SpeakEasy

begin again

2009-02-09T14:40:00.002Z

I spent the majority of my Sunday afternoon browsing cigar box labels, antique maps, and brooches at the Georgetown Flea Market.

I've never had an appreciation for antiques. I find them… well… used. Perhaps it's because my mother has more than once forced my siblings and I to walk around her house with masking tape and a sharpie and label every single item in arms reach that we would like to have should she keel over dead in the next six months. I find the process slightly depressing – taking on someone else’s trash, even if they deem it treasure. My closets are bursting as it is, and because I’ve changed residences eight times in the last nine years, I like throwing away things that are no longer useful.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the surveying of goods. The warm air and the prospect of finding a real treasure. The slightly disheveled purveyors, smelling of smoke, and offering to "discuss the price of that lamp-painting-necklace-goblet-or-tchotchke." It's rare however, that I'll actually buy something.

After the past month, including a week-long vacation to St. Maarten which provided me with a lot of time to think about myself and not work-rent-bills-budget-politics-news-family-health, I realize that I was beginning to consider this blog an antique. Something that, while charming and worn, is old news. Reading back through my own archives late last night, I considered the fact that this blog holds a lot of my past – the last few years of memories in this remarkable city and some experiences that seem so distant from my present-day self that were they not written down, I’m not sure I would clearly remember them as my own.

About the time the volume of my writing slowed, I met someone who’s just tops. I’ll call him H. I’ve written about him a bit, but I’ve been very cautious. Mostly because I wasn’t sure if I wanted my relationship to be a focus or a backdrop of the blog. I wasn’t sure how it all fit together. I’m still not. And… as silly thirteen-year-old girl of me as it sounds, I was busy… and happy… and distracted. Sue me.

I’ve also been spending a lot of time in the kitchen. Baking and cooking but mostly baking. A lot. I think that any normal person needs creative outlets to feel secure and whole. I use the term creative loosely and not to imply that one should sit and make dream catchers out of feathers and twine every weekend. Although if you do, yay for you. Some people fish, some play flag football, some go to the dog park, others write, photograph, cook… sometimes I’m completely overwhelmed by all the things I still want to do and learn. In a way, I think I transferred my writing energy off the page and into the oven. I’m hoping I can find a way to merge the two. If so, it’ll be delicious.

I’m not promising anything spectacular as I’m a bit rusty. But I’ll give it an honest go. I’ll also do my best to fill in the gaps of the last few months – so although I’m starting in the middle, it’ll feel like a beginning.

temporarily permanent

2008-10-21T13:06:00.003+01:00

In August my friend Mike quit his job as a mortgage broker in Tampa, sold everything he couldn’t pack into his jeep and moved to Missoula, Montana. He found a room in a group house on Craigslist and now spends his days hiking, fishing, and mountain biking. Last I heard, he wants to set up a wilderness boot camp that men in big cities can venture to when the concrete and the mundane existence of their corporate jobs gets to be too much.

I don’t talk to Mike very often anymore, although I consider him to be one of my oldest male friends. I don’t talk to him very often because he’s dating one of my closest female friends – PJ.

PJ lives in Chicago. Since August, PJ and I have been discussing the decision that Mike made to move to Missoula from Tampa, rather than from Tampa to Chicago.

“He went off to ride horses and find himself,” she’ll repeat in a way that makes it sound like the opening of a sad country song. And as much as she tries to hide it, to accept it, and to understand that he needs to do this for him, for them, there’s doubt, fear maybe, in her voice when she talks about it.

“It’s only temporary,” she’ll say. And I'll wonder if she believes herself.

----

Walking back to H’s place after dinner last night he told me that one of his customers at the marina where he works offered him a job aboard his yacht for the next three months.

“Over five thousand dollars a month and the opportunity to travel all over South America and the West Coast,” he told me.

“Well?” I looked at him stunned.

“Well what?” He stared back at me.

“Well… did you even consider it?”

“No,” he said flatly.

I hesitated, “Why not?”

“I have a job that I like right here. It might not pay as much, but it will pay off eventually,” and then he paused to take a breath, "and I have you. I was thinking about you. Three months is a long time.”

“Yes it is.”

But then alsmost instantly I had a moment of confliction. As if someone had kissed me and then punched me one right after the other. I don’t want to be resented. Something I’d warned PJ about time and again. If you guilt him into doing something he doesn’t want to do he’ll only resent you – maybe not now, maybe not in five years – but eventually it will happen.

At what point do you stop making decisions for you and start making decisions for we? Truth be told, if H asked me to wait for three months while he took advantage of an opportunity he really wanted, I would. Hell, if he asked me to pack a bag and move to Dubai so he could sell multi-million dollar boats to exorbitantly wealthy Arabic businessmen, I’d probably do that too. But I don’t think that’s the point. I think the point is that both of you have to be being willing to compromise for the good of the whole even if you’re never asked to.

I would never suggest that PJ put an expiration date on her relationship. There’s far too much gray area for that. But what do you do when the person you want, who says that they want you, leaves on a journey and doesn’t offer a glimpse of when he might return?

I don’t know.

But I will say this: It sucks. It sucks to live in the fleeting whims of another person. It sucks to be told one thing and watch as something else entirely is played out in front of you. It sucks when you’re the girl that gets ahead of herself with plans and promises and building a relationship only to find yourself forced into pressing pause.

Or worse, setting an ultimatum for your own happiness.

dc talk

2008-09-15T13:20:00.003+01:00

Late Friday night I was driving back from Cleveland Park with H and his roommate Adam and their friend KT when Adam announced from the backseat that he didn’t ever want to turn into the DC prototype.

We’d been out to dinner and then to drinks for another friend’s birthday, but spent most of the night huddled together on barstools in the corner watching people. To me it just seemed like a typical, normal way to spend a Friday evening in the city.

“What exactly is the DC prototype?” I remarked defensively.

I took a deep breath as I waited for his response, shocked by my own instant reaction to his comment. I felt H rest his hand on my knee – a sign of affection and knowing all in one – his way of telling me not to take it personally. I’m amazed that his presence alone can calm me.

“Well I could never be one of those SmartTrip-carrying-blackberry-wearing-types, ya know?”

“Adam you have a blackberry,” I smirked, eyeing him from my rear-view mirror.

“I know.”

“And you don’t have a car so you take the metro everywhere.”

“I know.”

“The fact that you don’t have a SmartTrip and don’t get your metro fare deducted tax free out of your paycheck just makes you dumb, or lazy. You also work in politics and you’ve successfully lived here for over a year, so in essence: you are DC.”

“But I don’t want to live here forever.”

“No. But I’d argue that that makes you even more typical DC.”

“Yeah I just don’t like the DC mentality I guess.”

“Which is what exactly?”

He couldn’t tell me.

I don’t understand why people hate this city, or at least, become scared of it, or what it might make them. I’ve gotten in fender benders, bumped cars while trying to parallel park, been accosted by homeless people and still given out change whenever I have it. I’ve lived and/or worked in every quadrant of DC as well as both Alexandria and Arlington. I’ve made friends with attorneys, lobbyists, politicians on both sides of the party line, pharmacists, non-profit leaders, club kids, dog-walkers, guitarists, teachers, reporters, editors, sales reps, waiters, bartenders, meeting planners, and magazine publishers. I’ve tripped down the street late at night in Adams Morgan, crept up to U Street for late night dinners, walked through the galleries and museums with out of town friends and family, trekked with the masses to the Mall for book festivals and movies, and ventured out to the stretches of the suburbs for concerts and wine festivals. I’ve shopped in Georgetown, used weekend mornings for brunch by the harbor, spent more than half my income on rent and still managed to go out to more Happy Hours than I can count. I’ve fallen in love here too. And I smile every single time I drive that small stretch of road on 7th Street between Independence and Constitution.

Maybe I’m smitten because I know I’ll eventually leave. I’m not caged and I don’t feel I won’t be able to succeed elsewhere. I won’t go because I’ll be sick of the city and the crowds and the traffic. On the contrary, I'm certain I’ll miss it all dearly – even the ugliest parts. But especially the people and the pulse of it.

A city is only the sum of its parts, made up merely by its inhabitants. And as small as my role has been in this one over the past four years, I still feel as though I’ve imprinted myself upon it. Left something here (or taken something in) that will be remembered and appreciated in many distant, far away moments after I’m gone.

At least that’s my hope.

two for two

2008-05-16T15:15:00.002+01:00

My friend MVP got dumped in an email on Sunday. She’d been seeing the guy for less than two weeks, so I’m not sure you could even classify it as a full on dumpage… more like a trial run.

He wrote her a four paragraph email explaining why they weren’t a match. It reads like the biology reports I did freshman year of college. X combined with Y creates a reaction that destroys the test cells; therefore we can conclude that X should not be combined with Y under any circumstance.

Soon after they’d met, I asked MVP where she saw things going with him. She expressed excitement over her newfound attraction and seemed excited about how much time they were spending together and of course, in true MVP fashion, gave me a full rundown of their more private parties. She was into him. But then she explained that he had shown some hesitation over making things official. I asked her how that made her feel. She told me she was fine with it. She didn’t want to rush him.

Liar liar pants on fire. Really? I asked. Cause I’ve been there. I’ve talked myself into being okay with less, convinced myself that it’s actually what I wanted and spent hours convincing others who nodded to me with flecks of pity in their eyes. I’ve stayed awake at night wondering how I could do it better, be better, show him (them?) what he’s missing, strategize the best way to prove myself worthy of commitment. Let me tell you: that's a lonely place to be.

Okay! Okay, she said. I do want him to be my boyfriend.

It all got me thinking: at what point did we as women, decide that it was okay to accept our relationships for what they are, rather than what we want them to be? I’ve officially had two boyfriends in my twenty-five years of living. Two. Two that I can say with certainty went through the motions of having a ‘status’ conversation with me. Sounds kind of pathetic huh?

Or perhaps not. I’m guessing if we’re honest with ourselves, I’m not alone. The New York Times is running a College Essay Contest in the Modern Love column, in which they’ve asked co-eds across the country to explain what love is to them. The winner in the series, “Want to Be My Boyfriend? Please Define” by Marguerite Fields, struck a resonating chord with me. Not just with the similarities I found in her laundry list of male encounters but at the inconclusive last paragraph, which made me heave a deep sigh coated in hopeless expectation at wanting more.

Two is a bullshit number because it discredits the investments I’ve made in my relationships. There was the high school boy who took my virginity, the German exchange student I spent over a month with during freshman year of college, the boy with dark blue eyes who lived across the hall from me and sent me naughty IM’s in the middle of the night, the Irish boy who helped me make fried fish sandwiches and sang me songs in the morning, the crazy conservative, the beer man, and still more. Back and forth and in between. Then I moved to DC, where the faces change, but the game remains the same. Where it seems I meet more and more people incapable of finding (or wanting) a monogamous meaningful relationship.

At the end of Field's essay, she writes, “I tried to tell myself that I’m young, that this is the time to be casual, careless, lighthearted and fun; don’t ruin it,” I thought immediately of all the guys who came before today, before this moment in time. Those episodes when I’ve wanted so much more than I’ve been given, but took what was offered, lapped at the bowl of it trying to get at every last drop. And I thought of MVP, sitting alone, checking her inbox on a Sunday afternoon and finding disappointment with two clicks of a mouse. I want more for her. I want more for myself.

fact and fancy

2008-04-04T10:07:00.001+01:00

I follow a man with brown hair and a gray suit onto the bus.
My feet are wet from standing in the rain, and my shoes squeak as I climb the stairs.
The man is holding a toddler with blonde hair and pink shoes.
Last week I took a tour of the monuments by moonlight and a baby on our bus screamed for three hours.
I evaluate getting off and waiting for the next bus.
I sit down behind the man and the toddler.
The closer I am to the front, I reason, the faster I can get off the bus.
The toddler has turned to face me and smiles when I smile. I wonder how old she is.
“How old is she?”
“Thirteen months,” he answers without turning.
I wave to her.
I think I’m like my father in the way that makes me comfortable talking to strangers on buses.
She waves to me, making a fist and then releasing, spreading her tiny fingers wide.
He seems too young to have a toddler. How old are you, I wonder.
A girl I went to high school with is pregnant. I saw it on Facebook.
Considering this makes my stomach tighten. I frown and turn to look at the street.
It is still raining.
I think that I’d never want to to travel with my children this way.
The man starts to sing. “The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…”
His voice is smooth and confident, unconcerned with who might overhear.
My mother used to sing me this song. All through the town... I hum quietly along.
When he gets to the part where the wipers on the bus go swish swish swish, the toddler leans over to smudge her hand back and forth against the window.
He kisses the top of her head. “Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s right.”

Then, as if it were happening again for the first time, I remember the text that had come at three in the morning the night before.
The faint beeping that coaxed me awake.
The unexpected assault of seeing just a name and a birth weight.
Of him being a father now.
Of wondering if people ever truly move on.

The toddler squirms against being held.
She catches me watching her, smiles, and holds up her small fist like before.

And for a split second, I am jealous of this man’s wife, and her husband in a gray suit, who has a little girl with blue eyes and pink shoes, on a bus, commuting home in the rain.

high fidelity

2008-03-31T21:42:00.003+01:00

The thing about writing a blog is that eventually, somewhere down the road, people are going to read it. And after they do, for a year, two, maybe longer… you begin to fret. Censor yourself. Worry that the use of this word or that one might give people the wrong idea. That they’ll believe, like the media addicts that we all are, everything they read. Rather than see your writing as a significant part of you, but not the whole of you, they’ll instead consider it all and everything. Misunderstand. You become the sum of your blog. Rather than equal to your many parts.

It’s worse when you date someone who reads your blog. When there are pages you could fill on the topic of you and him, but you won’t, because that’s airing your laundry. The dirty kind. And it smells of complicated more than you’d ever expect it to. You’re scared to come across as too needy. Too absorbed in your relationship. Obsessed. . That’s when I start to wonder if we’re really all that sensitive? Or if we simply just have too much information? Too many ways to catch each other screwing up and failing. So I stick the niceties and the excitement. The good only, avoiding the bad and the ugly. Even if it feels misleading.

And eventually, someone you’re just getting to know will want to see it. To read you. And apprehension will tighten in your stomach like they’ve asked you to go lingerie shopping. Fun and exciting? Perhaps. But a little more than you’re ready for? Probably. Because you really wish they weren’t going to see the scars, or the love handles, or the general naked-ness. What if they don’t like what they find there? What if they’re not interested in your petty little musings on everyday life? They think you’re writing is shit? What if, worse than that, they don’t even read it? What can you assume then? They just don’t care?

Nothing. We can assume nothing. Just that we're all wrapped in our own lives, and unless we have made a conscious effort to enclose others in our day to day, we should expect nothing. Except honesty.

So why blog? Well… I haven’t been. I took a bit of a hiatus. A time to clear out and see if I had anything left to say. And I realized that I should stop letting my anxiety arrest the page. Even if what I write doesn’t make sense. Or if it offends and bores. If it enlightens and hiccups you into a feeling. If it makes you cringe or cry. Laugh. Sigh. If it breathes back to you. Because certain blogs have done these thing for me. And I think that’s pretty remarkable. So I'll keep trying too. To mark out a history for myself, cached in the eternal resting place that is Google. Just remember that that’s not all there is. Really. There’s so much more. But it’s a good place to start.

clean sweeps

2008-02-07T07:47:00.000Z

In the guest bathroom in our house on Woodvine Road my mother had hung a cross-stitched framed piece that said, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” It was surrounded by ivy and pink flowers, which matched the equally pink and flowery hand towels that resided directly below it.

Right before I'd leave that bathroom, in the millisecond it would take me to turn off the light, I’d pause to watch the night light flick on and stare at that frame under the dim glow, thinking it was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. Wondering why my mother had chosen a bathroom of all places to hang it.

I didn’t really get it. Wouldn’t your birth be the first day of the rest of your life? Seems a stretch to think we’re reborn everyday. That we’re given that many second chances. Eerie in a non-denominational cultish scientology red bracelet wearing way. Not to mention a lot to ask of someone who just stopped by for a visit and after using the loo, dried their hands and looked up to find an unexpected adage glaring down at them from the wall.

I took a bath last night. Carefully shaved my legs, moisturized, plucked my eyebrows, ironed my clothes, picked out some jewelry, charged my Palm Pilot, checked how long it would take me to Metro in for the first day at NewJob. Trying to remember that you never get a second chance to make a first impression. To dress for the job you want and the ends will justify the means. That sort of thing.

Sometimes I hate advice. Don’t get me wrong, if I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it. And if you know me well enough you’ll know when I’m asking. Or when I’m not asking but still want it. Make sense? But the rest of it I hate. Sometimes. The pink and flowers of it. The sugar coated cooing. The it’ll be alright soons and just give it times. The advice that's sprayed like powdered bathroom freshener which only masks but never removes the problem. Or the hurt.

So I’m trying to seize the ache, the relief, the embarrassment, and the laughter, along with the day. Because the truth is, at the end of it, when it’s just me and some bath bubbles, I want the security of knowing that I own the decisions I’ve made. Regardless of choosing wrong, right or not at all. That in my actions and reactions - I do the best I can. Put my best foot forward, even if I’m not quite sure what I’m stepping in. Hoping that sooner or later things will get back on track and suddenly I’ll be all carpe diem and shit.

Literally.

thirteen going on

2008-01-28T17:00:00.000Z

At thirteen I wasn’t allowed a phone in my room. I was allowed to live in the basement and play my music as loud as I wanted, but a phone was out of the question. A phone my parents could prohibit. A phone jack, however, just couldn’t be helped. I got good at hiding things. I blame the electrician.

Then (and sometimes now) I felt that rules were just meant to be broken. Especially in terms of boys. And being in like. So I would lie in bed and talk to one particular boy for hours. After 9pm. Also, against the rules. Most of the time it was about school and who was going out and making out and freaking out. What he/she said and to whom. If he thought my mom would drive us to the movies on Saturday afternoon. I’m sure he told me about wanting to be a professional baseball player and what it would be like to be in high school. I imagined we’d always be this close. The close that warrants five hour phone conversations and nightly debates over who would hang up first.

And then one afternoon he turned to me and asked, “What would happen if I kissed you?”

I shrugged. So he did. Right there, sitting on the concrete, waiting for his mom’s white minivan.

Two weeks later I found out that he’d been making out and holding hands with my best friend in the back of a movie theater. During Contact no less. I haven’t liked Jodi Foster since. Word travels fast in middle school. It’s the first time that I recall being angry at anyone other than my parents and I remember wanting to hit something, someone. Wishing that I were a boy so it would be allowed.

I asked him outright.

“Is it true?”
“No”

I think I knew he’d lie. Which hurt more. Even now, when people commit a wrong, I never feel that the action is as bad as the lie that accompanies it. Just tell me the truth. Give it to me straight. Let me deal with it and move on. Cowards lie. And scared fourteen year old boys with pulsing hormones. No thank you.

So I called said best friend for help (keep your enemies close, right?) The deal was, she would dial him while I was still on the line. Get him to admit to his act and then I’d know. Three-way calling in all its glory. She’d already told me what had happened. And I was inclined to believe her, but I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted confirmation. Proof.

It worked. Ten minutes into the conversation he confirmed what I already knew. Which is exactly what I blurted, right into the phone. “I knew it. You’re a liar.” I hung up and sat there on the kitchen counter in the middle of the afternoon and hated him. Right up there next to my mother’s spatulas and wooden measuring cups - I set it down. Hated him for making me feel this way. For picking her over me. But mostly for the lie. For the confirmation of what I already knew. That he didn’t want me.

At thirteen you can’t see past 5th period. Not past who to sit with at lunch or whether your mom will let you go to the nine o’clock movie for once. But then you get older – grow – things become messier because the stakes are higher, you feel like you’ve got more to lose. Even if it's not about winning. You've got more to miss. Cause now you’re waking up to mornings that are tucked in and made up instead of sloppy and eager. You’ve become entwined in a person who promised that they’d be honest. But then they aren’t. And you’re left holding the phone, wishing that you could shut off the world and asking yourself how long the mess you’re in is going to take to clean up. Wondering where the girl that sets this-is-the-way-it-should-be up there on the counter went. The one who knows when a thing just isn’t right. The one who just walks away.

you oughta know

2008-01-15T16:49:00.000Z

I used to wish for snow. In the way that a kid wishes for a new bike or a Barbie dream house or a tight pair of stonewashed Jordache jeans that all the cool girls in school had. Just snow.

It’s intangible, because even in the first few weeks of January, South Carolina weather doesn’t lend itself to snow days and snowmen and coming in from the cold with flurries caught in your hair and settled onto your wool coat. Yet each year on my birthday, as if mocking the weathermen, I would wake up and peek through the blinds and hold my breath in hopes that magical misfortune had covered the ground in winter white. It never happened.

Ten years ago around this time, I’d just turned fifteen. A freshman in high school. Chatty, awkward, overly confident at times, reserved and quiet at others. I played Alanis and Aerosmith on repeat. I pleaded to be dropped off at the mall without parental supervision. Was finally allowed to ride in cars with boys. I learned to wear thongs. Matched my eye shadow to my outfit. And I desperately wanted to be older than just fifteen.

That was a big year.

I’m not one for regrets. For thinking back and wanting to change circumstance. I made my mind up about that at fifteen. Partly because I wanted nothing to do with just you waits, or being too young to know any betters. But I think if given the opportunity, I’d go back and tell myself a thing or two. Like to stop letting mom tell you how to cut your hair and to always buy really well made bras, even if you can’t afford groceries that week. To kiss the boy you’ll meet in the south of France in a couple of years, he’ll be the stuff of legend. That dad is going to get really sick, but he’ll be okay. That whoever named it a blowjob was just trying to be funny. That the pain we experience only strengthens our capacity for love.

Nothing too drastic. Nothing that would butterfly affect the where and how of me here and now.

Getting older can be worrisome. Remembering that I’m young is harder. Realizing that, as Jess says, you can’t be expected to just know things. You gotta go through it first. And cut yourself some slack while you do. That part is tough. It’s like wanting to have my hair pulled and be spooned all at the same time. Cause sometimes I really don’t know any better. And other times I’m spot on. That there’s still a part of me that tries things mostly because I want to know what they’re gonna feel like. That still wants it to snow every winter when I’m back in the South, even if there’s no chance of it. I want both. And both are there. I just forget sometimes.

old long sigh

2007-12-31T15:28:00.000Z

I resolve to:

... tell people if they have left their fly unzipped, have food in their teeth, or sat in something greasy and brown and are unaware of it. After all, I’d want to know.

... make more safe (perhaps illegal) U-turns. I always end up spending five minutes going around the block when I could have just cut it off at the point.

... stop feeling bad about the fact that I check my Facebook more than five times a day and occasionally use it to stalk people.

... memorize all the lyrics to “Sweetest Girl” and sing them in public for dollah dollah bills ya’ll.

... wear my special occasion underwear on not so special occasions.

... remember that I do not have to watch all YouTube videos that are recommended to me. Especially those where someone insists on taping my reaction. More specifically those that involve two chicks and one anything.

... cease and desist throwing my coworkers copies away before she can get to the machine. Although this has given me many moments of suppressed giggling, I realize it isn’t very nice. In fact it might be downright evil.

... not make any more ridiculous resolutions.

hot day in december

2007-12-29T20:50:00.000Z

I like the Fourth of July best. In terms of holidays that is. First there are fireworks. Real ones of course. Real sparks and colors bursting seemingly out of nowhere. Not ones I dream up in my mind after kissing a cute boy. No figments of my imagining. There’s beer and sun and pretty dresses and bathing suits. No attempts at looking sexy in Grandma's oversized hand knit sweater. Screw that – no one cares what you’re wearing on the Fourth of July. Plus there are hot dogs. God I love hot dogs. I know. Gross. Ground up semi-meat product rolled into a small log. I know. But man they’re good. On the Fourth of July there’s no giving and returning. No wrapping. No too small or ugly or unwanted. No expectation. No guilt and no disappointment.

On Tuesday, my mother baked Jesus into a chocolate cake. Then she asked me to spread Betty Crocker whipped cream cheese icing over it.

That night, my youngest nephew finished off three large pieces in two minutes flat and triumphantly waved a foil wrapped (so as not to burn) plastic baby the size of a quarter in the air and jumped up and down yelling, “I found Jesus! I found him!” At which point, my mother presented him with the prize – a silver Christmas tree ornament. He looked at her as if to say, “Seriously?”

Seriously.

Outwardly I asked for one thing for Christmas: pearl earrings.

Got ‘em. Check.

I covered over a thousand miles driving (alone) in the past week and inwardly, I had a lot of time to think. To process. To be disappointed and feel guilty. And nostalgic. As Decembers go, I think that’s expected. Bittersweet really. The last two months have been like one constant Salvation Army bell ringing in my ear. I’m reminded of what I didn't do. And I sometimes wonder if the decisions I’ve made, what I’ve accomplished, the things I choose, are really what I want. The want scares me. Perhaps because the non-material things I'd ask for seem unattainable. Some selfish, others not. Not impossible, but improbable.

And yet, I’m constantly reminded that I can’t forecast what’s coming. Can’t be ready for unexpected cold days in July, or for that matter, hot days in December. I can’t brace myself for disappointment or guilt.

Maybe there's something to be said for making a list, checking it twice, and wanting unabashedly.

sky green, grass blue

2007-12-12T13:09:00.000Z

I hung up on my mother last night. Actually… that's a lie. In my opinion I didn't technically hang up on her. I said, "I have to go. I don't want to talk about it anymore. Please? I have to go." But she kept talking. Kept going on. It's not rude if you warn someone you're going to do it.

So she called me back. Fifteen times in a row. At first leaving angry messages and then I'm sorrys. Then just wanting to make sure I was alright because I was refusing to answer the phone.

And then my father called.

"You shouldn't have hung up on your mother."

"I didn't Dad."

"She thinks you did." Never one to create more tension where enough already exists, his voice was understanding. Knowing he'd kill more flies with sugar.

"But I don't want to talk about it."

"Sometimes we have to talk about things we don't want to talk about."

"Yeah but she wasn't making any sense."

"Alright," he paused, "how was your day, is it busy at work now? Is
there a lot going on?"

I remember myself as a child just as well as anyone might. Through stories I've been told about my ache to try everything my older brother did, my anger at not being able to read road signs when everyone else around me could, the rather adult conversations I am told I carried on with my second and third grade teachers, the time in fourth grade I pulled my best friend's pants down while waiting for the bus to arrive. Often, I think, we cultivate memories by being told what happened… not by the actual remembering of it ourselves. It's the same difference though. Technically.

Mostly, I remember car trips. How my parents would pack at five in the morning. Putting a cooler with drink boxes and peanut butter Ritz crackers between the captain's chairs on the second row of our grey minivan. Once everything was loaded, they would wake us, trot us off to the toilet and buckle us, still pajama clad into the car. How in those days, before my mother's hands shook from medication and anxiety, she would sit shotgun and crochet. And my father would drive based on how the conversation flowed. If my mother had zoned out over her lap full of yarn and patterns and needles he would go above the speed limit. But the minute she'd pause to tell my brother or I to stop throwing crayons at the other or comment on some talk show hosts’ backwards opinion, he'd slow down.

When we became restless in the back seat, my mother would put in a tape of kids songs and my brother and I would sing, very loudly, along with them.

Eventually I would catch my father’s eye in the rear view mirror and squeak “Dad! Sing! SING!”

And he would… for a verse or two. Making my mother angry when he inserted the adult lyrics into the kids version of Big Rock Candy Mountain. And then his voice would fade out and he would listen. At which point I would stop singing too and start to ask questions. As far as I recall my conversations with my father at that age went something like this:

Dad, why do they call it rock candy?
Cause it's shaped like rocks that are bunched together.
But why? It doesn't look like rocks.
Not the ones you've seen. Some rocks look like crystals.
But why don't they call it crystal candy?
Cause rock candy sounds better.
Okay. Why do they paint the road lines white and yellow?
So that you can see them at night.
Okay. Why don't they paint those light pink?
Because it wouldn't be fair to boys.
Oh. Why do we have boys?
Because the sky is green and the grass is blue.

This response would inevitably send me into a fit of giggles and exclamations of "No it's not!" and meant that I'd gotten to a question that wasn't going to be answered.

Because
the sky
is green
and
the grass
is blue.

I wonder often about the times when, as adults, we feel most like children. How I can pay a $65 heat bill in one instant and call my mother the next to plead for some sympathy over the fact that I sliced my finger open making green bean casserole. How asking for help and wanting to be independent can cause such a flurry of misunderstanding, and in that instant you remember that your parents can’t answer complicated questions any better than you can.

seabed

2007-11-06T23:06:00.000Z

She drove home smoking a Marlboro Light 100. She bought the 100s because the station around the corner from her office was out of the regulars. And because the Pakistani man at the counter knows her name and says, “hello sweetie” and “goodbye to you” when she comes in to buy a pack. She drove home thinking most of the way that her stomach was still hurting. Not from the wine or the chocolate or the scary movie that wasn’t really that scary after all. It’d just been hurting. For days.

She tossed the cigarette before it was nearly done, wishing at once that she hadn’t, because cigarettes aren’t cheap and she’d spent too much money at a wedding the weekend before. A wedding where she sat in the third pew and let tears stream down her face as the groom said “I, take you, to be mine.”

Then she’d stood on a porch at a reception, with cheap beer poured into a dainty crystal glass, and talked to her friend about where they thought they’d be by now. And why they’re not there yet. And how not being there doesn’t as much feel like failing as much as it feels like waiting on ships to come in. Or tides to rise. And fall.

Last night she awoke, crying unexpectedly, at three in the morning. And she reached across the bed for… something. Only to find pillows and the book she probably won’t finish because it hasn’t been riveting so far. Perhaps she was crying because her stomach still hurt, or because of weddings or people that are far away. Or just… absence. She wasn’t sure why. Except that when she’d flown down to the wedding she’d watched the sunset sky from the plane and considered how much it looked like the ocean. You look so far out, she’d thought, and see nothing but a great expanse of delicate matter. And then days later… late in the night… she’d felt something pool inside her, as if all that delicate matter was crowding towards her heart, just aching to get out.

to wit

2007-10-30T11:55:00.000Z

“Hows it going?”*

“Good.” I took more sips of my drink. “Hows it going with you?”

“Good.”

K and I had planted ourselves on the porch at Poe’s. Less than a two-minute walk from the beach, the bar was relatively crowded but not annoyingly so. I was pretty sure I had sand in my high heels and my hair was a bit of a mess from the thick salty air but I couldn’t have been happier.

“So what are you ladies all dressed up for?”

We weren’t in Halloween costumes so it was an obvious question. Earlier that night, I’d dragged K along with me to the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner for my cousins wedding. We’d skipped out early to do a little beach bar hopping on Sullivan’s Island and I explained all of this to him.

“Well you look great.”

“Thanks.” Compliments go such a long way. Especially when they seem sincere.

“So I’ve got a question.”

“Sure.”

“Are you familiar with match.com?”

K and I both nodded.

“Ok.. so my buddy over there, his name is Kevin, he’s got two girls he’s been talking to for the past week on match.com, right? One of them is pretty hot. Seems nice, normal, not psycho. But her profile is awful. It’s boring and she seems like she’d be kinda dumb in real life. The other girl, is less hot. Not unattractive. Just not hot hot. (he really did say “hot hot”) But her profile is great. She seems smart and interesting, even funny. Like she’d be fun on a date and have a lot to say. So my question is… does he go for the hot girl or the not-so-hot girl? Which counts more… looks or personality?”

Damn. What a way to start out conversation.

“Personality, obviously,” I said, “He should go with the not-so-hot girl.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“I am not! You just met me, how do you know what I’m full of?”

“Ok, ok… hear me out. You’ve seen Full House right?”

“Uh, the TV show?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah of course.”

“Ok. Who would you rather sleep with… Uncle Joey or Uncle Jesse?”

“Oh, Uncle Jesse.”

“See! You’re full of shit. If you were personality first you would have said Uncle Joey.”

“No! Uncle Joey played with puppets and did cartoon voices. Uncle Jesse played the guitar and had really great hair. Just because he was hot doesn’t mean he didn’t have personality too.”

“Most people don’t have both.”

I stopped at this, disagreeing. I’d found the hole in his theory. Women, I believe, are first attracted to a person based on their appearance. This attraction is usually found in social situations like bars, concerts, or house parties. If there are a lot of people in a room, a woman (just like a man) is going to make eye contact with someone she finds attractive. Period. Why would anyone spend the evening making googly eyes at someone they didn’t find attractive. What a gross waste of time.

BUT in a situation where there are fewer options – say a small dinner party – and a woman is seated next to a man that she does not at first find so very attractive – but throughout the dinner he makes her laugh, is sincere, attentive to her friends and overall very charming. His attractiveness, will thereby, in her mind, go up exponentially.

Say a woman in a bar is approached by a man who looks strangely like the older brother from the Wonder Years. She doesn’t necessarily find him to be the most attractive guy in the bar – however, his assertiveness, humor, and the manner in which he has engaged her in conversation make him increasingly more attractive as the evening continues.

Or. Um. Something like that.

"Course, he could just drink until he thinks she's hot."

"That too."

*I think this is the easiest line anyone can use when approaching someone. That is, unless you’re just amazingly witty and can pull something out of your magic bag o’ pick up lines that a) won’t come across as offensive and abrasive and b) actually is funny and not “oh my friends all tell me I’m funny” funny, which is typically not funny at all.

unplugged

2007-10-22T16:16:00.000+01:00

I watch you there through the window and I stare at you
You wear nothing but you wear it so well
Tied up and twisted the way I’d like to be
For you, for me, come crash into me

We’d both sung through the entire song and I was breathless and laughing.

“Wow. That takes me back to 8th grade make out sessions.”

I’d given Dan control of thePod because I was driving and the parkway was dark. I watched him scrolling through the lists, pausing to see what albums of this or versions of that I had stored before he settled on Dave Matthews Band.

“Doesn’t it?”

“I feel like it’s the younger version of what John Mayer’s Your Body is a Wonderland turned into.”

“Uh. I think I missed the John Mayer train.”

“Probably a good thing. Every girl I knew freshman year of college wanted to have a hand put behind her head before it hit the bed. Gag. But I guess everybody’s gotta have a song.”

“I hooked up to a lot of heavy metal.”

“How romantic.”

By the time I’d dropped Dan off at his apartment, I’d made a mental list of the music that reminded me of different guys in my past.

My first kiss happened to Boys to Men but I learned to do it the right way with Bob Marley.

Summer camp after ninth grade I was smitten with a guitar player named Tyler. He was older. Knew more about music and well… most everything. So I let him teach me a few things, including the chords to Bush’s Glycerine.

I don’t remember much music being associated with boys in my later years of high school. Just a few prom slow dances, that seemed so important at the time, and now… so inconsequential.

The spring before I left for Scotland I spent a lot of time with SD and Blues Traveler. Just Wait takes me back to dorm room thin mattresses, the third row van seat he used as a sofa, and sneaking out of the squeaky back door of his building before being caught after hours by an RA.

One boyfriend in college refused to have sex without the TV blaring ESPN. Okay… I exaggerate. He didn’t refuse. He just always turned it on and then one thing led to another and there we were on the fifty-yard line, going at it against the background voices of Chris Spielman and Lou Holtz. At some points I thought they were commentating us and not the game: there he goes! there he goes! And… there’s a flag on the play. Illegal use of hands, five yard penalty.

On a random Saturday last year, I laid around with G - him trying to nap, me trying to finish Sudoku and Guster’s Keep it Together playing from the speakers beside his bed. I woke him up to finish the puzzle. Not because I couldn’t. But because I didn’t want to do it alone. To be there awake and alone. So he finished it while I watched and then… well, I just remember hoping that tomorrow would be like today. Wishing I could live in lyrics of a person.

At other times there’s been Ryan Adams’ Heartbreaker, Sarah McLachlan, Portishead, The Rolling Stones, and a few others. Not all different guys of course, just different times.

I think every song, like any relationship, runs its course. Its time at the top is short lived. It’ll be played and over played for a week, a few months, maybe even a year until something newer with a better rhythm takes its place.

But then there are those few great songs, ones with perfect melodies and confident harmonies – ones that stay with me forever. Ones I don’t remember memorizing the lyrics to or the distinct point in time that I started singing along.

Sometimes, when it’s late and quiet, I find myself missing the music of someone. The sounds of breath catching against skin, a whisper when there’s no one else around, the coda of a kiss right after you pull away, the easy thump of a heartbeat. Like those great songs, sometimes a person just… fits. And when that happens you just gotta hit repeat.

unsent

2007-10-09T00:03:00.000+01:00

To someone,

I thought of you while I was walking through the city on Friday night, on a road behind all the noise, I looked to my feet and saw the leaves. The first hints of fall, since the last fall, and the fall before that. I wonder if I will still be thinking of you when I see next fall’s leaves. If you’ll know me then. More. Or less. Than now.

I haven’t felt certain. Perhaps that is why I am writing this now. Because when I am feeling uncertain and hopeful, I think backwards. Unearthing the past of things that seemed true. Because my memories are more trustworthy. More tangible than the stretch of people and land and time between us.

As I was walking, I remembered the book I left you. How I pointed to it as I shrugged on my coat. It was about a boy who went on a trip to find a girl. But she was right there with him all along.

I’d tucked a note inside page 123. A number assuming continuance. An expectation of next. One. Two. Three. And on. Because there’s always more to the story.

Where are you? I hope you’re happy.

That's all it said.

Now I keep listening to a certain song, one you wouldn’t know, about a train whistle and running water. About running away. And I think that where you are is brighter than the city lights I see. Just like the lyrics. Because you are stellar.

And I am still here. I just am.

And my skies have been missing you.

And I haven’t stopped hoping – not for a minute – that there’s more to the story.

From, me

9 to 5, yeah

2007-09-12T14:07:00.000+01:00

I’m good at my job. I know this about myself like I know my eyes are brown and that I tan easily. I may not be a model employee (sometimes I blog during the day…eh hem) but overall I get my stuff done – and it’s done well. I don’t sleep under my desk (Officemate does this) and I don’t steal supplies from the closet down the hall, at least not on purpose.

Folks like me on the job from 9 to 5.

I applied for a promotion about six months ago. I didn’t get it. I’ve gotten over being disappointed about that. But ever since, a boss that I respected and liked – has gone out of her way to be anything but polite and supportive of me and my work.

You would think that I
Would deserve a fat promotion
Want to move ahead
But the boss won't seem to let me
I swear sometimes that (wo)man is out to get me

With most people around the office, she giggles and smiles, laughing over weekend plans and accepting “I don’t know” as an answer. With me? Not so much. She takes a tone with me that my mother used when I was thirteen. This doesn’t make for a pleasant environment as she’s not my mother and I’m not thirteen. The coworkers I’m friendly with have asked me repeatedly if there’s something going on. If I’m okay. They give me pity stares in meetings after I ask questions and get a “that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard” response from her. Because I sit directly outside of her office, these disparities are resoundingly obvious throughout the day.

You're in the same boat
With a lotta your friends
Waitin' for the day your ship'll come in

I’ll give you an example.

Last week her assistant, Officemate, left early for the day. In his rush out the door, he asked me to complete a very simple project that my boss needed quickly: look up these four people and add their addresses and phone numbers to the list I’ve already started. Then forward to boss.

I did what was asked. It took me about ten minutes. I forwarded.

They just use your mind
And they never get you credit

Two minutes later. My boss brought me a printout of the list. She’d written all over it.

“Can you please make these changes?” she asked, huffing.

“Sure.” I looked at the list. My four additions hadn’t been marked. Officemate however, had made typos and formatting errors throughout the document. My boss had found all of them.

Had I checked for his mistakes? No. Do I feel bad about that? No. Is it my job to do his work for him? No. I made the changes and resent.

What a way to make a livin'

Another two minutes. She handed me another sheet of paper. She’d circled one C in DC. It was lowercased. I’d made a small typo. Shit.

“Does this concern you?” she asked as she leaned over the front of my desk.

“Um… Excuse me?”

“Does this concern you?” I could have circled with a fat red marker the unwritten condescension in her question.

“Um…I’m not sure what you’re asking.” I know I looked confused. I was confused.

“I’m not being facetious. Does this concern you??” Her eyebrows were raised. I tried to back away slowly.

“Well – Officemate instructed me to add these four names to the list. I did that. I didn’t check his work for errors. I assumed he’d done things correctly. You also expressed to me how urgent the document was, and in my rush I made a typo. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Fix it please and send it back to me.” Her tone was flat. Cold. She stomped back into her office.

They got you where they want you
There's a better life
And you think about it, don't you

I was angry. I went to the roof for a cigarette. I paced. I wanted to scream. And I've been fuming a little ever since.

Until today.

Today, I was CC’d on an email she sent to the head of a large corporation. One sentence in particular caught my attention:

The eight guests from [large corporation] will be seated downstairs and there tickets will be held for a representative to pick up the day before.

There.

There.

Their!!!!

Does this concern me? Nope. Am I delighted, and walking around the office with an overwhelming but very silent feeling of personal satisfaction?
Hell yes.

Dolly’s right.

It’s enough to drive you crazy if you let it.

balk

2007-09-07T15:54:00.000+01:00

We took a cab to the stadium. Deciding that between the four of us, it was cheaper than the metro, and just easy enough to make it worthwhile. After scoping the underbelly of RFK for an ATM, food, and beers we finally settled into our seats. 500 section. Right above home plate. At least half of the fans around us had their own personal stat books. The man in front of us yelled at the umpire throughout most of the game and Tim made friends by asking him questions about Giants players, obscure rules he didn’t understand, and who’d make it to the World Series.

Earlier, I’d masking taped an asterisk onto Tim’s black t-shirt. And each time Barry Bonds touched the field he would stand up, point to his chest, and scream obscenities down to the field. He wasn’t alone. Cameras flashed everywhere, capturing Bonds at his worst. They looked like bright white fly balls all popped into the air at once.

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as perfect baseball weather - but if there is - last Saturday’s game must have come close. We took turns running down the aisle between innings to get more beer and by the bottom of the fifth, the conversation had turned away from the game and onto other topics.

“This would make a good fourth date,” Tim announced.

“Why? Cause we’re actually winning?” I asked.

“No… Well yes,” he laughed. “But more because it’s something different to do.”

My friend Tim could easily be deemed a serial dater. In the year that I’ve known him, I’ve been witness to a countless stream of women that he’s taken out, wined and dined, hooked up with, fallen for, introduced us - his friends - to, and then dumped after two weeks.

“Well what do you usually do?”

“I have a formula.”

“If only all things were so simple.” I rolled my eyes.

“Not exactly.”

“Ok. Explain.”

“The first date’s easy. Dinner and drinks. A chance to chat – to get to know one another. Somewhere quiet but nice. Order a bottle of wine. That sort of thing.”

“And then?”

“For a second date we’ll do that again – but go somewhere that’s a little louder, with a little more scene.” He’d said scene like it was a secret. Like he was offering me a dating steroid – something to make me better and faster. Raise my batting average.

“So what’s third base?”

Chuckles all around.

“If… IF… they make it that far. I invite them over to my place and cook them dinner.”

“Ooo. And you’re smart to wait until the third date. Cooking a girl dinner on the first date is just cheap.”

“Agreed,” he said, nodding.

“So what do you make for desert?”

“More like… what do they make me?”

Ha.

We signaled to one of the vendors to bring up more beer.

“If they make it to two weeks, I invite them on a trip.”

“A trip?”

“You know… back home to meet the family, a night in Richmond, a wedding out of town. You know…”

Truth was I didn’t. At least – I didn’t understand the rush of it all. Two weeks seemed awfully fast for the whole this-is-my-crazy-messed-up-family-don’t-you-think-they’re-just-great weekend getaway.

I started thinking about my own dating history. My relationship Hall of Fame. Particularly the one’s I’d tape an asterisk beside. Evidence of why it might have looked like it was going over the fence – but in the end – there were just a lot of foul balls.

The one with green eyes* (He liked watching other girls more than me)
The one who wrote me songs* (A little too possessive)
The one who always refilled my drink* (Do we have to be drunk ALL the time?)
The one who opened doors, listened when I talked, and liked the things I liked* (I just couldn’t picture myself making out with him)
The one I knew was wrong for me, but I went there anyway* (There’s no explaining this)
This one*
and another one*
and one more*

(Sometimes there are too many reasons to count)

Since the Nationals beat the Giants, I’ve been thinking about Tim’s relationships. There have been few women who made it to third. But he still seemed to have it figured out. A seemingly infallible formula. If by doing the right things, saying the right things, landing on first and trying to steal second, all the while testing our partners in hopes that they’ll move from the minors up to major league, we might actually find a person who’s great. And great for us. I wonder if it would eventually work, or if he’d played the game for so long with these tricks that he wouldn’t be able to see something great because he’s too focused on striking people out – and not enough on effort. Somehow I don’t think anything that scripted can work. It all seems too phony and forced. Manipulative maybe. Like you’re cheating and everyone else knows it. Even if they don’t stand up on their feet and call you out.

Why waste your pitching arm on all of that when eventually, there’s going to be one who hits it out of the park fair and square.

day labor

2007-08-31T13:04:00.000+01:00

Last night, as I was searching for a way to put my thoughts down on paper, which I've had to work at constantly lately, I came across something I'd written near the end of my sophomore year of college. I believed that it would be the last time, for a very long time, that a few of us - my friends and I, would be in the same place, experiencing the same things, or sharing from the same pot of coffee. And it was.

April 2003

Its only when you're sitting in that local rundown joint of a café, always open till the late hours of morning, that you realize nothing lasts. You sit there and you listen and you wait. Wait for something, some miracle of cosmic size to pull you out of the haze of melancholy. But it’s not anyone's fault – only yours. And it can't be helped. Sadness lingers only because you know that time passes too quickly for you to really understand that soon there won't be any moments so understated as this one. They talk and they laugh, and occasionally you're drawn in, allowing yourself to lift your eyes and smile. Only when I'm sitting there, sipping over-brewed, deep brown coffee that I want to drop my mug and spill the sweet-n-loaded down mixture all over the table. Leave the stain of me. Just so it's real- just so I don't forget. I memorize each of you, take in your smells, the way the light hits your eyes and bounces right back off, they way you all smirk differently, and the way you laugh. God that's what I'll miss most – listening to the laughter. You can only hope that what comes next will fulfill and sustain you as much as the intimacy of this hour. That ease that surrounds you isn't found often. In some place far away, one of us will be walking along some vacant street, or possibly sitting in traffic on a gloomy April afternoon, or lying next to a new lover after a long movie. And in that distant place, in one instant, you will meet someone's gaze and a glimmer of light will catch in their eyes and you will remember. The specifics will not be aroused and the moment will be fleeting and vague, but for one brief moment you will feel intense fulfillment and gratitude. Because you have caught a memory so unblemished that your soul swells and overflows with warmth. In that moment, trust that I will be thinking about you.

---

Trite? Cliché? Call it what you want. I know. I’ve called it that before too. I. Know. But now there’s something more there that I wish I could define. Something that wasn't so much sad as it was...expected. I think long before this I had some sense that things were changing. That I’d soon be moving to the periphery of their lives, instead of standing in the middle with them. And that they would be removed from mine. These things happen. Over summer breaks and time away. Circumstances change. Summer begins.

And ends. Just like it’s ending now. I love the fall. The taste and smell of it – the way the leaves collect in a line beside the sidewalk, cozy mornings under squares of down, and crisp nights spent pushing into some shop or bar just to unwrap from the cold. Somehow it feels more alive than the past few months.

It feels like starting over in a place that's already familiar. With new clothes, and books, and an A+ to begin with because you haven't had time to mess it up yet.

That is... until someone I knew before all of 'this' asks, “How was your summer?” And there's too much, or just not enough, for words.

general relativity

2007-08-07T14:13:00.000+01:00

Monday, around five in the afternoon

I found the pen I wrote this with on the floor under a row of empty chairs across from Gate B2, which happens to be just one of six gates at the airport I’m flying out of. It’s the kind of airport where they make you walk across the runway to get to the plane. Where the security guards frisk everyone, because they've nothing better to do. Where you must check any bag that’s over the size of a peanut, as there’s only one row of overhead bins on each plane. I searched my luggage for twenty minutes trying to find something to write with. Emptied the contents of my purse onto the floor and huffed when I realized that I’d have to borrow one from someone. I hate that. Because I wouldn’t want to give it back. And you’re supposed to return the things that you borrow.

There’s a baby crying across the room. I look around enough to realize that it and its parent will be on my flight. My very small, very cramped, flight. Its mother has a tattoo on her neck – right in front – where, if she were a man, an adams apple would be. She also has tattoos on her shoulders, her wrists, the backs of her arms, and dragon shaped rings the size of candy dishes hanging from her ears. The baby is still crying. I think for a minute that I hate children. Then renege and realize that my brother and his wife will be traveling with a toddler on a fourteen-hour flight back to Italy tomorrow.

John Edwards is flashing across CNN. He looks as though he’s spent too much time with the tan-in-a-can and throughout the segment his forehead remains wrinkled in a concentrated “you-should-listen-to-me-because-I-get-it” expression. Strangely, I find him to be as much of a character as the woman with her dragon ears and screaming baby.

Monday, near seven in the evening

The man sitting beside me reminds me of my ex boyfriend. Decidedly less attractive, but they have the same stature and he seems to carry himself and speak with the same boyish grins and air of cockiness. I find myself planning what I might have done had it actually been him, seated beside me, on a small plane where even the slightest whisper could be heard three rows in all directions. Now, remembering the few voicemails he’s left in the last couple of weeks I wonder why I haven’t had the slightest inclination to return one. Briefly, I consider that my two-hour layover might be good for this. Then again…perhaps not.

Tuesday, a little after midnight

I'm tired now. Relieved to be almost home, and for some reason still wired from traveling. I keep thinking about the man next to me, who gripped the arm rest, white knuckled, as we landed. And the baby, who never made a sound.

There’s no insurance on getting from point A to point B safely. Planes go down. Bridges collapse. I wonder how physically we can be in one place, mentally in another, and emotionally far away. Why we split ourselves in threes. Why we borrow things, people even, without guarantees on a return? Just hoping we’ll get out of it everything we’ve put in. I wonder how I can have completely contradictory thoughts revolving all at once. It makes me think of people who cry when they’re happy. Like two opposite sides of a magnet meeting together. Like flying despite gravity.

public display

2007-08-01T23:37:00.000+01:00

At 9:00 pm last night, I was standing on aisle six at Target. There were at least four people in front of me and clusters of red carts and impatient shoppers all around.

I'd had a long day. Spaced on completing a certain project on time and broken the copy machine at least twice before 2 pm. I'd also booked a last minute plane ticket home on the red-eye for Friday morning, and the idea of getting up at 4 am had made me increasingly more tired as the day went on.

I stood there in line, realizing I'd forgotten to pick up batteries but unwilling to do another lap of the store and lose my place in line, hoping that the stuffed elephant I'd snagged for my newest niece would be suitable, and generally just wishing my "quick" trip had been an hour shorter. The corners of my mouth were dipped far below their natural place on my face, my brow was wrinkled, and my eyes darting around, confused and annoyed by the crowds. I was full on frowny faced.

Then I saw someone gesturing in my direction. Mouthing something.

Time to tune back in to reality, I thought.

He continued his gesture and slid his very full cart to one side of his aisle.

I looked on either side of myself to see who he might be talking to. But there was no one there. No one to the left. No one to the right. No one behind me.

"Miss... Miss... the line..."

"Are you talking to me?"

He smiled and nodded.

"Oh." I still hadn't understood what he was saying. More confusion. More frowning. More thinking, what the hell did I do wrong this time.

"Would you like to go up ahead of me?" He asked, pointing to the extra aisle they'd just opened to combat the growing lines.

"Oh... um...oh...sure."

You know how it feels when you're sitting in a room full of old people playing bingo and you're the youngest person there by fifty years, yet you just happen to be the first person to yell "BINGO!" and then everyone stares at you and collectively groans. They act happy for you, but they also feel sort of jipped at the same time. Like you got something they deserved more. This man singling me out in front of all those people, felt just like that. If you can imagine.

As I pushed my cart beside his I made a point to smile and mumble a very polite thank-you.

He nodded eagerly, looked me straight in the eye and replied loudly, "You're welcome."

When I pulled up in front of my apartment fifteen minutes later, I was still smiling. But I was also perplexed. Why did this man offer me his place in line? Had he wanted something in return? What were his intentions?

I think living in a city the size of DC can make you paranoid, make you start expecting to be ignored and cut-off. Shoved around. Pushed away. To brace for worst. Rather than hope for best.

I don’t want to be that jaded, cause competing is exhausting. Competing over parking spaces. Spots at the bar. Seats at the movies. A place in line. For a moment last night, without deserving or asking for it, I felt a stranger's public display of courtesy, niceness... hell, call it affection, that's what it was. Not bad for a Tuesday.

(Now if I could just work it out to score a few real PDAs...)

the capital fringe festival and my very shameless plug

2007-07-25T10:07:00.000+01:00

I’ve been busy. Too busy. Between a much-needed trip home, work, work and more work, and stage-managing The NEW Eddie Lounge Show for the second annual Capital Fringe Festival, I haven’t had much time for much else this summer. I've been getting my kicks where I can...

SO I’m throwing in a shameless plug because I know there’s a few of you out there that are doing FRINGE stuff of your own and it's good to support one-another. Here it is...

Let Eddie Lounge and the Cosmos tickle your ivories with your sequined favorites. Eddie pours his mix of comic crooning, beautiful Brandy Alexander stirs in sweet vocal vermouth, and grumpy manager Rocco adds a dash of bitters.
Last year our entire run sold out. However, we were in a much smaller space and a little less lounge-tastic. We were featured on the front page of The Washington Post Weekend Section (see photo below) and received lots of great reviews from theater critics across the DC area.

This year - with new digs, a new set, new cast members, and a fresh coat of lounge paint – ticket sales are on the upswing once again. Much to my delight – last night’s opening SOLD OUT! Remaining performances are as follows:

Wednesday, July 25 at 8:00 pm
Thursday, July 26 at 8:00 pm
Friday, July 27 at 8:00 pm and 10:00 pm
Saturday, July 28 at 8:00 pm and 10:00 pm

You can buy tickets here and also at the door, if you want to chance it. They’re $15 each for a full hour of cheesy lounge fun. It’s all very fringy. Truly.

Performances are held at Arena Stage’s second space, which is located on the corner of 14th and T, NW.

If you’re the type who reads reviews before you buy, we had a few press folks show up last night. Here’s a sampling of what we’ve heard so far. (and a photo from this year's show below)

And if you're not into lounge (I won't be offended- I promise), go support some other Fringe show. There's lots to pick from... I'm sure you'll find something to like.

of myths and mother

2007-07-12T16:02:00.000+01:00

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. - Albert Camus

In college, after my parents moved to the mountains, I'd go up to see them once every few months. A distance of only two hours, it wasn't a hard trip. It's actually a breathtaking drive. Up over the cliffs, where in the fall, you can look down and see an entire crimson valley with each turn of the road. I loved that road. It was full of hope. I envisioned every single time that things would be different once I reached their house. My mother would be nicer to my father. She'd be kind to my siblings. Maybe even laugh. I hoped she'd pick up one of her grandchildren and tell them how happy she was that they were there, instead of screaming at them to go away and to stop being so loud. Simple wishes I had.

My trip home last week was the first time in a very long time that I wanted to stay. That I wasn't quite ready to leave (or run) after seventy-two hours. It made me remember how it used to be. The good and bad.

Bad was me at eighteen, home for the weekend, when my mother went into one of her moods, locked herself in her bedroom and yelled at my father and I through the wooden door that she was “never coming out.” When she finally opened it, she was holding a bottle of pills in one hand, her fourth glass of wine in the other.

"I could empty out this entire bottle into my hand and take every single one of them and no one would care."

I don't know what I said to her. If anything. I probably just stood there. Numb. I was tired of going behind her and emptying wine glasses that would just be filled again. Tired of Al-Anon meetings at church reception halls filled with people I didn't know. Tired of her doctors prescribing more medications. Anti-depressants to boost her mood, sleeping pills to bring it back down, a range of antibiotics for all sorts of illnesses caused, I'm certain, from spending most days in bed, eating nothing remotely healthy, and never exerting any energy. No washing the dishes after dinner, no afternoon walks with my father, no energy. Zilch.

There are memories that we block because the recollection of them draws too much anxiety. Too many questions. They become an altered version of reality, hazy and unfamiliar. We recall them later, only when we're able to process their thickness. A death. A breakup. A lie. The heaviest of things. Years later, and more than five-hundred miles away, I still don't know. Some would scoff. Tell me to quit whining. It could be a lot worse. They’d be right. But we fight our own battles. Push our own rocks up the mountain, only to have them fall back down again.

This time seemed better. We went to buy Tupperware and dishcloths for the new apartment. She helped me look for a mirror to go above the sofa, suggested the best knives at the kitchen shop for slicing tomatos. She drank less. Laughed a tiny bit more. She sat with us at my sister’s house while my brother-in-law grilled burgers and I made pasta salad. Her hands tremble the same. She trips easily - thrown off balance by the slightest obstacle. My father says it’s because of all the medication. Her skin is worn, splotchy. And she looks tired. Older than she should.

I might never fully reconcile myself to my mother’s situation. Illness. Disease. Addiction. Whatever you’d like to call it. Forgiveness isn’t forgetting. I love her. And she loves me. That has to be enough.

Physically, instead of driving up, I now drive down. Still over the mountain, still looking left into a deep valley below that the thunder echoes against during summer rain showers. The thunderstorms here the last few days have made me nostalgic. Melancholy perhaps. With that sadness, comes pride in the knowledge that struggling isn’t futile. It isn’t to be overcome. My task is simply to be more conscious of it. More understanding. To look through the muddled mix of drinks, and pills, and blankets and recognize my mother. More than that, to recognize myself amidst her.

for keeps sake

2007-06-28T13:20:00.000+01:00

When I was six I collected unicorns. Yes. I did. Also My Little Ponies and pennies. The unicorns were eventually given to my niece – to get her started on her first collection. The pennies were dumped onto our kitchen table every few months, where I would roll them into little bronze paper tubes, and my father would deposit them into a savings account at the bank. The Ponies melted in our attic; they'd been left too long in the heat. I remember watching my dad throw out the box that oozed purple and pink plastic and being very ambivalent about the whole ordeal. My mother cried.

She hoards things. The walls of our living room are covered in photos. She has shelves of red porcelain cardinals, five sets of fine china and six sets of everyday dishes. Collections of bookmarks, family movies, scarves that she doesn’t wear, Coca-cola memorabilia, stacks of email forwards that she’ll never throw away but never read again, a chest to hold this, a table for that, too much Tupperware for two people, and more furniture than they have room for. Depression does things to a person. She feels that these objects provide emotional comfort; therefore they must all be saved.

I've seen worse. Worse was an old woman whose house I helped clean and rebuild as a summer service project in high school. She kept every sheet of tin foil she'd ever used, carefully washing them and pressing them between dishtowels to flatten and dry. Every single newspaper that had landed on her front stoop she had saved and stacked in her bedroom. She slept in a chair because she couldn’t get to her bed through all the stacks. There were bags stuffed full of other bags, drawers of old batteries, rubber bands, hundreds of empty medicine bottles, milk cartons, expired canned food, broken appliances, pens, fly paper strips covered in bugs but never taken down, and the list goes on. I remember walking through with my eyes wide. Impressed at the quantity but confused over how someone could live in so much clutter. My father later explained that The Depression did things to a person. She was convinced that all of these objects had potential value; therefore they must be saved.

I've started packing. Going through actually. Sorting and donating. If nothing else, moving is good for the getting rid of and going through bits. I've moved so often, I learn not to keep things I don't need or use. The unnecessary objects. But when I dumped the contents of the bottom dresser drawer out onto my bed, I found two shirts that aren't mine. Weren't mine. I'd collected them somewhere along the way. From him. I'd forgotten they were there. Instantly I pictured a closet in my parent’s house, and on the top shelf, a small box filled with various things from boyfriends past. Guitar picks, song lyrics, letters, emails, a stuffed animal or two, even a few receipts. I’m sure if I sorted through it today I wouldn’t recall what half of it was saved from or for. But I know it’s there. It’s a collection that is in some ways validating, some ways weak, and in others merely evidential.

I'll move from this house almost a year to the day I moved into it. When I picked up those shirts I couldn't help but wonder why I kept them last year. Why I consciously folded them and put them in the box with my other things. More than that, why the value I’d added to them then seems to dissipate now.

Now I collect thimbles. They're small, relatively inexpensive and easy to find. I have almost two-hundred, from places as far as New Zealand to one with hand painted cherry blossoms I got at a street fair the summer I moved to DC.

I save voicemails from my father because he’s older and at some point I’ll want to hear him tell a joke or wish me goodnight, and I won’t be able to.

The collection of butterfly pins that my grandmother used to wear to church every Sunday will eventually be put into a shadow box and hung in a house of my own.

By collecting, saving, keeping… we unconsciously fight against a time when the things we care about will no longer exist. Sometimes I think these objects protect my memories.

brand new

2007-06-24T12:50:00.000+01:00

The girls behind me were talking about Prague. I’m a self confessed eavesdropper, but they were loud, so I can’t be blamed. And obnoxious. One of them, it seemed, had just come back from a trip and was recounting her travels to the other two. There were giggles and phrases peppered by too many likes, to many oh my god’s, and way too many pregnant pauses. I was sitting in awe. In moral judgment perhaps, unmalicious moral judgment and awe. Awe over the fact that somehow a conversation on Auschwitz and concentration camps turned sharply into one about a Krakow boutique where the world traveler found not one, not two, but three of the prettiest dresses she’s ever owned.

One of them, not the one who’d bought the dresses, turned to the other and commented,

“Well, Krakow is the NEW Prague you know.”

No, I didn’t know. But it got me thinking. Especially after I heard her say it for the second time while Alex and I split a mango and sticky rice.

“I’m telling you, Krakow is the new Prague.”

This girl was certain.

I wasn’t. I’ve never been to Prague. I imagine though, even if I’d seen it a thousand times – it would still seem new to me… in that ancient and majestic, European city way.

Clothes, cars, computers, causes. It seems we’re always looking for something. Something different than what we’ve got right in front of us. I won’t say better. They’re not better. But we compare this to that, hoping it’s what we wanted and needed all along. More. More flavorful. More full. Until the luster is rubbed off from the wear and we’re forced to find a new new.

It’s been one of those weeks where I’ve had to let people to come to me. Rather than going to them. Where it feels like I haven’t had five seconds of free time save sleeping and pouring coffee to slurp down on the way to and fro. I’ve been rushing through every minute. Side swiping work, friends, drive-thru windows, and red lights. Forget new, next, best things.

I think those next big things are distractions. Keeping us from focusing too narrowly on our lives, because without them we’d have to take long hard looks at ourselves. And compare and contrast. I don’t know if we’d like what we see. If I’d like what I saw. I’ve always been on to the next thing before the last thing really had time to get good. I want to be done doing that. And only when I don’t have time to focus do I realize that what I’m looking for is authenticity – new and old. To enjoy what I have. To be nakedly aware of the moments that can’t be compared. Moments that exist solely for the experience of their uniqueness.

It's still early. My Sunday is half full. Or half empty. My week over and the next one just beginning. And I keep thinking (hoping) that me is the new me.