Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Forks and F-bombs.

Somewhat related to my last post, I’ve been wondering lately how in the fuck I got to be this old.

Sorry for the F-bomb, it’s the end of football season and for the past several months, the traveling husband has been using enthusiastic and colorful language. And by using, I mean screaming. Usually directed towards the TV, but he’s an equal opportunity screamer in that his laptop and phone see some action, too. I remind him sometimes that the people on the devices can’t actually hear him, but it doesn’t help. Anyway, the F-bombs are contagious. So for the bulk of the year, I talk like I’m watching my team lose in a sports bar. Sexy, huh?

Getting back to my (fucking) age, am I the only one who remembers their life in snapshots and short video sequences? It’s like my memory catalogs itself in my head as a photo album with missing pages.

I remember a lot of things, but it’s not a continuously streaming video. There are several sizeable gaps. Here’s how some of my conversations go:

Friend/Husband: “Hey Am, remember (person/place/thing)?”

Me: “Hmm. Nope.”

Friend/Husband: “Yeah, you remember…the guy with that thing and that other funny girl that we met at the place…?!”

Me: “Yeah, no. Not even a little bit.”

If I subtract the missing pieces in time from what I actually do remember, I should probably be like 15 years younger than I am on paper. That might feel right. I mean, no self-respecting 46-year-old stirs their coffee with a fork, because they forgot to turn the dishwasher on the night before. Right? At some point along the line shouldn’t I have honed the necessary skills that would lead to always having clean spoons in the drawer? My parents never had to stir their coffee with a fork. They were grown ups. My hope is that this inability to age gracefully skips a generation so my kids will never be spoonless.

My Dad said to me not long ago, “I’m 82 and I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.” This from a man who is practiced and patient, wise and thoughtful. He was a nuclear engineer – basically a rocket scientist – for, um…EVER. But he is also a talented illustrator, can imitate Mr. Magoo, and dozes off on the couch with startling consistency. This is a well-rounded cat. In the words of today’s kids (at least the kids mine go to school with): The man is a LEGEND. And you know what else? HE HAS CLEAN SPOONS. He might not know what he wants to be when he grows up, but he’s got his shit together (in more ways than one).

I guess I’m wondering when I’m going to get it together. Maybe never. Maybe I simply don’t want to start the dishwasher before I go to bed. I’m not lazy, I’m a rebel! (I’m not. I don’t even look rebellious.)

Which brings me to another question: Ever think about what you look like?  I’m not talking about checking yourself in the mirror, I’m talking about what other people take in when they see you at school/work/exercise class. I wonder all the time what I look like from the outside. Like what label do people give me after first glance? Do I come across as a Poised Dancer? (Used to be.) Casually Carefree and Moderately Stylish? (Not likely, but a girl can dream.) Frumpy Mom? (Potentially.) Exhausted Middle-Aged (eew) Lady In Yoga Tights, Though Clearly Not On The Way To Yoga? (Nailed it.)

I just don’t think my book cover is a very good representation of the internal story. When I’m not in front of a mirror I feel I’m putting out vibes of gentle mama, patient wife, loyal friend. Then I look at my reflection and I see sagging jawline, tired eyes, frizzing hair. And when I pull all that frizzy hair up, I swear I have every intention of achieving a Pinterest-worthy, Anthropologie-esque “effortless messy bun.” Alas, it’s more of a “Did she just wash her face?” result. (Hey, judgy young girls, clean skin is an achievement, too.)

Perception is everything, I suppose. That is, if you care what others think of you. Honestly, I’m more curious than anything. I’ve already ditched anyone who can’t bring themselves to get past my dog-eared, wrinkled book cover. The good stuff is found on the inside anyway. The people who read me over and over saw my cover when it was hot off the presses, shiny and new. And now they know my stories as well as I do, so they can help me fill in the blanks, reminding me of what I’ve forgotten over the years.

Speaking of years, the traveling husband and I realized a while ago that we’ve been together for half of our lives. We met in middle school. (We didn’t.) Actually, who cares. He gets me. He saw me when my kicks were high and my eyes were bright, he’s seen me heavy with babies and sadness alike, and I think I could be covered in poop and he would still act like a predator as soon as Eleven and Thirteen leave the room.

Maybe it’s seeing myself through his eyes that keeps me feeling younger than I am. He keeps it real, but he loves me throughout, as do a handful of other people I know. Maybe just knowing that is what builds up the brave enough to stop sweating the book cover and just keep writing the book.

Because like I said, to me, that’s what matters. My truth isn’t hanging in my closet or tucked away in my bathroom drawer. My guess is that isn’t where your story is either, that’s just where the cover art gets created. You have to turn some pages to get the real scoop. It takes time and energy, and I kind of like throwing my effort towards building my life, my people, and our stories, instead of spending that time on my hair. (The fight against the frizz is exhausting.)

The fact is, I'm good with this life and my place in it. I don’t mind my crazy hair because I love where it came from. Even if it’s a work in progress, I respect my body because it’s strong and it created lives I love. And when it’s groundhog day, and I’m doing all the things I do every day over and over again – it’s still a gift. I like the mundane, the tradition, the surprises that don’t really surprise you, the gestures big and small, the milestones, and saying yes when everyone expects you to say no. That’s how we ended up with two fish, two parakeets, and a Flemish giant rabbit (long story) in addition to the dog.

I suppose I just talked myself out of a mild mid-life crisis, and hopefully talked you into loving your squeaky clean face and daily uniform, whatever it may be.

Thanks for coming along for the ride.

P.S.: I remembered to run the dishwasher last night, so I’m up to my elbows in clean spoons. However, I’m out of coffee. Fuuuck.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Steady as she goes.

Are you familiar with Jenga? It’s that puzzle game where all the pieces are solid wood rectangles. You make a tall tower, three blocks at a time, and when the tower is built, you carefully slide blocks out, one by one, without disturbing the surrounding pieces. Your goal is to keep the tower standing in one piece.

I was sitting at my computer the other morning, trying to work, and feeling incredibly distracted, but I couldn’t put my finger on what was pulling my focus. I have things to do, that’s for sure – work, laundry, exercise. I could paint the living room walls, which is something I’ve wanted done for two years. Reorganize the bathroom drawers…really every drawer. And cabinet. There’s no shortage of projects, but what’s missing is a targeted plan and the drive to actually get it all done.

Sometimes it’s just that the task at hand isn’t all that thrilling. I get that. And sometimes we need a little win (Solitaire app, anyone?) before we move on to trying to get that big victory in the books (I can barely walk into the garage for all the Christmas bins that need to be put back on the shelf).

But a thought crossed my mind this morning as I wondered where my motivation was: It’s been a bumpy few years. And I know so many of you can empathize with me because you have your own hard things you’ve been working through. As I count on two hands (and a couple toes) all the losses and tough stuff I’ve been trying to manage, it occurs to me that while I’ve compartmentalized the pain these things have caused, I have still been affected. But tapping out to actually address it isn’t really an option. Because while parts of our world might be falling apart, the rest of life moves right along. A week of introspection and meditation simply won’t happen, especially when you’ve got people relying on you to take them places, feed them, and to provide support in the form of hugs, practice tests, active listening, and clean clothes. So as women, we shift into survival mode.

Whenever there is bad news, or sad news, or something emotionally difficult to handle, we look at it, then tuck it away into a little box inside of us. That box gets put on an internal shelf labeled “DEAL WITH THIS LATER.” And then we look up with a deep breath and a smile and say “Okay everybody…who’s hungry for dessert?!”

But each time we push those heavy, little boxes onto the shelf inside our tower, it’s as if we are pushing a solid Jenga piece out of place. When we decide to carry sorrow, or confusion, or pain with us, we create an empty space where solid and steady used to be, shifting our balance. Keep enough of those placeholders within us, and before we realize it, our stability is compromised. Even with a strong base, there’s only so much power we have over gravity, and the more scary stuff we hold onto, the less we can rely on the structure that keeps us vertical. If the issues we are dealing with are close to the core – really shaking our foundation – then the chances of us toppling over sooner than later are pretty great.

So as I was wondering what my roadblock to productivity might be, I visualized all those boxes on my shelf. Loss. Regret. Hurt. Betrayal. I’ve treated parts of my heart as a storage facility, I think. And it took me a while, but I see now that some pretty useful pieces that I used to rely on might be pushed out of place. They haven’t gone far, but still, they aren’t where they used to be…where they should be. And so, neither am I.

Life – as beautiful as it can be – just kicks the shit out of us, doesn’t it? And sometimes we are so busy hurling ourselves forward, even we aren’t aware it’s happening. Adrenaline keeps us rolling through pain. It’s not until we slow down a bit that we realize just how much we hurt.

It’s interesting that it’s taken me several years of telling myself and everyone else that “It’s fine” before I could recognize that maybe it’s not. I mean, I’m still me, I’ve just got some funky spots. And perhaps over the years when some blocks got shoved out I tried to fill a couple of the resulting holes with, oh…I don’t know…wine? Pasta? Brownies? Binge-watching Parenthood? Let’s be honest…there are placeholders that are way worse, so I think I’m alright.

I think the brain should kick in and say, “Hey lady, block mishap. Maybe you should pick up the piece of yourself that fell out and push it back in. That will shove the sad, little box off your shelf. The top will pop off and all the gunk inside will spill over, but it’s O-KAY. Take a few minutes/days/weeks to really look at what’s there before you toss it out, huh?”

But what happens in the immediate is, our brain says, “Hey lady, you’re coming undone. Eat a cookie, crack a bottle of wine open, keep making dinner, and we’ll call it the day, shall we?”

That kind of works for a while, but it doesn’t – and shouldn’t – fill the space permanently. We are working from the outside in, rather than from the inside out. Whatever distraction we choose goes away and we’re left trying to defy gravity and stand tall (not easy with a nasty hangover). Even with a crutch, even with friends, even with faith…if you don’t sit with the root cause and address it, it won’t go away. And you won’t be whole again. Or in this case, I won’t be.

The good news is that my foundation is strong. I have so much love in my house and in my life…maybe that’s what’s held me up for so long. And I can see that missing pieces of myself doesn’t have to mean I am broken. I have more in place than some, and while I know people who have crashed, I myself – thankfully – haven’t. But even if your tower has tumbled, while you’re looking within for the strength to rebuild, don’t forget to look around. You are still there, and though you may be in pieces, you are no Humpty Dumpty. We’re talking about solid building blocks here. You can put yourself back together again. Understanding that we have the power to be our own Jenga architect is a pretty good place to be. And I’ll still be me, and you’ll still be you, just…better. And possibly different. Like a cooler, 2.0 version of ourselves, with shinier packaging and a new perspective to boot.

Is this ringing a bell for anyone, or is it just me who’s comparing herself to a Hasbro game? In any case, I think it’s time to stop trying so hard to pretend we are whole, and start putting all that energy into actually being whole. Stop telling yourself you are fine, and begin to be fine, then more than fine, then kicking up your heels fine.

And hey, stop drinking so much wine and eating pasta and brownies. OMG KIDDING KIDDING KIDDING. With all the Jenga we’re playing, it’s important to carb-load and stay hydrated.

Thus ends my public service announcement. And by “public service announcement” I obviously mean “personal revelation made public for what reason I have no idea.”


Sunday, January 10, 2016

I'm a little bit country.

I like to think of our family as equal-opportunity listeners.

Not to each other, obviously, which blog do you think you’re reading? Focus, people.

I’m talking about music. The traveling husband has pretty eclectic taste – he ranges from AC/DC to Snoop, with a bunch of everything else in between. Basically, if it was recorded by a human with talent, chances are it gets some air time in our house.

Depending on my mood, I like most all of it, too. Soul, R&B, rock, classical…all good. And dance music from any decade gets an enthusiastic yes from me. Crank that up with me in the room and – if you’re game – I will gladly 5, 6, 7, 8 your ass all night.

But you know what I find myself listening to more often than not? Country Western. Not a fan of the twangy tunes, though there are definitely some old school favorites. It’s the contemporary, cross-over music that really gets to me. The lyrics always seem to have a clever double meaning and the end often wraps back around to the beginning, tying the song up in a big, gingham bow.

When I was a little girl, I used to wish I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, log cabin and all. Just tripping through the fields in my apron, or baking pies with Ma. And now that I’ve grown up, sometimes I kind of wish I lived in a country song. The good ones make life sound like a southern dream. Beer’s in the frig, supper’s on the stove, game’s on the tube…what’s not to love, right?

I mean, who wouldn’t want fried chicken, comfortable jeans, and a cold drink on a Friday night? Friends gathered around a fire, sipping whiskey and making memories seems like a fine way to pass the time to me. I’ll take a stolen kiss under a cottonwood tree. Getting tangled up with somebody on a warm summer night in the middle of nowhere? Oh hell yes. Who doesn’t love a healthy dose of heart-pounding angst?!

Nobody in country is singing about the bitches up in the club. (Though I admit, there is a time and place. Equal-opportunity, remember?) They aren’t worried about reapplying sunscreen or getting your cardio in. To the contrary, country music is bright-eyed and bushytailed. It’s loose braids and freckles, flirting and heartbreak, sunburned lips and cherry coke, and long days on the porch swing. I see it as a glimpse into a simpler time, where people talk, drive, and live a little more slowly than in my every day life.

The stories remind us of how deep our roots are – or aren’t. They speak to us about the universal milestones in life – growing up and growing old, falling in love and falling apart, first times and final moments. These thought-provoking songs are an invitation to soul-dive, dream, and reminisce. Each one tells a unique tale, and I tell you what: I’m all ears.

So when you’re in the mood for a journey, listening to country can take you on that ride. Maybe that’s what I find so appealing…these words have the power to take us back to younger days, better days…even to days we’ve never lived, like that Little House on the Prairie existence I imagined when I was a little girl. In just a few minutes I’m back to a time when boys were a breathless mystery (and not creatures with noisy bodies who leave their size 13s in the hallway). It takes me back to lazy, long summers where every day was spent laying on the beach dreaming about my first crush and all that had yet to be.

Maybe I’m like Donny and Marie – a little bit country and a (tiny) little bit rock and roll. I live in SoCal but I love my cowboy boots and a Southern accent. I will enjoy a little Fireball whiskey from time to time. I have the requisite freckles. And I’d like to think I’m not your typical native Angelino – I don’t care about who you know, I care about who you are. Yee haw and amen!

And as a prize for reading, I’ll let you in on a little secret: Keith Urban is my dirty country boyfriend. Dirty because of the whole heroin thing. (It was a long time ago, pre-Nicole. So? Everyone has baggage.) Yeah, laugh it up. Girl hair, don’t care. KU+AH 4EVS. Also, my new, younger country boyfriend is Sam Hunt. He used to play football (bonus!) and wrote a bunch of popular songs recorded by big country stars (including Keith’s “Cop Car”) before stepping behind the microphone himself. Don’t even try to scoff at the country chat style. I dare you to listen to his “Speakers” song on repeat and then tell me with a straight face that you aren’t ready to sack that quarterback.

I also dare you to be an equal-opportunity listener and throw some new tunes in the mix. Classic rock is great on a Sunday morning. Seventies soft rock goes perfectly with wine and friends. And country will help you escape from wherever you are to wherever you want to be, anytime. It’s about tapping into your authentic self and being a dreamer for a minute, and if you need a little something to get you there, pump up the volume and sail away.

Your bickering kids, the carpool line, and the huge pile of laundry on your bed won’t stand a chance. Boots and whiskey optional (but encouraged).

Bless your heart.