She blinked twice and read a paragraph.
She covered her right eye and read three lines.
She covered her left eye and read two lines.
She put her glasses on, read a few words of one line, held the paperback book to her chest, took an exaggerated breath and said out loud, “I can’t see a thing.”
Her head had been acting the part of a dull ache for weeks. She missed the days she would get in bed and read until her eyes fought to stay open. That’s how she was provided her deepest, most natural sleep. Now, by her bedside were copies of US Weekly, People and In Style, which she hid when certain people came over. Between stories of what celebrities do with their trash and liaisons between stars she didn’t know or know of, she continued to rearrange words, lose her place easily and question the definition of "star." Time for dilation was obvious when it took her thirty minutes to read an article about Michael Jackson’s death. In this exclusive, unbeknownst to anyone not working in gossip rags, the self proclaimed King of Pop had died two or three times more than many had originally suspected. She had known for some time that her left eye was considerably weaker than her right.
She sat in the waiting room and thumbed through an issue of Parent’s magazine hoping to find an article on how to be a better parent to her dogs. She sighed, shook her head and felt the magazine was doing many a disservice for not addressing the needs of those who are moms and dads to dogs. Out of the corner of her reading challenged eye, she noticed bright white, possibly brand new, scrunched down tube socks and bone colored Memphisto shoes. They covered the feet of a man she imagined to be in his late 60’s, maybe early 70’s. She and the man caught eyes after she dropped the magazine in a way that suggested she felt jilted for not only being a single parent, but a single parent to dogs.
He leaned towards her and said, “You want to see something?” She said, “Sure,” and smiled number two of four fake smiles she has in her smile collection. He positioned his elbow, an elbow she knows has a prescribed ointment applied to it daily for dry skin, in the middle of the pleather chair between them and said, “Touch right here.” Fortunately, for her and for those of you reading this, he was referring to his I-Phone. She focused in on what looked to be some rocks in the water. She tapped the screen and the water danced away as if her tap was another rock making its way to the bottom. “This is my favorite app.” He said. “I hear there’s an app for everything.” She said, and smiled number three of four. Their small talk about I-Phones and applications for everything turned into him asking her name and what she did for a living. Her name was called by an over-animated optometrist assistant. The assistant had a presence and tone that if the waiting room was the scene for a sitcom, the audience would start to clap when he came on camera. He would have to pause before delivering his line because he was a favorite character.
She would see the older man with the I-Phone later in another waiting room and again they would small talk. Soon she was off to get her lenses changed after it was determined that her right eye was now considerably weaker than her left.
Later that day she received an email from an address she didn’t know. She soon realized it was from the older man in the doctor’s office.
“I was hoping I’d find you ... and I did! Pardon the clumsy come on with the cutesy apps on my I-Phone, but I had to work fast. I’ve never done this, but you simply overwhelmed me...so here goes, how about lunch sometime soon?”
She sighed, was flattered, but wished this encounter would’ve happened with someone 30 years younger. She had long believed age to be just a number. She thought about it and then admitted what she really wanted was for an encounter like this to be with someone she was attracted to. She decided he must be a lonely man, perhaps widowed. Maybe his kids recently got him an I-Phone to help him pass his days. Because she didn’t want to lead him to believe this would be anything more than a lunch where he could show her another app on his I-Phone, she fibbed and said she would love to have lunch, but had a significant other. She felt terrible telling a lie to this man, a lie as white as his socks, but she felt bad turning down lunch with someone who was obviously in need of a friend and a smile.
He wrote her back the following morning.
“Well, I must admit that I too have someone special in my life... my wife. You know, good relationships are like being home. There’s a warmth and a comfort you just can’t find anywhere else. But taking a “vacation" to an exciting and beautiful destination makes life full of fun and romance. On Friday, I leave for Europe with my family for two weeks. I will be in touch when I return. Thank you for taking the time to be with me. I am filled with excitement and anticipation.”
She read the email two, maybe three times and hoped her new prescription was fooling her. She took a sip of coffee. She had a friend read the email as well.
How could this man not be widowed and not craving a friend to talk to?
She was disappointed. She expected more from this man. Or did her expectations of this man, the man she had created him to be before she even met him, disappoint her?
That night she sat alone at her computer wanting to write something scathing back, yet something that would gain his respect, respect he never had for her in the first place. She hoped his wife frequently batted her eyelashes at other men and they were both getting what they deserve. She thought the moral of the story was if anyone asks you to touch their koi pond on their I-Phone, don’t think it’s as simple as the water dancing away. In between sips of Gruner, she hated the fact this story involved an I-Phone. She found nothing sexy or romantic about modern technology. Words of love, strung together like strands of popcorn circling a Christmas tree, look better on paper than in an email. They always will. Or, that's how she felt.
She went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. What in her face led him to believe he could get away with it? She said a Hail Mary and an Our Father in hopes that God was continuing to listen since she was rusty with the rhythm of her prayers. Sitting back on her feet, but on her knees, she asked that if she were to ever marry, her husband wouldn’t do such things. She then said an Act of Contrition in hopes her husband wouldn’t even think of doing such things. She took a few more sips of that cheap bottle of wine, questioned her naivete in life and in prayer, turned her computer off and got in bed.
She blinked twice and read a paragraph.
She covered her right eye and read three lines.
She covered her left eye and read two lines.
She put her glasses on, read a few words of one line, held the paperback book to her chest, took an exaggerated breath and said out loud, “It’s good to be able to see again.”
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
THE REALITY OF HITCHING A RIDE
The scene: Bonnaroo 2007.
The event: The only time I’ve hitchhiked.
I was living in New York and had flown down to Nashville to meet some girlfriends for a weekend full of music, laughs, carny food and port-o-potties. My flight home wasn’t leaving until early Monday morning, but I needed a ride back to Nashville from Manchester, Tennessee where the Bonnaroo festival takes place. A friend of a friend said he would meet me at a motel at the next exit down I-24 and give me a ride to Nashville on Sunday. All I needed to do was get from my campsite to that motel.
On Sunday afternoon, I gave filthy hugs to my friends, threw my backpack on and started walking through a field of RV’s, tents, a smell of patchouli and watched my step for festival goer’s still passed out from the night before. I said to one man in a Maxima, “Excuse me. Sir? Hi. I’m Gina. Gina Brown. I need to get back to Nashville tonight in order to catch my flight tom...” Before I could ask for a ride, he cut me off and said he was heading to Birmingham.
I stood on the side of a makeshift road, hiked my left leg and skirt up onto the bumper of an F-150 and...oh, I’m just kidding, but I did put my thumb out. A young kid in a pup of a truck stopped and said, “Where you headin’?” I said, “Just down to the next exit. I have a plane to ca....” Again, I was cut off. Apparently people don’t want to know why you’re hitchhiking. He told me to get in as he turned his hat around from back to front and pulled the bill down over his tired eyes. I drew a “G” on my thigh. That’s how much dirt I had on me. We made small talk. His name was Allen. I thought, “What if he keeps driving past the exit. Damn. I hope my family and friends pick good pictures of me to use if I end up on Dateline.” Minutes later, we reached my destination. I got out, leaned down and said, “Thanks for the lift!” He said, “No problem you little Yankee.” I smiled, winked and was excited he called me little. He drove off. I think he said he had a shift at O’Charley’s that started in an hour or so.
I’ve always been a better passenger than driver. When I was in high school and driving my father’s boat of an Oldsmobile, Big Blue, as we affectionately called it, caught on fire while at a red light. Most recently, while sitting parked in a gas station parking lot, a woman started to back up and didn’t stop until she rearranged my bumper.
Recently, I was incredibly excited to meet my family halfway between Chattanooga and Nashville, Tennessee at a restaurant in Sewanee, Tennessee. I’m not one to be proactive about filling up my gas tank. Maybe I like guessing when the gas light will come on or like to treat it as some sort of game of risk I can play with myself or, and the most likely answer, I’m lazy. Before I started up the mountain, the little red gas pump presented itself to me. I still had a ways to go, so I pulled over in Pelham, Tennessee. When I stepped out of the car, it was as if I was stepping into another era. I swear I heard old George Jones coming from somewhere. The most recent car model, other than mine, had to have been the 1984 Chrysler Fifth Avenue that I believe belonged to the clerk. Everything on the pump was handwritten. As I said earlier, I was excited, I was in a hurry. I listened to the numbers on the pump make a sound like a heartbeat as they flipped and vibrated slightly before they flipped again. I put enough gas in my car to get up the mountain, down the mountain, back home and to work the next day. Almost immediately after getting back on the interstate my car started to act like she had been slipped a date rape drug. She started to moan, then grown, then hurl and then.... she let go. I could see my exit, but I guess she could not.
While waiting for the wrecker to give my car a lift and my father to give me one, I called my friend, who was from the area, to see if he had any suggestions on where my car should go. “What’s wrong with it?” My friend asked. “I don’t know. I guess it’s the battery or transmission.” I said. I thought that answer sounded good, though I had no idea what I was talking about. He said, “If you can start the car, it’s not the battery.” Like some sort of detective specializing in mechanics he wanted me to go back and trace my steps in order to determine when and where things started to get suspicious. I said, “Well, I got gas and then...” He cut me off. There was silence. I said, “Oh hell. I must’ve gotten bad gas! I knew that place was shady. They probably haven’t had gas delivered since 1990.” Like someone with a strong hunch my friend confidently, yet cautiously, stated, “Or you put diesel in your car.” I quickly said, “No! I’m not stupid. That causes your car to just shut down!” I fumbled for the receipt. I saw the date, the price and 6 gallons of DIESEL in letters as bold as I just typed. How did the detective know? How could I have been so absent? What kind of lightweight was my car that she couldn’t hand 6 little gallons of diesel?
Jimmy Moon arrived in his fire engine red and white tow truck to take my sick car somewhere. I quickly alerted Mr. Moon to what I thought the problem might be. Let me rephrase that, I tried to portray myself not as a complete idiot when telling him what I knew the problem was. By this time, my father had arrived. Jimmy opened the hood of the car and started touching things and saying things that I wanted to know nothing about. My father stood calm and I fidgeted when Jimmy put his hand in my face. “Touch it. Just touch it. It’s diesel.” Frustrated, I thought, “Listen Sherlock, someone else is two steps ahead of you.” When I walked over to the cab of Jimmy’s truck to ask him how much it was going to cost to tow, at first I didn’t see the array of skulls and crossbones that detailed the inside of his monster truck. All I saw were dollar signs and heard the sound of a cash register.
My eyes welled up as I started to notice Jimmy’s decorating style. “Let me tell you, just last week Cindy Mullins daughter, Amanda, you know her? Hell, I’ve known her since she was born, she was coming home from MTSU, she is a student down there studying, oh I don’t know 3rd grade teaching or something like that, well she did the same damn thing. Yes she did! You ain’t supposed to be able to do that. That nozzle ain’t supposed to fit! I think they got some deal with the mechanics. They’re getting a cut of what it costs to fix it back up. Yeah, I had to go get Amanda too. See, you ain’t the first.” I appreciated Jimmy trying to make me feel better, I really did, but I was hungry and just wanted to give my brother a hug and wish him a happy birthday.
I paid Jimmy $75.00 cash to tow my car to a dealership in Manchester, Tennessee. I went on to have a wonderful dinner with my family that night. It just so happened that my dear friend, Millie, was driving back from Cleveland, Tennessee. She picked me up at the McDonald’s/BP combo on top of the mountain. When you’re feeling as strapped for cash as I was in that moment, it’s nice to know a small coffee at McDonald’s is still under a dollar.
The next day I called the place where Jimmy Moon left my sick car. I was told it was an easy fix, but it was going to cost me nearly $800.00 to repair, there was no payment plan and I was going to need a ride to Manchester to pick it up.
Panicked, because I don’t have 800 bucks lying around and could see a lot of McDonald’s coffee and value meal items in my future, I called the doctor that first delivered my car to me last February and has been her doctor for her 3000 mile check ups and a bruise or two she’s acquired.
All the good car doctor said was, “Pay them for the labor. Let me go get her. We’ll take care of her.”
I met the doctor through a man, a man with whom I stepped on the accelerator and didn’t let up. Without breaks, you always crash. Looking back, I wish I would’ve gone at the speed of a Sunday drive with that man.
The doctor kept me updated on my car’s recovery. At one point I said, “I need to know what the financial damage is going to be because I need to move some funds around.” He said, “I will let you know. It won’t be nearly what they were going to charge you in Manchester.”
When I arrived at the clinic to take my car home, the doctor left me with a rediscovered truth of what it means to hold someone’s hand and help them up after they’ve slipped. In my case, slipped into a pool full of diesel fuel. The doctor’s ribs were probably sore the next day since I obsessively bear hugged him multiple times. Because of doctor/patient confidentially laws, all I can say is that I left the doctor’s office with a great deal, given my mistake, a better car and a much needed lift.
For months now I’ve been talking about starting The Dave Blog again. I have dozens and dozens of entries labeled TDB, TBD. Some have a beginning, some have a middle, but none of them have an end. I wanted a new layout, a new style and maybe even a new name. I joked, back in March, I was giving TDB a facelift. As you see, TDB hasn’t changed much other than it’s running again. The diesel, the most exhausting, embarrassing and potentially most expensive thing I’ve done in awhile, gave TDB a lift. Thanks to the diesel, it’s back in production.
So the friend of the doctor, the one I wanted to be a Sunday drive, was my vehicle, my lift, to the doctor. It was just recently, while in the doctor’s good care, did I realize how good my wannabe Sunday drive was for me. The Sunday drive, the diesel and TDB's return weren’t how I wanted or imagined it to be, but it worked out, actually better than before.
It’s unfortunate that we can’t fully comprehend, before we have to ask ourselves the tough, painful questions, how broken relationships or wrong turns can lead us to what we really need and the destinations where we really are meant to be.
So maybe Bonnaroo of 2007 isn’t the only time I’ve hitchiked? I've received a lot of lifts.
The next time someone or something tells us the trip is over and to get out of the car, instead of hearing that it’s all ending, maybe what we really need to hear is, need a lift?
The event: The only time I’ve hitchhiked.
I was living in New York and had flown down to Nashville to meet some girlfriends for a weekend full of music, laughs, carny food and port-o-potties. My flight home wasn’t leaving until early Monday morning, but I needed a ride back to Nashville from Manchester, Tennessee where the Bonnaroo festival takes place. A friend of a friend said he would meet me at a motel at the next exit down I-24 and give me a ride to Nashville on Sunday. All I needed to do was get from my campsite to that motel.
On Sunday afternoon, I gave filthy hugs to my friends, threw my backpack on and started walking through a field of RV’s, tents, a smell of patchouli and watched my step for festival goer’s still passed out from the night before. I said to one man in a Maxima, “Excuse me. Sir? Hi. I’m Gina. Gina Brown. I need to get back to Nashville tonight in order to catch my flight tom...” Before I could ask for a ride, he cut me off and said he was heading to Birmingham.
I stood on the side of a makeshift road, hiked my left leg and skirt up onto the bumper of an F-150 and...oh, I’m just kidding, but I did put my thumb out. A young kid in a pup of a truck stopped and said, “Where you headin’?” I said, “Just down to the next exit. I have a plane to ca....” Again, I was cut off. Apparently people don’t want to know why you’re hitchhiking. He told me to get in as he turned his hat around from back to front and pulled the bill down over his tired eyes. I drew a “G” on my thigh. That’s how much dirt I had on me. We made small talk. His name was Allen. I thought, “What if he keeps driving past the exit. Damn. I hope my family and friends pick good pictures of me to use if I end up on Dateline.” Minutes later, we reached my destination. I got out, leaned down and said, “Thanks for the lift!” He said, “No problem you little Yankee.” I smiled, winked and was excited he called me little. He drove off. I think he said he had a shift at O’Charley’s that started in an hour or so.
I’ve always been a better passenger than driver. When I was in high school and driving my father’s boat of an Oldsmobile, Big Blue, as we affectionately called it, caught on fire while at a red light. Most recently, while sitting parked in a gas station parking lot, a woman started to back up and didn’t stop until she rearranged my bumper.
Recently, I was incredibly excited to meet my family halfway between Chattanooga and Nashville, Tennessee at a restaurant in Sewanee, Tennessee. I’m not one to be proactive about filling up my gas tank. Maybe I like guessing when the gas light will come on or like to treat it as some sort of game of risk I can play with myself or, and the most likely answer, I’m lazy. Before I started up the mountain, the little red gas pump presented itself to me. I still had a ways to go, so I pulled over in Pelham, Tennessee. When I stepped out of the car, it was as if I was stepping into another era. I swear I heard old George Jones coming from somewhere. The most recent car model, other than mine, had to have been the 1984 Chrysler Fifth Avenue that I believe belonged to the clerk. Everything on the pump was handwritten. As I said earlier, I was excited, I was in a hurry. I listened to the numbers on the pump make a sound like a heartbeat as they flipped and vibrated slightly before they flipped again. I put enough gas in my car to get up the mountain, down the mountain, back home and to work the next day. Almost immediately after getting back on the interstate my car started to act like she had been slipped a date rape drug. She started to moan, then grown, then hurl and then.... she let go. I could see my exit, but I guess she could not.
While waiting for the wrecker to give my car a lift and my father to give me one, I called my friend, who was from the area, to see if he had any suggestions on where my car should go. “What’s wrong with it?” My friend asked. “I don’t know. I guess it’s the battery or transmission.” I said. I thought that answer sounded good, though I had no idea what I was talking about. He said, “If you can start the car, it’s not the battery.” Like some sort of detective specializing in mechanics he wanted me to go back and trace my steps in order to determine when and where things started to get suspicious. I said, “Well, I got gas and then...” He cut me off. There was silence. I said, “Oh hell. I must’ve gotten bad gas! I knew that place was shady. They probably haven’t had gas delivered since 1990.” Like someone with a strong hunch my friend confidently, yet cautiously, stated, “Or you put diesel in your car.” I quickly said, “No! I’m not stupid. That causes your car to just shut down!” I fumbled for the receipt. I saw the date, the price and 6 gallons of DIESEL in letters as bold as I just typed. How did the detective know? How could I have been so absent? What kind of lightweight was my car that she couldn’t hand 6 little gallons of diesel?
Jimmy Moon arrived in his fire engine red and white tow truck to take my sick car somewhere. I quickly alerted Mr. Moon to what I thought the problem might be. Let me rephrase that, I tried to portray myself not as a complete idiot when telling him what I knew the problem was. By this time, my father had arrived. Jimmy opened the hood of the car and started touching things and saying things that I wanted to know nothing about. My father stood calm and I fidgeted when Jimmy put his hand in my face. “Touch it. Just touch it. It’s diesel.” Frustrated, I thought, “Listen Sherlock, someone else is two steps ahead of you.” When I walked over to the cab of Jimmy’s truck to ask him how much it was going to cost to tow, at first I didn’t see the array of skulls and crossbones that detailed the inside of his monster truck. All I saw were dollar signs and heard the sound of a cash register.
My eyes welled up as I started to notice Jimmy’s decorating style. “Let me tell you, just last week Cindy Mullins daughter, Amanda, you know her? Hell, I’ve known her since she was born, she was coming home from MTSU, she is a student down there studying, oh I don’t know 3rd grade teaching or something like that, well she did the same damn thing. Yes she did! You ain’t supposed to be able to do that. That nozzle ain’t supposed to fit! I think they got some deal with the mechanics. They’re getting a cut of what it costs to fix it back up. Yeah, I had to go get Amanda too. See, you ain’t the first.” I appreciated Jimmy trying to make me feel better, I really did, but I was hungry and just wanted to give my brother a hug and wish him a happy birthday.
I paid Jimmy $75.00 cash to tow my car to a dealership in Manchester, Tennessee. I went on to have a wonderful dinner with my family that night. It just so happened that my dear friend, Millie, was driving back from Cleveland, Tennessee. She picked me up at the McDonald’s/BP combo on top of the mountain. When you’re feeling as strapped for cash as I was in that moment, it’s nice to know a small coffee at McDonald’s is still under a dollar.
The next day I called the place where Jimmy Moon left my sick car. I was told it was an easy fix, but it was going to cost me nearly $800.00 to repair, there was no payment plan and I was going to need a ride to Manchester to pick it up.
Panicked, because I don’t have 800 bucks lying around and could see a lot of McDonald’s coffee and value meal items in my future, I called the doctor that first delivered my car to me last February and has been her doctor for her 3000 mile check ups and a bruise or two she’s acquired.
All the good car doctor said was, “Pay them for the labor. Let me go get her. We’ll take care of her.”
I met the doctor through a man, a man with whom I stepped on the accelerator and didn’t let up. Without breaks, you always crash. Looking back, I wish I would’ve gone at the speed of a Sunday drive with that man.
The doctor kept me updated on my car’s recovery. At one point I said, “I need to know what the financial damage is going to be because I need to move some funds around.” He said, “I will let you know. It won’t be nearly what they were going to charge you in Manchester.”
When I arrived at the clinic to take my car home, the doctor left me with a rediscovered truth of what it means to hold someone’s hand and help them up after they’ve slipped. In my case, slipped into a pool full of diesel fuel. The doctor’s ribs were probably sore the next day since I obsessively bear hugged him multiple times. Because of doctor/patient confidentially laws, all I can say is that I left the doctor’s office with a great deal, given my mistake, a better car and a much needed lift.
For months now I’ve been talking about starting The Dave Blog again. I have dozens and dozens of entries labeled TDB, TBD. Some have a beginning, some have a middle, but none of them have an end. I wanted a new layout, a new style and maybe even a new name. I joked, back in March, I was giving TDB a facelift. As you see, TDB hasn’t changed much other than it’s running again. The diesel, the most exhausting, embarrassing and potentially most expensive thing I’ve done in awhile, gave TDB a lift. Thanks to the diesel, it’s back in production.
So the friend of the doctor, the one I wanted to be a Sunday drive, was my vehicle, my lift, to the doctor. It was just recently, while in the doctor’s good care, did I realize how good my wannabe Sunday drive was for me. The Sunday drive, the diesel and TDB's return weren’t how I wanted or imagined it to be, but it worked out, actually better than before.
It’s unfortunate that we can’t fully comprehend, before we have to ask ourselves the tough, painful questions, how broken relationships or wrong turns can lead us to what we really need and the destinations where we really are meant to be.
So maybe Bonnaroo of 2007 isn’t the only time I’ve hitchiked? I've received a lot of lifts.
The next time someone or something tells us the trip is over and to get out of the car, instead of hearing that it’s all ending, maybe what we really need to hear is, need a lift?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
EXTREME TDB MAKEOVER
The time has come for a little switch up at TDB. For the foreseeable, TDB will be retooling, rewriting, botoxing, lyposuctioning...Ok, to be honest, TDB is undergoing a complete identity change.
It's like TDB is a contestant on one of those transformation reality shows. It goes away for awhile and hopefully comes out looking better in one way or another. (And when those people go away and don't end looking better... it really is sad. I'm going to remember that..)
Look for something brand spanking new and toned around the first of July.
Thank you so much for all of your comments, arguments, laughs and especially for bothering to read.
As I've said before, writing TDB has brought me a lot of joy, even when some of my pieces might have led you to believe otherwise.
Over the next three months, while TDB is getting some spray tans (much healthier than the actual sun or a tanning bed) to get a nice new glow, I would love story suggestions. If you or someone you know has a story that is interesting, quirky and might in some way inspire, help or cause someone just to think...please send them my way.
Thank you again for all of the support and for those beautiful eyes that read my words...
It's like TDB is a contestant on one of those transformation reality shows. It goes away for awhile and hopefully comes out looking better in one way or another. (And when those people go away and don't end looking better... it really is sad. I'm going to remember that..)
Look for something brand spanking new and toned around the first of July.
Thank you so much for all of your comments, arguments, laughs and especially for bothering to read.
As I've said before, writing TDB has brought me a lot of joy, even when some of my pieces might have led you to believe otherwise.
Over the next three months, while TDB is getting some spray tans (much healthier than the actual sun or a tanning bed) to get a nice new glow, I would love story suggestions. If you or someone you know has a story that is interesting, quirky and might in some way inspire, help or cause someone just to think...please send them my way.
Thank you again for all of the support and for those beautiful eyes that read my words...
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
STARTING FROM SCRATCH
He handed me a stretch of paper that he had ripped from the credit card machine and said, “Read this book. It will change your life when it comes to this kind of stuff.”
I looked at him, my bartender/to-go order getter and thought, “Where is my damn sandwich? You said 15 minutes!”
Let me rewind a few days.
Wait a minute, first, let me fast forward. On Friday, I will turn 32. I like the idea of setting a goal to achieve in every year of my birth. It’s very possible that I’ve been doing this every year since I was born, but I’ve been consciously doing this since I was 25. I would say in that time of awareness, I’ve completed three goals. I hope my stats were better when I wasn't conscious of what I was doing. For my 32nd year, I decided I wanted to learn how to be a better cook, baker or really any term that apples to people who server food to others.
I’m sure I’ve said it before in TDB’s past that cooking isn’t a strength of mine. The interesting thing is that eating, eating good, mouth watering food is my strength. I also consider it my weakness. You would think that I would find interest in the preparation of food and such, but to be honest, I always found it to be some sort of a hassle.
If this were the 1950's, I would want to know my way around the kitchen because I would need to satisfy a man when he came home at 5:30, sat in his chair and made his drink a double. I guess if this were the 50's, I would have been making that drink too.
In 2009, my intentions are based off of what everyone tells me about the joy of cooking.
“It’s so relaxing!”
“It’s the only way to ensure that you know what you’re eating.”
“What an amazing way to express creativity!”
I’m all for relaxing, being healthier and tapping into my creative resources. I would probably try to infuse peanut butter into a butternut squash and goat cheese marinara with dark chocolate and cayenne shavings and sprinkles. How could all of my favorite foods not taste exquisite together?
What better way to kick off my 32nd year of life than with a birthday party, thrown by me, and cake, prepared by me? Right? I touted the "cake by me" part heavily in the invite.
After consulting with a very practical friend, I decided I should do cupcakes, not cake, for portion reasons. I knew in that moment that Betty, Duncan and all of those other perfect combinations of boxed delights wouldn’t suffice. I wanted to make a damn good cupcake. I should’ve known when I had visions of serving the cupcakes one by one, to people in a bar, and looking like a 1950’s housewife, things weren’t going to whip together so smoothly.
I decided I wanted a cupcake that resembled one of the best cupcakes I’ve ever consumed. A sweet, pure and Divine little cup of a cake from Billy’s Bakery in New York City. I got online and found a copycat recipe that Billy supposedly shared with Martha Stewart on her TV show a few years ago.
I rarely find myself nervous walking into a grocery store, unless I haven’t showered in two days and fear running into that person where it’s pretty critical that you've showered when you run into them. As the automatic doors started to open and I had to perform the old shuffle-ball-change dance move because it was a bit faulty, I realized I felt overwhelmed.
I was making cupcakes from scratch. I placed flour, sugar, baking powder and unsalted butter in my bag. On my way to find the pure vanilla extract, I was staring at boxes of Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines. Hell, even Kroger’s brand was flirting with me. It looked so easy. They are a sure thing. If you screw those up, you might as well live in a house without an oven.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and ran past the icing that already has sprinkles mixed in. I got the vanilla, milk, (And hey, let this be knowledge that I wasn’t messing around. I bought whole milk. I don’t think I’ve ever purchased whole milk.) This was a big day in the life of Gina Brown, almost 32.
I got home and told Bette Davis that it would be a minute before Mama let her out because we were going to have a big night of baking and I needed to get everything just so. I had the dry ingredients on the counter, the other stuff was in the fridge. I preheated the oven to 325 degrees, washed my hands and poured myself a glass of wine.
An excitement came over me that I haven’t felt since I was a kid eating a homemade cupcake. Again, I had whole milk in the fridge, this was the real, damn deal. I put on some good music and nervously positioned the recipe in different areas of the kitchen. I must say everything felt like I was a mother making an after school snack for my kids until I got to the point where butter needed to be added. The recipe called for the butter to be at room temperature, cut into cubes and added into the dry ingredients.
I should be really honest here and say the recipe stated that you should put all of this in one of those fancy mixers. I don’t have a fancy mixer, but if I did it would be pink. I don’t even have a non-fancy hand mixer. I thought to myself, “OK, people in the 30’s didn’t have fancy schmancy mixers, this is a situation where I just need to put a little arm and wrist action into this.”
As my arm started to cramp my thoughts dwindled from, “How much is a mixer? to “Why didn’t I put the butter in the microwave?” to “This is incredibly annoying and uninteresting to me.”
I tried taking the chunks of butter, spreading them along the sides of the bowl like I was spreading them on bread, and then mixing it back into the batter. There came a point where I accepted that some would be a bit butterier than others. I spooned them ¾’s full into their pastel paper cups and let them cook for 16 minutes.
At 8 minutes I was supposed to rotate the tray. I did it. I did it well. When I pulled the first batch out at 16 minutes, they looked quite lovely, if I was looking at them from the other side of the room. As I peered closer, I could see there was something disturbingly wrong with the texture. My initial thought was that the frosting would cover this sponge like imperfection. I popped them out, one by one , and let them cool. At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. I tend to cut myself off at two on weeknights, but I felt the need for a third. I decided to taste the cupcake with my glass of wine. I sat down at the table like I was sitting down for dinner. I might have even said a prayer. I took a bite. I slowly nibbled on what intended to be a “Billy’s Vanilla Cupcake” and decided what I was eating would be well-suited with a bowl of chili.
Somehow, somewhere, between the mixing of flour, cake flour, baking powder, butter, sugar, salt, eggs, milk and vanilla, it seemed some corn meal made it’s way into the mix. My cupcakes tasted like sweet corn bread that a chain restaurant puts on your table before your appetizer, salad and entrée arrives.
As minutes passed and the cornbread cooled, I would pick them up, one by one and watch Bette Davis’s head cock at the rock-like sound they would make as they hit the counter top.
I threw out the rest of my wine because it somehow now tasted like the corn muffins. I wasn’t hungry, but decided I needed to get this thought, taste and smell out of my head and mouth. I called a nearby restaurant to place a to go order.
“Battered and Fried, this is Casey, what can I do for you?”
“Hey Casey. Yeah, I want to place a to go order. How long is the wait on sushi tonight?”
“30 minutes.”
“OK, screw that. What’s your fish today?”
“Mahi-Mahi.”
“Great, I will have that grilled, in sandwich form.”
“Would you like the pub fries as your side?”
“Oh Casey, you need to know this. I don’t want them, but I need them. You don’t know how terrible my day has been.”
“Ok, that will be $10.95. See you in about 15 minutes.”
When I hung up the phone, I thought about taking Casey one of the items I had baked and see what he thought it was, but I quickly realized that when Bette Davis, a dog who eats anything she can reach, could reach them and wasn’t eating them, I decided to spare sweet Casey.
There was probably enough batter in the bowl to make another 6-8 corn muffins. Let’s just call them cup muffins from here on out because corn muffins and corn cakes have already been declared a certain kind of food. So has a cupcake and as you know by now, these weren't cupcakes. I looked at the bowl and realized that it would be more of a pain to clean out, since I don’t have a dishwasher other than my own two hands and some Palmolive. I picked up one of the cup muffins, took a giant bite out of it like I was some sort of starving animal, chewed it up and realized an entire pat of butter was still present, hardly even melted. I spit it out into the batter. Like outdated food, the cup muffins went into the trash.
I walked into the restaurant, looking as if I had just been running for an hour given my attire and makeup smears from tears. I went to the bar and Casey said, “You must be my fish sandwich to go order. You should have a beer since you’ve had a bad day. You can sit here and tell me all about it. I’m a bartender. That’s what I’m here for. “ Casey may have winked after he said that, but I wanted nothing to do with him because I knew I was one seat away from becoming a “woman walks into a bar” joke.
I said, “Eh. No beer for me. Casey, I would keep you here all night with all of the stuff that has been streaming through my body like a virus this last month. It’s just stuff. But, it’s my stuff. Stuff that makes my head, my heart, damn Casey, my whole body hurt. And tonight, I think tipped the scale. The crazy thing is, I’ve tipped the scale with cupcakes before. But, that was more in the literal sense.”
Casey looked at me. He was completely lost. As he very well should have been.
I continued, “Now, the inability to actually mix together ingredients and bake a damn cupcake has pushed me over the limit!”
He paused, looked up into the air like he was trying to digest something that resembled one of my cup muffins, he turned around, turned back around and handed me a stretch of paper that he had ripped from the credit card machine and said, “Read this book. It will change your life when it comes to this kind of stuff.”
I looked at him, my bartender/to go order getter and thought, “Where is my damn sandwich? You said 15 minutes.”
I didn’t understand how he missed the point! Even though at first I refused, I thought bartenders were supposed to be a comparable dollar amount to therapist without the degree?
On that piece of paper, Casey had written the name of a book that is an introduction into baking.
As I drove home and resisted the temptation to start picking at the fries, I realized that cooking/baking is just like everything else, you have to practice. You have to start from scratch. Even though I did start from scratch ingredients wise, I was thinking I was beyond the lesson. Oh Casey, you did your bartending/to go order getter/therapist job well tonight. Don't spend that tip all in one place.
So, I’m going to go to my birthday party and show up cupcake-less or cup muffin-less. I think my friends will understand. As my Mom said, after crying on the phone to her about the fiasco, “Do you really think they were coming for the cupcakes?”
** if any of you reading this live in Nashville and want to come to my birthday party on Thursday, March 19th, join us at 12 South Taproom around 5 pm. (It's not a big party, it's really just about getting together, having a drink, maybe some food and not eating my cupcakes.)
Nanny, this one is for you. Happy 86th birthday! I so wish you were here with me to read, inspire, dance and laugh. I love everything I remember about you and more.
I looked at him, my bartender/to-go order getter and thought, “Where is my damn sandwich? You said 15 minutes!”
Let me rewind a few days.
Wait a minute, first, let me fast forward. On Friday, I will turn 32. I like the idea of setting a goal to achieve in every year of my birth. It’s very possible that I’ve been doing this every year since I was born, but I’ve been consciously doing this since I was 25. I would say in that time of awareness, I’ve completed three goals. I hope my stats were better when I wasn't conscious of what I was doing. For my 32nd year, I decided I wanted to learn how to be a better cook, baker or really any term that apples to people who server food to others.
I’m sure I’ve said it before in TDB’s past that cooking isn’t a strength of mine. The interesting thing is that eating, eating good, mouth watering food is my strength. I also consider it my weakness. You would think that I would find interest in the preparation of food and such, but to be honest, I always found it to be some sort of a hassle.
If this were the 1950's, I would want to know my way around the kitchen because I would need to satisfy a man when he came home at 5:30, sat in his chair and made his drink a double. I guess if this were the 50's, I would have been making that drink too.
In 2009, my intentions are based off of what everyone tells me about the joy of cooking.
“It’s so relaxing!”
“It’s the only way to ensure that you know what you’re eating.”
“What an amazing way to express creativity!”
I’m all for relaxing, being healthier and tapping into my creative resources. I would probably try to infuse peanut butter into a butternut squash and goat cheese marinara with dark chocolate and cayenne shavings and sprinkles. How could all of my favorite foods not taste exquisite together?
What better way to kick off my 32nd year of life than with a birthday party, thrown by me, and cake, prepared by me? Right? I touted the "cake by me" part heavily in the invite.
After consulting with a very practical friend, I decided I should do cupcakes, not cake, for portion reasons. I knew in that moment that Betty, Duncan and all of those other perfect combinations of boxed delights wouldn’t suffice. I wanted to make a damn good cupcake. I should’ve known when I had visions of serving the cupcakes one by one, to people in a bar, and looking like a 1950’s housewife, things weren’t going to whip together so smoothly.
I decided I wanted a cupcake that resembled one of the best cupcakes I’ve ever consumed. A sweet, pure and Divine little cup of a cake from Billy’s Bakery in New York City. I got online and found a copycat recipe that Billy supposedly shared with Martha Stewart on her TV show a few years ago.
I rarely find myself nervous walking into a grocery store, unless I haven’t showered in two days and fear running into that person where it’s pretty critical that you've showered when you run into them. As the automatic doors started to open and I had to perform the old shuffle-ball-change dance move because it was a bit faulty, I realized I felt overwhelmed.
I was making cupcakes from scratch. I placed flour, sugar, baking powder and unsalted butter in my bag. On my way to find the pure vanilla extract, I was staring at boxes of Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines. Hell, even Kroger’s brand was flirting with me. It looked so easy. They are a sure thing. If you screw those up, you might as well live in a house without an oven.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and ran past the icing that already has sprinkles mixed in. I got the vanilla, milk, (And hey, let this be knowledge that I wasn’t messing around. I bought whole milk. I don’t think I’ve ever purchased whole milk.) This was a big day in the life of Gina Brown, almost 32.
I got home and told Bette Davis that it would be a minute before Mama let her out because we were going to have a big night of baking and I needed to get everything just so. I had the dry ingredients on the counter, the other stuff was in the fridge. I preheated the oven to 325 degrees, washed my hands and poured myself a glass of wine.
An excitement came over me that I haven’t felt since I was a kid eating a homemade cupcake. Again, I had whole milk in the fridge, this was the real, damn deal. I put on some good music and nervously positioned the recipe in different areas of the kitchen. I must say everything felt like I was a mother making an after school snack for my kids until I got to the point where butter needed to be added. The recipe called for the butter to be at room temperature, cut into cubes and added into the dry ingredients.
I should be really honest here and say the recipe stated that you should put all of this in one of those fancy mixers. I don’t have a fancy mixer, but if I did it would be pink. I don’t even have a non-fancy hand mixer. I thought to myself, “OK, people in the 30’s didn’t have fancy schmancy mixers, this is a situation where I just need to put a little arm and wrist action into this.”
As my arm started to cramp my thoughts dwindled from, “How much is a mixer? to “Why didn’t I put the butter in the microwave?” to “This is incredibly annoying and uninteresting to me.”
I tried taking the chunks of butter, spreading them along the sides of the bowl like I was spreading them on bread, and then mixing it back into the batter. There came a point where I accepted that some would be a bit butterier than others. I spooned them ¾’s full into their pastel paper cups and let them cook for 16 minutes.
At 8 minutes I was supposed to rotate the tray. I did it. I did it well. When I pulled the first batch out at 16 minutes, they looked quite lovely, if I was looking at them from the other side of the room. As I peered closer, I could see there was something disturbingly wrong with the texture. My initial thought was that the frosting would cover this sponge like imperfection. I popped them out, one by one , and let them cool. At this point, I was two glasses of wine in. I tend to cut myself off at two on weeknights, but I felt the need for a third. I decided to taste the cupcake with my glass of wine. I sat down at the table like I was sitting down for dinner. I might have even said a prayer. I took a bite. I slowly nibbled on what intended to be a “Billy’s Vanilla Cupcake” and decided what I was eating would be well-suited with a bowl of chili.
Somehow, somewhere, between the mixing of flour, cake flour, baking powder, butter, sugar, salt, eggs, milk and vanilla, it seemed some corn meal made it’s way into the mix. My cupcakes tasted like sweet corn bread that a chain restaurant puts on your table before your appetizer, salad and entrée arrives.
As minutes passed and the cornbread cooled, I would pick them up, one by one and watch Bette Davis’s head cock at the rock-like sound they would make as they hit the counter top.
I threw out the rest of my wine because it somehow now tasted like the corn muffins. I wasn’t hungry, but decided I needed to get this thought, taste and smell out of my head and mouth. I called a nearby restaurant to place a to go order.
“Battered and Fried, this is Casey, what can I do for you?”
“Hey Casey. Yeah, I want to place a to go order. How long is the wait on sushi tonight?”
“30 minutes.”
“OK, screw that. What’s your fish today?”
“Mahi-Mahi.”
“Great, I will have that grilled, in sandwich form.”
“Would you like the pub fries as your side?”
“Oh Casey, you need to know this. I don’t want them, but I need them. You don’t know how terrible my day has been.”
“Ok, that will be $10.95. See you in about 15 minutes.”
When I hung up the phone, I thought about taking Casey one of the items I had baked and see what he thought it was, but I quickly realized that when Bette Davis, a dog who eats anything she can reach, could reach them and wasn’t eating them, I decided to spare sweet Casey.
There was probably enough batter in the bowl to make another 6-8 corn muffins. Let’s just call them cup muffins from here on out because corn muffins and corn cakes have already been declared a certain kind of food. So has a cupcake and as you know by now, these weren't cupcakes. I looked at the bowl and realized that it would be more of a pain to clean out, since I don’t have a dishwasher other than my own two hands and some Palmolive. I picked up one of the cup muffins, took a giant bite out of it like I was some sort of starving animal, chewed it up and realized an entire pat of butter was still present, hardly even melted. I spit it out into the batter. Like outdated food, the cup muffins went into the trash.
I walked into the restaurant, looking as if I had just been running for an hour given my attire and makeup smears from tears. I went to the bar and Casey said, “You must be my fish sandwich to go order. You should have a beer since you’ve had a bad day. You can sit here and tell me all about it. I’m a bartender. That’s what I’m here for. “ Casey may have winked after he said that, but I wanted nothing to do with him because I knew I was one seat away from becoming a “woman walks into a bar” joke.
I said, “Eh. No beer for me. Casey, I would keep you here all night with all of the stuff that has been streaming through my body like a virus this last month. It’s just stuff. But, it’s my stuff. Stuff that makes my head, my heart, damn Casey, my whole body hurt. And tonight, I think tipped the scale. The crazy thing is, I’ve tipped the scale with cupcakes before. But, that was more in the literal sense.”
Casey looked at me. He was completely lost. As he very well should have been.
I continued, “Now, the inability to actually mix together ingredients and bake a damn cupcake has pushed me over the limit!”
He paused, looked up into the air like he was trying to digest something that resembled one of my cup muffins, he turned around, turned back around and handed me a stretch of paper that he had ripped from the credit card machine and said, “Read this book. It will change your life when it comes to this kind of stuff.”
I looked at him, my bartender/to go order getter and thought, “Where is my damn sandwich? You said 15 minutes.”
I didn’t understand how he missed the point! Even though at first I refused, I thought bartenders were supposed to be a comparable dollar amount to therapist without the degree?
On that piece of paper, Casey had written the name of a book that is an introduction into baking.
As I drove home and resisted the temptation to start picking at the fries, I realized that cooking/baking is just like everything else, you have to practice. You have to start from scratch. Even though I did start from scratch ingredients wise, I was thinking I was beyond the lesson. Oh Casey, you did your bartending/to go order getter/therapist job well tonight. Don't spend that tip all in one place.
So, I’m going to go to my birthday party and show up cupcake-less or cup muffin-less. I think my friends will understand. As my Mom said, after crying on the phone to her about the fiasco, “Do you really think they were coming for the cupcakes?”
** if any of you reading this live in Nashville and want to come to my birthday party on Thursday, March 19th, join us at 12 South Taproom around 5 pm. (It's not a big party, it's really just about getting together, having a drink, maybe some food and not eating my cupcakes.)
Nanny, this one is for you. Happy 86th birthday! I so wish you were here with me to read, inspire, dance and laugh. I love everything I remember about you and more.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
THE LIGHT OR THE PRISM
I’m embarrassed to admit the thoughts that bombarded my mind as I drove towards, parked near and entered The Family Wash, a bar/music venue in Nashville, Tennessee this past Sunday afternoon.
I’ve been to the Family Wash twice before. The first time I went just to go and drink beer and the second time was to hear a singer I met because his dog was doing unmentionable things to my dog at the dog park. I think he felt obligated to do something nice since his boy violated my little girl. He invited me to his show. I felt obligated to go. Oh, obligation.
All of those petty, inconsequential thoughts, that felt like popcorn popping in my head, started to dissolve with the sweet sound of a 3-year-old's voice.
The little one sat up on the bar, wearing a pink dress with white polka dots. She carried a purse with nothing in it. She zoned in and out of paying attention to a white sheet across the way that served as a projection screen. Picture after picture went by. Music with a zydeco or Cajun beat hummed throughout the bar.
One picture in particular caught the eye of the little girl with the short pixie hair do. “That’s my Mommy.” She said and smiled. My eyes filled with tears. I took a sip of my beer, the beer I contemplated drinking because I didn’t need those calories on a Sunday evening. That’s an example of some of those petty, inconsequential thoughts that were in my mind just minutes before I heard her speak.
As my eyes went back and forth between the slide show and that little girl, I was also scanning the room. It was in those observations that my thoughts, my minuscule, boring, self-involved thoughts, became complete nonsense. They exited the selfish part of my brain that houses such worries as if they were hitching a ride on a boat with the Pale Ale that streamed down my throat.
The little girl in the polka dot dress sat swinging her legs, catching glances from many, though she probably didn’t know why they were looking her way. She occasionally blew bubbles through a little wand, all the while continuing to watch pictures of her mother’s life display itself like a timeline on the white bed sheet. She had no idea why my eyes were full of tears. She had no idea who I was. My welled up eyes made me feel silly.
I was at the after party, for a funeral, of someone I had never met.
A couple of days earlier I heard from a friend in New York. This was a friend I had kept in loose contact with and couldn't have told you when I would see her again. A dear friend of hers, who lived in Nashville, had passed away. The death was unexpected. I guess death is always unexpected, even when you expect someone to die.
My friend’s friend was healthy, under the weather and then dead within hours of being admitted into the hospital. I told my friend, “Please come. Stay with me.” She arrived on Saturday and we had the chance to catch up over Mexican food and beer. Our reconnection session continued Sunday morning over a run and brunch. She said I would be welcome to and she would really appreciate if I would consider coming to the funeral with her. I squirmed my awkward squirm. “I just… I.. I don’t think that’s something I can do. I’m sorry.”
I dropped her off at a church later that afternoon so she could say goodbye to her friend. She called when the service ended, I went to get her and then took her to what some would expect to be the burial. When we arrived, there were no shovels, but there was a tent. In this tent you didn't find people sitting and watching a casket be lowered into the ground. I think I saw people dancing under this tent.
There were tears of sadness that fell down the faces of many, but those tears also held hands with tears of celebration. Any passer by would have assumed there was a party going on at the Family Wash. A Mardi Gras themed party. They would’ve been right. There was a party going on. It was a party celebrating a life lost too soon just a few days earlier.
There were beads, feather boa’s and a gathering of musicians that could've just as well been playing in the French Quarter. There was beer, jambalaya and a king cake or two. People weren't there to find the baby in the king cake or do a Nashville version of The Big Easy. They were there because they loved and respected a woman who lived in Nashville by way of LA, California...and LA, the great state.
Her story would seem tragic to those who read it in the obituaries. She was 41. She had a husband she loved. A husband who loved her. She had two young, precocious, beautiful girls. Ages 5 and 3. She was creative. She was good at her job. She was involved in her community. She was a daughter. She was a sister. She was a friend. I heard one person say that she had a magic touch.
It's heartbreaking.
Heartbreaking likely isn’t the most fitting word.
Devastating might sum it up better.
When I walked into Family Wash to pick my friend up, no one seemed devastated. They were definitely heartbroken and obviously holding time spent with this woman like they were holding a baby blanket.
The longer I was in the room, I realized it was amazing my path had never crossed the path of this woman. We knew a lot of the same people. A man I used to go see perform when I was at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville that was tall and named Paul, hence his stage name Tall Paul, was there. Others that I have met in my in Nashville happenings, or just people I had seen in the grocery store, while walking my dog or any other random human being you start to recognize because you pass them on a daily basis. They were there and they knew the magic someone had described, the magic you could feel in the room.
As I watched the slide show of this woman’s life, I started to feel as if I knew her. In every picture, no matter the decade, no matter the scenario, her smile was always robust and sincere. She had the eye/smile combination we should all long for. The kind that connects with you and says, "Hello, how are you?" Because of the honesty in that combination, you knew she meant it.
At one point while watching her youngest daughter blow bubbles and tell me a little bit about her mother without even knowing it when she would comment on a picture that graced the white sheet, I thought, “Is it me or do people that hail from Louisiana just know how to have more fun?" Think about it. There I was, days after someone died, at a party I really had no business being at and her mother, her sister, her brother, her husband, her kids, her friends, her neighbors and her colleagues are throwing a party like only Louisianians know how to do around Mardi Gras time. Damn. Maybe I need to move further south to ensure I let the good times roll, because that's what was happening. The good times with this woman were rolling on.
I started to think about all of the people I knew from Louisiana and it was true that they usually had a better time than most, but at this particular party, Louisiana was present in the shades of green, purple and gold, but it wasn't the energy that was carrying everyone through. This woman, this woman I didn’t know, celebrated life while she was here, so why wouldn’t they continue that celebration? I really believe that's how those who loved her looked at the fact that she was no longer with them.
I know my view of death was changed by this woman and if I should die before I wake, I want a party to end all parties. Got that? Also, (for those that would be planning this party) please make sure the food and music are really good. Don't skimp on the food or the music. Some of you might be thinking, "Good God! You're so morbid!" Well, I say to you, "I guarantee this will be a better way for you to remember me, so put your dancing shoes on!" I think it's a beautiful way to remember everyone. And, perhaps a healthier way to mourn.
I’m very sad for this woman’s family, especially for her two girls that won’t know the woman, the woman everyone says they are better for knowing. I’m sure those girls will experience some trying times without their mom around in those critical moments when us girls need our mama. But, I think since they are her daughters, they will have an innate sense of her. A sense that is an understanding that life can be full of love and heartache, but no matter what, it goes on. And those we love and lost, live on.
I have no doubt that those that loved this woman were probably still shocked by her death at the party last Sunday. Whether you believe in angels, the afterlife, heaven, hell or just that we go six feet under or return to ashes, I think those that knew this woman were probably given a gift by her. A gift a strength. A gift where they know they will miss her dearly, sometimes with an ache that might require other means to heal, but she left everyone she loved with some sort of fairy dust. It's something they can be covered and protected with, and will find joy in the strangest of places with because it's from her. I always associate fairy dust with magic. This woman, again, I only know according to reports and a slide show, had the magic going on in her smile, her eyes, her ears, her toes and her nose. Her presence was as big as the goodbye she received.
I heard my friend ponder to her friend’s sister, a woman who had probably just lost her very best friend, whether or not their dear one was viewed as the light or the prism. Did she shine the light or dispense it?
Again, I didn’t know this woman and some may even think I crashed her funeral, but I would say from what I saw, heard and felt in an almost magical way, that she was both a light and a prism and wouldn't have given a damn if someone crashed her funeral.
She probably would've welcomed it.
I’ve been to the Family Wash twice before. The first time I went just to go and drink beer and the second time was to hear a singer I met because his dog was doing unmentionable things to my dog at the dog park. I think he felt obligated to do something nice since his boy violated my little girl. He invited me to his show. I felt obligated to go. Oh, obligation.
All of those petty, inconsequential thoughts, that felt like popcorn popping in my head, started to dissolve with the sweet sound of a 3-year-old's voice.
The little one sat up on the bar, wearing a pink dress with white polka dots. She carried a purse with nothing in it. She zoned in and out of paying attention to a white sheet across the way that served as a projection screen. Picture after picture went by. Music with a zydeco or Cajun beat hummed throughout the bar.
One picture in particular caught the eye of the little girl with the short pixie hair do. “That’s my Mommy.” She said and smiled. My eyes filled with tears. I took a sip of my beer, the beer I contemplated drinking because I didn’t need those calories on a Sunday evening. That’s an example of some of those petty, inconsequential thoughts that were in my mind just minutes before I heard her speak.
As my eyes went back and forth between the slide show and that little girl, I was also scanning the room. It was in those observations that my thoughts, my minuscule, boring, self-involved thoughts, became complete nonsense. They exited the selfish part of my brain that houses such worries as if they were hitching a ride on a boat with the Pale Ale that streamed down my throat.
The little girl in the polka dot dress sat swinging her legs, catching glances from many, though she probably didn’t know why they were looking her way. She occasionally blew bubbles through a little wand, all the while continuing to watch pictures of her mother’s life display itself like a timeline on the white bed sheet. She had no idea why my eyes were full of tears. She had no idea who I was. My welled up eyes made me feel silly.
I was at the after party, for a funeral, of someone I had never met.
A couple of days earlier I heard from a friend in New York. This was a friend I had kept in loose contact with and couldn't have told you when I would see her again. A dear friend of hers, who lived in Nashville, had passed away. The death was unexpected. I guess death is always unexpected, even when you expect someone to die.
My friend’s friend was healthy, under the weather and then dead within hours of being admitted into the hospital. I told my friend, “Please come. Stay with me.” She arrived on Saturday and we had the chance to catch up over Mexican food and beer. Our reconnection session continued Sunday morning over a run and brunch. She said I would be welcome to and she would really appreciate if I would consider coming to the funeral with her. I squirmed my awkward squirm. “I just… I.. I don’t think that’s something I can do. I’m sorry.”
I dropped her off at a church later that afternoon so she could say goodbye to her friend. She called when the service ended, I went to get her and then took her to what some would expect to be the burial. When we arrived, there were no shovels, but there was a tent. In this tent you didn't find people sitting and watching a casket be lowered into the ground. I think I saw people dancing under this tent.
There were tears of sadness that fell down the faces of many, but those tears also held hands with tears of celebration. Any passer by would have assumed there was a party going on at the Family Wash. A Mardi Gras themed party. They would’ve been right. There was a party going on. It was a party celebrating a life lost too soon just a few days earlier.
There were beads, feather boa’s and a gathering of musicians that could've just as well been playing in the French Quarter. There was beer, jambalaya and a king cake or two. People weren't there to find the baby in the king cake or do a Nashville version of The Big Easy. They were there because they loved and respected a woman who lived in Nashville by way of LA, California...and LA, the great state.
Her story would seem tragic to those who read it in the obituaries. She was 41. She had a husband she loved. A husband who loved her. She had two young, precocious, beautiful girls. Ages 5 and 3. She was creative. She was good at her job. She was involved in her community. She was a daughter. She was a sister. She was a friend. I heard one person say that she had a magic touch.
It's heartbreaking.
Heartbreaking likely isn’t the most fitting word.
Devastating might sum it up better.
When I walked into Family Wash to pick my friend up, no one seemed devastated. They were definitely heartbroken and obviously holding time spent with this woman like they were holding a baby blanket.
The longer I was in the room, I realized it was amazing my path had never crossed the path of this woman. We knew a lot of the same people. A man I used to go see perform when I was at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville that was tall and named Paul, hence his stage name Tall Paul, was there. Others that I have met in my in Nashville happenings, or just people I had seen in the grocery store, while walking my dog or any other random human being you start to recognize because you pass them on a daily basis. They were there and they knew the magic someone had described, the magic you could feel in the room.
As I watched the slide show of this woman’s life, I started to feel as if I knew her. In every picture, no matter the decade, no matter the scenario, her smile was always robust and sincere. She had the eye/smile combination we should all long for. The kind that connects with you and says, "Hello, how are you?" Because of the honesty in that combination, you knew she meant it.
At one point while watching her youngest daughter blow bubbles and tell me a little bit about her mother without even knowing it when she would comment on a picture that graced the white sheet, I thought, “Is it me or do people that hail from Louisiana just know how to have more fun?" Think about it. There I was, days after someone died, at a party I really had no business being at and her mother, her sister, her brother, her husband, her kids, her friends, her neighbors and her colleagues are throwing a party like only Louisianians know how to do around Mardi Gras time. Damn. Maybe I need to move further south to ensure I let the good times roll, because that's what was happening. The good times with this woman were rolling on.
I started to think about all of the people I knew from Louisiana and it was true that they usually had a better time than most, but at this particular party, Louisiana was present in the shades of green, purple and gold, but it wasn't the energy that was carrying everyone through. This woman, this woman I didn’t know, celebrated life while she was here, so why wouldn’t they continue that celebration? I really believe that's how those who loved her looked at the fact that she was no longer with them.
I know my view of death was changed by this woman and if I should die before I wake, I want a party to end all parties. Got that? Also, (for those that would be planning this party) please make sure the food and music are really good. Don't skimp on the food or the music. Some of you might be thinking, "Good God! You're so morbid!" Well, I say to you, "I guarantee this will be a better way for you to remember me, so put your dancing shoes on!" I think it's a beautiful way to remember everyone. And, perhaps a healthier way to mourn.
I’m very sad for this woman’s family, especially for her two girls that won’t know the woman, the woman everyone says they are better for knowing. I’m sure those girls will experience some trying times without their mom around in those critical moments when us girls need our mama. But, I think since they are her daughters, they will have an innate sense of her. A sense that is an understanding that life can be full of love and heartache, but no matter what, it goes on. And those we love and lost, live on.
I have no doubt that those that loved this woman were probably still shocked by her death at the party last Sunday. Whether you believe in angels, the afterlife, heaven, hell or just that we go six feet under or return to ashes, I think those that knew this woman were probably given a gift by her. A gift a strength. A gift where they know they will miss her dearly, sometimes with an ache that might require other means to heal, but she left everyone she loved with some sort of fairy dust. It's something they can be covered and protected with, and will find joy in the strangest of places with because it's from her. I always associate fairy dust with magic. This woman, again, I only know according to reports and a slide show, had the magic going on in her smile, her eyes, her ears, her toes and her nose. Her presence was as big as the goodbye she received.
I heard my friend ponder to her friend’s sister, a woman who had probably just lost her very best friend, whether or not their dear one was viewed as the light or the prism. Did she shine the light or dispense it?
Again, I didn’t know this woman and some may even think I crashed her funeral, but I would say from what I saw, heard and felt in an almost magical way, that she was both a light and a prism and wouldn't have given a damn if someone crashed her funeral.
She probably would've welcomed it.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
AN ATTEMPT TO FIND LOVE FOR VALENTINE'S DAY
Don't let the title fool you. I don't need to find someone to love on February 14Th. I'm making an attempt to love, or tolerate, the actual day, Valentine's Day.
There’s a fairly obvious psychological theory among those that care about, study and those who think they know everything about the human mind, that feelings of resentment, betrayal and abandonment experienced in childhood don’t disintegrate when we enter our adult lives. People who believe this theory can link almost every deficiency in someone’s life to something that happened when they were 6 years old.
How many times have you heard someone say, “Well, he’s that way because his daddy was the very same way.” Or... “Her mother used to do that too and then forced it on to her, so that’s why she is the way she is.” I don't know why this is, but I hear both of those lines being said in a southern voice. I also see the person taking a drag of a cigarette.
Believers feel the only remedy to these learned behaviors is therapy.
Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of therapy.
Some believe pills can help too.
I have to admit, I think there’s something to it.
I couldn’t have understood the meaning of “He’s Just Not That into You” or why I was really eating raw cookie dough every night without dropping $125.00 an hour for weeks, equaling years, worth of therapy. I’m a big fan of talk therapy and a fair weather fan of drugs to help low moments. Currently, I’m not in therapy. I only want to do my talk sessions with my gal in New York. My new insurance doesn’t cover her services; so unfortunately, I can’t justify paying the price for an hour of help and also paying for the minutes that aren’t considered “in network.” Thanks Verizon. Thanks.
I love therapy, it’s the reason I let go of a lot of pounds, literally and figuratively. Therapy, I think, can be worth the money if you really want to figure out if something happened when you were 6 years old to make you the way you are today. It’s quite amazing when you realize that nothing happened when you were 6 and that you’re just a little dramatic. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but soon thereafter you don’t need to swallow as much Prozac when you come clean with the truth about yourself.
So I hear Valentine’s Day is this coming Saturday. Was that a moan of ecstasy I just heard or a moan of loathing and wishing for the day to pass without having to act like you care or ingest calories you don’t need because someone gave you chocolate?
I received my Valentine’s Day gift from my mother on Wednesday. My mom is always so prompt when it comes to Valentine’s and you know, stuff like that. There was a sweet card from my mom and dad, a generous Starbucks gift card which I’ll use, a parking warrant that says I owe the city $163.00 for an unpaid parking ticket that for some reason went to my parents home and a block of dark chocolate. I wonder if my mother envisioned me sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day finishing off the chocolate and then bursting into tears not because I didn’t have a Valentine, OK, maybe a smidgen had to do with that, but I would be crying because I just ate an entire block of chocolate. Up until a few days ago, that’s probably what the scene would've looked like.
I wish there was a way to gauge, how many times Valentine’s Day and the stress surrounding it was mentioned in therapy sessions across the world in the week leading up to February 14Th. I can only imagine that some of the stress people encounter with the holiday is simply how frivolous it can be. It’s just a day, right? Wrong. Well, it depends on who you talk to. Valentine’s Day, or V-day as I’ll refer to it from here on out, is something I should have discussed with my therapist in New York.
I hate V-Day.
I have hated poor little February 14Th since I was in 7Th grade.
A few days ago, I realized I wanted to overcome this hate for V-Day out of respect for February 14th and because I have enough dislikes in my life and I’m not going to let this arbitrary holiday get the best of me. My V-Day loathing is connected to what I mentioned at the beginning of this piece; what we experience in childhood is hard to shimmy away when we become big, capable adults.
V-Day pre-7Th Grade
I’m pretty sure I was a huge fan of V-day before 7Th grade. Why wouldn’t I be? We got to make Valentine mailboxes out of shoe boxes, construction paper, glitter and glue. I got to pick out which Valentines I would give to my classmates. Would it be Barbie, He-Man (I went through a tomboy phase) or Smurfs? I remember wanting to give the prettiest Barbie greeting to my friend Michelle Godsey in 4Th Grade. I can still feel my fingers poking the greeting out of the peripherated paper. "To Michelle," it read. I then crossed out "from" and wrote "Love, Gina." Sometimes, we would even decorate the paper thin envelopes with stickers. There was something about seeing "Love, Mom and Dad" on the cards I would open on V-Day morning that meant something, even if there were just a few pieces of candy associated with it. V-Day for me, in my early years, represented what it was supposed to, feelings of love, like and acceptance.
What is it about a heart-shaped sugar cookie with frosting and sprinkles that tastes so damn good? I thought this very thought for the first time in 3rd grade and even said damn. Kelly Noonan, who had a Member’s Only jacket with an iron-on of Don Johnson on the back, brought these delicacies in for our class V-Day party. I think they were store bought, but they were amazing. I eagle-eyed a single cookie that remained, untouched, in the plastic container for what felt like hours.
7Th Grade and every V-Day since
Details of the following are a bit hazy because it was all very traumatic. For some reason we were sending Heart-O-Grams from student to student at my elementary school, St. Jude. A Heart-O-Gram was a piece of red construction paper, maybe white, with a blank space for you to write words to your beloved. I don’t remember if they cost anything or not. You could send them anonymously, that's what I remember. I sent one to my biggest crush of that week, actually I crushed on this lad for a while, Jeff Chardos.
It read:
To: Jeff
I like you.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
From: Anonymous
On Valentine’s Day the Heart-O-Grams were distributed. I felt that hot rush of embarrassment and remember thinking as students passed by, not leaving one on my desk, “This is not going the way I wanted it to.”
Jeff didn’t openly or anonymously send me a Heart-O-Gram. However, I did receive one. It was from a boy I didn’t like. I saw his name. I don’t think I even read what he wrote. If I did, sadly, I don't remember what it said.
Later that day, one of Jeff’s friends said to me, “Jeff knows you sent him the Heart-O-Gram and he likes someone else.” I was mortified. I wanted to find a way to get myself to the clinic quick. I needed the school nurse to call my mother and tell her to come get me immediately. Gina had been injured, she had broken something and needed an immediate hug and attention from her mother and possibly a trip to get a parfait at TCBY. At the time, I thought I had a broken heart. Now I can say it was only slightly bruised. But as we all know, any puncture to that area stings, even when it’s something good that has bitten you.
As I was leaving school that day, I walked by Jeff and his friends. They were laughing, punching him playfully on the shoulder. He looked shy, reserved and almost as if he wanted to say, “I wish you wouldn’t have done that, but it’s OK.” I just walked on by.
My crush on Jeff subsided and we became good friends in high school, however, I never shook that Heart-O-Gram hell and I found every V-Day that followed to be just that, hell.
I would tell love interests that happened to be in my life on February 14Th, or within a six-month radius of that date, that I don’t believe in celebrating V-Day, in fact, I don’t even say Happy V-Day. I think it’s a day that someone else, other than me, makes a lot of money. If I love someone I tell them on July 22ND, October 3rd or any other random day. It’s a day that gives people a pass to act like they’re in love or buy some time for wrongdoings. When I eat too many of those “Be Mine” heart-shaped candies, I get a headache. I’m not afraid to eat chocolate every day. I’m just going to give that teddy bear to a kid that deserves it. Flowers die. I get mad when restaurants try and get fancy for a day with a “Prix Fixe” menu. Just say Price Fixed. We’re in America.
Recently, in anticipation of V-Day, the TDB research department got together and conducted a very scientific survey on the one word that comes to mind when people hear "Valentine’s Day." Unfortunately, the research department got swept up in a marathon of "Friday Night Lights," now once again on NBC, and was too lazy to do the mathematical breakdowns. Initial data showed many found V-Day to be more of a pain in the ass than getting a good piece of ass. Sorry if you found that crude. I have been watching a lot of lowbrow TV. The full Monty of results, uncalculated, will follow this TDB entry.
Why do I want it to be February 13Th and then February 15Th? Why the hell does it have some sort of negative hold on me still? Why when I think of V-Day do I see someone tearing up a red piece of construction paper, called a silly Heart-O-Gram? I wasn’t 6 years old. I should be able to handle this.
I asked myself, "Do you spend $125 plus to figure this one out with your therapist? I started to dial the number, but then I realized I have a dog to feed, a parking ticket to challenge and I'm pretty sure if I bother to think about it, I can figure this one out on my own.
I have plenty of family and friends that I could spend every hour of V-Day telling them how strong my love is. Society has made this day about romantic love, but I’m here to tell you in case you don’t already know, there’s nothing romantic about the origins of Valentine’s Day. Rumor, OK history, has it that St. Valentine was martyred on February 14Th for standing up against the decree of the Roman empire and continuing to marry single men who the Romans felt should commit their lives to the army and not their wives and children. I guess he was standing up for love, but the guy didn’t make it out alive.
One of the most beloved songs, "My Funny Valentine," was performed numerous times by wonderful acts that crooned some of the most unromantic lines.
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?
If someone wants to write me a song on V-Day or any day, bring it. I will probably adore it. I remember the first time I heard “Sparkle and Shine” by Steve Earle. I thought, “What a lucky woman that Allison Moorer (the woman the song is written about) is?”
Can you imagine hearing the inner turmoil going on inside when you know you’re the inspiration for “My Funny Valentine?" Oh how you would want to smile to save face as tears form in your eyes.
I don’t think my dear friend Millie and I pass two days without discussing the importance of being honest with yourself. That's what successful therapy and relationships are about too. If you’re in there telling a tale, you’re only throwing money down the drain. So, here I go.
I don’t want to hate V-Day anymore.
I want to overcome this disgust for something that I remember to be so sweet when I was 6. (See, something good happened when I was 6 years old.)
I want to taste store bought, heart-shaped sugar cookies again and not feel like I have to break them in two before I eat them.
Phew, so it’s out there. The honesty. The want. I’m not sure how I’m going to make my own V-Day worth a damn this year, but I do have an idea for some of you. Especially if you have someone in your life that V-Day might mean something to.
I say forgo all of the chocolate, dinners, flowers or anything else that will require you to lay down your hard earned cash. If V-Day had a marketing team besides those trying to make money, they could make this the best holiday around. It’s all about love and really, it shouldn't cost a thing.
Take a good, long, look at that woman or man, the one that you’re making an effort to be with on a daily basis, and say something to them that you’ve never said before. Whatever you say needs to be authentic and not something you heard in a movie or song. However, there are some songs I'm OK with because the lines are just that beautiful. Just give them attribution. Please don't quote Richard Marx. But, after I think about it, if you're quoting Richard Marx, you're probably spending money too, so you shouldn't take anything I say to heart. Sometimes unexpected words of observation are better than I love you. Kiss that person just like the first time you put your lips to theirs and spend a few minutes or hours in each other’s arms doing whatever you please. I know what I would want to be doing, but that’s your call. Sometimes just sitting on the couch, listening to music, watching TV or scolding the dogs is enough. It's so beautiful when we realize how little we really need to survive emotionally. I guarantee the glow of such behavior will last longer than anything you spent 5, 50 or 500 dollars on.
V-Day is just a day that reminds you to tell someone that your life is better because they're in it or you like the way their upper lip is slightly higher on the right side when they smile. Oh yeah, there’s a catch. The catch is that you need to really care about the person and you need to want to say these things on a cold morning in November when your car won’t start or on a smoldering day in July when the AC is out. If you don’t truly care about the well being of that person and the return of their affection, don’t make their V-day or any day for that matter a living hell. Isn't it interesting how many see red when they think of V-Day and hell?
You might be saying to yourself, “Why should we take advice from you? You’re just now learning to like V-day? Are you even in a relationship?”
After all of these years of being a V-Day scrooge, my biggest regret is that I didn’t read or acknowledge the words of the Heart-O-Gram I did receive.
You should take advice from me because I know words matter. The whole reason I allowed myself to get into this whole anti-V-Day mindset is because what I wanted in 7Th grade was simple. I didn’t want a Heart-O-Gram. I just wanted someone to tell me that they liked me too. Words don’t cost a thing, unless you don’t tell the truth.
RESULTS OF THE TDB’S VERY SCIENTIFIC V-DAY STUDY
(FYI&C- that means- for your information and comfort….)
TDB has very strict confidentiality rules. I don’t even tell Bette Davis this stuff. Your answers will remain anonymous. Thanks for participating and thanks for reading TDB. I really appreciate it.
RESPONSES FROM MEN
Hallmark- 2 responses
Commercial
Astroglide
Quickie
Misguided
Expectations
Pointless
Bitter
Lingerie
Black
Purple
Red- 4 responses
Tableforone – My personal favorite
Hate
Money- 2 responses
Cha- Ching!
Contrived- 2 responses
Adequate
Love- 2 responses
Hope
Mushy
Candy
Again?
Good
Pressure- 3 responses
Reservations
Obligation
Heart- 4 responses
Lonely
Repetitive
Bullshit
Flowers
Unnecessary
Chocolate
Ridiculous
Bad
Overrated
RESPONSES FROM FEMALES
Creativity
Crap- 2 responses
Overhyped
Overrated- 3 responses
Sad
Unnecessary- 2 responses
Bullshit!
Box wine
Cheesy
Red- 5 Responses
PI’s (Private Investigators)
Disappointment
Commercial- 4 responses
Procrastination
Typical
Money
Pathetic
Vile
Ugh- 3 responses
Candy
Pink- 2 responses
Wallflower
Red hearts
Superfluous
Ridiculous- 2 Responses
Fun
Heart- 4 responses
Hearts
Nothin’
Sister (it’s her birthday)
Irrelevant
Jeff (My husband’s name)
Cheesy
Bleh
Hugs
Chocolate- 4 responses
Chocolate (preferably Godiva)
Love- 3 responses
Inane
Schmoopie
Frustrating
Hallmark- 2 responses
Puke
Fake
Oy
Consumerism
Gush
Good
Bogus
Dateless
AND THERE WERE A FEW WHO COULDN’T KEEP IT TO ONE WORD
Shoot me. – Female
This too shall pass- Female
Waste-You have to understand I'm not jaded...just married 17 years! If he doesn't love me everyday I'm in big trouble! -Female
Notafuckingain -- wait, that's not a word. Unnecessary, yes that's it, unnecessary. Love, regardless of whether it is romantic or platonic love, does not need a special day. It only serves to remind those of us without a significant other that we are alone. And no, I am not a bitter singleton. I think the holiday is just as ridiculous when I do have someone in my life. -Female
Image: Red Heart
Word: Silly - Female
Red construction paper hearts with white paper doilies...like the ones we made in elementary- Female
“I just wish…” How’s that for 3 words. Good luck on this one. Some people just didn’t have a good role model for romance. - Female
GOOD! Even when I haven’t been in a relationship, I will keep a bag of kisses in my purse and hand them out randomly to people I pass on the street and wish them a Happy Valentine’s Day. – Female
My wife said, “Cupid” followed up by “Sham.” I said, “Blah.” We will happily celebrate our 5-year anniversary the following week. –Male
Does the word “Frosting” help? I always think of mounts of cupcakes with pink frosting. – Female
My husband and I got married on Valentine’s Day! I think it’s really just a Hallmark holiday, but I wanted to get married before Lent so it was really the only date our priest had open. But I like it because he never forgets! - Female
Hungry, but then again, I’m always hungry. Maybe beer? And a lot of it! – Male
Sex- you said not to over think it and it’s the one thing I know will happen that day -Male
...fresh...
...fresh flowers...
...fresh love...
...to get fresh with someone...
...better freshen up if you don't have someone...
...freshly opened bottle of wine...
....fresh threads...
...refresh love...
...you gotta keep it fresh...- Male
Date Night. My wife and I make it a point to always go out to dinner and have a date for Valentines. It may not always be February 14Th, but it’s always our Valentine’s date. – Male
Fake-Also, I know many women who don't care if their man is an asshole all year, as long as he by God comes through for their birthday and Valentines Day. Makes no sense to me- Female
Sweet- and that’s probably because I thought about chocolate- - Female
Valentine’s Day= Good because it’s better to be alone than in bad company…and I like myself most of the time. Happy V-Day. Oh and if you’re not doing anything on Valentine’s Day, give me a call. I’ll buy you flowers and a box of chocolates. I’ll take you to dinner and then we can come back to my house, drink a bottle of wine and make love…. And they say I’m not romantic! - Male
There’s a fairly obvious psychological theory among those that care about, study and those who think they know everything about the human mind, that feelings of resentment, betrayal and abandonment experienced in childhood don’t disintegrate when we enter our adult lives. People who believe this theory can link almost every deficiency in someone’s life to something that happened when they were 6 years old.
How many times have you heard someone say, “Well, he’s that way because his daddy was the very same way.” Or... “Her mother used to do that too and then forced it on to her, so that’s why she is the way she is.” I don't know why this is, but I hear both of those lines being said in a southern voice. I also see the person taking a drag of a cigarette.
Believers feel the only remedy to these learned behaviors is therapy.
Thousands and thousands of dollars worth of therapy.
Some believe pills can help too.
I have to admit, I think there’s something to it.
I couldn’t have understood the meaning of “He’s Just Not That into You” or why I was really eating raw cookie dough every night without dropping $125.00 an hour for weeks, equaling years, worth of therapy. I’m a big fan of talk therapy and a fair weather fan of drugs to help low moments. Currently, I’m not in therapy. I only want to do my talk sessions with my gal in New York. My new insurance doesn’t cover her services; so unfortunately, I can’t justify paying the price for an hour of help and also paying for the minutes that aren’t considered “in network.” Thanks Verizon. Thanks.
I love therapy, it’s the reason I let go of a lot of pounds, literally and figuratively. Therapy, I think, can be worth the money if you really want to figure out if something happened when you were 6 years old to make you the way you are today. It’s quite amazing when you realize that nothing happened when you were 6 and that you’re just a little dramatic. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but soon thereafter you don’t need to swallow as much Prozac when you come clean with the truth about yourself.
So I hear Valentine’s Day is this coming Saturday. Was that a moan of ecstasy I just heard or a moan of loathing and wishing for the day to pass without having to act like you care or ingest calories you don’t need because someone gave you chocolate?
I received my Valentine’s Day gift from my mother on Wednesday. My mom is always so prompt when it comes to Valentine’s and you know, stuff like that. There was a sweet card from my mom and dad, a generous Starbucks gift card which I’ll use, a parking warrant that says I owe the city $163.00 for an unpaid parking ticket that for some reason went to my parents home and a block of dark chocolate. I wonder if my mother envisioned me sitting home alone on Valentine’s Day finishing off the chocolate and then bursting into tears not because I didn’t have a Valentine, OK, maybe a smidgen had to do with that, but I would be crying because I just ate an entire block of chocolate. Up until a few days ago, that’s probably what the scene would've looked like.
I wish there was a way to gauge, how many times Valentine’s Day and the stress surrounding it was mentioned in therapy sessions across the world in the week leading up to February 14Th. I can only imagine that some of the stress people encounter with the holiday is simply how frivolous it can be. It’s just a day, right? Wrong. Well, it depends on who you talk to. Valentine’s Day, or V-day as I’ll refer to it from here on out, is something I should have discussed with my therapist in New York.
I hate V-Day.
I have hated poor little February 14Th since I was in 7Th grade.
A few days ago, I realized I wanted to overcome this hate for V-Day out of respect for February 14th and because I have enough dislikes in my life and I’m not going to let this arbitrary holiday get the best of me. My V-Day loathing is connected to what I mentioned at the beginning of this piece; what we experience in childhood is hard to shimmy away when we become big, capable adults.
V-Day pre-7Th Grade
I’m pretty sure I was a huge fan of V-day before 7Th grade. Why wouldn’t I be? We got to make Valentine mailboxes out of shoe boxes, construction paper, glitter and glue. I got to pick out which Valentines I would give to my classmates. Would it be Barbie, He-Man (I went through a tomboy phase) or Smurfs? I remember wanting to give the prettiest Barbie greeting to my friend Michelle Godsey in 4Th Grade. I can still feel my fingers poking the greeting out of the peripherated paper. "To Michelle," it read. I then crossed out "from" and wrote "Love, Gina." Sometimes, we would even decorate the paper thin envelopes with stickers. There was something about seeing "Love, Mom and Dad" on the cards I would open on V-Day morning that meant something, even if there were just a few pieces of candy associated with it. V-Day for me, in my early years, represented what it was supposed to, feelings of love, like and acceptance.
What is it about a heart-shaped sugar cookie with frosting and sprinkles that tastes so damn good? I thought this very thought for the first time in 3rd grade and even said damn. Kelly Noonan, who had a Member’s Only jacket with an iron-on of Don Johnson on the back, brought these delicacies in for our class V-Day party. I think they were store bought, but they were amazing. I eagle-eyed a single cookie that remained, untouched, in the plastic container for what felt like hours.
7Th Grade and every V-Day since
Details of the following are a bit hazy because it was all very traumatic. For some reason we were sending Heart-O-Grams from student to student at my elementary school, St. Jude. A Heart-O-Gram was a piece of red construction paper, maybe white, with a blank space for you to write words to your beloved. I don’t remember if they cost anything or not. You could send them anonymously, that's what I remember. I sent one to my biggest crush of that week, actually I crushed on this lad for a while, Jeff Chardos.
It read:
To: Jeff
I like you.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
From: Anonymous
On Valentine’s Day the Heart-O-Grams were distributed. I felt that hot rush of embarrassment and remember thinking as students passed by, not leaving one on my desk, “This is not going the way I wanted it to.”
Jeff didn’t openly or anonymously send me a Heart-O-Gram. However, I did receive one. It was from a boy I didn’t like. I saw his name. I don’t think I even read what he wrote. If I did, sadly, I don't remember what it said.
Later that day, one of Jeff’s friends said to me, “Jeff knows you sent him the Heart-O-Gram and he likes someone else.” I was mortified. I wanted to find a way to get myself to the clinic quick. I needed the school nurse to call my mother and tell her to come get me immediately. Gina had been injured, she had broken something and needed an immediate hug and attention from her mother and possibly a trip to get a parfait at TCBY. At the time, I thought I had a broken heart. Now I can say it was only slightly bruised. But as we all know, any puncture to that area stings, even when it’s something good that has bitten you.
As I was leaving school that day, I walked by Jeff and his friends. They were laughing, punching him playfully on the shoulder. He looked shy, reserved and almost as if he wanted to say, “I wish you wouldn’t have done that, but it’s OK.” I just walked on by.
My crush on Jeff subsided and we became good friends in high school, however, I never shook that Heart-O-Gram hell and I found every V-Day that followed to be just that, hell.
I would tell love interests that happened to be in my life on February 14Th, or within a six-month radius of that date, that I don’t believe in celebrating V-Day, in fact, I don’t even say Happy V-Day. I think it’s a day that someone else, other than me, makes a lot of money. If I love someone I tell them on July 22ND, October 3rd or any other random day. It’s a day that gives people a pass to act like they’re in love or buy some time for wrongdoings. When I eat too many of those “Be Mine” heart-shaped candies, I get a headache. I’m not afraid to eat chocolate every day. I’m just going to give that teddy bear to a kid that deserves it. Flowers die. I get mad when restaurants try and get fancy for a day with a “Prix Fixe” menu. Just say Price Fixed. We’re in America.
Recently, in anticipation of V-Day, the TDB research department got together and conducted a very scientific survey on the one word that comes to mind when people hear "Valentine’s Day." Unfortunately, the research department got swept up in a marathon of "Friday Night Lights," now once again on NBC, and was too lazy to do the mathematical breakdowns. Initial data showed many found V-Day to be more of a pain in the ass than getting a good piece of ass. Sorry if you found that crude. I have been watching a lot of lowbrow TV. The full Monty of results, uncalculated, will follow this TDB entry.
Why do I want it to be February 13Th and then February 15Th? Why the hell does it have some sort of negative hold on me still? Why when I think of V-Day do I see someone tearing up a red piece of construction paper, called a silly Heart-O-Gram? I wasn’t 6 years old. I should be able to handle this.
I asked myself, "Do you spend $125 plus to figure this one out with your therapist? I started to dial the number, but then I realized I have a dog to feed, a parking ticket to challenge and I'm pretty sure if I bother to think about it, I can figure this one out on my own.
I have plenty of family and friends that I could spend every hour of V-Day telling them how strong my love is. Society has made this day about romantic love, but I’m here to tell you in case you don’t already know, there’s nothing romantic about the origins of Valentine’s Day. Rumor, OK history, has it that St. Valentine was martyred on February 14Th for standing up against the decree of the Roman empire and continuing to marry single men who the Romans felt should commit their lives to the army and not their wives and children. I guess he was standing up for love, but the guy didn’t make it out alive.
One of the most beloved songs, "My Funny Valentine," was performed numerous times by wonderful acts that crooned some of the most unromantic lines.
You make me smile with my heart
Your looks are laughable
Unphotographable
Is your figure less than Greek?
Is your mouth a little weak?
When you open it to speak
Are you smart?
If someone wants to write me a song on V-Day or any day, bring it. I will probably adore it. I remember the first time I heard “Sparkle and Shine” by Steve Earle. I thought, “What a lucky woman that Allison Moorer (the woman the song is written about) is?”
Can you imagine hearing the inner turmoil going on inside when you know you’re the inspiration for “My Funny Valentine?" Oh how you would want to smile to save face as tears form in your eyes.
I don’t think my dear friend Millie and I pass two days without discussing the importance of being honest with yourself. That's what successful therapy and relationships are about too. If you’re in there telling a tale, you’re only throwing money down the drain. So, here I go.
I don’t want to hate V-Day anymore.
I want to overcome this disgust for something that I remember to be so sweet when I was 6. (See, something good happened when I was 6 years old.)
I want to taste store bought, heart-shaped sugar cookies again and not feel like I have to break them in two before I eat them.
Phew, so it’s out there. The honesty. The want. I’m not sure how I’m going to make my own V-Day worth a damn this year, but I do have an idea for some of you. Especially if you have someone in your life that V-Day might mean something to.
I say forgo all of the chocolate, dinners, flowers or anything else that will require you to lay down your hard earned cash. If V-Day had a marketing team besides those trying to make money, they could make this the best holiday around. It’s all about love and really, it shouldn't cost a thing.
Take a good, long, look at that woman or man, the one that you’re making an effort to be with on a daily basis, and say something to them that you’ve never said before. Whatever you say needs to be authentic and not something you heard in a movie or song. However, there are some songs I'm OK with because the lines are just that beautiful. Just give them attribution. Please don't quote Richard Marx. But, after I think about it, if you're quoting Richard Marx, you're probably spending money too, so you shouldn't take anything I say to heart. Sometimes unexpected words of observation are better than I love you. Kiss that person just like the first time you put your lips to theirs and spend a few minutes or hours in each other’s arms doing whatever you please. I know what I would want to be doing, but that’s your call. Sometimes just sitting on the couch, listening to music, watching TV or scolding the dogs is enough. It's so beautiful when we realize how little we really need to survive emotionally. I guarantee the glow of such behavior will last longer than anything you spent 5, 50 or 500 dollars on.
V-Day is just a day that reminds you to tell someone that your life is better because they're in it or you like the way their upper lip is slightly higher on the right side when they smile. Oh yeah, there’s a catch. The catch is that you need to really care about the person and you need to want to say these things on a cold morning in November when your car won’t start or on a smoldering day in July when the AC is out. If you don’t truly care about the well being of that person and the return of their affection, don’t make their V-day or any day for that matter a living hell. Isn't it interesting how many see red when they think of V-Day and hell?
You might be saying to yourself, “Why should we take advice from you? You’re just now learning to like V-day? Are you even in a relationship?”
After all of these years of being a V-Day scrooge, my biggest regret is that I didn’t read or acknowledge the words of the Heart-O-Gram I did receive.
You should take advice from me because I know words matter. The whole reason I allowed myself to get into this whole anti-V-Day mindset is because what I wanted in 7Th grade was simple. I didn’t want a Heart-O-Gram. I just wanted someone to tell me that they liked me too. Words don’t cost a thing, unless you don’t tell the truth.
RESULTS OF THE TDB’S VERY SCIENTIFIC V-DAY STUDY
(FYI&C- that means- for your information and comfort….)
TDB has very strict confidentiality rules. I don’t even tell Bette Davis this stuff. Your answers will remain anonymous. Thanks for participating and thanks for reading TDB. I really appreciate it.
RESPONSES FROM MEN
Hallmark- 2 responses
Commercial
Astroglide
Quickie
Misguided
Expectations
Pointless
Bitter
Lingerie
Black
Purple
Red- 4 responses
Tableforone – My personal favorite
Hate
Money- 2 responses
Cha- Ching!
Contrived- 2 responses
Adequate
Love- 2 responses
Hope
Mushy
Candy
Again?
Good
Pressure- 3 responses
Reservations
Obligation
Heart- 4 responses
Lonely
Repetitive
Bullshit
Flowers
Unnecessary
Chocolate
Ridiculous
Bad
Overrated
RESPONSES FROM FEMALES
Creativity
Crap- 2 responses
Overhyped
Overrated- 3 responses
Sad
Unnecessary- 2 responses
Bullshit!
Box wine
Cheesy
Red- 5 Responses
PI’s (Private Investigators)
Disappointment
Commercial- 4 responses
Procrastination
Typical
Money
Pathetic
Vile
Ugh- 3 responses
Candy
Pink- 2 responses
Wallflower
Red hearts
Superfluous
Ridiculous- 2 Responses
Fun
Heart- 4 responses
Hearts
Nothin’
Sister (it’s her birthday)
Irrelevant
Jeff (My husband’s name)
Cheesy
Bleh
Hugs
Chocolate- 4 responses
Chocolate (preferably Godiva)
Love- 3 responses
Inane
Schmoopie
Frustrating
Hallmark- 2 responses
Puke
Fake
Oy
Consumerism
Gush
Good
Bogus
Dateless
AND THERE WERE A FEW WHO COULDN’T KEEP IT TO ONE WORD
Shoot me. – Female
This too shall pass- Female
Waste-You have to understand I'm not jaded...just married 17 years! If he doesn't love me everyday I'm in big trouble! -Female
Notafuckingain -- wait, that's not a word. Unnecessary, yes that's it, unnecessary. Love, regardless of whether it is romantic or platonic love, does not need a special day. It only serves to remind those of us without a significant other that we are alone. And no, I am not a bitter singleton. I think the holiday is just as ridiculous when I do have someone in my life. -Female
Image: Red Heart
Word: Silly - Female
Red construction paper hearts with white paper doilies...like the ones we made in elementary- Female
“I just wish…” How’s that for 3 words. Good luck on this one. Some people just didn’t have a good role model for romance. - Female
GOOD! Even when I haven’t been in a relationship, I will keep a bag of kisses in my purse and hand them out randomly to people I pass on the street and wish them a Happy Valentine’s Day. – Female
My wife said, “Cupid” followed up by “Sham.” I said, “Blah.” We will happily celebrate our 5-year anniversary the following week. –Male
Does the word “Frosting” help? I always think of mounts of cupcakes with pink frosting. – Female
My husband and I got married on Valentine’s Day! I think it’s really just a Hallmark holiday, but I wanted to get married before Lent so it was really the only date our priest had open. But I like it because he never forgets! - Female
Hungry, but then again, I’m always hungry. Maybe beer? And a lot of it! – Male
Sex- you said not to over think it and it’s the one thing I know will happen that day -Male
...fresh...
...fresh flowers...
...fresh love...
...to get fresh with someone...
...better freshen up if you don't have someone...
...freshly opened bottle of wine...
....fresh threads...
...refresh love...
...you gotta keep it fresh...- Male
Date Night. My wife and I make it a point to always go out to dinner and have a date for Valentines. It may not always be February 14Th, but it’s always our Valentine’s date. – Male
Fake-Also, I know many women who don't care if their man is an asshole all year, as long as he by God comes through for their birthday and Valentines Day. Makes no sense to me- Female
Sweet- and that’s probably because I thought about chocolate- - Female
Valentine’s Day= Good because it’s better to be alone than in bad company…and I like myself most of the time. Happy V-Day. Oh and if you’re not doing anything on Valentine’s Day, give me a call. I’ll buy you flowers and a box of chocolates. I’ll take you to dinner and then we can come back to my house, drink a bottle of wine and make love…. And they say I’m not romantic! - Male
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
TIMING: CONQUEROR OR REVELATOR?
Timing comes in two forms.
Good.
Bad.
Time is specific and in some cases exact.
Timing is neither.
Every day I’m reminded that I have about as much control of timing as I do the weather. Since we can’t steer the wheel for someone or something else, it could rain or shine and whatever report you heard, doesn’t matter.
There is nothing you can do in that moment when someone or something ends the time you had together. It could be 6 minutes, 6 hours, 6 months or 60 years. You might be able to beg, apologize, and interrogate in the moments following, but for that specific, almost scientific, amount of time when one’s mind is made up, you are alone in their moment in time.
Some endings can be welcomed. I get a burst of energy as the salutations begin after a 2-hour meeting I nearly fell asleep in twice. But when you don’t want to hear the final beats of the song or take the last sip of whatever ran through you to calm you down, all one can really do in that moment is try to accept that timing wasn’t playing on your terms and hope that one day you’ll dust off your knees, that you’ve been on for so long, and realize that this bad timing will lead to something good. Something better.
If you’re currently going through a rough patch and you want to slap me right now, stay with me and hear me out.
There have been situations, mainly relationships, relationships of the heart killin’ kind, when I tried to use the potion of time to heal all wounds as a remedy. I ended up feeling worse. How is it when your heart is so destroyed by a look, six words or whatever it took to break it, that you can expect yourself to find inner peace in someone or something, an aligned star pattern, energy chakras you can’t see or feel in your numb body and relinquish all control to admit the timing was not right? It seems too easy. When you’re hurt, angry and mentally exhausted, terrible timing always get more lip service than the events we would label as perfect. I always go over my monthly cell phone minutes when my heart is broken.
This timing talk doesn’t just apply to romantic relationships. That’s just what I personally find hardest to reconcile with myself. For someone else it might be their profession, their family, their friends or their own inner voices. When you throw the question of timing into the equation to find some sort of answer, it only brings more questions. 1 + 1 never equals 2. Love is a mathematical mess. There are times when it reminds me of Calculus class and finding hypothetical answers with a resolution theorem prover. You have to divide the relationship by history and multiply breakup by emotion and then subtract the outcome for baggage and then you have to add in good times with some honesty. Does that equal two people? I don’t know. I lied. I never took Calculus. If I would have taken such a scholarly route, I probably would have been passing notes about hypothetical date situations instead of equations.
When you find yourself unable to move, plagued with a cluttered head, an empty heart and nothing is adding up, you think, “What if I would have done this or that? What if we would have met six months later or earlier? What if I got too comfortable wearing sweatpants around him too soon?”
Days pass, months pass and memories leave too. One day you realize that the focus usually turns away from the other person, or the job, and the answer, sometimes the problem, is really about you. It just took some time to solve.
New Year’s and I have never really been much of a twosome. I’ve never had a “When Harry Met Sally” moment. Most men I’ve kissed on New Year’s Eve I didn’t see for the rest of the year.
I thought December 31st, 2007 was going to be the best New Year’s Eve since I was 5 years old or so. I was crazy about the person I was spending it with and my smile was real. His was too. I think it was real. It was real, at least at that time. We took out a piece of paper and wrote down our resolutions for 2008. I can see myself numbering them 1, 2, 3 and so on, but I have no idea what I wrote. I know the piece of paper existed with me for awhile, but I don’t know when or how it disappeared.
I never wanted to write about the last person who broke my heart. Most things I write about are very much, sometimes embarrassingly, the truth. That relationship was something I didn’t want to use as an example. I didn’t want to compare it to anything. Actually, I didn’t want it to parallel anything else unless it was going to have an ending worth writing about. You know, one of those things some call a fairytale ending?
Gina liked boy. Boy liked Gina. Gina loved boy. Boy loved Gina. Boy started not to love Gina so much. Gina still pretty much loved boy. Boy needed to end it with Gina. Gina wasn’t happy about boy wanting to call it quits. Gina was sad for a few months. Gina started to feel a little less pain. Gina was able to start talking to boy again. Gina and boy now have a decent relationship that mainly involves around their dogs. Gina spends a lot of time thinking about what really broke her heart, the boy, the expectations or the timing of it all.
A sickness invaded my body almost two months ago and I’m just now starting to feel like I can get through a day without a nap and that depends on the day. I’m not sure if there’s a perfect time to be under the weather, but the holidays are a bloody bad time. Especially when it’s the holidays thrown in with a side of cute boy on the horizon. The cute boy, with blue eyes, oh so blue, was doing the same thing for me as the prescription antibiotics. Both were quite healing.
Two days before Christmas, I was holding my niece and as I looked down on her, I noticed she had two heads. It wasn’t a good look for her and a bad look is something she isn’t capable of, so I knew the problem had to be me. I handed her to my mother or her mother, I really can’t remember. That was the last time I held my sweet baby Breiten and just in the past couple of weeks would I feel comfortable holding her again without fear that I would give her some terrible infection.
The holidays were the holidays mixed with my wonderful family and friends, a horrendous cough and me begging Bette Davis to learn how to make coffee so I didn’t have to get out of bed. I tried to keep up with the pace of my life and the season, but as I soon realized I was awake, I was tired again.
Throughout my life, I’ve known people who’ve had fever blisters and cold sores. I’m sure there is a difference and it’s possible that at one time I knew the difference, but I’ve read so much on the internet, in magazines and such that I don’t know the difference between a fever blister and a cold sore at this point. I remember hearing in high school that fever blisters were a form of herpes. When I think of herpes I think of Robin Williams. I hate to out Robin Williams for having herpes, but I once heard that the man who played Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire, for you later beings, had the STD, herpes. Holy Jesus. I wanted nothing to do with herpes. In fact, I took pride in myself that for 31 years I'd never had a fever blister or cold sore. (From this point on, I’m going to refer to whatever it was on the right side of my bottom lip as Fabacasa. That’s the first letters of fever blister and cold sore mixed in with some a’s.) I saw Fabacasas occur on the least suspecting of individuals. When friends would try to explain their Fabacasa to me, well, I would hate to be them looking at my grimacing face.
Sure enough, Fabacasa took residence on my face and the depths of my vanity were revealed. It was really, really sexy, if you're into fever blisters and cold sores. I couldn’t talk in a meeting one day because every time I moved my mouth, Fabacasa would ooze some of it’s whatever it was that had built up probably an 1/8 of an inch off my face. At least Fabacasa sounds like a sexy name. I think it could be Italian. I was mortified to look at myself in the mirror. I said, “What terrible timing! I have this and that to do, a trip to Miami with my dear friends and blue eyes, oh blue eyes!” To make the situation even more of a train wreck, I developed a rash on 75% of my body. I would describe it in more detail, but I got to the point where I had to cover all mirrors in my house like I was holding Shiva. I refused to look at any part of my body. One day I peeked and realized I could make out a bunny rabbit and Darth Vader’s helmet if I played Connect The Dots with my rash on my right and left thigh. I knew it was time for a sleep inducing dose of Benedryl, an oatmeal bath and to once again call the doctor.
I derobed and the nurse told me that the doctor had two interns with her and wanted to know if it would be OK if they observed. I said, “If these interns can figure out what the hell is going on, they can prick and prod me from head to toe.”
While I waited on doc and interns to make their rounds I caught myself in the mirror. There I was, naked, with a hospital sheet covering a rash that if you saw me for the first time would be all that you remember me by. It's a fact. That's the kind of stuff we remember. Don't deny it. You remember someone you see with a rash and you remember people you see with Fabacasas. My poor little Fabacasa was hit so many times with Abreeva she couldn’t breath. I thought, “I wonder what person, place or thing the interns will find if they decide to play their own version of Connect the Dots off my backside?”
The doctor and the interns finally came in for their inspection. I could tell right off the bat, the interns were jonesing for a little bit more than a rash that “looks like a drug reaction.”
I floated through the rest of the day with an emphasis on the physical instead of the emotional. That night I went to yoga class not in hopes of a spiritual awakening but in hopes that somehow the way I lifted my thigh up into my chest while also in cat pose would force out the sickness, the spots, the blisters and make everything new and right in time.
It didn’t happen.
However, something else happened.
The beautiful yoga instructor, Leah Lillios, said in her voice that should be on a meditation CD, “Feel safe within your own skin.”
I don’t remember what pose I was in, but I slowly fell into child’s pose. (For you non-yogi’s, it’s where you go to rest.) Here I had been for days, so focused on my outer appearance. Those blue eyes, my brown eyes had been making eyes with, popped into my head. I felt incredible peace when I thought, “Maybe I should be more focused on what I see when I look into those blue eyes and not so much on what those blue eyes see when they look at me?”
In that moment, I embraced Fabacasa, the bunny rabbit, Darth Vader's helmet and the guitar the intern found on my left cheek.
How fitting that this revelation happened in a yoga class. Isn’t that where you go to get right with yourself? I don’t know if I’m completely right, but the timing was right for what I needed to know at that time.
We can’t control seconds, minutes and hours passing. It happens without fail in the best and worst of moments. Sometimes life really is a scream no one can hear. Again, we can’t control another, but we can try to take control of ourselves by making a decision, grabbing hold, taking charge, whatever you want to call it, in order to attempt to spend our time with what and who we want to spend it with. Though we can’t control timing, we can control how we handle our time in the situations actual time brings to us… good and bad.
I recently asked my 2008 New Year’s resolution writing partner what happened to that piece of paper. What did we write? He couldn’t remember and said that means it’s likely we didn’t keep any of our resolutions.
More than a year later, that is one situation where I think I have some sort of grasp on the precious timing of things. It’s like completing some sort of strenuous physical activity. You’re glad you did it, but you’re damn glad it’s over. Whether it was an angel, the position of the moon or just my own mind maturing and heart healing, I see it as a good thing that I only had control of the pen on December 31st, 2007 and not on the outcome of whatever it was I wrote down.
I didn't feel this way for most of 2008. For a good chunk of time I would've looked at those resolutions, that tiny piece of paper, as some sort of lightning bolt going off as to why things happened the way they did.
It took the passing of more seconds, minutes, hours and days for me to feel comfortable with lost and wasted time. And on this day, somehow, it feels like I have the answer I needed in the right amount of time.
This year, 2009, I made no resolutions.
Good.
Bad.
Time is specific and in some cases exact.
Timing is neither.
Every day I’m reminded that I have about as much control of timing as I do the weather. Since we can’t steer the wheel for someone or something else, it could rain or shine and whatever report you heard, doesn’t matter.
There is nothing you can do in that moment when someone or something ends the time you had together. It could be 6 minutes, 6 hours, 6 months or 60 years. You might be able to beg, apologize, and interrogate in the moments following, but for that specific, almost scientific, amount of time when one’s mind is made up, you are alone in their moment in time.
Some endings can be welcomed. I get a burst of energy as the salutations begin after a 2-hour meeting I nearly fell asleep in twice. But when you don’t want to hear the final beats of the song or take the last sip of whatever ran through you to calm you down, all one can really do in that moment is try to accept that timing wasn’t playing on your terms and hope that one day you’ll dust off your knees, that you’ve been on for so long, and realize that this bad timing will lead to something good. Something better.
If you’re currently going through a rough patch and you want to slap me right now, stay with me and hear me out.
There have been situations, mainly relationships, relationships of the heart killin’ kind, when I tried to use the potion of time to heal all wounds as a remedy. I ended up feeling worse. How is it when your heart is so destroyed by a look, six words or whatever it took to break it, that you can expect yourself to find inner peace in someone or something, an aligned star pattern, energy chakras you can’t see or feel in your numb body and relinquish all control to admit the timing was not right? It seems too easy. When you’re hurt, angry and mentally exhausted, terrible timing always get more lip service than the events we would label as perfect. I always go over my monthly cell phone minutes when my heart is broken.
This timing talk doesn’t just apply to romantic relationships. That’s just what I personally find hardest to reconcile with myself. For someone else it might be their profession, their family, their friends or their own inner voices. When you throw the question of timing into the equation to find some sort of answer, it only brings more questions. 1 + 1 never equals 2. Love is a mathematical mess. There are times when it reminds me of Calculus class and finding hypothetical answers with a resolution theorem prover. You have to divide the relationship by history and multiply breakup by emotion and then subtract the outcome for baggage and then you have to add in good times with some honesty. Does that equal two people? I don’t know. I lied. I never took Calculus. If I would have taken such a scholarly route, I probably would have been passing notes about hypothetical date situations instead of equations.
When you find yourself unable to move, plagued with a cluttered head, an empty heart and nothing is adding up, you think, “What if I would have done this or that? What if we would have met six months later or earlier? What if I got too comfortable wearing sweatpants around him too soon?”
Days pass, months pass and memories leave too. One day you realize that the focus usually turns away from the other person, or the job, and the answer, sometimes the problem, is really about you. It just took some time to solve.
New Year’s and I have never really been much of a twosome. I’ve never had a “When Harry Met Sally” moment. Most men I’ve kissed on New Year’s Eve I didn’t see for the rest of the year.
I thought December 31st, 2007 was going to be the best New Year’s Eve since I was 5 years old or so. I was crazy about the person I was spending it with and my smile was real. His was too. I think it was real. It was real, at least at that time. We took out a piece of paper and wrote down our resolutions for 2008. I can see myself numbering them 1, 2, 3 and so on, but I have no idea what I wrote. I know the piece of paper existed with me for awhile, but I don’t know when or how it disappeared.
I never wanted to write about the last person who broke my heart. Most things I write about are very much, sometimes embarrassingly, the truth. That relationship was something I didn’t want to use as an example. I didn’t want to compare it to anything. Actually, I didn’t want it to parallel anything else unless it was going to have an ending worth writing about. You know, one of those things some call a fairytale ending?
Gina liked boy. Boy liked Gina. Gina loved boy. Boy loved Gina. Boy started not to love Gina so much. Gina still pretty much loved boy. Boy needed to end it with Gina. Gina wasn’t happy about boy wanting to call it quits. Gina was sad for a few months. Gina started to feel a little less pain. Gina was able to start talking to boy again. Gina and boy now have a decent relationship that mainly involves around their dogs. Gina spends a lot of time thinking about what really broke her heart, the boy, the expectations or the timing of it all.
A sickness invaded my body almost two months ago and I’m just now starting to feel like I can get through a day without a nap and that depends on the day. I’m not sure if there’s a perfect time to be under the weather, but the holidays are a bloody bad time. Especially when it’s the holidays thrown in with a side of cute boy on the horizon. The cute boy, with blue eyes, oh so blue, was doing the same thing for me as the prescription antibiotics. Both were quite healing.
Two days before Christmas, I was holding my niece and as I looked down on her, I noticed she had two heads. It wasn’t a good look for her and a bad look is something she isn’t capable of, so I knew the problem had to be me. I handed her to my mother or her mother, I really can’t remember. That was the last time I held my sweet baby Breiten and just in the past couple of weeks would I feel comfortable holding her again without fear that I would give her some terrible infection.
The holidays were the holidays mixed with my wonderful family and friends, a horrendous cough and me begging Bette Davis to learn how to make coffee so I didn’t have to get out of bed. I tried to keep up with the pace of my life and the season, but as I soon realized I was awake, I was tired again.
Throughout my life, I’ve known people who’ve had fever blisters and cold sores. I’m sure there is a difference and it’s possible that at one time I knew the difference, but I’ve read so much on the internet, in magazines and such that I don’t know the difference between a fever blister and a cold sore at this point. I remember hearing in high school that fever blisters were a form of herpes. When I think of herpes I think of Robin Williams. I hate to out Robin Williams for having herpes, but I once heard that the man who played Mork and Mrs. Doubtfire, for you later beings, had the STD, herpes. Holy Jesus. I wanted nothing to do with herpes. In fact, I took pride in myself that for 31 years I'd never had a fever blister or cold sore. (From this point on, I’m going to refer to whatever it was on the right side of my bottom lip as Fabacasa. That’s the first letters of fever blister and cold sore mixed in with some a’s.) I saw Fabacasas occur on the least suspecting of individuals. When friends would try to explain their Fabacasa to me, well, I would hate to be them looking at my grimacing face.
Sure enough, Fabacasa took residence on my face and the depths of my vanity were revealed. It was really, really sexy, if you're into fever blisters and cold sores. I couldn’t talk in a meeting one day because every time I moved my mouth, Fabacasa would ooze some of it’s whatever it was that had built up probably an 1/8 of an inch off my face. At least Fabacasa sounds like a sexy name. I think it could be Italian. I was mortified to look at myself in the mirror. I said, “What terrible timing! I have this and that to do, a trip to Miami with my dear friends and blue eyes, oh blue eyes!” To make the situation even more of a train wreck, I developed a rash on 75% of my body. I would describe it in more detail, but I got to the point where I had to cover all mirrors in my house like I was holding Shiva. I refused to look at any part of my body. One day I peeked and realized I could make out a bunny rabbit and Darth Vader’s helmet if I played Connect The Dots with my rash on my right and left thigh. I knew it was time for a sleep inducing dose of Benedryl, an oatmeal bath and to once again call the doctor.
I derobed and the nurse told me that the doctor had two interns with her and wanted to know if it would be OK if they observed. I said, “If these interns can figure out what the hell is going on, they can prick and prod me from head to toe.”
While I waited on doc and interns to make their rounds I caught myself in the mirror. There I was, naked, with a hospital sheet covering a rash that if you saw me for the first time would be all that you remember me by. It's a fact. That's the kind of stuff we remember. Don't deny it. You remember someone you see with a rash and you remember people you see with Fabacasas. My poor little Fabacasa was hit so many times with Abreeva she couldn’t breath. I thought, “I wonder what person, place or thing the interns will find if they decide to play their own version of Connect the Dots off my backside?”
The doctor and the interns finally came in for their inspection. I could tell right off the bat, the interns were jonesing for a little bit more than a rash that “looks like a drug reaction.”
I floated through the rest of the day with an emphasis on the physical instead of the emotional. That night I went to yoga class not in hopes of a spiritual awakening but in hopes that somehow the way I lifted my thigh up into my chest while also in cat pose would force out the sickness, the spots, the blisters and make everything new and right in time.
It didn’t happen.
However, something else happened.
The beautiful yoga instructor, Leah Lillios, said in her voice that should be on a meditation CD, “Feel safe within your own skin.”
I don’t remember what pose I was in, but I slowly fell into child’s pose. (For you non-yogi’s, it’s where you go to rest.) Here I had been for days, so focused on my outer appearance. Those blue eyes, my brown eyes had been making eyes with, popped into my head. I felt incredible peace when I thought, “Maybe I should be more focused on what I see when I look into those blue eyes and not so much on what those blue eyes see when they look at me?”
In that moment, I embraced Fabacasa, the bunny rabbit, Darth Vader's helmet and the guitar the intern found on my left cheek.
How fitting that this revelation happened in a yoga class. Isn’t that where you go to get right with yourself? I don’t know if I’m completely right, but the timing was right for what I needed to know at that time.
We can’t control seconds, minutes and hours passing. It happens without fail in the best and worst of moments. Sometimes life really is a scream no one can hear. Again, we can’t control another, but we can try to take control of ourselves by making a decision, grabbing hold, taking charge, whatever you want to call it, in order to attempt to spend our time with what and who we want to spend it with. Though we can’t control timing, we can control how we handle our time in the situations actual time brings to us… good and bad.
I recently asked my 2008 New Year’s resolution writing partner what happened to that piece of paper. What did we write? He couldn’t remember and said that means it’s likely we didn’t keep any of our resolutions.
More than a year later, that is one situation where I think I have some sort of grasp on the precious timing of things. It’s like completing some sort of strenuous physical activity. You’re glad you did it, but you’re damn glad it’s over. Whether it was an angel, the position of the moon or just my own mind maturing and heart healing, I see it as a good thing that I only had control of the pen on December 31st, 2007 and not on the outcome of whatever it was I wrote down.
I didn't feel this way for most of 2008. For a good chunk of time I would've looked at those resolutions, that tiny piece of paper, as some sort of lightning bolt going off as to why things happened the way they did.
It took the passing of more seconds, minutes, hours and days for me to feel comfortable with lost and wasted time. And on this day, somehow, it feels like I have the answer I needed in the right amount of time.
This year, 2009, I made no resolutions.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
BABY PLEASE COME HOME
This past Saturday night, I was trying to get in the mood to write something this week. TDB hasn’t been consistent recently. A new distribution day, skipped weeks. I knew what I wanted to write about this particular week. I just didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t know how to make it feel complete.
As I prepared to make the atmosphere right to sit down and let the words flow, it was almost as if I was getting ready for a date. The only lights I had on were the strands of white lights I have hanging in random places around my house in an attempt to decorate for the holidays. I lit so many candles and then pulled them all into one room in fear that I would cozy up into bed and forget some were lit in other rooms. My wine glass was obnoxiously full, two pieces of chocolate sat beside it. I even had my sexy sweatpants on. Ok, I will say I had my nice sweatpants on. I sat down at my computer and ended up writing a love letter I crave for someone to write to me. Hardly productive.
I stood up and began to pace. I walked to the bathroom, brushed my hair, plucked my eyebrows and came back. I said out loud, “Music. I need music. Bette D, you want to dance with Mama?” She looked up from the couch. Her eyes said to me, “Mom. Please. I’m busy chewing on my tennis ball that you named Michael Chang.” I opened up my music and looked for something that would make me tap my feet, but was in tune with the season. Darlene Love was the obvious choice.
One of my favorite holiday songs is “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” Many people have recorded this song over the years. I prefer the first recording by Darlene Love. Love recorded her take on it in 1963. Phil Spector co-wrote and produced the album. The legendary “Wall of Sound” that the famous, now infamous producer is known for, doesn’t hold a candle to Love’s incredible vocals. She usually performs this song each Christmas on Letterman. Check your local listings.
The music started. My hands were on my hips; they shook like they were counting the opening beats of the song. As she started to sing, I picked up my wine glass, careful not to spill, and used it as my microphone. I grooved down my hallway and as I turned around to come back, I realized Bette Davis had joined in for the dance party. She brought Michael Chang, the tennis ball, as her date.
“Pretty lights on the tree.
I’m watching them shine.
You should be here with me.
Baby please come home.”
When I heard that verse, my feet stopped dancing. They walked to the computer. I had found what I needed.
December 11th, 2005
I had just left Kate’s Paperie on lower Broadway and was heading home with delicate holiday cards to send to friends and family. My dirty hair was held back by a headband I bought on the street just an hour before. My phone rang and it was my good friend Jen. I said, “Hey…” I knew immediately that something was wrong. I went as far to the left as I could on the crowded Soho sidewalk. I looked into a window and could see my reflection adjusting my headband as she started to talk. I saw my eyes begin to well up with tears. Her words broke my heart. I said, “I’m coming over.”
There is really no need to go into the specifics of how, when, why or where. Those points aren’t necessary. Today, three years later, all that is necessary is who.
Billy Clarey.
Billy died December 10th, 2005.
Friends and coworkers gathered at Jen’s apartment to comfort one another and make phone calls to others that deserved to hear the news before they walked into work on Monday. One of our own, one of our family members was gone.
He was young.
He was beautiful.
I always thought he was so alive.
I wish I‘d kept some sort of running list through the years of the boys I’ve been over the moon for. I’ve had some pretty amazing things said to me in the last 15 years or so. Looking back, I realize a lot of those concocted lines were said so I would take my shirt off. Billy and I never had a romantic relationship. We weren’t each other’s types, but Billy Clarey, hands down, said the most romantic thing to me.
We were at the Emmy’s and there he was in his gold Gucci tie looking like the part he was playing. Perfect. He walked over to me in my silver silk dress and said, “Many people are going to tell you that you look beautiful tonight. But I’m going to tell you that you’re Rita Hayworth, you’re Sophia Loren. Which one do you want to be?” I said, “Oh goodness. Sophia? Wait! This dress is more Rita. No! I want to be Sophia Loren. I’ve always wanted to be Sophia Loren!” Billy said while smiling, “Stunning.” I knew in that very moment that I was never going to be a Hollywood star, but if Billy Clarey thought I resembled one, I was going to run with it that night.
Billy was the type of guy that could get you to tell him your dirtiest and darkest secrets. He was the person dishing the good stories late at night in a tent, the flashlight shining upon his face, when you were kids.
He was a light, a beautiful light to all who knew him, but inside it was hard for him to keep his light from flickering.
Billy’s death made the holiday numb for many, obviously his family. Billy was loved. I believe he knew how very much he was loved and was grateful for that blessing. Billy loved. He loved all that glittered and all that would glow. For a long time I questioned how could one be so selfish to remove oneself from those who would’ve held his hand through every hour, every minute of the night. In time, I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t about love. It was about life. Something about life was unbearable for Billy. I don’t think there was anything about love he disregarded. Again, he loved. He was loved.
I’ve come to reason that maybe I was being selfish. I didn’t want his family to hurt, I didn’t want to see my friends lost and I didn’t want to feel the pain when I saw his “should’ve been a male lead on a soap opera” smile in my head. I would be willing to do almost anything so that his beautiful mother could hold her boy again like she did when he was 3, even if he would now be well into his 20s. It’s selfish of me to think I could ever control a person that much. I have to believe that while I would have argued with him, tugged at him and strapped him down, he did what he thought was right for his longevity, though myself and many others will always believe it was, he was, just all too brief.
I think about Billy often. He is listed as one of my top angels. I might be a lapsed Catholic, but I have a strong devotion to Mother Mary and all of her angels. They surround me with hands to hold when I’m in need and I believe they’re the ones that lead me to french fries when I really need them. I don’t know how else I would’ve ended up feeling so close to my grandmother, who died when I was 5, if I didn’t think she was with me through good and bad times over the past 26 years.
In "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home,)" towards the end of the song, Darlene Love gusts with such passion, “Please, please, please, please, please, please, baby please come home!” One please usually gets the point across, but when six come at you with such desperation, I can’t help but think of all of those I wish would come home. I think of Billy’s amazing family. I know the holidays are hard on them. They will be tough for them to bear until they leave this earth, but I also know they choose to see the brightness of his life and not the darkness of his death.
There are reasons, unfortunate happenings, as to why people can’t be together. It might be as black and white as death. It might be geography. It might be a circumstance that is beyond one’s control. And, as I said, one of the hardest lessons we learn in this life is that we can’t control another. It’s simple. We just can’t.
But, if you want someone to come home this Christmas and it’s a possibility, tell them, beg them if you have to. Don’t let pride, miscommunication, fear and insecurity keep you from making the person you love feel like you said please six times. Life is short; love is long, so love as much as you can while you’re alive.
Billy’s mother once shared with me something he wrote as a student at NYU. It was a questionnaire and towards the end he said, “I’m learning to love the simple joys like close friends, and pizza and beer.”
I don’t doubt in the end he did love his dear, sweet friends, pepperoni pizza and a well-brewed, cold, beer.
“Pretty lights on the tree.
I’m watching them shine.
You should be here with me.
Baby please come home.”
My favorite line in that verse is, “You should be here with me.”
But, just because someone should, doesn’t mean they would or they could.
As I prepared to make the atmosphere right to sit down and let the words flow, it was almost as if I was getting ready for a date. The only lights I had on were the strands of white lights I have hanging in random places around my house in an attempt to decorate for the holidays. I lit so many candles and then pulled them all into one room in fear that I would cozy up into bed and forget some were lit in other rooms. My wine glass was obnoxiously full, two pieces of chocolate sat beside it. I even had my sexy sweatpants on. Ok, I will say I had my nice sweatpants on. I sat down at my computer and ended up writing a love letter I crave for someone to write to me. Hardly productive.
I stood up and began to pace. I walked to the bathroom, brushed my hair, plucked my eyebrows and came back. I said out loud, “Music. I need music. Bette D, you want to dance with Mama?” She looked up from the couch. Her eyes said to me, “Mom. Please. I’m busy chewing on my tennis ball that you named Michael Chang.” I opened up my music and looked for something that would make me tap my feet, but was in tune with the season. Darlene Love was the obvious choice.
One of my favorite holiday songs is “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).” Many people have recorded this song over the years. I prefer the first recording by Darlene Love. Love recorded her take on it in 1963. Phil Spector co-wrote and produced the album. The legendary “Wall of Sound” that the famous, now infamous producer is known for, doesn’t hold a candle to Love’s incredible vocals. She usually performs this song each Christmas on Letterman. Check your local listings.
The music started. My hands were on my hips; they shook like they were counting the opening beats of the song. As she started to sing, I picked up my wine glass, careful not to spill, and used it as my microphone. I grooved down my hallway and as I turned around to come back, I realized Bette Davis had joined in for the dance party. She brought Michael Chang, the tennis ball, as her date.
“Pretty lights on the tree.
I’m watching them shine.
You should be here with me.
Baby please come home.”
When I heard that verse, my feet stopped dancing. They walked to the computer. I had found what I needed.
December 11th, 2005
I had just left Kate’s Paperie on lower Broadway and was heading home with delicate holiday cards to send to friends and family. My dirty hair was held back by a headband I bought on the street just an hour before. My phone rang and it was my good friend Jen. I said, “Hey…” I knew immediately that something was wrong. I went as far to the left as I could on the crowded Soho sidewalk. I looked into a window and could see my reflection adjusting my headband as she started to talk. I saw my eyes begin to well up with tears. Her words broke my heart. I said, “I’m coming over.”
There is really no need to go into the specifics of how, when, why or where. Those points aren’t necessary. Today, three years later, all that is necessary is who.
Billy Clarey.
Billy died December 10th, 2005.
Friends and coworkers gathered at Jen’s apartment to comfort one another and make phone calls to others that deserved to hear the news before they walked into work on Monday. One of our own, one of our family members was gone.
He was young.
He was beautiful.
I always thought he was so alive.
I wish I‘d kept some sort of running list through the years of the boys I’ve been over the moon for. I’ve had some pretty amazing things said to me in the last 15 years or so. Looking back, I realize a lot of those concocted lines were said so I would take my shirt off. Billy and I never had a romantic relationship. We weren’t each other’s types, but Billy Clarey, hands down, said the most romantic thing to me.
We were at the Emmy’s and there he was in his gold Gucci tie looking like the part he was playing. Perfect. He walked over to me in my silver silk dress and said, “Many people are going to tell you that you look beautiful tonight. But I’m going to tell you that you’re Rita Hayworth, you’re Sophia Loren. Which one do you want to be?” I said, “Oh goodness. Sophia? Wait! This dress is more Rita. No! I want to be Sophia Loren. I’ve always wanted to be Sophia Loren!” Billy said while smiling, “Stunning.” I knew in that very moment that I was never going to be a Hollywood star, but if Billy Clarey thought I resembled one, I was going to run with it that night.
Billy was the type of guy that could get you to tell him your dirtiest and darkest secrets. He was the person dishing the good stories late at night in a tent, the flashlight shining upon his face, when you were kids.
He was a light, a beautiful light to all who knew him, but inside it was hard for him to keep his light from flickering.
Billy’s death made the holiday numb for many, obviously his family. Billy was loved. I believe he knew how very much he was loved and was grateful for that blessing. Billy loved. He loved all that glittered and all that would glow. For a long time I questioned how could one be so selfish to remove oneself from those who would’ve held his hand through every hour, every minute of the night. In time, I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t about love. It was about life. Something about life was unbearable for Billy. I don’t think there was anything about love he disregarded. Again, he loved. He was loved.
I’ve come to reason that maybe I was being selfish. I didn’t want his family to hurt, I didn’t want to see my friends lost and I didn’t want to feel the pain when I saw his “should’ve been a male lead on a soap opera” smile in my head. I would be willing to do almost anything so that his beautiful mother could hold her boy again like she did when he was 3, even if he would now be well into his 20s. It’s selfish of me to think I could ever control a person that much. I have to believe that while I would have argued with him, tugged at him and strapped him down, he did what he thought was right for his longevity, though myself and many others will always believe it was, he was, just all too brief.
I think about Billy often. He is listed as one of my top angels. I might be a lapsed Catholic, but I have a strong devotion to Mother Mary and all of her angels. They surround me with hands to hold when I’m in need and I believe they’re the ones that lead me to french fries when I really need them. I don’t know how else I would’ve ended up feeling so close to my grandmother, who died when I was 5, if I didn’t think she was with me through good and bad times over the past 26 years.
In "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home,)" towards the end of the song, Darlene Love gusts with such passion, “Please, please, please, please, please, please, baby please come home!” One please usually gets the point across, but when six come at you with such desperation, I can’t help but think of all of those I wish would come home. I think of Billy’s amazing family. I know the holidays are hard on them. They will be tough for them to bear until they leave this earth, but I also know they choose to see the brightness of his life and not the darkness of his death.
There are reasons, unfortunate happenings, as to why people can’t be together. It might be as black and white as death. It might be geography. It might be a circumstance that is beyond one’s control. And, as I said, one of the hardest lessons we learn in this life is that we can’t control another. It’s simple. We just can’t.
But, if you want someone to come home this Christmas and it’s a possibility, tell them, beg them if you have to. Don’t let pride, miscommunication, fear and insecurity keep you from making the person you love feel like you said please six times. Life is short; love is long, so love as much as you can while you’re alive.
Billy’s mother once shared with me something he wrote as a student at NYU. It was a questionnaire and towards the end he said, “I’m learning to love the simple joys like close friends, and pizza and beer.”
I don’t doubt in the end he did love his dear, sweet friends, pepperoni pizza and a well-brewed, cold, beer.
“Pretty lights on the tree.
I’m watching them shine.
You should be here with me.
Baby please come home.”
My favorite line in that verse is, “You should be here with me.”
But, just because someone should, doesn’t mean they would or they could.
Monday, November 24, 2008
STANDING UP FOR THANKSGIVING
SCENE: ANNUAL GATHERING OF HOLIDAYS’ MEMORIAL DAY PARTY
Easter- I wish Memorial Day could be here. This weather is just amazing!
Mother’s Day- What are you talking about Easter? Memorial is never here! This is her busiest day. If we’re lucky she’ll make an appearance when we’re taking down the picnic tables. She is always so damn drunk when she shows up.
Easter- Well, as you said, this is her busiest day. I’d drink my face off too. You better believe after millions of egg hunts I want a spiked Cadbury.
(Mother’s Day and Easter laugh)
Mother’s Day- So, (she moves in closer) what whispers are you hearing about things not being so jolly between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I know Christmas has so much charisma and is well liked by all, but Thanksgiving really gets lost in the shuffle any more.
(Halloween and Labor Day have walked up and joined the conversation)
Halloween- I hope you’re not blaming me! I come right before Thanksgiving and then I’m out the door and marked down 75%!
Labor Day- Good God, Halloween! No one is blaming you. In fact, this has nothing to do with you! This is between Thanksgiving and Christmas. At least people know the difference between the three of you. Memorial, Veterans and me constantly have to explain who we are.
Mother’s Day- Look at the way Christmas is nestling up to Administrative Assistant’s Day over there. She is probably telling her that whatever she doesn’t get on her day, she’ll make sure she gets on Christmas.
Easter- Where’s Thanksgiving?
Mother’s Day- She is over there talking to Valentine. I’m sure Valentine is feeding her a load of bull because we all know that’s what Valentine is.
(The Holidays laugh)
Easter- I guess I see what you’re saying about Christmas not letting Thanksgiving have the glory it used to. I remember when they both came around. Some folks wouldn't even get their Christmas tree until Christmas Eve.
Mother’s Day- It’s just sad. (She shakes her head) Is it me or has Thanksgiving put on some weight?
Easter- What do you expect? For some people, eating is what she represents.
When my brothers and I were in elementary school our parents would pick us up on the day we got out for Thanksgiving break in a fully loaded SUV. By fully loaded I don’t mean that it was decked out with all the bells and whistles. By fully loaded I mean that it was packed up just enough so Mom and Dad could see out of the back window in order to get us safely to Keokuk, Iowa.
What a great feeling it was to jump out of the car after 12 long hours and hug my grandfather when we arrived at his house. We didn’t have to run far because Papa was usually outside waiting for us, waving with his right hand and taking a final drag off a cigarette with his left as the tired car pulled into the driveway to rest.
On Thanksgiving Day we would drive to Farmington, Iowa to have dinner with my mother’s side of the family at my great Aunt Genny’s farmhouse. I was a young kid when we used to celebrate Thanksgiving with the O’Brien clan, so I can’t fault myself for what I’m about to say, but I wish I would’ve paid more attention to what was going on around me and the people I was with. I can smell my Aunt Genny’s house and her Estee Lauder perfume. I can see her thin fingers adjusting the bobby pins that gathered her blonde locks up into a bun. I wish I’d asked her why she never wore her hair down.
When Thanksgiving would start to come around, I was still coming down from my Halloween high and probably was still allowed a piece of candy each night. It was as if I was tapping my foot under the kid’s table to hurry Thanksgiving along. The sooner Thanksgiving was out the door the faster Christmas could enter.
After lots of ham, turkey, oyster dressing, regular dressing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie and for some reason right now I’m remembering really good rolls, we would say our goodbyes to those we loved and hit the road back to Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Soon after we arrived home, it was time to pull out the JC Penny catalogue and point out the toys and such we wanted from Santa and the things we wanted from Mom and Dad. “Mama, I want the Pound Puppy to be from you and Daddy and I want Santa Claus to bring me two Cabbage Patch Kids.” I said to her one year in a very serious tone. “Ok. We’ll see. Put that on your list for Santa.” My mother would say as she glanced over at my dad and played along with our excitement.
Aunt Genny is now gone, the farmhouse has been sold and our Thanksgiving traditions have changed. I’m sure, somewhere, there are many photos and possibly home videos on dusty VHS of past Thanksgiving Days in Farmington. I wish digital cameras with video, picture phones and all other devices we have today to capture moments were around back then so I could remember that cool, old farmhouse with greater detail and hear my Aunt Bean laugh again. Bean, her real name was Loretta, didn’t like having her picture made. But I know I could have tricked her into a shot or two or at least snagged the audio of her laugh.
Nowadays, it’s hard to decipher any spread of time between Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. A few weeks before Halloween, my friend Millie and I were walking in my neighborhood. We saw someone putting up their Christmas decorations. I have come to accept that people put their decorations up for Christmas after Halloween, but before? No. It’s not allowed. If I could charge them with the abuse of white lights, mistletoe and branches made into reindeers to stand in their lawn, I would. On second thought, I would like to start a movement to have mistletoe available and hanging in random places year round. We could all use a little more kissing.
Last week I went to the mall and Santa had already arrived. At least 7 kids were being escorted by an elf making 10 bucks an hour to Santa who was making 20. I decided to not start any Christmas activity until after Thanksgiving, so I refused to shop in a store that was playing Christmas music. I walked into Macy’s and “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby was playing as I passed the Michael Kors, Ralph Lauren and INC. sections. As I moved towards juniors some sort of Miley Cyrus, Hannah Montana or someone like that was killing an overproduced version of “Santa Baby.” I was out of breath by the time I got out of Macy’s after running through the store in order to stay true to my promise. I started to walk into J Crew and a spirited Ella Fitzgerald version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” was turned up just as high as the price of their t-shirts. I took two steps in and then took two steps out. Santa Claus had obviously thrown up already all over Green Hills Mall.
The sprint out of the mall through Macy’s was hellish because out of my periphery I saw the most darling green, silk strapless dress. I wanted to touch it, hold it against me, try it on and talk myself into buying this dress that doesn’t have a function to go to. But, no. I wasn’t giving in to Christmas. Not yet. I was going to give Thanksgiving the attention it deserves before any chestnuts started roasting on my fire.
This pro Thanksgiving attitude I was sporting got me thinking about what I’m truly thankful for. Of course my family, my friends, Bette Davis, my health, my rented roof and the material things I can provide myself with that are necessary and unnecessary to function daily came to mind first, but I quickly realized I’m thankful for so much more and questioned how I ever have a tendency to feel blue.
Here are just a few things that came to mind:
THE PILGRIMS
I think this is pretty obvious, if there were no Pilgrims, there would be no Thanksgiving according to historical accounts. The real reason I’m thankful for the Pilgrims, the women Pilgrims specifically, is that I’m glad they lived during that time and I didn’t have to. I don’t think I would have been a very good Pilgrim gal. I imagine they put in some long hours living the primitive lifestyle. And let’s face it, a man’s a man, I don’t care if the first Thanksgiving took place almost 400 years ago, I’m sure even those food fetching, wood chopping, manly men would have found a way to piss me off. Oh, the clothes those women had to wear. Those dresses just wouldn’t have worked with my figure. How did the women with curly hair control their frizz? How could they stand not having manicured eyebrows? Thank you Pilgrim girls for doing a lot of hard work I wouldn’t have wanted to do.
THE CROSSING GUARD FOR LOCKELAND DESIGN SCHOOL
I have to find out this woman’s name. I’m usually running late to work just as dozens of cars line my street to drop their kids off at the school just around the corner. This woman crossing gaurd and I have developed some sort of telepathic communication. She knows exactly how long it takes me to put my stuff in my car, start the car, adjust the heat, find a good song or tune into NPR and pull out of my driveway. It’s like I have a personal escort. I don’t know why she is so helpful to me, but I’m so thankful for her stop sign and whistle that berate those that try to turn left onto Holly when I’m pulling out. As I cruise past her, we give each other a head nod as if we’re saying, “I’ve got you girl.”
I usually see her early in the morning when she is arriving at her job when I’m on a walk with Bette Davis. She has triplet girls that are 10 years old. Two are identical and one is fraternal. Every morning she gets to make sure that her kids get into that building safely and every afternoon she makes sure they arrive to her safely. I’ve walked by as her kids crossed the street to greet her. With one hand she is holding up that stop sign, with the other she is signaling someone to slow down, one side of her mouth holds a whistle and with the other she says, “Girls! How was your day?”
We are working on getting our eye contact down when I come home in the afternoons, but my schedule is strange so I arrive at different times. Like I said, we’re working on it and I’m thankful for anybody willing to put forth the effort to work on something.
ROGER JOHNSON’S TASTE
Roger Johnson is a friend of mine whom I met in New York who lives in Jersey City, New Jersey and is originally from Alabama. Roger is my music and entertainment guru. He has introduced me to so many great artists, magazines and websites. You name it, Roger has probably already heard it, scene it and reviewed it. There have been many times I will email Roger something and within an hour he has found my request and more. Most of the great concerts I’ve attended, you know the ones you walk out of and say, “I want to be a rock star!” were because of Roger. Recently Roger sent me DVD’s of this season of Friday Night Lights. The show used to be on NBC, but now it’s on Direct TV. I love this show. It makes me want to move to a small town, marry the high school football coach and make a ritual every Friday night of a football game, rowdy cheering, pizza afterwards with the team and snuggling later on with my husband, the winning coach. Saturday and Sunday are spent either bitching or bragging about the game and come Monday morning, we’re gearing up for Friday night.
To be truthful, I don’t know Roger that well, but if I had to list my top 10 favorite artists, Roger has probably introduced me to half of them. What I really love about Roger’s taste is that you can’t predict it. So, in a nutshell, I’m thankful Direct TV picked up Friday Night Lights and for people like Roger who keep my eyes, ears, mind, heart and soul movin’ and groovin’.
THE FRESH MARKET, BRENTWOOD, TENNESSEE
“Is this really made by Celestial Seasonings?” I said to myself the first time I had Bengal Spice tea. When I was living in New York I bought this tea on a whim. From the moment this tea touched my lips I knew things would never be the same. I’m not trying to be funny. I’m serious. I can drink a box of this stuff in a week easily. The mix of cinnamon, vanilla, ginger, cloves, nutmeg and a lot of other things made for a perfect cocktail to help me wind up or wind down my day. It doesn’t need milk, sugar, nothing. Just hot water and a few minutes to steep. I even wrote a song about Bengal Spice tea and I don’t write music.
When I moved to Nashville, I couldn’t find the stuff anywhere. Every grocery store, health food store, hell, anywhere, I would try to find the Bengal. It eluded me. I even asked the manager at the Krazy Kroger down the street if they could start carrying it. The conversation went something like this:
Gina- Do you think you guys could start ordering the Bengal Spice tea by Celestial Seasonings? I might be the only one who buys it, but I will buy a lot of it.
KK employee: (pause of about 20 seconds.) No.
Recently, I was in Brentwood, which is about 20 minutes from my house for a meeting. I had some time to kill so I decided to go on a tiger hunt. In the coffee and tea aisle of the Fresh Market, I scanned the shelves. There was Tension Tamer, Mandarin Orange Spice, India Spice Chai. I could feel my hope starting to die and then my eyes landed on that peaceful tiger staring back at me. I might have even pushed someone out of the way to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. I quickly counted how many boxes they had on the shelf. I started to put all of them in my basket. When I got to box 5 I realized that I needed to be realistic, 2 would be sufficient. The Fresh Market in Brentwood isn’t as convenient to my house as the Krazy Kroger but you better believe every time I find myself out that way; I will Bengal Spice it up.
MY BOYFRIEND BREAKING UP WITH ME
Well…no. Back up. I’m not so thankful for the actual event or the words that were said or not said. I don't remember feeling full of thanks or happy or even alive. In fact, it was awful. I can't even be poetic about it. It sucked. But, if it hadn’t happened, I probably would never have sat down at my computer one night while eating sushi, drinking a bottle of wine, crying amid boxes of memories heading south to make new memories and started typing. That random night The Dave Blog was born. I woke up the next day, shook my head and said out loud, "I started a blog last night." It was a feeling that could be compared to the time I woke up at the Sigma Chi house in college, but was fully clothed.
The writing might have happened eventually, but it wouldn’t be TDB. I’m thankful for those of you that bother to take time out of your busy lives to read my words and inspire me to want to do it again and again and again.
SCENE: ANNUAL GATHERING OF THE HOLIDAYS’ HOLIDAY PARTY
Easter- Mother’s Day! You look wonderful. So good to see you!
Mother’s Day- Thanks E! You too. Goodness you wear pastels so well! Doesn’t it seem like this party is getting earlier and earlier every year?
Easter- I know. I know.
Mother’s Day- I heard Christmas started showing up in mid October! Maybe Halloween should worry!
(Easter and Mother’s Day laugh and Thanksgiving joins the conversation.)
Thanksgiving- Hey you guys! I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the Memorial Day party. How have you been?
Easter- I’m just peachy!
Mother’s Day- I can’t complain except for a few unappreciative children. How are you?
Thanksgiving- I’m wonderful, blessed, full of joy and soon to be turkey!
(The Holidays laugh an uncomfortable laugh)
Mother’s Day- Oh Thanksgiving, bless your heart. I can’t imagine what it’s like.
Thanksgiving- What are you talking about?
Easter- You don’t have to do this with us. We know what is happening. We know Christmas makes you feel like the forgotten middle child.
Thanksgiving- I’m sorry?
Easter- Oh come on T-Gives! It’s us girl!
Thanksgiving- Honestly, I’m just happy to be the day people enjoy for many reasons. It might be just because they get the day off work, they don’t worry about what they’re eating, they can watch football, be with family and friends and think about, even if just for a minute, what makes them thankful. My purpose is simple. I feel like I’m getting my job done. I hate to run off on the two of you, but I have a few pies in the oven. Happy Holidays!
Easter- I wish Memorial Day could be here. This weather is just amazing!
Mother’s Day- What are you talking about Easter? Memorial is never here! This is her busiest day. If we’re lucky she’ll make an appearance when we’re taking down the picnic tables. She is always so damn drunk when she shows up.
Easter- Well, as you said, this is her busiest day. I’d drink my face off too. You better believe after millions of egg hunts I want a spiked Cadbury.
(Mother’s Day and Easter laugh)
Mother’s Day- So, (she moves in closer) what whispers are you hearing about things not being so jolly between Thanksgiving and Christmas? I know Christmas has so much charisma and is well liked by all, but Thanksgiving really gets lost in the shuffle any more.
(Halloween and Labor Day have walked up and joined the conversation)
Halloween- I hope you’re not blaming me! I come right before Thanksgiving and then I’m out the door and marked down 75%!
Labor Day- Good God, Halloween! No one is blaming you. In fact, this has nothing to do with you! This is between Thanksgiving and Christmas. At least people know the difference between the three of you. Memorial, Veterans and me constantly have to explain who we are.
Mother’s Day- Look at the way Christmas is nestling up to Administrative Assistant’s Day over there. She is probably telling her that whatever she doesn’t get on her day, she’ll make sure she gets on Christmas.
Easter- Where’s Thanksgiving?
Mother’s Day- She is over there talking to Valentine. I’m sure Valentine is feeding her a load of bull because we all know that’s what Valentine is.
(The Holidays laugh)
Easter- I guess I see what you’re saying about Christmas not letting Thanksgiving have the glory it used to. I remember when they both came around. Some folks wouldn't even get their Christmas tree until Christmas Eve.
Mother’s Day- It’s just sad. (She shakes her head) Is it me or has Thanksgiving put on some weight?
Easter- What do you expect? For some people, eating is what she represents.
When my brothers and I were in elementary school our parents would pick us up on the day we got out for Thanksgiving break in a fully loaded SUV. By fully loaded I don’t mean that it was decked out with all the bells and whistles. By fully loaded I mean that it was packed up just enough so Mom and Dad could see out of the back window in order to get us safely to Keokuk, Iowa.
What a great feeling it was to jump out of the car after 12 long hours and hug my grandfather when we arrived at his house. We didn’t have to run far because Papa was usually outside waiting for us, waving with his right hand and taking a final drag off a cigarette with his left as the tired car pulled into the driveway to rest.
On Thanksgiving Day we would drive to Farmington, Iowa to have dinner with my mother’s side of the family at my great Aunt Genny’s farmhouse. I was a young kid when we used to celebrate Thanksgiving with the O’Brien clan, so I can’t fault myself for what I’m about to say, but I wish I would’ve paid more attention to what was going on around me and the people I was with. I can smell my Aunt Genny’s house and her Estee Lauder perfume. I can see her thin fingers adjusting the bobby pins that gathered her blonde locks up into a bun. I wish I’d asked her why she never wore her hair down.
When Thanksgiving would start to come around, I was still coming down from my Halloween high and probably was still allowed a piece of candy each night. It was as if I was tapping my foot under the kid’s table to hurry Thanksgiving along. The sooner Thanksgiving was out the door the faster Christmas could enter.
After lots of ham, turkey, oyster dressing, regular dressing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie and for some reason right now I’m remembering really good rolls, we would say our goodbyes to those we loved and hit the road back to Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Soon after we arrived home, it was time to pull out the JC Penny catalogue and point out the toys and such we wanted from Santa and the things we wanted from Mom and Dad. “Mama, I want the Pound Puppy to be from you and Daddy and I want Santa Claus to bring me two Cabbage Patch Kids.” I said to her one year in a very serious tone. “Ok. We’ll see. Put that on your list for Santa.” My mother would say as she glanced over at my dad and played along with our excitement.
Aunt Genny is now gone, the farmhouse has been sold and our Thanksgiving traditions have changed. I’m sure, somewhere, there are many photos and possibly home videos on dusty VHS of past Thanksgiving Days in Farmington. I wish digital cameras with video, picture phones and all other devices we have today to capture moments were around back then so I could remember that cool, old farmhouse with greater detail and hear my Aunt Bean laugh again. Bean, her real name was Loretta, didn’t like having her picture made. But I know I could have tricked her into a shot or two or at least snagged the audio of her laugh.
Nowadays, it’s hard to decipher any spread of time between Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. A few weeks before Halloween, my friend Millie and I were walking in my neighborhood. We saw someone putting up their Christmas decorations. I have come to accept that people put their decorations up for Christmas after Halloween, but before? No. It’s not allowed. If I could charge them with the abuse of white lights, mistletoe and branches made into reindeers to stand in their lawn, I would. On second thought, I would like to start a movement to have mistletoe available and hanging in random places year round. We could all use a little more kissing.
Last week I went to the mall and Santa had already arrived. At least 7 kids were being escorted by an elf making 10 bucks an hour to Santa who was making 20. I decided to not start any Christmas activity until after Thanksgiving, so I refused to shop in a store that was playing Christmas music. I walked into Macy’s and “White Christmas” by Bing Crosby was playing as I passed the Michael Kors, Ralph Lauren and INC. sections. As I moved towards juniors some sort of Miley Cyrus, Hannah Montana or someone like that was killing an overproduced version of “Santa Baby.” I was out of breath by the time I got out of Macy’s after running through the store in order to stay true to my promise. I started to walk into J Crew and a spirited Ella Fitzgerald version of “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” was turned up just as high as the price of their t-shirts. I took two steps in and then took two steps out. Santa Claus had obviously thrown up already all over Green Hills Mall.
The sprint out of the mall through Macy’s was hellish because out of my periphery I saw the most darling green, silk strapless dress. I wanted to touch it, hold it against me, try it on and talk myself into buying this dress that doesn’t have a function to go to. But, no. I wasn’t giving in to Christmas. Not yet. I was going to give Thanksgiving the attention it deserves before any chestnuts started roasting on my fire.
This pro Thanksgiving attitude I was sporting got me thinking about what I’m truly thankful for. Of course my family, my friends, Bette Davis, my health, my rented roof and the material things I can provide myself with that are necessary and unnecessary to function daily came to mind first, but I quickly realized I’m thankful for so much more and questioned how I ever have a tendency to feel blue.
Here are just a few things that came to mind:
THE PILGRIMS
I think this is pretty obvious, if there were no Pilgrims, there would be no Thanksgiving according to historical accounts. The real reason I’m thankful for the Pilgrims, the women Pilgrims specifically, is that I’m glad they lived during that time and I didn’t have to. I don’t think I would have been a very good Pilgrim gal. I imagine they put in some long hours living the primitive lifestyle. And let’s face it, a man’s a man, I don’t care if the first Thanksgiving took place almost 400 years ago, I’m sure even those food fetching, wood chopping, manly men would have found a way to piss me off. Oh, the clothes those women had to wear. Those dresses just wouldn’t have worked with my figure. How did the women with curly hair control their frizz? How could they stand not having manicured eyebrows? Thank you Pilgrim girls for doing a lot of hard work I wouldn’t have wanted to do.
THE CROSSING GUARD FOR LOCKELAND DESIGN SCHOOL
I have to find out this woman’s name. I’m usually running late to work just as dozens of cars line my street to drop their kids off at the school just around the corner. This woman crossing gaurd and I have developed some sort of telepathic communication. She knows exactly how long it takes me to put my stuff in my car, start the car, adjust the heat, find a good song or tune into NPR and pull out of my driveway. It’s like I have a personal escort. I don’t know why she is so helpful to me, but I’m so thankful for her stop sign and whistle that berate those that try to turn left onto Holly when I’m pulling out. As I cruise past her, we give each other a head nod as if we’re saying, “I’ve got you girl.”
I usually see her early in the morning when she is arriving at her job when I’m on a walk with Bette Davis. She has triplet girls that are 10 years old. Two are identical and one is fraternal. Every morning she gets to make sure that her kids get into that building safely and every afternoon she makes sure they arrive to her safely. I’ve walked by as her kids crossed the street to greet her. With one hand she is holding up that stop sign, with the other she is signaling someone to slow down, one side of her mouth holds a whistle and with the other she says, “Girls! How was your day?”
We are working on getting our eye contact down when I come home in the afternoons, but my schedule is strange so I arrive at different times. Like I said, we’re working on it and I’m thankful for anybody willing to put forth the effort to work on something.
ROGER JOHNSON’S TASTE
Roger Johnson is a friend of mine whom I met in New York who lives in Jersey City, New Jersey and is originally from Alabama. Roger is my music and entertainment guru. He has introduced me to so many great artists, magazines and websites. You name it, Roger has probably already heard it, scene it and reviewed it. There have been many times I will email Roger something and within an hour he has found my request and more. Most of the great concerts I’ve attended, you know the ones you walk out of and say, “I want to be a rock star!” were because of Roger. Recently Roger sent me DVD’s of this season of Friday Night Lights. The show used to be on NBC, but now it’s on Direct TV. I love this show. It makes me want to move to a small town, marry the high school football coach and make a ritual every Friday night of a football game, rowdy cheering, pizza afterwards with the team and snuggling later on with my husband, the winning coach. Saturday and Sunday are spent either bitching or bragging about the game and come Monday morning, we’re gearing up for Friday night.
To be truthful, I don’t know Roger that well, but if I had to list my top 10 favorite artists, Roger has probably introduced me to half of them. What I really love about Roger’s taste is that you can’t predict it. So, in a nutshell, I’m thankful Direct TV picked up Friday Night Lights and for people like Roger who keep my eyes, ears, mind, heart and soul movin’ and groovin’.
THE FRESH MARKET, BRENTWOOD, TENNESSEE
“Is this really made by Celestial Seasonings?” I said to myself the first time I had Bengal Spice tea. When I was living in New York I bought this tea on a whim. From the moment this tea touched my lips I knew things would never be the same. I’m not trying to be funny. I’m serious. I can drink a box of this stuff in a week easily. The mix of cinnamon, vanilla, ginger, cloves, nutmeg and a lot of other things made for a perfect cocktail to help me wind up or wind down my day. It doesn’t need milk, sugar, nothing. Just hot water and a few minutes to steep. I even wrote a song about Bengal Spice tea and I don’t write music.
When I moved to Nashville, I couldn’t find the stuff anywhere. Every grocery store, health food store, hell, anywhere, I would try to find the Bengal. It eluded me. I even asked the manager at the Krazy Kroger down the street if they could start carrying it. The conversation went something like this:
Gina- Do you think you guys could start ordering the Bengal Spice tea by Celestial Seasonings? I might be the only one who buys it, but I will buy a lot of it.
KK employee: (pause of about 20 seconds.) No.
Recently, I was in Brentwood, which is about 20 minutes from my house for a meeting. I had some time to kill so I decided to go on a tiger hunt. In the coffee and tea aisle of the Fresh Market, I scanned the shelves. There was Tension Tamer, Mandarin Orange Spice, India Spice Chai. I could feel my hope starting to die and then my eyes landed on that peaceful tiger staring back at me. I might have even pushed someone out of the way to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. I quickly counted how many boxes they had on the shelf. I started to put all of them in my basket. When I got to box 5 I realized that I needed to be realistic, 2 would be sufficient. The Fresh Market in Brentwood isn’t as convenient to my house as the Krazy Kroger but you better believe every time I find myself out that way; I will Bengal Spice it up.
MY BOYFRIEND BREAKING UP WITH ME
Well…no. Back up. I’m not so thankful for the actual event or the words that were said or not said. I don't remember feeling full of thanks or happy or even alive. In fact, it was awful. I can't even be poetic about it. It sucked. But, if it hadn’t happened, I probably would never have sat down at my computer one night while eating sushi, drinking a bottle of wine, crying amid boxes of memories heading south to make new memories and started typing. That random night The Dave Blog was born. I woke up the next day, shook my head and said out loud, "I started a blog last night." It was a feeling that could be compared to the time I woke up at the Sigma Chi house in college, but was fully clothed.
The writing might have happened eventually, but it wouldn’t be TDB. I’m thankful for those of you that bother to take time out of your busy lives to read my words and inspire me to want to do it again and again and again.
SCENE: ANNUAL GATHERING OF THE HOLIDAYS’ HOLIDAY PARTY
Easter- Mother’s Day! You look wonderful. So good to see you!
Mother’s Day- Thanks E! You too. Goodness you wear pastels so well! Doesn’t it seem like this party is getting earlier and earlier every year?
Easter- I know. I know.
Mother’s Day- I heard Christmas started showing up in mid October! Maybe Halloween should worry!
(Easter and Mother’s Day laugh and Thanksgiving joins the conversation.)
Thanksgiving- Hey you guys! I didn’t get a chance to talk to you at the Memorial Day party. How have you been?
Easter- I’m just peachy!
Mother’s Day- I can’t complain except for a few unappreciative children. How are you?
Thanksgiving- I’m wonderful, blessed, full of joy and soon to be turkey!
(The Holidays laugh an uncomfortable laugh)
Mother’s Day- Oh Thanksgiving, bless your heart. I can’t imagine what it’s like.
Thanksgiving- What are you talking about?
Easter- You don’t have to do this with us. We know what is happening. We know Christmas makes you feel like the forgotten middle child.
Thanksgiving- I’m sorry?
Easter- Oh come on T-Gives! It’s us girl!
Thanksgiving- Honestly, I’m just happy to be the day people enjoy for many reasons. It might be just because they get the day off work, they don’t worry about what they’re eating, they can watch football, be with family and friends and think about, even if just for a minute, what makes them thankful. My purpose is simple. I feel like I’m getting my job done. I hate to run off on the two of you, but I have a few pies in the oven. Happy Holidays!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
A LOVE LETTER FOR AN INFANT TO BE READ AT VARIOUS STAGES OF HER LIFE
Breiten Mae Brown, my first niece, was born Sunday, November 9th, 2008.
It would be silly to lead one to believe I’ve thought about much else other than her beautiful face, her tiny fingers, toes and her big future since she came outside of the cozy womb. She finally granted us with a glimpse of someone who has only been recognized as an event, but was bound to happen.
She is now real.
So real.
She is now a responsibility.
Such a responsibility.
Obviously, the responsibility lies mainly with my brother and sister-in-law, but she is also the responsibility of those who want the world for this child. It’s the duty of my family, my sister-in-law's family, and anyone else who chooses to be in Breiten’s life, not to give her the world, but show her the world and the way it works. We're her tour guides of life until she is mature enough, notice I don’t say old enough, to decide which way she will lead her life.
Since the day I found out she would be coming to us, I’ve felt connected to this little girl. I received a card on Easter Sunday that read, “I can’t wait to meet you Aunt Birdy.” I will never be able to explain how coincided I feel to Breiten. I don’t know if it’s because I was also a first child to a young couple? Maybe? I don’t know. All I know is that although she isn’t mine, I want everything for her that I would imagine I would want for my own.
My attachment to this child has made me want to be a better person. Or, maybe I should say, a more together person. It’s important to me that BB (my nickname for her at the moment. I also call her “my little Eskimo”) will be able to come stay with me and all the other things nieces should be allowed to do with their aunts.
I have dreamed of moments in Breiten’s life where she comes to me for advice and I'm able to provide her with the most sound, wise and flat out, should be published immediately, words that seem almost biblical. I can see the title now, “Sound, Wise and Flat Out Brilliant Things an Aunt Says To Her Niece." Penned by Gina and Breiten Brown.
The week leading up to Breiten’s birth might have been the most fruitful, as far as things I would want to say to her goes. It's possible that I was just ultra focused on it, knowing she was knocking on the door to come out, and also knowing she really would be a little lady I could touch, smell and hear.
Dear Breiten,
I remember how excited I was for Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic” album to come out in 2007. I got a hold of a couple of songs before the entire album was released. Were they my favorite Springsteen songs? No. But, it’s Springsteen. I deal. It’s always been more about the fact that it was a Springsteen production. I love Bruce almost as much as I love your father and mother. You were their production and I was ready to hear the music you will play for all of us. PS- You will learn the word according to Bruce when we have slumber parties.
I realize a lot of the following will make sense to you at different times in your life. I hope to read this to you soon. It will make completely zero sense. In fact, you may cry. I won’t know if you’re crying because you’re hungry, or because the sound of my voice is bothering you, but I will keep reading. I want to read it to you when your 5, 10, 15, 20, 30 and then I will probably have more to add.
I hope you will find a way to take in what I’m saying especially during your high school years. Baby B, I’m going to tell you now, high school is rough stuff. You will, at times, feel like you're on top of the world and have your life mapped out. Other times, you will feel like you’re in diapers again. I will say this, you're closer to diapers than being an adult during most days of high school. The key to getting through high school is an open mind and being kind to everyone. Don’t rule anything out. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with your life when you're 16. You can dream. Oh, please baby girl, dream like it's all you know to do, but don’t limit yourself in any one direction. It’s a big world out there and I can only imagine it will be so much bigger when you’re reading these words.
In regards to being nice to everyone, just be nice to everyone. The exception is if they aren't being kind to you. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself, but also don’t be afraid to stand up for those that can’t help themselves.
A week before you were born, I took a day trip to North Carolina. The leaves were breathtaking. It was right dab, smack in the middle of the change. When I say "the change," I mean the change of fall colors. You will hear that term many times in your life. We’ll discuss later, but for now, lets talk about leaves.
The colors were so intense I had to pull over to a gas station and buy a pair of sunglasses for $10.99. I have no idea what I did with my expensive pair of sunglasses I had managed to keep for almost six months. Oh yeah, never buy expensive sunglasses. It’s just not worth it. We will take a trip to New York, go to Chinatown, buy you a knock off pair of Prada’s and the entire trip will cost you as much as the “real” pair of shades.
I bought a pair of fake Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses at Kasey's Konvenient Stop. Notice that is not how you spell convenient. I don't really understand deliberate misspelling of words, but....to each their own. I felt like Kelly McGillis in Top Gun when she looks at Maverick the day after she met him in the bar and says, “So you’re the one.”
I’m sorry baby, I’m getting ahead of myself. Top Gun is a movie starring Tom Cruise. It came out 22 years before you were born. I just had to pause and really think about the fact that it’s been 22 years since Top Gun came out. I still listen to the soundtrack. Again, I know you're shaking your head wondering what I’m talking about, but we will watch Top Gun one day. We will also dance to the soundtrack. More on dancing later.
As I drove through the mountains of North Carolina, the beauty in the colors riled me so much that I needed to view them through something that blocks UV rays, my fake Top Gun sunglasses. The glasses bought on a whim, got the job done and secured the scene. I don't know if someone at Sirius Satellite Radio knew I was driving through the mountains or not, but by looking at such beauty, I was completely moved by every sense and sensation I was experiencing from head to toe. Each song on the radio made the view look like a video montage set to music.
All I could do was look up. I know this sounds vague. It will always be vague to me too, but when you feel like the tears will start to roll and you aren’t able to articulate exactly what it is that pains you or gives you sweet joy, look up. It’s harder for your tears to fall and there is usually an answer when you're looking at something higher than you.
When I was driving back to Tennessee, once again, all that was weighing heavy on my heart and my mind came crashing down upon me. It was dark, so I couldn’t see the leaves. But, as the tears started to form, I looked up. Above me was a shining star and slivered moon. I don’t know what it was that gave me peace, but whatever it was, it was definitely higher than me.
One thing I should mention about crying, girl, if you’ve got to cry, CRY. Unfortunately, crying makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Always try looking up first and if that doesn’t work, let the tears flow at whatever speed and size they want to. Just make sure you’ve always got a tissue, a mirror and some concealer. It always happens that the worst cries come right before you see the most people. It's just a fact. But, if you're lucky enough to have them flow in great capacity when you're alone, let the river run. You will feel better getting it all out of you. Again, concealer will be your friend as the new sun rises. And also, in most cases, better days are ahead after a damn good cry.
Just a few days before your birth, our country elected a new president. This was considered a historic election because President Barack Obama was the first African American to be elected to this position. I have this vision of one day helping you with your homework. Maybe I’m babysitting you while your Mommy and Daddy are on a business trip or something. I see us working on some sort of Social Studies assignment. I pray that you don’t really understand what the difference is between black, white, asian and whatever other color that might be different than yours. Baby girl, you were born into this country at a very transformational time.
I used to say that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring children into this world the way that it is. I know now that was an excuse to prepare me for the fact that I might not have children the way I want to have children, the way you were born, my love. All I will say is that you were born in a very exciting time in history. I look forward to the day when you will be able to make choices in regards to political figures. Make sure they are your own. Never let something you cast be something that is the belief of another.
Your Mommy and Daddy will tell you that I’m a democrat, but I will tell you that before I researched what I believed politically, I had dreams, when I was in 2nd grade, of wearing Reagan/Bush shoelaces and ribbons in my hair on election day. This dream was influenced by my parent’s choice in the election. Like religion, neither choice is good or bad. But, it’s a choice. Make all of your choices... Breiten's choices.
Music. Oh sweet music. Let music guide you through all of the good and bad you will encounter in your life. Let it influence you, let it move you and let it force you to think. Your father, Uncle Tim and I were so lucky because Senor Grandpa (that is what he wanted to be called initially. I hope it stuck. It makes me laugh.) exposed us to so many genres of music.
Recently, I discovered the Sinatra channel on Sirius Satellite Radio. By the time you understand this it will be XM/Sirius, Sirius/XM, or something else or nothing at all. Who knows? If I will force you in any direction, I force you in the direction of appreciating music, music of all kinds. It will get you through wins and losses of sporting events, breakups, being in love, deaths, letting go, hard times financially and times of heaven and hell with those you love. Music is the dream of another translated into what you've always wanted to say. In fact, if you want to, no forcing here, learn to play a musical instrument. I think it’s a great creative outlet. And let me just tell you now, if you meet a potential lover that can strum a guitar, they will always be one of your greatest loves and possibly your greatest heartache. I don't know what it is. It has something to do with the way their muscles move when they pick the strings so sweet.
Speaking of heartbreak, that is something I’m well schooled in. I’m also quite gifted in a heart that has loved and been loved. Matters of the heart are the hardest things you will encounter in life. When you break everything down, everything is about what your heart feels, sees, breathes, smells and believes. Did you know it could do all of that? Well, my love, it can. Sometimes it will feel so alive and sometimes it will feel near death.
Breiten, I wish I could shield you from a boy or girl making your heart feel like it doesn’t have a place in this world, but I can’t. In fact, I think everyone needs to experience a broken heart because it is really one of the only ways to show you the yellow brick road towards a complete heart. We will soon watch the Wizard of Oz. The Tin Man, the Lion, the Scarecrow, Dorothy and even Toto figure in to what life is really about. By the time you will understand what's going on, I'm sure I will need a reminder.
One more note on dating and relationships. I believe that in the end, love is all that matters. So if you ever find yourself using the excuse of religion, disease or anything else as to why something doesn't work, know that it's just an excuse. Love finds a way to transcend such barriers. Here is an example. I have been on a few dates with a republican. All the while, he was constantly coming up with situations of why he couldn’t see me on this date or at this time. I summed it up by saying, “He is a republican. I don’t want to be with this guy anyway.” The truth is, it didn’t matter that he was a republican. The real issue is that we didn’t really like each other that much. The moral of this boring story is never date a republican. No, I kid. The real moral is, never let yourself make an excuse as to why a relationship isn’t working. The real excuse is that there just isn’t enough love to get you through. You never want someone that wants to be with another, works so much they can't see you or spends more time with "things" instead of you. You just don’t want that. Period. Love rules. Actually, love rocks.
Speaking of rocking, well, this story is sort of depressing. A couple of days before you were born, a good friend of mind in New York sent me an email. She was telling me that she had been watching a lot of Celebrity Rehab, a reality show on VH1. Don't forget to ask me about reality shows one of these days. I don't know if they will be around when you're able to comprehend this. My friend told me that I reminded her of a woman on the show named Tawny Kitaen. For your information, Tawny Kitaen was a buxom, hot, red head in Whitesnake’s 1987 video “Here I Go Again.” Though I really like that song, I didn’t take this as a compliment. I googled Tawny (goodness.. I don’t know if googling will still be around when you understand this) and she was on that show because her life had gone like your poo poo, down the toilet. She didn’t look good. At all. I got the feeling I used to get when people would tell me I look like Minnie Driver……..in Circle of Friends. (Minnie gained a lot of weight for that part. I do want you to see the movie. Good movie.)
The next day I had to take Bette Davis to the vet. Yes, you know Bette Davis. While I was waiting to be called back to the examination room to find out what was wrong with BD’s tummy, a man approached me. He was by all accounts normal, possibly even cute, until he opened his mouth. “Hey, I hope you take this as a compliment, but you look like Tawny Kitaen from the Whitesnake video.” He said sheepishly. Like a lion I fired back, “Do I look like Tawny Kitaen in the Whitesnake video or like Tawny Kitaen on Celebrity Rehab?" He paused, then said, “I mean I’ve watched a couple of episodes of Celebrity Rehab, but they show clips of the Whitesnake video when she is crawling on the car.” I looked at him and said thanks. Luckily they had requested BD’s presence in room 3 while he was talking.
Breiten, I don’t want you to You Tube or whatever you will be doing when you try to understand what I'm talking about with this Whitesnake video. I just don’t. Tawny Kitaen was a sex kitten gone wrong again and again and again.
The point of this point I’m trying to make to you is that you should never listen to people when they say you remind them of someone else, even if it’s a compliment. You are you. And you my love, you are enough. I allowed myself to get caught up in people telling me I look like a plus size Minnie Driver or a stringed out Tawny Kitaen. I’m neither. I’m me and I’m enough.
Say it again with me baby, I’m me and I’m enough.
So I have mentioned music. Maybe you will find that I hold it in higher regards than others. Music makes my mind churn, my heart think and my hips sway. Much to your father’s dismay, I have a beautiful purple bikini I’m saving just for you. It has a skirt that is great for dancing at the lake, on the dock, high above Senor Grandpa’s boat, or Captain Dan, as he is known on the water. I danced for hours one night. Maybe two glasses of wine had touched my lips. Maybe? I moved to the songs of my childhood. The ones that cause a knee jerk reaction to shift my feet and snap my fingers to the right and to the left.
Breiten, we will dance. We will dance more than you probably want to. I, we, will throw our influences upon you like Kerry Collins throws into the arms of one of those Tennessee Titans that scores touchdowns. I don't know their names, all I know is that they were 9-0 at the time of your birth.
In the end, this life is yours to decide. All I can say is dance, be you, love only to love, explore beats, learn about history, cry and look above.
I love you as if you were my own and I look forward to the day when you help me teach these lessons to my own.
With more love than you could possibly tolerate,
Aunt Birdy
"Love is not a big enough word."
John Candy
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
It would be silly to lead one to believe I’ve thought about much else other than her beautiful face, her tiny fingers, toes and her big future since she came outside of the cozy womb. She finally granted us with a glimpse of someone who has only been recognized as an event, but was bound to happen.
She is now real.
So real.
She is now a responsibility.
Such a responsibility.
Obviously, the responsibility lies mainly with my brother and sister-in-law, but she is also the responsibility of those who want the world for this child. It’s the duty of my family, my sister-in-law's family, and anyone else who chooses to be in Breiten’s life, not to give her the world, but show her the world and the way it works. We're her tour guides of life until she is mature enough, notice I don’t say old enough, to decide which way she will lead her life.
Since the day I found out she would be coming to us, I’ve felt connected to this little girl. I received a card on Easter Sunday that read, “I can’t wait to meet you Aunt Birdy.” I will never be able to explain how coincided I feel to Breiten. I don’t know if it’s because I was also a first child to a young couple? Maybe? I don’t know. All I know is that although she isn’t mine, I want everything for her that I would imagine I would want for my own.
My attachment to this child has made me want to be a better person. Or, maybe I should say, a more together person. It’s important to me that BB (my nickname for her at the moment. I also call her “my little Eskimo”) will be able to come stay with me and all the other things nieces should be allowed to do with their aunts.
I have dreamed of moments in Breiten’s life where she comes to me for advice and I'm able to provide her with the most sound, wise and flat out, should be published immediately, words that seem almost biblical. I can see the title now, “Sound, Wise and Flat Out Brilliant Things an Aunt Says To Her Niece." Penned by Gina and Breiten Brown.
The week leading up to Breiten’s birth might have been the most fruitful, as far as things I would want to say to her goes. It's possible that I was just ultra focused on it, knowing she was knocking on the door to come out, and also knowing she really would be a little lady I could touch, smell and hear.
Dear Breiten,
I remember how excited I was for Bruce Springsteen’s “Magic” album to come out in 2007. I got a hold of a couple of songs before the entire album was released. Were they my favorite Springsteen songs? No. But, it’s Springsteen. I deal. It’s always been more about the fact that it was a Springsteen production. I love Bruce almost as much as I love your father and mother. You were their production and I was ready to hear the music you will play for all of us. PS- You will learn the word according to Bruce when we have slumber parties.
I realize a lot of the following will make sense to you at different times in your life. I hope to read this to you soon. It will make completely zero sense. In fact, you may cry. I won’t know if you’re crying because you’re hungry, or because the sound of my voice is bothering you, but I will keep reading. I want to read it to you when your 5, 10, 15, 20, 30 and then I will probably have more to add.
I hope you will find a way to take in what I’m saying especially during your high school years. Baby B, I’m going to tell you now, high school is rough stuff. You will, at times, feel like you're on top of the world and have your life mapped out. Other times, you will feel like you’re in diapers again. I will say this, you're closer to diapers than being an adult during most days of high school. The key to getting through high school is an open mind and being kind to everyone. Don’t rule anything out. You don’t know what you’re supposed to do with your life when you're 16. You can dream. Oh, please baby girl, dream like it's all you know to do, but don’t limit yourself in any one direction. It’s a big world out there and I can only imagine it will be so much bigger when you’re reading these words.
In regards to being nice to everyone, just be nice to everyone. The exception is if they aren't being kind to you. Don’t be afraid to stand up for yourself, but also don’t be afraid to stand up for those that can’t help themselves.
A week before you were born, I took a day trip to North Carolina. The leaves were breathtaking. It was right dab, smack in the middle of the change. When I say "the change," I mean the change of fall colors. You will hear that term many times in your life. We’ll discuss later, but for now, lets talk about leaves.
The colors were so intense I had to pull over to a gas station and buy a pair of sunglasses for $10.99. I have no idea what I did with my expensive pair of sunglasses I had managed to keep for almost six months. Oh yeah, never buy expensive sunglasses. It’s just not worth it. We will take a trip to New York, go to Chinatown, buy you a knock off pair of Prada’s and the entire trip will cost you as much as the “real” pair of shades.
I bought a pair of fake Ray Ban Aviator sunglasses at Kasey's Konvenient Stop. Notice that is not how you spell convenient. I don't really understand deliberate misspelling of words, but....to each their own. I felt like Kelly McGillis in Top Gun when she looks at Maverick the day after she met him in the bar and says, “So you’re the one.”
I’m sorry baby, I’m getting ahead of myself. Top Gun is a movie starring Tom Cruise. It came out 22 years before you were born. I just had to pause and really think about the fact that it’s been 22 years since Top Gun came out. I still listen to the soundtrack. Again, I know you're shaking your head wondering what I’m talking about, but we will watch Top Gun one day. We will also dance to the soundtrack. More on dancing later.
As I drove through the mountains of North Carolina, the beauty in the colors riled me so much that I needed to view them through something that blocks UV rays, my fake Top Gun sunglasses. The glasses bought on a whim, got the job done and secured the scene. I don't know if someone at Sirius Satellite Radio knew I was driving through the mountains or not, but by looking at such beauty, I was completely moved by every sense and sensation I was experiencing from head to toe. Each song on the radio made the view look like a video montage set to music.
All I could do was look up. I know this sounds vague. It will always be vague to me too, but when you feel like the tears will start to roll and you aren’t able to articulate exactly what it is that pains you or gives you sweet joy, look up. It’s harder for your tears to fall and there is usually an answer when you're looking at something higher than you.
When I was driving back to Tennessee, once again, all that was weighing heavy on my heart and my mind came crashing down upon me. It was dark, so I couldn’t see the leaves. But, as the tears started to form, I looked up. Above me was a shining star and slivered moon. I don’t know what it was that gave me peace, but whatever it was, it was definitely higher than me.
One thing I should mention about crying, girl, if you’ve got to cry, CRY. Unfortunately, crying makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Always try looking up first and if that doesn’t work, let the tears flow at whatever speed and size they want to. Just make sure you’ve always got a tissue, a mirror and some concealer. It always happens that the worst cries come right before you see the most people. It's just a fact. But, if you're lucky enough to have them flow in great capacity when you're alone, let the river run. You will feel better getting it all out of you. Again, concealer will be your friend as the new sun rises. And also, in most cases, better days are ahead after a damn good cry.
Just a few days before your birth, our country elected a new president. This was considered a historic election because President Barack Obama was the first African American to be elected to this position. I have this vision of one day helping you with your homework. Maybe I’m babysitting you while your Mommy and Daddy are on a business trip or something. I see us working on some sort of Social Studies assignment. I pray that you don’t really understand what the difference is between black, white, asian and whatever other color that might be different than yours. Baby girl, you were born into this country at a very transformational time.
I used to say that I wasn’t sure if I wanted to bring children into this world the way that it is. I know now that was an excuse to prepare me for the fact that I might not have children the way I want to have children, the way you were born, my love. All I will say is that you were born in a very exciting time in history. I look forward to the day when you will be able to make choices in regards to political figures. Make sure they are your own. Never let something you cast be something that is the belief of another.
Your Mommy and Daddy will tell you that I’m a democrat, but I will tell you that before I researched what I believed politically, I had dreams, when I was in 2nd grade, of wearing Reagan/Bush shoelaces and ribbons in my hair on election day. This dream was influenced by my parent’s choice in the election. Like religion, neither choice is good or bad. But, it’s a choice. Make all of your choices... Breiten's choices.
Music. Oh sweet music. Let music guide you through all of the good and bad you will encounter in your life. Let it influence you, let it move you and let it force you to think. Your father, Uncle Tim and I were so lucky because Senor Grandpa (that is what he wanted to be called initially. I hope it stuck. It makes me laugh.) exposed us to so many genres of music.
Recently, I discovered the Sinatra channel on Sirius Satellite Radio. By the time you understand this it will be XM/Sirius, Sirius/XM, or something else or nothing at all. Who knows? If I will force you in any direction, I force you in the direction of appreciating music, music of all kinds. It will get you through wins and losses of sporting events, breakups, being in love, deaths, letting go, hard times financially and times of heaven and hell with those you love. Music is the dream of another translated into what you've always wanted to say. In fact, if you want to, no forcing here, learn to play a musical instrument. I think it’s a great creative outlet. And let me just tell you now, if you meet a potential lover that can strum a guitar, they will always be one of your greatest loves and possibly your greatest heartache. I don't know what it is. It has something to do with the way their muscles move when they pick the strings so sweet.
Speaking of heartbreak, that is something I’m well schooled in. I’m also quite gifted in a heart that has loved and been loved. Matters of the heart are the hardest things you will encounter in life. When you break everything down, everything is about what your heart feels, sees, breathes, smells and believes. Did you know it could do all of that? Well, my love, it can. Sometimes it will feel so alive and sometimes it will feel near death.
Breiten, I wish I could shield you from a boy or girl making your heart feel like it doesn’t have a place in this world, but I can’t. In fact, I think everyone needs to experience a broken heart because it is really one of the only ways to show you the yellow brick road towards a complete heart. We will soon watch the Wizard of Oz. The Tin Man, the Lion, the Scarecrow, Dorothy and even Toto figure in to what life is really about. By the time you will understand what's going on, I'm sure I will need a reminder.
One more note on dating and relationships. I believe that in the end, love is all that matters. So if you ever find yourself using the excuse of religion, disease or anything else as to why something doesn't work, know that it's just an excuse. Love finds a way to transcend such barriers. Here is an example. I have been on a few dates with a republican. All the while, he was constantly coming up with situations of why he couldn’t see me on this date or at this time. I summed it up by saying, “He is a republican. I don’t want to be with this guy anyway.” The truth is, it didn’t matter that he was a republican. The real issue is that we didn’t really like each other that much. The moral of this boring story is never date a republican. No, I kid. The real moral is, never let yourself make an excuse as to why a relationship isn’t working. The real excuse is that there just isn’t enough love to get you through. You never want someone that wants to be with another, works so much they can't see you or spends more time with "things" instead of you. You just don’t want that. Period. Love rules. Actually, love rocks.
Speaking of rocking, well, this story is sort of depressing. A couple of days before you were born, a good friend of mind in New York sent me an email. She was telling me that she had been watching a lot of Celebrity Rehab, a reality show on VH1. Don't forget to ask me about reality shows one of these days. I don't know if they will be around when you're able to comprehend this. My friend told me that I reminded her of a woman on the show named Tawny Kitaen. For your information, Tawny Kitaen was a buxom, hot, red head in Whitesnake’s 1987 video “Here I Go Again.” Though I really like that song, I didn’t take this as a compliment. I googled Tawny (goodness.. I don’t know if googling will still be around when you understand this) and she was on that show because her life had gone like your poo poo, down the toilet. She didn’t look good. At all. I got the feeling I used to get when people would tell me I look like Minnie Driver……..in Circle of Friends. (Minnie gained a lot of weight for that part. I do want you to see the movie. Good movie.)
The next day I had to take Bette Davis to the vet. Yes, you know Bette Davis. While I was waiting to be called back to the examination room to find out what was wrong with BD’s tummy, a man approached me. He was by all accounts normal, possibly even cute, until he opened his mouth. “Hey, I hope you take this as a compliment, but you look like Tawny Kitaen from the Whitesnake video.” He said sheepishly. Like a lion I fired back, “Do I look like Tawny Kitaen in the Whitesnake video or like Tawny Kitaen on Celebrity Rehab?" He paused, then said, “I mean I’ve watched a couple of episodes of Celebrity Rehab, but they show clips of the Whitesnake video when she is crawling on the car.” I looked at him and said thanks. Luckily they had requested BD’s presence in room 3 while he was talking.
Breiten, I don’t want you to You Tube or whatever you will be doing when you try to understand what I'm talking about with this Whitesnake video. I just don’t. Tawny Kitaen was a sex kitten gone wrong again and again and again.
The point of this point I’m trying to make to you is that you should never listen to people when they say you remind them of someone else, even if it’s a compliment. You are you. And you my love, you are enough. I allowed myself to get caught up in people telling me I look like a plus size Minnie Driver or a stringed out Tawny Kitaen. I’m neither. I’m me and I’m enough.
Say it again with me baby, I’m me and I’m enough.
So I have mentioned music. Maybe you will find that I hold it in higher regards than others. Music makes my mind churn, my heart think and my hips sway. Much to your father’s dismay, I have a beautiful purple bikini I’m saving just for you. It has a skirt that is great for dancing at the lake, on the dock, high above Senor Grandpa’s boat, or Captain Dan, as he is known on the water. I danced for hours one night. Maybe two glasses of wine had touched my lips. Maybe? I moved to the songs of my childhood. The ones that cause a knee jerk reaction to shift my feet and snap my fingers to the right and to the left.
Breiten, we will dance. We will dance more than you probably want to. I, we, will throw our influences upon you like Kerry Collins throws into the arms of one of those Tennessee Titans that scores touchdowns. I don't know their names, all I know is that they were 9-0 at the time of your birth.
In the end, this life is yours to decide. All I can say is dance, be you, love only to love, explore beats, learn about history, cry and look above.
I love you as if you were my own and I look forward to the day when you help me teach these lessons to my own.
With more love than you could possibly tolerate,
Aunt Birdy
"Love is not a big enough word."
John Candy
Planes, Trains and Automobiles
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