Friday, July 25, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A Word About Singapore
this is an aside... ignore it. blog to follow below: i'm starting to get this blogging thing. i've just been spilling out a little trival thought now and then. but there is a method to this madness...this mommy-blogging. also, am i a mommy blogger just because i blog and i have kids? do we have levels of mommy bloggers, because the blogging,--i can excel at. but the mommy thing--we might have to talk. so remedialish mom, super blogger. ?? sound good? and i will try to pepper this thing with some vulgarity and rough language. i know how much you blog-stalkers love that shit.
okay, onto the blog.
okay, onto the blog.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Final sprint to the Back Forty...make that a slow jog
When Harry Met Sally is of my quintessential life movies. Like The Big Chill, Talladega Nights, Mommy Dearest, Urban Cowboy...and about a dozen others, lines from that movie pop into my head as i work through this life.
Remember when Sally's ex-fiancee married his transitional person (all this time i was thinking he didn't want to get married when really he just didn't want to marry me) and she cried all night on Harrys' shoulder?
Sally in snotty tears: and i'm gonna be forty!!
Harry: yeah, in like eight years.
Sally bursting into tears: it's just sitting there! waiting!
i feel that. my eight years are up. well, in eight months they are. age is just a number--hey, i know that. have you seen the guys i date? still, 40. it's the biggie. it just sits there. like a fence-gate in the middle of the road.
and so our blog begins...
if i get any more out of shape, i'm afraid i'll be declared clinically dead. i never exercise. i mean never ever. walking from my car to the office is the most energy i exert in any typical 24 hour period.
the shrieks of horror from my inner being whenever i pass a mirror (or store window...or any reflective surface) tell me that the time has come. i can't get by with sitting on my ass anymore. my ass is about to crush something. it's time to move this mortal coil around a bit.
yes, this is yet another blog entry
of my attempt to work out
in order to get
better looking . sue me.
i went swimming this weekend. not walking around the pool, swooshing through the water with my head up like what i usually call swimming.
i mean actually performing the strokes. thought i was going to have a stroke.
i can't even call it swimming laps. it was swimming lap.
i've never been athletic. or graceful. or happy about moving. i'm a writer. a reader. a listener. a talker. none of these activities, to which i excel, require me getting out of a chair. and i've come to expect it that way. my only other hobby: drinking, fits well in the "sitting down" category of pasttimes that i've employed these past 5 years.
i will not take up space and time boring you with a list of all the crap i've bought as i've talked about working out. because it's just that: talking about it. intending to get into shape. constructing a plan, but never executing it.
just like so many other things i've intended to do and haven't:
Get my masters.
Start a cooking business.
Take up hoola hooping.
Write a memoir novel.
De-clutter the house.
Accept myself.
the list goes on and on. now time is ticking. i am a writer. i work on deadline. and not a minute sooner. the consumate "best under pressure" kind of person: i work about a week past deadline. so with eight months ahead until i have to blow forty...candles... i figure i'm about a year late in deciding to get started.
for me, seems right on time.
i'm not going to be a hard body. i doubt i'll even be a firm-tofu body. but before i start the second half of my life, i just want to do something i set out to do . being able to swim more than a lap; knowing i'm physically strong; liking the curve of my waist, feeling the quiet approval of my inner voices. seems like a good place to start.
it's God's same mantra to me---dump lazy and do something.
life is what you do. not what you intend to do.
so here i go. no cutesy wrap up.
oh, okay. why not.
the truth is: i can see the ME i have the potential to be--and that's who i want to spend the rest of my life with.
and... when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with a person, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible ...
Remember when Sally's ex-fiancee married his transitional person (all this time i was thinking he didn't want to get married when really he just didn't want to marry me) and she cried all night on Harrys' shoulder?
Sally in snotty tears: and i'm gonna be forty!!
Harry: yeah, in like eight years.
Sally bursting into tears: it's just sitting there! waiting!
i feel that. my eight years are up. well, in eight months they are. age is just a number--hey, i know that. have you seen the guys i date? still, 40. it's the biggie. it just sits there. like a fence-gate in the middle of the road.
ENTER OLDNESS HERE
nothing after the forty mile marker will be the same as it was up to that point. maybe it will be better. maybe not. but i'd like to hit that starting line in as peak condition mentally, emotionally and um, physically as possible. and so our blog begins...
if i get any more out of shape, i'm afraid i'll be declared clinically dead. i never exercise. i mean never ever. walking from my car to the office is the most energy i exert in any typical 24 hour period.
the shrieks of horror from my inner being whenever i pass a mirror (or store window...or any reflective surface) tell me that the time has come. i can't get by with sitting on my ass anymore. my ass is about to crush something. it's time to move this mortal coil around a bit.
yes, this is yet another blog entry
of my attempt to work out
in order to get
better looking . sue me.
i went swimming this weekend. not walking around the pool, swooshing through the water with my head up like what i usually call swimming.
i mean actually performing the strokes. thought i was going to have a stroke.
i can't even call it swimming laps. it was swimming lap.
i've never been athletic. or graceful. or happy about moving. i'm a writer. a reader. a listener. a talker. none of these activities, to which i excel, require me getting out of a chair. and i've come to expect it that way. my only other hobby: drinking, fits well in the "sitting down" category of pasttimes that i've employed these past 5 years.
i will not take up space and time boring you with a list of all the crap i've bought as i've talked about working out. because it's just that: talking about it. intending to get into shape. constructing a plan, but never executing it.
just like so many other things i've intended to do and haven't:
Get my masters.
Start a cooking business.
Take up hoola hooping.
Write a memoir novel.
De-clutter the house.
Accept myself.
the list goes on and on. now time is ticking. i am a writer. i work on deadline. and not a minute sooner. the consumate "best under pressure" kind of person: i work about a week past deadline. so with eight months ahead until i have to blow forty...candles... i figure i'm about a year late in deciding to get started.
for me, seems right on time.
i'm not going to be a hard body. i doubt i'll even be a firm-tofu body. but before i start the second half of my life, i just want to do something i set out to do . being able to swim more than a lap; knowing i'm physically strong; liking the curve of my waist, feeling the quiet approval of my inner voices. seems like a good place to start.
it's God's same mantra to me---dump lazy and do something.
life is what you do. not what you intend to do.
so here i go. no cutesy wrap up.
oh, okay. why not.
the truth is: i can see the ME i have the potential to be--and that's who i want to spend the rest of my life with.
and... when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with a person, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible ...
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Sorcery. Sympathy. Connectivity. and mark wahlberg?
i stood at the foot of her bed and stared. fear mixed with achy sadness before i could get my bearings. then tears came and i had to turn away. i had never been in a hospital room with glass walls. it felt so exposed. like everyone was looking at me staring at her.
it was a head-on collision at the front corner of the vehicle, then the car rolled. in the passenger seat, she took the full brunt of both impacts. her husband is standing by the bed, holding her hand. he walked away with little more than a deep gash on his elbow and some bruises. the same for her son, who was in the backseat.
i watched her chest rise and fall with the swoosh of the ventilator. her hair laid straight up on her pillow, as if it was windblown. tubing from her mouth. her arms. her skull. she lay twisted and seemingly uncomfortable with both legs in casts and an arm lifted in traction. her swollen face gave no indication that the woman i knew was present. talk to her, husband said, tell her you're here. she might be able to hear us. i think she can hear me, he says. i'm not so sure, i think silently. is she in there?
what makes us who we are? when does the source of our soul expire? does it just move on? can it leave our fleshy shell for a while, then come back? if so, can we--on this side of consciousness--influence the time and speed with which it chooses to return? i wonder. we start at nowhere and for a while we are now here, then we go back to no where. is her source still viable inside her.
t-vak was with me. among the three of us we had over 17 of friendship. and we were at a loss for what to do. we prayed. we annointed her hands, feet and head with crosses drawn in holy water. we annointed her with our tears. and we summoned the source of life, the unmitigating light of love, creativity and hope to return to her. we begged that all the powers of sorcery in the goodness of the universe would come into that glass-walled room and fill up her shell with laughter again.
at the very moment the sperm snuggles into the egg, a cataclysmic miracle explodes and in an instant all you will ever be, from your hair color to your nail biting, to your gorgeous blue eyes and jiggly forearms--everything is in that particle of dna. you are a speck. like a peach seed in soil, our potential is completely present at the very moment of the cataclysmic miracle that turns your dad's spooge into you.
and if that source remains in her; as she lay twisted, bruised, incoherent. if we, on this side, try by means of prayer and holy water and positive thoughts and verbal affirmations to cooerce her spirit back to this side--to manipulate her source. are we not engaged in sorcery? i am okay with that, by the way. but... just thinking out loud.
walking with her kids out to the parking garage i was just about knocked down with feeling sorry for them. the image of my old friend twisted and mangled in that bed haunted me. hounded me. burned onto the inside of my eyelids and glowed in my brain when i shut them. tall and thin, her just-teenage son and daughter seemed almost uneffected by the scene we'd just left. daughter skipped a little. son smiled. sat in the backseat quietly like most boys his age. and as i sat with them at lunch, i welled up with pride for them, and for what great people they were becoming. i admired their strength in the face of such sadness. i embraced my own sympathy for them, while still nodding to their faith in the source to make it all right again.
it was a head-on collision at the front corner of the vehicle, then the car rolled. in the passenger seat, she took the full brunt of both impacts. her husband is standing by the bed, holding her hand. he walked away with little more than a deep gash on his elbow and some bruises. the same for her son, who was in the backseat.
i watched her chest rise and fall with the swoosh of the ventilator. her hair laid straight up on her pillow, as if it was windblown. tubing from her mouth. her arms. her skull. she lay twisted and seemingly uncomfortable with both legs in casts and an arm lifted in traction. her swollen face gave no indication that the woman i knew was present. talk to her, husband said, tell her you're here. she might be able to hear us. i think she can hear me, he says. i'm not so sure, i think silently. is she in there?
what makes us who we are? when does the source of our soul expire? does it just move on? can it leave our fleshy shell for a while, then come back? if so, can we--on this side of consciousness--influence the time and speed with which it chooses to return? i wonder. we start at nowhere and for a while we are now here, then we go back to no where. is her source still viable inside her.
t-vak was with me. among the three of us we had over 17 of friendship. and we were at a loss for what to do. we prayed. we annointed her hands, feet and head with crosses drawn in holy water. we annointed her with our tears. and we summoned the source of life, the unmitigating light of love, creativity and hope to return to her. we begged that all the powers of sorcery in the goodness of the universe would come into that glass-walled room and fill up her shell with laughter again.
at the very moment the sperm snuggles into the egg, a cataclysmic miracle explodes and in an instant all you will ever be, from your hair color to your nail biting, to your gorgeous blue eyes and jiggly forearms--everything is in that particle of dna. you are a speck. like a peach seed in soil, our potential is completely present at the very moment of the cataclysmic miracle that turns your dad's spooge into you.
and if that source remains in her; as she lay twisted, bruised, incoherent. if we, on this side, try by means of prayer and holy water and positive thoughts and verbal affirmations to cooerce her spirit back to this side--to manipulate her source. are we not engaged in sorcery? i am okay with that, by the way. but... just thinking out loud.
walking with her kids out to the parking garage i was just about knocked down with feeling sorry for them. the image of my old friend twisted and mangled in that bed haunted me. hounded me. burned onto the inside of my eyelids and glowed in my brain when i shut them. tall and thin, her just-teenage son and daughter seemed almost uneffected by the scene we'd just left. daughter skipped a little. son smiled. sat in the backseat quietly like most boys his age. and as i sat with them at lunch, i welled up with pride for them, and for what great people they were becoming. i admired their strength in the face of such sadness. i embraced my own sympathy for them, while still nodding to their faith in the source to make it all right again.
nothing is solid. in a microscope, magnified to a molecular level, everything is made up particles that are vibrating wildly. there is space between the particles. what holds us together? the source of all life and creativity and beauty flows between us, holding us together and also connecting us to everything and everyone. we are seemless with each other, with nature, with sunlight, with darkness. it's the blanket theory (see i <3>Huckabees).
mark wahlberg was on the today show about a week ago promoting the new M.Night Shyamalan movie, The Happening. i'm not much into celebrities; so i don't know much about mark wahlberg. he loooked good in boogie nights. his brother was a new kid. i think. anyway, mark was there on the plaza making nice-nice with Meredith Matt and Ann. yawn. but as they were going to commercial and thanked him, mark said, "my life is good. my faith is strong and i have true happiness." i thought that was really cool, and not just something you pop off to throw it to commercial.
we're all connected. we're all connected to the source. as we embrace the source, live by the law of love, creativity, beauty, as the source does, we become sorcerers (of the source). as we are of the source, we can beckon the source to create what we want out of this life. i'm comforted to know that i'm connected to a woman in a hospital bed in austin; that i'm able to tap into the source of everything that is good and hopeful and true and clear and to know that even bloated up celebrities can sometimes be cool humans.
just thinking out loud. you may now resume your regularly scheduled life.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Sometimes singleness Rocks
One thing I love about getting old is having a longer memory. I didn't know if I might actually DIE the first time I rode Texas Cyclone at Astroworld. But I didn't. I loved it. Once I'd taken the ride, I knew I could survive it. Life's like that. it takes a few long lines at the roller coaster before you start to figure it out.
You get older … and nothing kills you.
A longer memory gives you the benefit of knowing you've come out of other stuff alive.. even when you weren't sure you would. Ergo, you'll probably come out of whatever you're in now.
So don't let it stress you out.
As I get older, I have richer memories, I have increasingly richer friendships. Friendships wrapped around years of inside jokes and drunken tears tied by a string of jobs lost, raises, divorces, births, remarriages and reconciliation. friends who over our years of yellowing memory books have become my family. They are gold flecks in the air that surrounds me. they make me sparkle inside. I am grateful to have their glitz.
Now, onto the blog.
Saturday I was kid-less and hungover. I slept late, showered, then went to my buddy's house. We've been friends for like 13 years. Very casual—I didn't even wear makeup. he and his wife were going to barbecue; I'd bring potato salad. There was talk of margaritas. Easy.
I'd been there about 15 minutes when I realized that the two of them were having one of those days. I remember those days—magnetic mood days.You and your man are like two wrong sides of a magnet – he's in a good mood when you-- for no apparent reason—just get bitchy... A little wriggling, snipping at each other, something happens and you laugh. your mood shifts, your magnet flips—now you're good mood side up. About that time he curses the furniture you rearranged last week. He's got cranky surface showing. your moods are repellent. you're not going to merge properly today. In any way.
At least that's how I remember the days of magnet mood—ah, marriage. there I was with potato salad and no mascara.
Any quirky thing can turn a mediocre magnet-mood day into a full fledged 'do not touch me' evening. In the case of my beautiful friends, that quirky thing was the VCR remote. First she wanted it, but couldn't find it. Then she gave up on it. Which of course made him bound and determined to find it. After 20 minutes of admirable verbal jousting from both sides, complete with ottoman lifting and couch cushion searching: the elusive remote was found. I rolled my eyes. By now, I didn't give a shit about the movie anyway.
Sometimes being single rocks.
Sunday I had a flat tire. Now if i was married, along with a flat tire on the hottest day I've ever spent in a dress, I'd have ALSO to deal with a male ego—because lord knows I've never been with a man who would change a tire. But regardless of his handy--index, dealing with a sweaty chick in heels AND a flat tire, under any circumstance can throw a couples' day into chaos.
I was actually grateful to be alone… sitting there in my car, waiting for help. Knowing and cherishing (yes, i promise!) that I didn't have to deal with the man I loved.
He doesn't exist. Sweet.
After the flat tire, I needed a drink. I met my friends at La Strada, enjoyed a drive through the westheimer curve, peeked through some old neighborhoods, then picked up frosty's for the girls who would be dropped off soon after I got home.
How long was I gone? Don't know. Luckily, I didn't have anyone who needs to get back to watch Tiger on the 18th hole. I'm solo. Me-o
Every morning, I sleep until the last, bitter, absolute final minute before I have to race into the shower, smear makeup in all the right spots and sprint out the door. My ex used to hate that. He was a coffee in the morning before you shower kind of guy. He'd be asleep before stupid human tricks had started, but awake before willard scott. There were other areas in which we were incompatible… I just thought of this one first.
Sometimes singleness rocks.
The next morning I indulged in a little late morning lounging. I had plucked out a show from the tivo lineup and had it cued up. I arranged pillows, got the kroger flyer situated and had a book ready on the bedstand. I crawled in and reached for the remote to start my "Top Chef" marathon…and … I couldn't find it.
I walked around the bed, looked at the desk, even on my sink counter… nowhere. did I take it to the living room? Refrigerator? Where? I just had it.
I knew who lost it; I knew who had it last. It was definitely me.
Singleness deletes negative mood slinging; simply because there's nobody around to sling it at.
Being single keeps me humble. I'm forced to admit that I am a dumb ass.
I lose things.
I procrastinate.
I know who forgot to take my black dress to the cleaners.
It's the same person who will have to dab the spot off of it with a cotton ball so she can wear it tonight: it's me.
I know who drank the last beer.
I know who was supposed to get the car washed.
I know who paid the card late so there's a fee next month.
I can't get pissed off at my husband --- i don't have one.
It's bittersweet clarity, people: you have to look deep.
But once you get a nice long string of days without having your mood magnet flipped … you'll see: Sometimes singleness rocks.
You get older … and nothing kills you.
A longer memory gives you the benefit of knowing you've come out of other stuff alive.. even when you weren't sure you would. Ergo, you'll probably come out of whatever you're in now.
So don't let it stress you out.
As I get older, I have richer memories, I have increasingly richer friendships. Friendships wrapped around years of inside jokes and drunken tears tied by a string of jobs lost, raises, divorces, births, remarriages and reconciliation. friends who over our years of yellowing memory books have become my family. They are gold flecks in the air that surrounds me. they make me sparkle inside. I am grateful to have their glitz.
Now, onto the blog.
Saturday I was kid-less and hungover. I slept late, showered, then went to my buddy's house. We've been friends for like 13 years. Very casual—I didn't even wear makeup. he and his wife were going to barbecue; I'd bring potato salad. There was talk of margaritas. Easy.
I'd been there about 15 minutes when I realized that the two of them were having one of those days. I remember those days—magnetic mood days.You and your man are like two wrong sides of a magnet – he's in a good mood when you-- for no apparent reason—just get bitchy... A little wriggling, snipping at each other, something happens and you laugh. your mood shifts, your magnet flips—now you're good mood side up. About that time he curses the furniture you rearranged last week. He's got cranky surface showing. your moods are repellent. you're not going to merge properly today. In any way.
At least that's how I remember the days of magnet mood—ah, marriage. there I was with potato salad and no mascara.
Any quirky thing can turn a mediocre magnet-mood day into a full fledged 'do not touch me' evening. In the case of my beautiful friends, that quirky thing was the VCR remote. First she wanted it, but couldn't find it. Then she gave up on it. Which of course made him bound and determined to find it. After 20 minutes of admirable verbal jousting from both sides, complete with ottoman lifting and couch cushion searching: the elusive remote was found. I rolled my eyes. By now, I didn't give a shit about the movie anyway.
Sometimes being single rocks.
Sunday I had a flat tire. Now if i was married, along with a flat tire on the hottest day I've ever spent in a dress, I'd have ALSO to deal with a male ego—because lord knows I've never been with a man who would change a tire. But regardless of his handy--index, dealing with a sweaty chick in heels AND a flat tire, under any circumstance can throw a couples' day into chaos.
I was actually grateful to be alone… sitting there in my car, waiting for help. Knowing and cherishing (yes, i promise!) that I didn't have to deal with the man I loved.
He doesn't exist. Sweet.
After the flat tire, I needed a drink. I met my friends at La Strada, enjoyed a drive through the westheimer curve, peeked through some old neighborhoods, then picked up frosty's for the girls who would be dropped off soon after I got home.
How long was I gone? Don't know. Luckily, I didn't have anyone who needs to get back to watch Tiger on the 18th hole. I'm solo. Me-o
Every morning, I sleep until the last, bitter, absolute final minute before I have to race into the shower, smear makeup in all the right spots and sprint out the door. My ex used to hate that. He was a coffee in the morning before you shower kind of guy. He'd be asleep before stupid human tricks had started, but awake before willard scott. There were other areas in which we were incompatible… I just thought of this one first.
Sometimes singleness rocks.
The next morning I indulged in a little late morning lounging. I had plucked out a show from the tivo lineup and had it cued up. I arranged pillows, got the kroger flyer situated and had a book ready on the bedstand. I crawled in and reached for the remote to start my "Top Chef" marathon…and … I couldn't find it.
I walked around the bed, looked at the desk, even on my sink counter… nowhere. did I take it to the living room? Refrigerator? Where? I just had it.
I knew who lost it; I knew who had it last. It was definitely me.
Singleness deletes negative mood slinging; simply because there's nobody around to sling it at.
Being single keeps me humble. I'm forced to admit that I am a dumb ass.
I lose things.
I procrastinate.
I know who forgot to take my black dress to the cleaners.
It's the same person who will have to dab the spot off of it with a cotton ball so she can wear it tonight: it's me.
I know who drank the last beer.
I know who was supposed to get the car washed.
I know who paid the card late so there's a fee next month.
I can't get pissed off at my husband --- i don't have one.
It's bittersweet clarity, people: you have to look deep.
But once you get a nice long string of days without having your mood magnet flipped … you'll see: Sometimes singleness rocks.
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