she could hear us, and what difference did it make to me.

The difference that it makes to me is that THAT is not my husband. That is not the man I married, and I hate that man. That man is the type of man that I've dated before, with no regard for feelings, angry at nothing, spewing hate misdirected. I don't want to know him and I don't want to see him. But he comes out of no where and it scares me.

I tried to explain this, but my super-rational anyone who's not as rational and logical as me is wrong husband doesn't get this feelings crap, and so he never quite understands me. Almost but never all the way. He kept saying that she couldn't hear so what difference did it make, and I said I could hear, and it makes a difference to me. We went back and forth like that for a while. I wasn't going to apologize for getting mad him for at his comments. I think any normal woman would have gotten mad there. I apologized for being in a not-so-good mood at the bar and allowed that maybe that didn't help things. But he would not apologize. He never apologizes. When he does, it's an I'm sorry you're angry, not an I'm sorry for what I did. What is it with men, especially so-called logical men like him, and not admitting they're wrong?

Am I completely out of line here? Did I overreact? I'm known to do that a few days before ol' Auntie Flow visits. 

But I guess if this is our biggest problem, we're doing all right comparatively. It was forgotten the next day. Mostly.

numb

I can feel my bones. They creak and groan like a rusty door hinge, no soft connections to ease them. My flesh and muscle, my sinew down to the bone is lifeless. I'm a skeleton walking. I'm numb and cold and hard. Pinch me and I won't make a peep; I won't feel it. I look at the world through hollow cavities, colors and light and movement shocking to my slow-motion thoughts, and I struggle to comprehend. I feel rail thin and brittle, but bloated at once, like a cheek after a dentist's injection, feeling swollen and looking ordinary. I poke myself to make sure I'm ordinary, but feel nothing. My stomach, I can feel my stomach, roiling and curdling, protesting its contents. Belches taste like soap and syrup, making the curdling worse, feeling at any moment I could lose those contents, knowing that it wouldn't make it better if I did. My head is full of air. I'm a bubble, a dry bubble ready to pop, releasing nothing but dust. Questions float by me like dandelion seeds in the wind, and I'm mesmerized by their grace but lost by their meaning. I'm surprised I can form semi-complete thoughts, but the surprise is dulled, like a rubber mallet on splintering wood.

Scrubbing shampoo onto my scalp this morning, I felt sleepy but fine for a Monday. When I opened my eyes, the shampoo bottle had escaped my sight, unless I turned my head sideways to see it. My husband brought me my pill, my little sweet release from the pain, that find the coldest floor in the darkest room, curl up and try not to sob because it makes it worse pain, and I swallowed knowing the day was lost anyway. That sweet release pushes me into a world of fog and dullness, stupidity and slowness, brittle and cold, like freezing rain on what should have been a bright and sunny day. I welcome it and hate it. 

cape cod kind of night

I'm having the first of probably a few Cape Cods (i.e. cranberry vodkas) tonight. It's been one hell of a day to match one hell of a week. If I keep up at this rate I'm going to have carpal tunnel by the time I'm 30. 

People are such idiots sometimes, and I have two examples to share that I witnessed, one right after the other, on the way home. 

First-- a college girl: think blond, hair pulled up in a messy "I just got out of bed and I'm too cool for a brush" bun on the top of her hair, her huge bug-eyed sunglasses practically vibrating with her loud music, dog in her lap with his head out the window. One of her hands on the steering wheel and the other holding a cell phone to her ear, although I don't know how she hears anyone over her stereo. Her car is too nice for her to have bought for herself at her age, but there she is, treating it and her life and her dog's life like nothing, like she's such a good driver not only does she not need to concentrate, but she can do it one handed while contending with drool and puppy claws. You know who I feel sorry for there? The dog. And us other drivers.

Second-- two more girls, also blonds surprisingly, in shorts and t-shirts on a scooter, i.e. no protective body gear whatsoever, one helmet between the two of them. I guess they're sharing a brain too, so only one helmet is really needed. The driver tosses her un-helmeted hair around at a stop-sign, begging for whistles. What's their excuse to their parents when they kill themselves? But Daddy, we were only going a mile and a half.

I catch myself glaring at people like this, wondering how they can take their lives into their own hands like that, so nonchalantly, so brazenly and yet ignorantly. It makes me angry, because they're endangering me too. 

Wow I need to let my husband mix my drinks from now on when I'm in a mood like this. Off to sit in the sun on my deck for a while. 

too good to be true?

Things in my life have been going very smoothly lately.

I'm a firm believer that we make our own luck, and as a part of that, our reactions to events in our lives dictate greatly our overall way of being. If you're naturally negative, even the smallest disturbance can turn a whole day sour, and a bunch of sour days can lead to a depression. While if you're positive, it takes something huge to upset your day, and even the largest of events can still only affect you as much as you let it. So I try very hard to be a positive person, not sweating the small stuff and such. It doesn't always work. I am human.

This is a new revelation for me, relatively new anyway, contained to the last couple of years. So perhaps this new way of thinking and being has me confused, because it seems to me as if nothing "bad" has happened lately. Oh, there have been small things, like complaining clients, slight sicknesses, traffic congestion, etc.-- the kinds of things that a lot of people let affect their mood too much. (Road rage? Really? Just put in a good cd. Problem solved.) Maybe because I'm not letting these small things affect me anymore I feel as if it's eerily quiet around here. 

I've struggled in my life. That sounds so cliche-- who hasn't? Lately, though, I'm content: job, husband, family, health, finances... it's all going so well. Which makes me think (old me, the me that would focus on how wrong and sad and screwed-up the world is) that this is just the calm before the storm, the build-up to the let-down.

As I mentioned in my previous post, my neighbor is dying. I can't help but think, what did he do to deserve that? What did his precious family do? Nothing. I suppose bad things just happen. How can they just happen, though, how can you be floating along, white sails facing the sun, and then bam your husband is seriously ill and bam he's dead, you're alone, with four boys under age ten. 

As solid as I am sometimes, something like that would ruin me. I feel it, I know it would. I can't lose my husband or my parents. I value my positivity because I know no matter what happens, I'm still me and I'm still ok... that is until I think about the worst thing that could happen. Me includes the three of them because I'm not me without them, Ok means having them in my life on a daily basis. How are humans capable of understanding and negotiating that much grief without completely crumbling under the weight of it, like a sandcastle at high tide?

But that's a worst-case scenario, and that's old me thinking about all the bad things that could happen instead of focusing on what actually is happening. I guess that's the trick, live it up while you can, absorb all the good and joy into yourself, like water into a sea sponge, while it's here and you've got your fingers wrapped around it.

That makes me want to go wrap my fingers and my arms around that husband of mine. It's almost five o'clock, isn't it?

Grateful Thursday

1) My husband is amazing. Not only is he handsome and sweet to me, yesterday he cleaned the WHOLE HOUSE. It was his day off, and on our days off we get to do whatever we want, with chores being done together on Sunday. But yesterday he mopped and vacuumed every floor, dusted every surface, cleaned the kitchen and the dishes, scrubbed the bathrooms, sorted through all the mail and clutter everywhere, and did all the laundry, dried and folded and put away. Simply amazing-- do you know how nice it was to come home to a completely spotless house? I almost didn't want to cook last night or get ready in the bath this morning for fear of messing it up!

2) Low interest rates. We've decided to refinance our house, and our sweet little mortgage lady said that we could either refinance and stay with a 30 year loan and save $260 a month, or (this sounds better to me) refinance to a 20 year loan and still save nearly $100 a month. That's with about $2000 in closing costs, but we've got that, and we'd make it back in savings in a year and a half and still cut 10 years off our loan. I'm so happy about that!

3) A good meal tonight, that I don't have to cook, with very good friends. And my new camera that I'm taking with me.

4) My health and my husband's health, and my parent's health too. My neighbor is lying in a hospice in Florida today, dying. He's in his 40s, his wife is so sweet, and they have 4 little blond-haired boys. He has cancer, colon I believe, but I never asked. It seemed intrusive. They've been gone for two weeks now, but the wife's mom told me yesterday she's going down to get the boys. He's not talking anymore and they don't want the boys to see the very end. So very, very sad.

5) Some actual work to do today. I've got some typing to do. I was bored yesterday. But I'm hoping when my boss said "that little black box of paper in my office needs retyping" he didn't mean the huge shoebox with 8-inches deep of paper. It will take me a year! I think he just means part. Got to figure out which part now.

earth day giveaway!

Hey everyone, just a quick note to say Earth Day is coming up soon! It's on April 22nd. I don't know about you, but I've been into "going green" since the days when being green meant being like Kermit. I think the most important work of my generation is and will be saving our earth from ourselves. One of the biggest ways you or anyone can help without having to make any huge sacrifices is by using canvas bags instead of paper or plastic at the grocery or any other stores you visit. I just keep several in my car so I know I always have them with me. 

Maegan, an awesomely stylish and smart blogger over at loveMaegan.com, also creates these great canvas bags, and for Earth Day she's going to be giving some away! Visit her website for information here. All you have to do is comment on her that blog post. 

So cute! I really like the Pony Up and Plastic Shmastic bags. Way better than the cheap navy blue canvas Kroger bags I use now. Hmmm... maybe I don't want you to enter... maybe I want to win....

ungrateful Wednesday?

I'm glad it's not Thursday because I'm not grateful for much today. The entire state is under a green cloud on the tv, and my eyes fluttered every time I heard the drip drip drip drip outside my window last night. There wasn't much sleep to be had. Plus my head hurts. What is it about rain, about changing pressure systems, that makes my right eyebrow feel like a ten pound sand bag? Why does no one else seem to get these headaches? My husband claims to have never had a headache in his life, but I get them any and every time a new weather system pushes through.

I also got a bit of a chastisement in an email this morning. It was directed at everyone, but especially at me because I'm in charge of this. Apparently one of our clients feels neglected, like we're not answering their emails in a timely fashion. I searched back through my emails and don't have any open questions for them, so I'm not completely sure what they're talking about, plus I emailed one of them three times last week for a bit of information I needed and still don't have the answer. But I'm not going to say it, no I'm not. I'm biting my tongue. It distracts from the headache too.

There's a local gourmet restaurant here we like-- they use locally grown ingredients and always have a fish and a veggie option on the menu which changes every two weeks. They're doing a wine tasting paired with a set menu tomorrow night, and husband wants to go, but three out of the five courses are meat based. I hate to be that person, that annoying uppity particular person who emails the chef and asks for a different menu. I'm not high maintenance, and high maintenance people generally annoy me, but I guess I've required myself to be in food situations since I've chosen not to eat meat. 

Can't you just see me, sitting in my stupid pleather desk chair, arms crossed, low eyebrows drawn together, pouting my big lips, my hair wet in the back and frizzy in the front. I look how I feel. I'm such a whiner sometimes. 

I just checked husband's email, and the chef says he'll substitute the meat for me. So nice, no complaining at all. So I guess I am grateful for that.

The Adventures of Bub, Chapter One: The Deerslayer

Bub, known slayer of all trespassers big and small, spots his newest foe: the Deer. "Don't let the cuteness fool you," he thinks. "They are in our yard, nonchalantly nibbling on our grass... look at them, no idea what trouble they're in for now that I have spotted them."

He's off like lightning, growling fiercely and and barking as loudly as he can manage. He's so quick on his muscular little legs he becomes a black and white blur. The frightened deer hardly have time to react before he's on them-- they turn white-tail and run for the cover of the woods. "Out, out, out of my domain! Before I eat you! I will protect my mother!"
And so the deer hop and scramble away from the fearsome Bub into the woods, only their bright tails giving away their location as they melt into the trees. "Yeah, you're lucky there's this black barrier here, or I would have you, I would. I'll stand here and bark for another five minutes, pacing this line, just to make sure you're really good and gone."

Once the Deerslayer decides the coast is clear and does his usual business (or maybe once he forgets the deer where ever even there) he saunters back up to the door, full of pride and energy. "Ok, Mommy, I'm ready to come in now! Woof! Where are you?"

stray dogs

What do you do when you see a stray dog walking along a road or highway? Do you stop? Stop only if it looks friendly or really lost? Keep on going and think about it for miles? Not even notice?

I just passed a little black and tan shepherd mix on the side of a busy highway. It was too busy for me to stop-- I couldn't slow down fast enough, and to get back to it on the next exit would have taken too long. It was just sitting there, looking lonely. I keep thinking about him, can't get him out of my mind.

Husband's home. I wonder if he saw him. He goes that way too.

me

Ok, here I am. You talked me into it. I don't suppose anyone can search for me by a picture anyway, so as long as I leave my name off, no creepy stalker types can find me. (I do think that keeping this anonymous keeps me honest-- for instance, if I knew my husband (who knows I blog) or my father or any real world friends were reading this, I'd feel like I had to edit my words for them.)

Without further ado, this is me. The first one is from last month, a Valentine's Day ball for the Heart Association. Because I don't normally look that good, I'm tempering it with one of me sitting in the office today, with my I-came-with-wet-hair and a t-shirt look. 

*photos taken down because I didn't want to leave them up too long

the purpose of my life

We decided last night, while watching some terrible Queen Latifah movie about dying before truly living, that we need to plan ourselves a vacation. We keep putting money into our house or our garden or our retirement plan, and we're not doing what we really want to do, what we say we're always going to do, the reason we're not having kids, and the reason we married each other-- we want to see the world. 

We lived in London for over a year just after we got married. While there, we saw Oxford and Paris, and I got to go to Lagos, Portugal. I wish I could go back in time and make us travel more while we were there. At least Ireland and Scotland. But in reality, we were poor, and we were lucky to take the trips we did. 

I'll be 30 in 2012, so that gives us three years to plan an amazing birthday trip for me. I just picked that date because three years seems like enough time to save, not because I think 30 deserves any kind of special treatment. Really, it should be ignored. These late twenties have been hard enough. I think I'll never get any older than 29 anyway. I refuse.

So after throwing darts at the maps in our heads, we decided on either Italy (possibly to include Vienna as well) or Fiji.

Two completely different trips there-- one full of culture and food and history, not to mention walking and catching trains, the kind of vacation you need a vacation after, or the other consisting of sitting on a beautiful beach and having a native bring me fruity drinks, the most adventurous day being a slow, wandering hike to a picnic at a waterfall. 

So which will it be? I'm torn, completely torn. I feel lucky to have this choice at all, but I want to make the right one. I feel like we'd be copping out if we went for Fiji, like we're "wasting" money going to sit on some beach when there are perfectly fine beaches 6 hours from here. But not tropical, lush, exotic beaches. But I also don't want to be completely exhausted after our trip, plus I've seen Italy, and although I'd love to go back, maybe I should see something I haven't seen first? But my husband's never been there and I know he'd love it. And if we could add Vienna and possibly Prague...

I'm just glad it's really going to happen. I'm going to open a new savings account today.

keeping up appearances

I don't look like anyone. Some people say I look like my mom, and occasionally I'll catch my reflection and briefly think she's standing beside me before I realize it's me. But you'd wouldn't guess it if you saw us together. I don't look like my dad at all-- I am my dad in too many ways, but I don't look like him. Or any of my grandparents. I am a conglomeration of all of them to the point where there are no distinguishably inherited characteristics. I just look vaguely related to them, like perhaps a distant cousin.

I don't look like anyone famous either. I've heard Geena Davis before, but her jaw is too square and her mouth too wide. I've heard Angelina Jolie, but that's solely for my lips and nothing else. Yes, I'm "blessed" with full lips, lips that make other women jealous, until I tell them how many men have made crude comments to me because of them. Men. I won't go into particulars there. I've also gotten Jessica Biel (in her 7th Heaven days, not as she is now as a Maxim and GQ pin-up) and Scarlet Johansson. As you can see, none of these women look alike themselves, but, like with my family, I vaguely resemble parts of them yet none as a whole. I will say it's nice to be compared to such beautiful women.

A few years ago, an old friend told me he was watching Law and Order SVU-- the seasons they play on USA, not the new ones-- and that I look exactly like the DA. I don't watch that show and so didn't know if it was true, but I didn't think anything of it, believing looking her up would probably lead me to another Davis, Jolie, Biel, etc. and nothing closer. This weekend, out of the blue a different friend, who doesn't know the first friend, told me the same thing, and I became curious.

So I looked her up. Her name is Diane Neal.

I look nothing like her. 

At least, I don't think I do. We all have different interpretations of the way we look, we all see ourselves as more beautiful or more ugly, more angular or more pudgy, more imperfect than we really are. We see ourselves in pictures in 2-D or in the mirror, and our first thought is what's wrong or what's out of place. We're so used to seeing ourselves we can't see anymore. We've grown up and old with our faces and our features, unable to see them the way other people see us, especially people new to our lives. Even seeing myself on video, all I focus on is my weak chin line or my messed up hair or the idiotic things I'm saying, and I never actually see myself. I don't think it's possible to see oneself, not completely-- there's too much of us in the way. 

But I asked my husband, and he didn't see me in her either. Maybe in video, I thought, something about the way she moves or talks makes her like me. I still didn't see it. It makes me wonder, how do people really see me? What do people truly think of me? But getting the truth out of people is impossible. Not next to impossible, but impossible. 

I do wish I had her red hair. I've always wanted red hair.

I don't have much to say

I've been feeling quiet lately. Introspective. Nothing important to think about though, and nothing important to say. Here are my recent thoughts on life and everything in between:

1) I need a haircut. My bangs reach my nose now. I decide on haircuts very quickly and want them done right then and there. But of course Sarah Kate is out of town. And no one else touches my hair. She's the best because she's young, hip, focused, and quiet. I hate all that chatter. So Tuesday, I have to wait til Tuesday. I'm trying to grow it out-- I want boob-length hair (yes, that's the technical term)-- but it needs a trim, bad. 

2) On that same subject, is it bad to go to work with wet hair? I think blow drying is really killing my hair, especially now that it's so long. No one here would care I think, we're a blue-jean kind of office.

3) I'm sick of all this talk of death. Yes, that actress's death was tragic. But a lot of tragic things happen every day in this world. A beautiful person dies, a popular person, and the whole world acts like they knew her personally. I don't know why I'm taking all the attention put on her personally. No, I do. Because I don't like to think about death, about someone I love being taken away in the blink of an eye. It's depressing and I hate to be depressed without a real, personal reason. 

4) I had more to say but my 3:30 appointment is here and he's chatty. So I have to go.

Grateful Thursday

1) Grandmothers. Today is my paternal grandmother's 82nd birthday. I just spoke with her on the phone-- she was baking a strawberry cake from my Granny's recipe (her mother) and otherwise taking it easy, getting ready for some company tomorrow. She's a sweet lady. While there are certain parts of my life I can't share with her (i.e. religion) I keep it to myself out of respect for her. She's never been anything but kind and loving to me and my family.

2) The sun! I know I've said this before, but feeling the warm Spring sun on my face these last few days has really done a lot for my spirit. And my otherwise white-blue skin.

3) My new blog friends. In addition to those that have been with me from my start here, I've had several new people join me in my blog world lately, and I'm grateful that I'm going to be able to get to know all of you. 

4) Lost. The best show on tv, has given me hours and hours of entertainment.

5) There's very little for which I'm not grateful lately. Life seems to be rolling along very smoothly. Is this because nothing bad has happened? Or because my reactions to "bad" things have been so altered in the last year or so? I'm grateful for all the lessons I've learned in my life that have brought me to this content, fulfilled place.

suddenly, sun

Beautiful day outside here. I took advantage:

quiet night

I'm having a quiet St. Patrick's Day alone at my house. My husband, who claims his long-seated Irish heritage quite vehemently, is out whooping it up with our friends. Well, not really whooping. Last I talked to him, about thirty minutes ago, he was having a beer with two guys, trying to decide what food to order. I'm sure he'll have a black and tan in a minute and then call me to come pick him up.

Why am I not out with him, you ask? One little word, one tiny little terrible fearsome word: migraine. 

About 4:15 this afternoon, I was starting at quickbooks on my work laptop when the numbers started to blur. Not surprising-- I had been staring at them for hours, trying to find a missing two-hundred bucks, and my contacts aren't quite strong enough to magnify those tiny little curved digits to the point where I can see them without squinting. But after blinking a few times and looking away from the screen, I realized it was a blind spot, not a shifted lens.

Jerk open the lower left hand desk drawer, rummage through my huge purse looking for that one tiny little triangle-shaped pill that will save my life... shit. The last time I had a migraine I took the pill I had in my purse and never replaced it. Stuck, I felt stuck. But I took my life in my hands, got behind the wheel, and drove home blind spot and all. By the time I got home, though, it was too late. 

It's now eight forty-five and I feel alright. No real pain unless I concentrate on it. My pills leave me in a fog though, the kind of stupidity-fog that leaves me staring at a normal word like "concentrate" like it's alien, foreign, completely wrong. Did I spell that correctly? Is that second C a C and not an S? Well, forgive me if it's wrong. It's the pill typing.

I miss my husband. I ate lunch with him today, so it's not like I haven't seen him. He's my best friend. No, he's more than that. He's a part of me. We're never apart for very long and without him I don't know what to do with myself. Cooking for one? I ended up with a salad and a tomato sandwich (think burger without the burger). What do I watch on tv? I look at his empty chair for direction. Want to play a game? Oh, no. Take the dog for a walk? Kind of lonely.

Lord (or someone) help me if something happens to him.

Don't sit there thinking "oh listen to her whine," or "how pathetic that she's so codependent." He's the same with me (maybe not so poetically though), and he's called me just about every hour he's been gone. But he needs some guy time so even though I feel up to going out, I'm not. It's my St. Patty's Day gift to him.

lost words

On the way home from work the other night, I got behind a beat up blue pick-up truck, the kind that's been well loved for many years by one dedicated but hard-working owner. He had a bush in the bed of the truck, a small one in a green pot I'm sure he had just gotten from the Home Depot down the street, but it was big enough to have yellow flowers showing brightly from it's otherwise bare, straight-up stick-like branches. 

I knew that plant. I knew the name and form and habits of that bush. But the word would not come to me. As chance would have it, he was going my way, so I followed him for nearly 6 miles, all the while insisting to myself that I should be able to come up with that name. I stared at it, trying to force it, conjure it up, but it wasn't happening. We were passing yards that had five or six in full bloom-- I knew it was a native spring bloomer, always yellow, bare in the winter, which is why we didn't plant one in our front yard, but the vibrant yellow blooms turn quickly to green leaves that last only until the first frost. 

What was it called? It started with an F. I knew that much. F... i-sound. An I sound follows? Maybe. Fi... fibromyalgia. Well I knew that wasn't it. Fi.. fi... damn now all I could think of was fibromyalgia. That word, that incorrect word, that wasn't even a plant or a living thing, was stuck in my brain, like one of those little green nettles gets stuck in your socks in the summer, holding on for dear life and not letting go until you get your fingernail under it and really yank hard. 

The blue truck put on its turn signal a few miles before my turn-off. I was really frustrated now, knowing that this word was playing hide-and-seek with me, that when I got home I was going to have to consult the gardening book I had practically memorized last spring, just to look up this native bush that just about everyone has in their yard here and that I've loved since childhood. He turned, but I pressed on. 

Forsythia. Not two seconds after he turned and my staring eyes could no longer see the baby bush in his truck bed, it came to me, just magically appeared in my brain like it was there all the time, playing a joke on me, not wanting to come out completely until its physical presence was gone. Forsythia. Of course.

Where do words go? I know I can't be the only person to whom this happens. I see someone I used to know, and for the life of me can't come up with their name; I see a painting I used to adore, and no matter what I do I can't think of the artist. But I remember phone numbers from when I was a child. Memory, it comes and goes for me, like the tides but not so regular, appearing and reappearing whenever it pleases. I wonder if there's any way to gain control over it. Control over my brain? Not likely.

books

My father reads a lot. A LOT. He's a tiny bit obsessive about his books and even more so about his music. When I jokingly say that my father owns every cd known to man... well, keep in mind there's always some truth in humor. He's a little more discerning on his books. He particularly likes Southern authors, anyone from Faulkner to Grisham. I think he should start a blog. It would be a very interesting read. Perhaps I'll suggest it to him. As long as he doesn't start reading mine... I like my anonymity. Keeps me honest.

He has a booth at an antique mall here in my town where he sells books that he's read and any other good finds he comes across. Every time he comes up to visit (a couple times a month) he's brings boxes of books-- some from his shelf, some from the used bookstore in his town, some from ebay. Some signed, mostly first editions, some particularly interesting books even if not a collectible edition. Usually Southern but not exclusively. There are always 2 or 3 books in those boxes meant for me and not the booth. As a result, my nightstand looks like this:

And it's kind of low right now. I'm reading the book on top, a collection of short stories called Victory over Japan by Ellen Gilchrist. Her writing reminds me a lot of mine (only... professional) in that it's very matter-of-fact and conversational. They're the kind of stories that merge and fade into your memory and become your own stories, almost like you lived them, and you relate them to friends in a way that implies you were a part of them. And even though you start that conversation with "in this book I just read," you still feel like you're telling your own story, not some fictional character's. No, I did not lose my virginity in a red tube dress by the side of a river at age 14 to some complete stranger (hot though he may have been) just to get back at my overbearing father, but a part of me feels like I did. 

Pride and Prejudice is always in that stack. When I feel like I'm losing myself, I pick it up, and there I am. There are books in that stack I'll never finish. Barack Obama's Audacity of Hope, Gore Vidal's Empire, anything John Grisham. They're not my style. I'll start them so that I can tell my dad I gave them a chance, but I'll quickly move on, explaining that I picked up another one he gave me and fell in love with it. And he's ok with that, as long as I keep reading something. He's just happy to have someone with whom to talk about these books he loves. He has my little brother for music, me he has for books.

inside pictures

Of course it's been raining since I got my new camera, a cold rain too, so I've been limited to inside pictures (and through the windows). Can't wait for it to warm up a little.

Zipede-do-dah:

Kitty was not amused by the bird:

in a former life

I don't believe in much. I don't not believe in much. I'm a true agnostic. God could exist or not; ghosts could exist or not; aliens could exist or not, and so on. Who knows? Certainly not me. I tend to take the middle road on unknown things-- if God does exist, he/she/it is probably not like humans imagine it-- maybe it's more of a life force or more like "fate" or "destiny." Ghosts are probably just strong electric remnants left behind, as we are all electricity, and aliens may exist in some form somewhere but probably aren't smart enough to get to us, yet.

I've never been able to commit to beliefs like these. Even there, stating what I think is true, I say "probably" and "maybe" because I honestly don't know. I can't make myself stick to one thing or another. 

Don't get me wrong-- I do hold beliefs, and strong ones. I'm a very opinionated person. But my opinions are based on facts and data and are held about things which I can touch and see. Like I believe all people, gay or straight, should have the option to marry. I believe women should be equally paid. I believe that if you do good things, good things happen to you, but this has more to do with your outlook on life and reaction to events than it does some mystical karma-like force.

I have always liked, however, the idea of reincarnation. I don't believe in it, not totally, I just like the idea of it, that maybe I was once a famous Duchess or an Egyptian slave or a struggling frontier woman. That although I don't carry specific memories from those lives, the lessons I learned, mistakes I made, and loves I had in all those lives have combined to make me who I am in this life. That maybe the less evolved among us just haven't had as many lives as I've had. Maybe I'm an old soul.

I think in a former life I must have played the violin. Any violin music, from a Coldplay song to a Itzhak Perlman recording to a Vivaldi composition, will make me cry. It brings up an eerie feeling in me, a longing for something lost. I don't know any reason why this would happen-- I've never played a violin, never knew anyone who did either, and I'm not attracted to other classical instruments in the same way. But that yearning that I feel deep in my chest is as real as me and the music playing.

I must have lived in India at some point too. I feel drawn to the culture-- the vivid colors they wear and with which they surround themselves, their dynamic religion and art forms, their spirited dispositions, their language, their dancing, their food. And no, this is not because I liked Slumdog Millionaire. I've felt this way for a long time, long before Hollywood became obsessed with Bollywood. I want to be one of them, live among them... I almost said again.

I feel complex, like there's more to me than even I know. Perhaps it's arrogant of me to think that. Maybe there's nothing special about me. I'm certainly not doing anything sensational with it, working at my little firm, living my little life with my husband and animals. But I don't want to be sensational, I never have. I want to understand my life from all points and me from all angles. I just want to be.

Love my new camera! This is Bub, drooling a little on the instruction manual. I was playing with the macro focus.

Grateful Thursday

Whew, here we go again.

1) It's Thursday again! This week has been boring with the office so quiet and empty.

2) I realized this morning how many overcoats and jackets I have to choose from. I didn't mean to ever buy that many, I've just kind of collected different types over the years-- long and wool, short and fleece, a classic trench, a mid-length rain slicker, etc. So many people out there don't have something warm to protect them from the cold and rain, or they struggle with an old or worn out coat. I'm very lucky.

3) My dog and cat who bring so much joy to my life

4) I complained about it, but I'm grateful for this quiet week. I needed it, needed to recharge.

5) Sundays with my husband. Big plans this week-- spray painting a patio table and chairs, retiling the fireplace (including putting up new drywall first), and weeding the yard. Maybe a nap with him too.

random thoughts

Today is a one email day. I needed a one email day today. 

I'm not feeling so good. We've got a big front coming through here, which means the beautiful and sunny 80 degree weather we had yesterday was replaced overnight by howling winds, 40 degree temps, and eventual rain. No human being can live in this and be healthy. My head is pounding because of the instantaneous change in pressure it's just been through. My nose is clogged, and I feel like the clouds are sitting heavy on my eyebrows, pushing me down, down, down.

All this despite me using my neti pot (this fun little system where you pour salt water in one nostril and it comes out the other, thus cleaning your sinuses), taking two mucus relief pills (yes that's what the bottle says), and two aleve. The mucus pill and aleve, even though I took them with food, have now given me heartburn. Can't win for losing. 

So I'm having a diet Dr. Pepper. We'll see if that helps. Even if it doesn't ease the heartburn, it'll keep me awake in this twilight-lit, deserted office, silent except for the wooshing of the wind by my window and the tick-tick of the bubbles popping in the aluminum soda can.

The clouds are really starting to move in now. Across the street behind the tree tops the sky is turning a from cloudy grey-white to angry grey-blue, like the clouds have suddenly sucked up all the moisture they can and are starting to droop and sag with the weight of it, like a soaked cotton ball.

One bright spot, other than my email not chirping at all this morning so far-- I get my new digital camera in the mail today! If I had it right now, I'd take a picture of those clouds for you. I've been going crazy these last two months since my other camera kicked the bucket. I bought a really nice one, I splurged a little, but I know I'll get a lot of use out of it.

don't start none

I usually check my blackberry before I leave the house in the morning (bad habit, I know) just in case there's an email for which I need to stop munching on my honey bunches of oats and respond right away. There's usually not, but my inbox generally gives me an idea of what the day will be like-- 3 to 5 emails, I'm on easy street, lots of blogging to be done, or a morning like today's, with 26 emails before 8:30 a.m., several of them including to-do lists for me, and I know my eyes will be glued to this screen for the next 8 hours, minus a quick thirty minutes for a cheese sandwich and carrots with hummus.

But I got a lot done. I like that I-had-a-constructive-day feeling, like I actually accomplished tasks, reached goals, and made others' lives a little easier in the process. I got a shiny new website launched today with only a couple hiccups, helped create an informational brochure for another client, and planned a week-long trip for my boss to see two clients in Ohio and one in Seattle. I also paid the bills-- very important task there.

I wasn't sure at the beginning the day would go like this. We have one client who insists on being World's Biggest Prick most of the time. Last week I sent him a bill for our services, he countered with "what services?" implying that we hadn't done anything for him. Ungrateful. Yesterday he made a snide remark about how expensive my boss's plane ticket to come see him was (our clients pay for travel), like I had some kind of magical control over airline fares. This morning he made another remark about his bill, again implying that he was paying too much for not enough. He's an enthusiasm vacuum, a good-mood sucker.

I try to chalk it up to him having a bad day (or week, or month), perhaps having financial problems, whatever. But today was too much for my boss, who immediately sent him a scathing email. He took up for me in that email too, like a big brother watching over me, as I'm the one to whom the complaints are usually sent. 

My thoughts: Don't start none, won't be none. I don't know where I first heard that phrase, but it's stuck with me, and it applies to so much in life. Really, try it out for yourself. If you don't start trouble, no trouble will come to you. Kind of like karma. Only much more fun to say.

baseball

Baseball season has started. Baseball season is the best season to live in this town, according to me. Football is too much work-- too many tourists and alumni, people dress up, the restaurants and bars get crowded with faces I don't recognize, you can't drive anywhere quickly. (And by quickly I mean it takes more than 10 minutes to get from one side of town to the other.) Tailgating is over-rated. Don't let my husband know I said that. Basketball is better because I enjoy the sport myself, except it's cold out, and the stadium here is run-down. The seats are so small that even a normal sized woman like me, standing no more than 5 foot 8, feels crunched and scrunched in those itchy blue upholstered fold-up seats. 

It's starting to warm up outside. It was 65 last night, just a light breeze, enough to wave our conference teams' flags over the outfield wall and stir up the charcoal smoke from the grills. Our friends gather in our area on the terrace behind left-center field, just next to the scoreboard. We put up a tent on sunny days, bring out the coolers of beer and soft-drinks, unfold our camping chairs, and Paul cooks up chicken wings, marinated mushrooms, sausages, and veggie kabobs. The girls bring home-baked cookies and snacks. Several of the guys, including my husband, take it upon themselves to learn everything they can about the opposing team's center-fielder, down to even his girlfriend's name (this is where facebook comes in handy) so if he commits an error he gets more than an ear full of heckling from the crowd. 

The sport itself doesn't make a difference to me. The point is getting together with friends we've so missed while hibernating through the winter. We get outside, get some Vitamin D kicking again, feel the warmth of the sun on our faces again, and feel better. Just one game and I already feel the dullness of winter fading from my body.

ketchup

"I've got an idea..." Sarah muttered, tapping her fingernail on the glass of my bedroom window in time with her thoughts. She jumped off the blue gingham-checked windowseat, her bright Strawberry Shortcake red hair now gleaming in the sun, like the idea had lit her up from the inside out. 

"Let's camp out, over there across the lake!"

"But it's freezing out-- it's February!" Mary moaned. Looking out the window up towards the grey sky and naked branches, I started to agree with her.

"But it's supposed to be warmer today and tomorrow. The high is 65! We'll be fine. Come on, it'll be fun!" Now Sarah was pacing, working up her plan, and Mary and I, looking at each other from across the couch, agreed without words there was no point in arguing with her now.

*

Down in the garage, Mary watching very carefully for spiders, we pulled out the old green canvas tent my brothers had used in boy scouts. They had long ago outgrown scouting-- "that's for babies," I could hear my baby brother's mocking voice now. But we still had the tent, and it was in pretty good shape.

"How many does this thing sleep?" Sarah groaned under the weight of it. 

"About 4, probably 5 max," I said. 

"Oh, good, we can invite Lauren then. And we'll need food, lots of food. And some way to make a fire. And hangers for marshmallows, and we need to get some beer too..." she rambled while Mary and I loaded the tent in my little red car to drive it across the levy. 

* 

Mary's phone rang in the hot dog section.

"Hello? Hey. Oh, really... Where? Yeah, I know. Really? Awesome. Yeah, yeah count us in. See you at 7."

"What was that?" Sarah asked, looking at Mary like she had just killed her favorite rabbit.

"Jason just invited us to a party, out at Mark's farm. He's going to meet us at CVS at 7 and we'll follow him out there. He's got beer. It's going to be killer." Mary always had her ears open for a party, especially one where Jason was involved.

"Oh, cool, we'll steal some of his beer and then come back to camp out," Sarah said absentmindedly. 

"Well, we could stay for a little while couldn't we? I mean we could hang out for an hour or two... we'd still have time to cook," Mary fretted while looking down at Sarah who was elbow deep in bags of marshmallows.

"Yeah, an hour will be ok. But no more than that! We have to build a fire too, and after all that we'll be starving... and you'll be half-drunk." Sarah said, looking sideways at Mary while jerking the biggest bag off the back of the shelf.

"Will not!"

*

"I think we forgot the ketchup!" Mary yelled while digging through the three plastic bags of groceries in the backseat. 

"We have to go back!" Sarah yelled, sitting up straight in her tan leather driver's seat and eyeing the turn lane like she was going to make a Batman-like U turn right here.

"We don't have time now. It's almost 5 and we've got to get ready." I said, always the diligent one.

"But you don't have any at your house. Oh, I know-- you two go in and get some packets here." And instead of the Batman-like U turn, she did a Batman-like swerve across two lanes of traffic into the McDonald's parking lot.

"Ketchup is hardly worth killing us over," I grumbled as I got out of the car and walked towards the door.

I held the greasy silver and glass door open for Mary, and she, being only 5 foot 1, performed her favorite trick of walking under my arm. We walked up to the deserted counter.

"Excuse me?" Mary said to the tall woman behind the counter.

"welcome to mcdonalds can I take yo order supersize is only fifty cent more" she spewed at us like she'd said it a thousand times in her life and was getting tired of it.

"Can we have some ketchup please?"

"Ketchup? You wanna order somethin'?"

"No, just ketchup," Mary said very politely, and the woman, without bending down or taking her eyes from Mary's face, reached under the counter, pulled out several packets, and threw them on the counter towards us.

Mary, red-faced, grabbed up the packets, and we ran for the door. Again trying not to actually touch it, I opened the door for her. There was a young man, maybe in his mid-twenties-- too old to be looking at me-- standing right behind me. His brown hair hung in his eyes so I could hardly see his face, but he was smiling at us. He had observed the entire conversation at the counter.

"You want a napkin to go with that ketchup?" he asked, holding a single clean white paper napkin out to me.

"Umm, no..." I stammered and we ran for the car without looking back.

*

"I can't believe this is happening," I exhaled as I watched Jason and his friends pull dry, dead branches and out of the woods and make a pile in front of our newly erected tent. "Who invited them?"

"Well, you know it wasn't going to happen any other way. I mean it's not like we were going to do all this work. And once Sarah gets an idea..." Mary trailed off, smiling at her own thoughts as she cracked open another beer.

"But I know my parents can see us. You see that light over there? That's their bedroom!" I pointed across the lake to a light in the not-far-enough distance. "They could be here in less that five minutes, and the only way out is the levy. It's not like the boys could hide their truck in the woods."

"Don't worry, none of this is your fault. I'll cover for you."

"FIRE!!!!" bellowed one of the guys, a guttural howl, like he had never before seen it and was amazed at himself for creating it.

Everyone pulled up a stump or a log or whatever they could and sat around the fire. One or two more beers in, people started pairing off, some departing into the woods, others into the tent. Lauren and I were left with a guy named Paul, all alone around the dying embers.

"It's cold... I'm going to the car," I mumbled, glad that the night was ending.

"Me too," said Lauren sleepily, grabbing her blanket and following me.

"Ahem. Can I come too?" Paul said weakly.

"Sure, you can have the backseat. Some camp-out, huh, Lauren," I said, plopping into my driver's seat and reclining it as far as it would go.

"Yep." 

Yep, I thought, a night I won't forget anytime soon.

My grandfather told me once, and just once so I'm not sure why it's stuck with me all these years, that some people are born to do physical labor while others are born to supervise. 

"You," he said, "are a supervisor."

I think I was probably 10. He had been mowing, and in joking I told him he missed a spot. I hadn't raised a hand all day except to help my grandmother cook. I did like snapping peas on the back porch.

At the time he was teasing me because I never liked to do things like mowing, weeding, scrubbing, mopping, or anything that got my hands dirty and me sweaty. He lived for that, for being outside and working hard, mowing his 10 acres, twiddling in his wood working shop, hoeing his garden. I didn't even like picking his blueberries, although truth be told it was because I hated the wasps, and he knew that, which is why he'd let me borrow his big leather work gloves because they covered me up to my elbows.

But I think he also recognized in me the ability to rise above the physical labor he'd done all his life. He knew I'd go to college and eventually get an office job, that I wouldn't necessarily need to be able to stand on my feet eight hours, work outside all day, or crawl through a construction site to do wiring, like he did. So it was a good thing that I was good at supervising. 

For a long time I shunned any physical labor, like I really was above it. I never thought I was above him, just the work. Something happened to me around the time he got sick, though, especially after we bought our first house. I hammered a nail (and not just to hang a picture). I planted a bush. I changed a light fixture, painted a wall, weeded my entire yard, planted bulbs, demolished a rotten part of the deck and rebuilt it, put a new brick border around our freshly planted flower beds. Every time I did something new, learned a new skill or accomplished a new task, I thought of him and how proud he'd be of me. Because I learned it all from him in the first place, the value of a hard day's labor and the pride it brings. 

It's those times that I miss him the most. I wish he could see me now, could see the ways in which I am becoming him, the ways that I honor him and the love and kindness he always showed me. I am lucky and grateful to have had him in my life. Surely he's looking down on me from somewhere, smiling, thinking about his little Liz dancing in his garden, now grown into a strong woman, still dancing, in her own beautiful garden.

Grateful Thursday

1) The promotion and raise I got at work yesterday!!! Woo!!!

2) That I had a man like my grandfather in my life, even if it was only for the first 25 years. 

3) That someone opened a super Indian restaurant here... now all I need is Thai.

4) A predicted sunny and warm weekend for baseball games and crawfish boils.

5) Forgiveness, both my ability to forgive and others' forgiveness of my mistakes.

short and sweet

I'm in love with my new blog layout. It only took me a day and a half to finish. Ha. If you've visited me in that time, no telling what you saw, but here it is, in its simple finality.

We're having homemade potato soup and broiled tomato sandwiches for dinner, hoping that tonight might be one of the last really cold nights we have for a while. Come on, Spring.

Edited post-dinner to add:

Those tomato sandwiches were so good I could have eaten five of them. Here's the recipe if you're interested. They'll be even better this summer with my home-grown tomatoes. I can't wait!

Cut about two-three tomatoes into thin slices. Mix 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar and 2 tablespoons olive oil together in a small bowl. Add the tomatoes to marinate. In another bowl, mix 2 or 3 tablespoons of mayo, 1 tsp of Italian seasoning (parsley, oregano, etc.), 1 tsp of black pepper, and 1 tbsp grated parmesan cheese. Spread the mayo on lightly toasted bread (about 4 pieces), add the tomato slices on top of that, and sprinkle a little more cheese on the top of the tomatoes. Put under the broiler in the oven 3-5 minutes until the cheese melts and starts to brown. Enjoy!

I want another one right now.

me

"Your BMI (body mass index): 21 kg/m^2

Your weight is in the normal range.

You do not need to lose weight. 

Minimum caloric requirements: 1922 calories per day."

I don't know this about myself. I look at myself in the mirror, naked after a shower, and I don't see the size 4 looking back at me. I see a large pocket of fat under my belly button, a flat chest, a double chin, and jiggly thighs. 

I compare myself to other women I know, and I'm the smallest (other than that one that runs marathons). I hear Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada happy to be in a 4 or 6, and I'm happy for a minute, but only a minute. Kate Hudson's in a tank top on tv, and we're the same bra size. But she's so thin and petite too, I think. Not tall with a belly like mine that sticks out further than my chest. I count my calories. I think about every bite of food that passes my lips. I don't stop them from passing, but I think about them, beat myself up over the extra or unhealthy ones. I bargain for treats like ice cream: I'll eat a cup tonight, but absolutely no extras tomorrow. I spend too much time trying to find something to wear when we go out, trying to hide things that in reality don't exist.

THIS IS RIDICULOUS. And I know it is. But I don't know how to stop it. I'm becoming obsessed. I'm so afraid to gain weight, so afraid to be "ugly." I feel myself spinning out of control just a little too close to the edge, practically bingeing one day, eating 1200 calories the next.

I know better than to be anorexic or bulimic. I've known women with both and I won't go that far. I do at least have that much control. But this obsession I'm developing isn't healthy either, not for my sanity.

How do I find happiness? I've struggled with this since middle school, always feeling like less of a woman because I never developed past an A cup, and now feeling soft and pudgy too. 

Logically I know that these images to which I compare myself-- models, celebrities, even mannequins, are all underweight, and these famous women have personal trainers and dietitians watching everything they do and eat. There's no way I could live happily and be their size. I'd have to starve and workout like a mad woman. I already know I'd be hypoglycemic the first day-- I've been there before. Plus I like food, good food, rich food.

Rationally I know I'm beautiful. I turn heads. I'm thin, yes I am, I dress well, I have pretty hair, I get complements on my porcelain skin and Angelina lips all the time. A handsome man married me. There are many times I look at myself and feel really pretty and happy with myself.

But then there's naked, exposed me, analyzing every bit of myself in the mirror, looking down at my stomach and trying to suck it in, feeling like I don't measure up to a standard that, even though I know it's set way too high, I'm still struggling to reach.

I don't have to ask if anyone else feels this way. I know they do. All women do. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why? 

I want to say I'm done with this, that I'll never count another calorie or debate another bite, but I know this isn't true. But I have decided today that instead of struggling towards that unattainable goal, I'm going to struggle the other way, towards balance. I don't really know how to start-- I feel like if I did just some kind of exercise, like walking or a little Wii everyday, I'd feel better and more in balance. But I don't want anything else to feel guilty about, because if I don't start exercising I'll just be mad at myself for that too. It would help if my husband were at all interested in getting fit too. If I can just make it to spring, I'll be in the garden every weekend working hard. Maybe for now I'll just lift a little weights and do some stretching in the mornings. 

Wish me luck. Balance and self-acceptance are the new black; didn't you know?