On friends, wine, careers, and blessings

Friday night I met 2 old coworkers for chips, salsa, beer and pool at Baja Bean, and, later, dinner and wine at Avalon. Vivian charmingly gauked at the fru-fru entrees, chilled watermelon soup, duck confit with pesto, cuban corn with ancho aioli...not sure what that is...and I nearly licked the tomato base off a plate of roasted risotto. Karen, full of gracious energy that she portrays as tough and honest, but is more accurately described as beautiful and radiant, turns and says to me "I am happy now, because I am with you." And I am happy too, as we gush over a bottle of merlot/shiraz blend poured in white wine glasses, clanking against platters of fru-fru tapas. There are so many things to catch up on, a status update of an old workplace that hasn't changed, a campaign of tricks and celebrities, men who arn't man enough, and men we can not resist.

I drove home giddy, full of nostalgia of friends forgotten and then found. I have become an entirely different person in the 4 months since starting a new career. I am more thoughtful, careful, slower, happier. I am a professional, I have hope. Everything is sweeter, these last days of summer when the leaves on the tree are ripened green with maximum degree of verdigris before exploding into the red and oranges of fall; the soft humming of Chloe as she colors a Tinkerbell book laying on the carpet in the living room, her feet kicking up in the air; I am happy, extraordinarily happy. And the more satisfied I am with this house, this job, this family, the more satisfied I am, the more I am given...so that I don't understand it anymore. Why am I so blessed? What have I done to deserve such a wonderful life?

And the only way I know to give thanks is to give what I have to others. To smile at the clerk who sends me through the car wash, to add an extra $10 to the church where my daughter goes to daycare, to make mini lemon tarts for the guys at work (even if the tarts go untouched).

Sunday night creeps up quickly. I am drinking whats left in the bottle of Smoking Loon. I am closer to finishing one of the few websites I still have in my queue, and thinking about what assignment to accept next. I have become selective about what I will create, and while this seems arrogant, it provides me with a sense of control and artistic specificity that can only come from a job that is not a necessity.

Now the children are snuggled up, Payton with her American Doll named Josephina, and Chloe with her blanket tied in a knot under her arm as she sleeps in my bed on my pillow. I can still hear crickets chirp. I think I will miss the sound of crickets when winter comes.

Greetings From Point Pleasant

I'm siiting in Jersey Mikes, the lunch establishment choice of the day. They are playing "Tequila Love Me" as I stare into a faded postcard sign of 1950s bikini model "Greetings from Point Pleasant New Jersey!" Diet Coke bubbles up my throat, the radio begins playing James Taylor and a pretty black girl drops her entire sandwich on the floor at my feet. I bend down to help her, as the deli guy starts preparing her a new meal.

There are too few tables here, a line of students and suits creates a U on the wooden floor. It's chilly in here and my nose threatens to start dripping. Philly Steak hisses on the grill. Two men debate the negative aspects of owning a Prius. One says its worse that you have to wait 8 years to recoup the savings on gas versus the extra expense of owning a hybrid. "No no whats worse is what happens to all the hybrid batteries, when they are no longer useable." They conclude that biodeisel in heavens solution. I'd like to get more foot power technology in my life.

My mind wonders into future seas: What will become of me when I am too old to be a hip young designer? how do I become Betsy Johnson, Anne Lebowitz, or Barbara Berry?

Can my waistline afford that cookie I want so badly? I suppose I better get up and share this table for four.

The speakers are playing Jimmy Buffett's "Last Mango in Paris", one of my top 10 songs of all time: "I ate the last mango in Paris, took the last plane out of Saigon, i took a first class boat to china and jimmy there's still so much to be done."

I'm packing up and staring intentionally at a blond across the restaurant because she looks like my cousing Katie, and I think she might be, so if I stare at her maybe it is Katie and she will recognize me and wave....or maybe she'll think I have no manners.

"Greeting from Point Pleasant"

Tuesday Lunch Time Rambling-Ons

Im sitting in Harrison Street café, I love this place, so inspirational so motivational hmm not sure motivational is the proper word here….I am thinking, first, about Stephanie Meyer and her Twilight series, thinking, hey that could be me, I can write, I could come up with a sappy plot about teenage Romeo vampire meets normal Juliet human girl. But I didn’t come up with this. Stephanie did. I read she is 34 and suddenly I have a clock ticking in my head as though all good ideas, inspirations and will-to-finish will evaporate at a certain point. As though my time and ability in that time to create is limited. I am rushed and panicked. Or am I procrastinating, wandering until I stumble on the perfect conditions for writing. Perfect conditions such as the Harrison Street Café? Vegan menu, delicious ice tea, mild conversation from 20 somethings, and a dark booth staring out the enormous row house front. This place is marvelous. And how great would it be for Harrison Street Café to say “Tiffany wrote that big novel here in booth 24”. I could make this place world famous. Or perhaps their delicious tofu barbeque will do that for them before my fame.

Secondly I am thinking Sarah Palin. She has pulled a lot of thoughts into my head lately. Thoughts that I like McCain, I like his integrity and his war heroism. I like less taxes and smaller government. I like that Palin is a working mom, just like me. But I also feel tremendous pressure to cast my vote carefully for the good of all women. And her pro-life agenda does not support women. It shames them and puts them in situations of desperation. Because the facts are, whether abortion is legal or not, women will be seeking to terminate unwanted pregnancies as they have since the beginning of time. We women have such a burden in motherhood, one that society judges us constantly. I don’t know Sarah, I just can’t take the future from women across our country. I just can’t deny them the right to succeed in life. As if our population wasn’t robust enough without unwanted children raised by unwilling, or poor, or young mothers. I just can’t condone any belief that would limit women’s ability to have choices.

This place is dark, dimly lit, and I just heard the word “creativity” and “your making choices when your creating even if your imitating it will always have a different voice”, the top parts of the wall are painted terra cota, low hanging lights, dark wood paneling up to a chair rail, and the blissful light shining in the warehouse tall windows from Harrison Street. Magazines and books for review. Hooks for bags. Low harmonic music. My fullness overcomes me. And it is officially time to return to work.

These violent delights have violent ends

Yesterday I had to say goodbye to a huge part of my life. Something that brought me immeasurable joy has come to an end by my own doing. It was, in fact, a violent delight, but as is often coupled with such intense emotions, it frequently found me sobbing in private moments, circling parking lots in my car.

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden.
Romeo and Juliet, 2. 2

The love which I loved with was not matched by my object of affection. It felt for me, the minimalist love to bring me hope that someday the bud would bloom. But such buds that lie dormant 3 years later wither in their bud state, and eventually turn towards a brighter sun.

And I couldn't bear to see that happen.

Tempt not a desperate man.
Romeo and Juliet, 5. 3

It seemed if I loved well enough, if I fed with the deepest waters of my soul, perhaps the object of my affection would agree that a garden could, no, should grow in a love-luster world. But mine was desperation of the heart, and his was pragmatism of the mind. And of course, his heart never got to the place mine was.

Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Romeo and Juliet. ACT II Scene 6.

And the light went out when I realized I was boxed in with a shelf life. I could not convince myself that portioning the heart was ever a good idea. Because I was taught when you love something, you love it all the way.

For stony limits cannot hold love out.
Romeo and Juliet. ACT II Scene 2.

Therefore I killed it on a hot August evening, when I would have preferred drinking lemonade and watching the children ride bikes in the driveway. In my car, circling parking lots, I killed us, past and future.

And though I protest it, I'm fairly certain tomorrow the sun will rise and another day will begin.

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.
Romeo and Juliet. ACT I Scene 4.

Pondering life...and garbage

I adore working in the city. While walking into work I make a mental note of the trash on the street. It's typical to see beer bottles and pizza boxes. But ever so often I encounter an odd piece of trash which is fascinating enough to record in my Moleskine. So far here is a list of the interesting trash articles I recorded.

broken hot pink flower barrett
DeLux DuRag
icy pop sleeve
plastic shower curtain ring
crushed cigar case
barbie doll head

In June a squirrel died on Gilmer Street. I don't know how it died, the body was pretty well intact. Perhaps it ate bad trash and died of a stomach bug. The squirels in this town are ragged with shredded tails and caved bellies.

The squirrel died right on the side of the street, little paws reaching towards the curb. I saw the squirrel on a Thursday. I was looking for parking but refused to park on top of the dead squirrel. By the Monday the corpse was covered in flies, steaming in the summer heat. Again I would not park here, and it appeared, nobody else would either. By Thursday the squirrel had decomposed, it's canine teeth showing long through the decayed upper lip. Just a few flies circled the squirrel now. It's ribs showed through the translucent dead skin. Only patches of fur remained on it's head and tuft where his tail once was. By the following Wednesday the squirrel was only bits of bones, garbage and street grime burned into the blacktop. Then the sweeper trucks came around on their monthly clean up, and all traces of the squirrel were washed away.

I apologize for the morbidity of that story. It struck me deeply, how science ultimately conquers the art and love we create in life. Perhaps in the end, all this heartache is nothing that can't be cleaned up by a city street sweeper. I realize I know nothing about my great great grandmother. Does anybody?

Because as I am living this life, as I am experiencing miracles and blessings I want it to make a difference in the universe. I fear that the only traces of how we lived our life is the trash blowing down Broad Street on a July morning in 2008.

All this trash. What can we contribute to this macrocosm that will be tangible but not material. How will my great great grandchildren know I was here and that I loved and lived and achieved?

You Appeared in my Car like a Stowaway

You appeared in my car like a stowaway today. Reclining the passenger seat, soiling the leather.

I didn't realize you were there at first, beside me as I drove southbound on I-95. I suddenly felt your sarcasm burn my right cheek. Your abusive exploits pinching my arm.

You sat there, like undigested meat, a 3 foot clump of red clay, Mississippi mud. "This car won't hold both of us," I warned you. But you didn't listen, instead you became denser, substantial, and ponderous.

I rolled down your window, and you whined at me about the wind. I complained about your vulgar stench. "You can not exist without me."

The air in the car turned wicked. My spirits absorbed your sticky goo. I stopped breathing and curled inside myself, toxic, melting, miserable.

I reach out for you, "If I suffer from you, we suffer together." But you laughed and said "I'm only given you the rotten stuff, babe, I sent the good stuff to Switzerland for vacation."

My heart foiled in my chest, my breath constrained. "Ugh, you make me sick sometimes," you spit at me, "pathetic".

"Yes, pathetic," I think.

I reach out again, and feel your wet sloppy clay. I dig my fingers into you, feel your cold useless form. When I pull out my hand it is covered in your muck, lodged deeply under my fingernails. I reach again, into your soil, and grab a clump, holding it firmly in my hand.

"You know what? I want the window down." I say out loud, and before you can protest the window is down. The freezing wind rushes into the car, washing out your heavy stench. With the strength of Nolan Ryan, I squeeze your uselessness in my palm, and give a most impressive overhand delivery, right out of the passenger window, smacking into the back of a pick up truck. I watch your muck form into an image of you, with your face, and your arms, your torso leaning against the back of the cab, you smirk at me, as I drive past you and your new chauffeur who is oblivious to your presence. "There!" I exclaim, "You've always said you wanted to travel!"

And then I lean over and grab more of your gunk, now settled into my leather seat. I form a nice handful and toss it with an impressive curve, landing you on the Phillip Morris tower. You twirl into your man form, skidding to a seated halt, lay back against the tower, admire the stars.

I grab another handful of you, and pitch you out of my window, like a coin skipping across water, you hop, hop, hop, on your tush till you find a green place amongst the pine tree forrest. I see you rise up, taking your familiar shape, turn to smile at me, and then disappear in the woods.

I throw you into the James, where a boat magically forms beneath you on the river.

I hurl globs of you against the bridge and watch you grab on to the cement and climb up to the overpass.

I attach bits of you to an arrow and shoot you off into the distance where you find an outdoor cafe with a starbucks latte and wired laptop computer waiting to amuse you.

I open my door and shove the bulk of you onto a Wal-Mart parking lot, where you assemble into 50 identical men, all rising into form from chunks of clay. All 50 of you walk off in different directions like a starburst. Your mass exodus in all directions centering from my car must resemble an impressive firework display from Heaven's view.

You are gone. But left a fine dust behind. I sweep the dust bits into a zip lock bag, but they are resistant to containment and rise up into the air, disappearing into the sun. I can not take the chance that you will come back here. I am done with your evil intent. I grab a can of hairspray and spray the air. Your dust particles cling together, and fall heavily downward, where I catch them with the plastic bag.

I seal the bag and roll it into a ball. I secure the ball into the hug of a rubber band sling shot, with all my well intent and hopeful wishes, I pull the rubber band back using the strength deep inside my shoulder socket. "May you land where you will find peace and never again hurt another," I whisper curtly, snapping the sling shot into the air. Your bag flies into the sky, fierce, spinning into a fireball, your dust beams over the atlantic, twirls over europe, and slows, half way around the world, dropping as ash from the sky, somewhere over Asia. You appear out of the ground, kneeling in exhaustion, looking up from where you fell, and smile fondly. "What a quirky girl you are, my Tiffylou!"

Yes, fine, thank you very much, now if you would be so kind, please stay where I flung you, do not find your way back into my personal space.

Mi Alegria Muerde tu Boca Ciruela

(I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth)

What treat I enjoyed, sitting on my front porch wrapped in a thinning afghan, I have emptied the universe to focus completely on the children, playing with intense consideration to their imaginary games.

The young one falls, walks to me for comfort, her stunning blue green eyes become liquid, and she stumbles the words "being mean" and "pulling my hair"

Thats not nice. Tell them absolutely not.

She leans, birdlike, gracefully brute, and yells to her mutual companions "ABSOLUTELY NOT"

My job on the porch is complete, I enter my house, the air feels delicious, a left over aroma of sautéed cabbage and portabella mushrooms.

Forrest for the Trees

Today was a whole revolution of mood swings. I started out feeling like the word "linguine" feels to say out loud. Linguine. Liquid. Full of movement outward, searching for that slightly downward sloping direction to roll into. But soon the surface was flat, and I was still. Angrily still. I was in a hole. And then the word became something closer to "stagnant". I adore the word stagnant, because it sounds like the inaction of it's definition. Similar to stop.

Sometimes when typing the word stop I pause for a second afterwards. Stop has a definite end, stop demands to be recognized, stop conveys an attitude of absolute authority.

By 11:30 I was "stagnant". Which frayed into "frazzled" after leaving the parking lot of the gym, without ever going into the gym. My being encompassed "frazzled". My hair frizzed out into the rainy climate, uncooperative to the effort of my hands constantly mashing my bushy mane back down to a respectable shape. Frazzled. Fumbling. I ran a red light because I was reaching down to pick up my phone which I had dropped when putting a cd into the disc player while driving 52 in 45 mph zone.

By the time I made it home, un-exercised (please allow me to make up that word), my "frazzled" mood swooped down to "dull" and curled up in bed at 1:30pm. My husband, bless him or beat him, will not allow me to sleep during the day. And he comes into the bedroom and rips off the covers and says "Get up! Let's go get a snicker's blizzard." Mmmm, snicker's blizzard. My happy food. And totally non-vegan. But let's not think about that right now.

So I'm in the car with the kids, the neighbor's kid and we are munching on snickers blizzards and I'm feeling unsure, but reluctant to let go of the power that "dull" held over me for the last hour. Because "dull" was intense, with it's brute hands pushing my shoulders down, squeezing my face, telling me not to breathe. But then we head to Barnes and Nobel and before long I have abandoned "dull" though his residue is still on my hands and my cheeks.

And for a bit I am in the rare moment of "me". An hour roaming the shelves of Barnes and Nobles, reading Vegan cookbooks, counting the classic literature novels I own and those I hope to own, learning new positions from the cosmo sex books, and gasping over breathless poetry. But "me" is gone as soon as Chris announces he is tired of following the kids and it is now my turn. And then I become "no we arn't buying that", "don't whine", "be nice to your sister", "come back here", "no I said we arn't buying that", "because i said so".

By 5:30 I am "drab". Will I fall asleep before 8:30 tonight? What will I make for dinner? Do I have to go back to work next week? Why can't I finish anything I start? Where is so and so and what are they doing right now? Can I bare this baseness tomorrow?

All these words and questions and feelings and obligations.

When I got the chance
I asked them a slew of questions.
They offered to burn me.
It was all they knew.

How can I expect so much from just a word? How can I expect salvation by simply running towards the word "peace"? Surely once I capture that word it will be fleeting, like type on the page, jumping from word to word, barely noticing the paragraph for my obsession with the descender on the letter "g" in the word "unchanging".