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.