Wednesday, February 11, 2015

I'm not good at good-byes. I'm even worse at Skyping.



I suspect that most people who know me would say I am very social.
Outgoing.
Friendly.

That's true.

But what's also true is that I have a very select group of people who I consider "close."

In my early 20's I remember saying I had a List Of My Favorite People In The World.

Now that I'm in my 40's, I don't go around announcing that so much anymore (instead, apparently, I just write about it on a public forum), but it's still true.

I can count those people on one hand. It's a very elite group of people, if I do say so myself.

And before you all go and think that I'm boasting here because they are so lucky to be considered one of my elites, let me go on record, that what I'm actually boasting about is how lucky I am to have them on My List. (You all know who you are.)

And now, one of those Very Elite People is leaving.

She is moving.

To France.

I am terrible at geography, but I know for a fact that that's really fucking far.

And I am at a complete loss.

I knew it was coming. In actuality, I've suspected it for years. There are people that you just know are not going to remain in one place for too long. I've had her in my life for nearly a decade. I'm shocked it's taken her this long to get to this point in her life, really. She's just not a Miami-kinda-girl. She's sorta like a hummingbird. She flits and flutters with a dizzying display of colors and movement. She's a perpetual blur.

And yes, I know. The world is small these days. There is texting and Skyping and apps that I have no clue about that I will most certainly have to learn how to use and we will most definitely absolutely without a doubt stay in touch and she will come back and forth for work and maybe even we will all go up to visit her on a fabulous South of France holiday worthy of being turned into a Woodie Allen-like comedy starring Drew Barrymore as me and Maggie Gyllenhaal as her and it will be just the same.

But it won't.

And so.

Here I am, with one my Elite Favorite People In The Whole World leaving and I am so damn happy for her and so damn sad for me that I don't know which one hurts more.

And so.

When I don't know what to do and I don't know how to cope, there is only one thing I can do, and that is write. (How ironic, considering my last post, no?

I got home tonight from her teeny studio apartment with the purple settee and the loose-leaf tea canisters and the professional photo equipment, after a take-out dinner of her favorite Indian food and a bottle of Trader Joe's red wine, weighed down by the garbage bags filled with her hand-me-down clothes and shoes. "I'm purging at least 50% of my closet before I move!" she declared. "And I want you to have first dibs because you'll appreciate it the most!" I explained to my boys (mostly my Ben, the 9-year-old-going-on-40) why my eyes were puffy. They, who love her too, were not happy either. "Right now, I'm hating Europe," Ben choked. I started to go through the clothes, wipe down the brown leather boots I had coveted for almost as long as I'd known her, tried one on, slipped it off, left it on the kitchen floor, came to the sofa, opened the laptop and here I am.

My words are really all I can give
to this friend who has taught me that...
...galoshes are perfectly acceptable with a summer dress to go window shopping at an indoor mall.
...I "must exploit" my eyelashes.
...in a pinch, hair works just as well as floss.
...if you really need a mixer for your flask of vodka while in the middle of downtown Miami during Art Basel, you can probably get some free coke (and a highball glass!) if you walk down an alley and smile at a caterer.
...I look much better in color.
...I take too many things way too seriously.
...Photoshop is not a myth.
...it's perfectly awesome to be myself.
...I am not the only person in the world who can have an intensely serious conversation about the meaning of my stiletto collection.
...there is no shame in rocking back and forth and sobbing uncontrollably as long as you are doing it with someone you trust.
...consignment shops really are the single best place to shop for true treasures.
...reading about Nietzsche is not that bad.
...green shimmery eye shadow can, in fact, be worn to work in the middle of the day.
...there are other people who ponder and wonder and fret and analyze and dream just as much as I do.
...I am not the only girl who thinks that an adventure race is the perfect venue for some shimmery body lotion.
...every Thelma needs a Louise, but every Louise needs a Thelma.

To you, my friend, I want to go on record as saying you made me a better Me. I am most certainly a cooler, stronger, more interesting and authentic version of myself because of you.

Thanks for the boots...they'll look hot with my new farmer's market hippie chic outfit. In fact, it may have to go on my Elite List of Favorite Outfits in the World.

You should be honored.

My lists are almost as coveted as your boots.


Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Writer's Apathy (Or: Sh*t. That Didn't Work Either.)


The only thing I seem to be writing about lately is not wanting to write.

Every time I think about a possible blog post, I tell myself I'll do it tomorrow. Every time I psych myself up that I need to spend some time on here, I go do laundry. Every time I remember that I am not "writing enough," I turn on HGTV.

And every time this happens, an urgent, nagging little voice inside my head violently whispers: "What the fuck is wrong with you lately?"

I'm a writer. It's what I've done and who I've been since I was old enough to peck away at my older sister's typewriter, feeling very important and wise and creative and inspired.

Inspired.

Maybe that's the problem here.

How can I get inspired to write again? Where can I find the inspiration to miss my blog, to need  to write?

Hmmm...writing...inpiration...blogging....hmmm....

Eureka! I've got it!

I thought I had hit the obvious jackpot when it occurred to me that I needed to go back to my favorite blogs, my favorite writers, the women who have inspired me all of these years since I had started my own blog. You see, not only have I not been coming here, to this space, to write; I have also not gone to anyone else's space to read.

I sat down today and started at the top of my personal blog roll of faves, and caught up with some of these old friends. But a startling thing happened....something that has never happened before.

Yes, I smiled as I revisited these favorite blogs. Yes, I read great stuff. Yes, they gave me important stuff to think about.

But that was it.

When I was done, I still didn't want to write.

In fact, I was almost...(my fingers literally hesitated over the keys just now because I feel like I'm selling out; not sure on who)...tired.

Tired.

Instead of feeling re-energized and inspired, I felt tired.

Sounds like a bad poem.

There.

I wrote a bad poem.

Does that count?

Friday, January 23, 2015

Hesitation


I would love to declare that my absence from this blog was some sort of conscious uncoupling. Then it would seem that I did it for the better of...I don't know..this blog? Myself? My family? Not to mention that it would make me seem sorta enlightened and very Gwyneth Paltrow-y.

Oh, wait.

I don't really like Gwyneth Paltrow that much.

Okay, so, the truth is: I just got lazy.

At first, I felt totally justified: I was swapping one life for another and things were hectic and busy and exhausting and I was sure I'd be eaten by one the many boxes that were multiplying like Gremlins in my (former) house.

Then there were the perfect moments to blog: saying goodbye to a house I thought was My Dream House (which was pretty good, since I never got the Barbie version when I was a kid); the slight insanity of the four of us living temporarily in my parents' house; the nearly-crippling, irrational fears of taking on yet another house to remodel on our own...  The opportunities for writing were endless.

I could have (should have?) written every damn day.

But I didn't.

Again, the rationalizing: I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was tearing down walls and wondering what the fuck we had done and obsessing over possible asbestos and fantasizing about what this new little house would look like when we were done.

But again, the truth: I was just lazy. I couldn't get motivated enough to sit at the computer at the end of the day. I didn't care "that much" about writing about all of this. When I had free time, I chose to watch reruns of HGTV or drink some wine or sleep.

And then here's what happened: the longer I was away, the harder it was to come back.

Do you remember double dutch back in your elementary school phys ed days? I remember. The two kids would swing those ropes and I'd stand there, next in line to jump, my weight on my front foot, my body slightly rocking to the ropes' rhythm, waiting for that perfect moment to go. So often, I'd nearly go, ready to go. I was good at jumping. I knew what I was doing. This, shockingly, was not one of those P.E. moments when I was stressed and fretting and feeling completely incompetent. I could fucking double dutch. Yet, there were still so often those moments when I'd flinch forward, the timing perfect, ready to make a smooth entrance into the swinging ropes. But I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. Not now. Wait. 1...2...now. No, wait. Now. The longer I stood there, body rocking, watching the alternating ropes forming perfect smooth arcs in front of me, the harder it was to jump in. More often than not, when that happened, I'd miss it...maybe by a millisecond...maybe by a millimeter, but I'd hit one of the ropes. The perfect rhythm would stop. I'd get tangled up. My turn would be over. All that just to get back at the end of the line. Damn.

This was sorta like that. I'd open the laptop. I'd wait for the perfect rhythm, the timing, and then, I'd hesitate. No, no. Wait. 1..2....

I figured the longer I was gone from here, the more poignant the "return post" would have to be.

How incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

I figured I'd have to write about what's happened in my life the last few months: some great post on my new life in my little house, the obstacles and fears that were overcome, the things given up, the rewards, the lessons learned. But no, apparently, instead I thought some random frivolous Halloween post would be just perfect. And then (oh no, here comes the over-thinking), I started worrying about how ridiculous and pathetic it would be if I never blogged again and my Last Blog Post Ever was some drivel about a bad Halloween costume.

Again, how incredibly narcissistic and self-important of me.

So here I am. I'm not really sure if I will get back in line when this turn is over and go again.
But the ropes are swinging over my head and under my feet, and I'm jumping.

Friday, October 31, 2014

Who You Callin' Cute? Me! Me! Me! Please?



I spent most of my life resisting the term "cute."

"You are so cute!"
"She has such a cute face!"
"How cute are you?!"
"That is a cute outfit."

I grew up alongside a sister who posed for pictures on top of the hood of her Camaro and wore Farrah Fawcett-like white bikinis.

I, on the other hand, was never the Camaro type and the only thing slightly Farrah-ish about me was a feathered blow-out I got once when I was 12.

I hated cute--especially in my 20s. I wanted to be called anything but.

Pretty. Attractive. Beautiful. Or, the most coveted: Sexy.

Oooooh.
Gasp.
Breathy sigh.

If only...

So that was sorta my thing: don't call me cute! Women in their 20s should not be called cute. Especially when  they're all dressed up and wearing stilettos that hurt their feet. Can't you see I'm trying here, people?!?

When I tried to explain my disgruntlement with this particular adjective to the guy who ended up marrying me in spite of my general craziness, he used to tell me that I was all those things: pretty, attractive, beautiful, and yes, even sexy (I knoooow!)...but that within all of that I was still cute.
He said I couldn't help it. I was.

Dammit.

But then...

Fast forward 14 years.
The cute girl in her 20s who was resisting cute-ness is now 41 (and three quarters).
It is Halloween.
She is a teacher.
She, along with several of her teacher colleagues, thought it would be an adorable (read: cute!) and easy idea to be Minnie Mouse for work: pink sequined Minnie ears, black nose paint, bright pink lipstick, black leggings, black t-shirt, black pumps, and the pièce de résistance: a pink tutu.

Think of it as an abstract interpretive Minnie.

When I walked out of my bedroom wearing the outfit (minus the ears and nose paint), my husband started laughing. I did not, in fact, look adorable at all. I looked like a 40-something-year-old in leggings and a too-short, hot pink tutu.

"Wait!" I proclaimed.

I ran to put on the ears and painted the tip of my nose with my Smolder Black MAC eyeliner.
Then I looked in the mirror...
...and realized: Now I just looked stupid-er.
I had a sudden flashback of the movie Fantasia...remember the dancing hippo? No? Look it up. 

Yeah.
That one.

To add insult to injury, my husband said I looked (and I quote) "a little hoochie."

"Hoochie?!? How could I look hoochie? I'm wearing ears, for god's sake!"

"Baaaabe," he chuckled. "The leggings and the tutu and the heels? They're a little inappropriate for work."
This from the man who wears t-shirts and ripped jeans to work and never, ever, ever thinks my jeans are ever too tight for teaching 9-year-olds.

I went back to my room and started rummaging through all my Halloween stuff: maybe it's the too-puffy tutu...do I have a better set of leggings?...what about with the lipstick?....skinny black jeans instead? Why does this look so...wrong?

And then it hit me: Perhaps...just perhaps...a forty-one-and-three-quarters-year-old has no business trying to look cute in a costume that was originally the idea of a 13-year-old who wears a size zero.

Dammit.

What do you mean I ain't cute?!?



My BFF and Teaching Partner AFTER I swapped the Fantasia-like tutu for another one
and swapped the pumps for these less offensive flats...pretty cute, right? Right?!?



Saturday, October 4, 2014

Wish You Were Here


if you come back
to your words
your space
after a very long time

if you come back
does it matter
if anyone missed you
or only if
you missed yourself

if you come back
do you have to explain
to yourself
or anyone else
why you were gone


Thursday, May 22, 2014

The Exchanging of Dreams - Throwback Thursday



It is no secret that we have made a major life change recently. (In fact, I suspect my loved ones and my blog readers are quite sick of hearing me complain about closings, boxes, and remodeling.) Most people think this was "very sudden" and spontaneous. But this general unease about the house we were living in (and the mortgage we were paying) had been gnawing at me for a few years now. In fact, here's evidence.


Exchange
This poem was originally posted here on September 2, 2011


we had always had a plan


so sure of what we wanted

to live life, together, out loud

be as free as commitment allowed

untethered to the things Everyone Else

used to measure their grand arrival

at the finish line of life



keep it small and live simply

so we could live Life large

travel, dance, laugh, sleep at night

without the stresses Everyone Else chose:

a lawn man, the corner lot



we planned life with bare feet

spontaneity, experiences, whimsy, free of cares

we were so sure back then


until something shifted, wishes got swapped

and we suddenly found ourselves dreaming

of a grown up life, settled

a home that was spacious enough

to welcome Just One More baby

(and a lawn man to cut

the grass on the corner lot)



we swapped one dream for another

found ourselves with a new life

new joys, different desires, wishes granted

but with it all sometimes comes

the subtle, quiet unease of wonder:

was this the life we intended

one we will look back on

with satisfaction of a life fulfilled

or a life exchanged for one

that is just like Everyone Else's?


Thursday, May 1, 2014

"Let me tell you the story about the time you..." - Throwback Thursday

I have been asked why one of my labels on this blog is "vomit." Those who have asked were not around when my youngest was younger. Those who have known my Aidan Kai for just a couple of years find it hard to believe that he was a Demon Baby who shrieked for hours every single day no matter what and then entered the gagging/puking phase of his baby-hood. It was awesome. 


Rule #472 of Parenting:
Never Let Your Guard Down
Originally posted here on September 24, 2009

So...I was going through The Bedtime Routine with Aidan Kai this evening and trying to rush through it (as usual) when the thought occurred to me that the days of him snuggling like a baby in my arms are numbered. I looked down at this big fat baby, his pudgy fingers clutching his bottle...his cheeks dimpling with each slurp...his sleepy eyes looking up at me from underneath his damp mop of curls...and I decided, right then and there, to enjoy the moment.
To really take it in.
To savor it.
To savor him.

So...as he finished his bottle, I snuggled him up onto my shoulder and rocked him, humming and patting his back, inhaling his Cheerios-Johnson's-Baby-Shampoo-Yummy-Still-New-Person-Smell, and I admit...I was loving this moment. I was incredibly aware of the fact that this is the beginning of my favorite baby stage (just turned one) and this is really It. No more babies after this. So I decided, right then and there, to start enjoying The Bedtime Routine with The Last Baby.

And just as I made that decision...just as I felt the warmth of his little breath on my ear, his tummy inhaling deeply against my chest...he puked. No warning. No gagging sound. No coughing. Just puke. Thick, stinky, curdled puke. All over my neck, my shoulder, down my back and all the way to my thighs...to settle nicely into the crevices between the rocking chair's seat cushion and its base...

Well then, I suppose it's a good thing I had decided to start enjoying the bedtime routine, because it was back to the bathtub all over again....


Ben is smiling in this picture, but by week 3 of the phase known as The Crying Days,
he would cover his ears and glare resentfully at his little brother.


Hard to believe someone this cute could puke up something so gross on such a consistent basis...


We get along remarkably well these days...
All has been forgiven.


Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Still Stuck on the Move - Just Write




Brain dead.
Physically exhausted.
Overwhelmed with the chaos that is my house right now: boxes and Tupperware and drawers overflowing (literally) with clothes that are no longer even in any sort of pseudo-order.
The mattress on the floor is not too bad, though. With the exception of needing to put my knees practically up to my ears when I get up in the morning, the set up is surprisingly comfortable. (Maybe considering the fact that I am getting to the gym less and less these days, I should start counting that one exit out of bed each morning as a full squat/lunge.)
The original closing date for our current house was April 14.
Then it was April 16th.
Then it was "on or before April 30th."
Now here we are, living with a TV that has no cable; a kitchen containing only 6 spoons, 3 knives, 8 forks, one small pot, and one small pan; a refrigerator with only milk, eggs, left-over brie, 5 Coronas and one bottle of red wine; and we have no closing date.
Now we were told "it should be by this Friday."
I realize that this is not a Big Deal.
I realize that this is minor.
An inconvenience.
An annoyance.
But I'm really inconvenienced and majorly annoyed.
I am thinking it was a good thing we kept the beer and wine.

Join me and Just Write on Tuesdays


Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Happy belated birthday to my neglected third child


While I've been busy trying to dodge the man-eating boxes invading my house, this blog turned 5 years old. Five! That's a biggie, no? I mean, when my first-born turned 5, we threw him a full-blown party--complete with an acrobatic, wall-climbing Spiderman impersonator (trust me: it was one of the rare times in our parenting history when we did something really expensive and over-the-top, but thankfully, it was actually worth it).

Half a decade.
Five years.
269 blog posts.

When I started, I wondered if I'd survive the year (and early motherhood). And look at me now: preparing to switch over to Wordpress all by myself, with a brand new domain name and everything (and no longer crying hysterically from sleep deprivation and the identity crisis that often comes with becoming a new mom).

My blog and I are all grown up.

This blog was born of need and desperation. I was out running and doing what I usually do when I hit that good runner's high: attempting to recreate myself in my own head. (Maybe this is why I'm getting boring as I'm gaining weight--my knees have finally decided to strike in protest until I give in to the surgeon, and running is a distant memory.) I was thinking about how much I miss writing--the words, the sentences, the musings, the freedom. As my feet pounded the asphalt, my brain pounded out ideas, much like that  "I Love Lucy" episode in the bonbon factory.
I need to write again. I used to write a lot. Maybe I should write a book. Could I really write a book? I have no brain cells lately. I can barely stay awake, let alone write anything. How could I come up with a plot and characters when my own life is a dizzying whirlwind of diapers and potty training, bottles and sippy cups, first steps and tantrums?
The main characters of my own real life, Ben (then, 4) and Aidan Kai (a few months old), were draining the creativity and energy out of me. That's when it hit me: write about them. Write about how hard and wonderful and funny and scary this--Motherhood--all is.

I remember walking in the door at the end of my run, sweaty and red-faced, and proclaiming to Hubby "I need a minute!" I marched straight over to the computer that sat tucked away in a corner of what was supposed to be the family room, but was really the toy-bin-and-baby-floor-mat-area/indoor-soccer-field/general-room-of-crap-and-miscellaneous. I opened Word and typed nearly frantically. After a few minutes I was done, and on the screen, where the cursor still sat blinking, were several sentences and a mishmash of notes on essays I thought I could throw together into a book. Musings on what my life had become since I'd had my kids, how I'd changed as a person--in ways I had wanted to and in ways I absolutely had not. Anecdotes, basically.

What I thought, at that moment, might be chapter titles soon morphed into blog posts.

The title But Then I Had Kids came relatively easily. It seemed to me, then (and sometimes still now), that all my reasons and excuses for not being able to do something--anything--were related to my kids.
I used to be cool. I used to travel. I used to go to fancy martini bars. I used to be interesting. I used to be thin(ner). I used to skip undereye concealer. But then I had kids. I walked around in a daze, for about 3 years, eyes unfocused, disoriented, tired, overwhelmed, and feeling guilty about all of it, while my boys were babies.

Those 269 blog posts not only helped get me through those early years, but they helped me rediscover my writer's voice, my craft, and my sense of self. They gave me an outlet for venting and connected me to other women and writers who felt the same way. They helped me be a part of something bigger than my often-cramped world, and pried open my head so some of the noise could escape.

I've beat myself up quite a bit over neglecting this blog. No matter the stage, it's never been enough:
I'm not writing enough or I'm not writing well enough. I don't have enough comments or I haven't followed other blogs consistently enough. I'm not social-media savvy enough or I'm not disciplined enough to keep up with it like I should. I don't put enough into it--ever.

Over the last year, I've tried to take in some of the advice I've learned from other writers: that I need to approach the work as I can, and sometimes that means dedicating hours to it a week, while other times, it means only a bit at a time, if at all. I have to remind myself constantly that I am a full time teacher, wife, mother, friend, and individual...and that all of those roles need my attention. My role as Writer might sometimes monopolize a lot of my time, but more often than not, the best I can give it is a few inspired but exhausted minutes at the end of a long weeknight.

I had hoped to have my new blog site up and running by my fifth anniversary. Not only did I not meet my self-imposed deadline (I am really starting to think I should have a section dedicated to the word "self-imposed" on the blog), I actually forgot my blog's anniversary...and then even after I remembered, only got to writing about it nearly a month later. You do know I fretted and beat myself up a bit over this, right? I guess after 5 years,  you all know me pretty well. But it's all good. You know I ain't going anywhere.

Happy 5th Birthday, Little Blog. Thanks for the ride.

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Boxes: Just Write


They are going to eat me pretty soon. Like the blob in that old tacky black and white horror movie from the fifties. The boxes, I mean. They are everywhere.

I am sitting on the sofa--the one that is perpetually stained, no matter how much stain remover and steam cleaning we throw at it--in the sunken-in part. (Why does it seem that I am always on the sunken in part of the sofa for Just Write Tuesdays?) My butt is dividing the two cushions...I feel like I'm falling in. Maybe the sofa is going to eat me, too.

I like my stuff pretty neat. Not like OCD neat. In fact, I relish a good chaotic Tupperware cabinet. But I have a hard time relaxing when shit is everywhere.

I thought I would enjoy my house these last few weeks, before the move. But really, who am I kidding?
 
There is stuff everywhere.

At first, I tried to contain it: boxes in one corner, garage sale items in the other; then, pick up the book bags, mail, lunchboxes, jackets worn for the day and tossed on the floor by the door. I thought it would help me relax--picking up the day-to-day stuff--still feel like the owner of this domain, still feel in control. Then I could still enjoy a movie or a book or a glass of wine or some sex....if I wasn't harping mentally on the piles and piles of stuff. But really, now, there is no more containment. It has all exploded.

As we watched a movie Sunday night, I did a really good job of ignoring the 18 boxes piled next to the TV. Each one labeled in thick, black Sharpie. LOFT. WINTER CLOTHES (which, in South Florida, thankfully means a sweater or a turtleneck tossed haphazardly into a giant box). LAUNDRY ROOM. There's another box that Hubby labeled with BIKING CLOTH. I am sure he just ran out of space or time for the ES since I never would have married a man who can't spell clothes.

The family room was an empty space that we have barely used over the last 7 years except as a mini soccer field for our boys and a dance floor for parties. Now, it houses bags and bags (and not the grocery store reusable kind, but actual hefty sized garbage bags...some the kind you can only buy at Home Depot that say something intimidating on the box about Contractor Use) of garage sale items: The Excess. The stuff we've hoarded for all these years because we needed it except we never used any of it.

As I type this, sitting at my kitchen counter, my laptop and phone share the black granite space with two business cards of realtors we are not even doing business with, a post-it with 4 items all scratched off, three pieces of random junk mail, my son's pencil box covered in shiny animal stickers, a coupon for my favorite Mexican place, a 100-dollar-bill-looking eraser, some kind of army Matchbox-looking vehicle I've never seen before, and an index card with a chart depicting exactly how much we will save per month if we get the house on which we just put an offer. There's a towering pile of newspaper and tissue paper on the floor in the corner of my kitchen, waiting to wrap up my delicates. On the other kitchen counter, there's a box of random mail belonging to my husband, an opened bottle of Dreaming Tree red wine, coupons from my son's class, several print-outs of houses for sale, and a bewildering amount of old X-rays (the actual films and the CD's). The old stuff, in need of being tossed, sold, or packed is now mixing in with the new, daily stuff. It is this that is threatening to totally annoy and overwhelm me and send me into a mood reserved only for serious PMS days. I think about tackling some of it as soon as I finish this post. But then I think: Nah. I'm gonna bury my head under the covers for the night. (Isn't that better than running away screaming like in the movies?)

JUST WRITE with me (and Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary!) every Tuesday.