Archive | May, 2012

Crying On The Returns

28 May

Staring at the blank screen when my head is so filled with a tangle of thoughts and my gut is churning with so much emotion and my physical exhaustion is nearing its tipping point is a special kind of torture.  Normally, I’d bust out the Moleskine and blast out a diatribe or so, but I forced myself to open the blog machine to impose some structure on the internal rough drafts.  I have no idea how that’s going to go.

I have just returned from a quick weekend trip home both with and to see family, and mostly, it was a fine trip.  Family is complex and mine looks like a Manhattan Project equation.   What I can always count on, and especially when returning from home, are some intense emotions that usually well up right after I get out of the car at curbside.  I keep my sunglasses on and my head down as I make my way through security, then pit stop at the bathroom for a muffled stall cry in an attempt to get it together before getting on the plane.  It’s not without precedent that I cry once settled and the plane is suddenly speeding me off the ground and back to reality.  I have always done this; my expectation is that I will always do this, and I am fine with it, but today’s episode reminded me how sensitive I am.

A wise person once told me, “Sensitivity is a superpower.”  I know she is right and it is time for me harness it once and for all.

However, I am terrified.  Not of Success – I am ready for some more of that to get here – but of  rejection and humiliation and abandonment and all the painful things that I  have already experienced showing up for a repeat performance.  I am not looking for pep talks by sharing this, because my previous rejections and humiliations and abandonments were mostly the result of abuse, the extent of which I have only just recently begun to understand.  At least now I feel confident I know how to spot that well ahead of time.  (With the exception of some recent fumbles of my own making and then endless fixation on them.)  What I don’t know how to do is actually open up enough to let the light in.

My most effective defense strategy and stalwart enabler is procrastination.  I am the Four Star Generalissimo of Procrastination, a lot of it now achieved by too much “screen time” and while I do have an iPhone, I have a cumbersome, work-brick laptop and a TV that was state-of-the-art… in 1997.  I dilly-dally and dawdle and putter and preen and run late and feel harried and then, like dysfunctional magic, I am failing just like Procrastination promised.  (Yes, I am aware of the Mean Voice in my head that is telling me I am doing it wrong.)

Here is where the Return Travel comes in to play: I am in a vulnerable state, not here nor there, yet totally present in the limbo of airports and time zone jumps.  And that’s when I realize I want so much more…

I want that light.  And that love.  And that success.  And that serenity.  And that fun.  And that magic.  And that energy.  And that security.  And that passion.  And that confidence.  And that warmth.  I want that light to get in.  To nurture me.  I want that.

This was a start.

For The Dudes: How To Not Get Laid

23 May

Chelsea wins, we gotta eat now.

This past Saturday was the UEFA Champions League Final, which for all the uninitiated is the Super Bowl of European club soccer.  The game was between an English Premiere League team, the Chelsea Football Club of London and the German Bundesliga team, Bayern Munich. Friends and regular readers know about my soccer love, so it should come as no surprise that I found myself in a packed sports bar at 10:45AM, Guinness in hand, making friends with an imposing gentleman named Matt who was wearing a Mastodon* tee shirt.

Matt and I did some bonding over the brilliant drama of soccer,  and within 10 minutes I found out he was 39 years old;  married (wife not a soccer fan, was out doing beauty treatments, which I endorsed having just done the same the week before); he played in college, somewhere in Ohio (?);  and he knew the entire staff at the bar. I’m very good at making friends. We claimed a respectable standing-room-only spot while I waited for my real-life friend to txt his arrival, putting Matt on notice he’d likely have to go out and retrieve him from the blight of the line. Matt was gracious and said not to worry, and yes, went out and got my friend when the txt came. We love Matt.

The three of us watched the game to much delight, reveled in the good natured and multi-culti crowd, drank several pints and Matt even quaffed a few shots of Cazadores all the while. We were also being well taken care of by a very hard working and patient waitress. She and I, being some of the few gals among the sausage fest, exchanged knowing glances every time she walked past us. We got each other.

After half time the crowd rejiggered and we ended up with two fellows in front of us that, while not totally invading our spot, were filling that luxurious extra 14 inches of breathing room we had before. They were not tall, so we could see right over them without issue. However, they could not get into the rhythm with our waitress and kept backing into me whenever she needed to pass, instead of letting her go behind them as was the more natural flow of the space. At some point, she was passing and looked at me as he backed into me with that knowing eye, and I gently put my hand on his mid back to stop him from stepping on me and to let her pass. The next time she came through she looked at me before her stride arrived, then at him, then back at me so I put my hand gently onto his mid back and said to him, “Head’s up, waitress coming through.” She nodded a thank you to me and passed on by with a giant tray of drinks.

The next thing I hear is the height challenged chap (wearing those foreshortening, baggy, saggy knicker-pants) say to me very tersely, “Don’t touch me!” punctuated with a shoulder jerk forward away from me and a bonus sneer.

Um, okay.

My real-life friend looks at me and my perplexed face and says, “Did he just say for you not to touch him? Wow. He’s got it all wrong.”

Right?!  (And then we giggled at his expense.)

I am just glad New Friend Matt did not witness that, because I am quite certain the cranky young man would have been dealing with a 6’2″ hella-buzzed menace instead of an attractive brunette having a great hair day with above average sports knowledge gently placing her hand on his back a few times.  I guess he just never experienced that before.

And probably never will again.

*Hat tip to brother for keeping me up on my metal.

Not A Mom

13 May

Today was Mother’s Day, that famous second Sunday in May when wee kids and their dads (or partners!) present adorable attempts at breakfast in bed to slightly anxious moms, one part enamored and grateful, the other, possibly fidgety to just get out of bed and have a cup of coffee in the kitchen with everyone else.  There are handmade cards and crafty jewelry boxes and personalized birdhouses; usually there are flowers, maybe balloons and even a brunch.  Mothers get showered with attention and affection, perhaps a spa day, as well they should: most moms I know including my own work their asses off (with or without jobs outside the home) just to keep the family trains running on time.  I mostly watch this holiday from afar, since my mom lives two states away, but I am mindful that she loves to receive the attention in the form of cards and flowers and a phone call.  This year she even got a handmade present from me, a photo I took of my brother and nephew, blown-up to impressive proportions.

Motherhood was on my mind a lot more this year.  Not only is my job centered on raising awareness about the plight kids and families face in our country, but I am no longer a spring chicken with lots of time for courtship and pregnancy and baby-having.  For the past year, I have really tried to let it sink in that I will probably not be a mom.  Part of the problem is that for the whole other 40 years of my life, I had just assumed I would be, so reconciling this in the last 12 months all of the sudden got real tender this weekend.

My life is full and beautiful and blessed.  I am grateful every day for my good health and family and friends and colleagues and dogs and hummingbirds and the beach and ice cream and electricity and sunsets and laughter and Ugg boots and clean sheets and glitter and soccer and bacon and airplanes and maps and step-kids and wine and music and bikinis and mountains and tissues which I need right now…

Happy Mother’s Day to all a y’all and please, please be kind to each other, ladies. It really does take a village.

My mom and me, at three months.

Mail Call

6 May

It turned May this past Tuesday.  I happen to be a huge fan of May, what with it’s elongating days and perfect weather and general good cheer.  I have been wanting to embark on another 30-Day Project and one that did not specifically involve any type of cleanse, because I know that in May, I like to have cocktails. Of which I had far too many last night, and am now already behind on my intended 30-Day Project for May 2012: Write A Letter A Day.

I am only behind for Saturday and Sunday and I will catch my self right back up, because as we know, it only takes 21 days to form a new habit and I have 25 left in marvelous May.  And see?  I have some proof that I started.  When brain cells perk back up, I will actually explain this project.  Must now sleep.  Make that, sleep now.


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