Planting the Seeds for Online Dating

You knew better, right?  There is no way I will ever sign up on an online dating site. 

I know many people who've found their true love their soul mate, their counterpart, their everything on a dating site.  Yada yada yada whatever.  They are happy beyond measure -swearing that paying whatever membership fee, writing a (very factual, I'm sure) bio, throwing up a photoshopped picture of themselves in some lip-puckering sultry pose, and hitting 'submit' has given them more daily pleasure than anything they could have ever imagined.  Have these people never eaten dark chocolate?

The whole online dating phenomenon does not help one iota with my jaded.  Someone was just telling me that "at our age, it's more about finding someone that is 'compatible' and has similar interests in life rather than true love."  Hogwash and humbug, I say.  Or at least I hold to in an effort to have the happily ever after which has eluded me for forty solid years. 

But thankfully in the meantime, I have not lost my sense of humor.  Not only are there the usual suspects in the way of online dating sites, but now apparently there is one called:  FarmersOnly.com.  I saw it on a commercial as a "woman" was "driving" a John Deere through a field as she happened upon some toned and tanned sweaty farmer planting something totally unrecognizable to us city folk.  And as crazy good luck would have it, he even had a towel on him to wipe his brow. 

The only thing which I did recognize in all of this was my utter contempt for one more marketing ploy aimed at suckers.  Along with verification beyond a doubt that when I move in a few years, it will not be to a farm. 

East Coast New-England style house with a big ass French Rooster Country Kitchen?  Twist my arm.  Just not too hard since I may have to plant a garden or something if they're low on lobster.

PITA

Write Drunk; Edit Sober   --Hemingway

Thank you, Ernest.  Although I promise I am not drunk or even drink right now, as I've been on the proverbial wagon since last month.  Exactly one month ago today, in fact.  It's never wise to consume beer that is darker than Mich Ultra in a fashion which rivals how you wished Tom Hanks would have eaten at his special reunion party once he got off that godforsaken island.

Now that we have that all cleared up, let's move on to the topic de jour:  I had an 80 minute massage at Woodhouse earlier.  To say it was long overdue is an arrant understatement.  After dumping my things into a locker, I changed into the plush, commodious robe and those hard plastic slipper things which don't do a thing for your feet after a long run.  To the hallway I went, making nice with the way too bubbly employee who insisted upon walking me the six steps around the corner to the Quiet Room. 

The Quiet Room is quite possibly my favorite room in Fort Wayne.  No, I'm not embellishing for effect.  That room makes me happy and instantly reposed while simultaneously reminding me what cozy feels like.

When I drift off to dream, that room is exactly the kind of place my mind wanders.  From the floor to ceiling stone fireplace, to the candles aligning the massive wood mantle, I sunk deep into the oversized leather couch and all its welcoming pillows - hot cinnamon tea in hand.  As I gazed into the fire, the thoughts which swirled in my head at warp speed were all over the place; yet, I was completely and utterly relaxed.  I'm like James Taylor.  I can only get to a point of total calmness if I'm in front of a fire or if it's raining.  Someday I am going to go to Aspen or Zermatt and just reminisce for days in front of a gigantic stone fireplace wearing the coziest sweater and drinking spiked hot cocoa.

Half-asleep, I heard a deep voice mumble, "Beth?"  No way could this be the guy who'd be working on me for the next 80 minutes.  My hard plastic slippers went shuffling down the hallway behind a man who was clearly either Lou Ferrigno or his younger twin brother.  And by incredible hulk-ish I mean I was pretty sure the room we were about to enter contained one massage table, some birds chirping through speakers and certain death.

About-to-break-me-in-half asks if there are any special areas of interest, areas which are troublesome or causing me pain.  Reluctantly, I tell him I am a runner so my legs are always a wreck.  He nods, and assures me he understands as he is also a runner.  If I wasn't so scared for my life I would have laughed in his face, the one attached directly to his bulging shoulders.  Instead I silently followed the directions I know by heart:  hang up the robe, kick off the torture shoes and crawl under the sheet face up.  He'll be in to kill me in a second.

It started out fine.  Enjoyable, in fact.  I like when they don't talk and I especially like the head rubbing.  Anthony (I think) commenced there and was on a roll when all of a sudden, I stopped breathing.

"Too much pressure?"

"Nope.  I'm good."

"You seem pretty tough."

Great.  I love when people tell me that, especially people who don't know me.  While that may be true once in a while, it most certainly is not true all the time and it definitely wasn't true as he went for the arm/elbow combination down my legs.  That IT band is tricky.

"I can work on your hips later if you'd like."

Apparently my silence was taken as an affirmative.  I had noticed Anthony's multiple tattoos only seconds after meeting him.  Roughly half-way through our session, he divulged that he was in the Navy.  Not only was this unrestricted line officer busting my back, he decided to point out our unfortunate similarity.

Don't go there.  Please don't go there - either literally or verbally, I thought.

"Yes, I foolishly got it about twelve years ago.  Honestly, I forget it's there so I also keep forgetting I need to get it removed."

Once someone asked me if it said, "Leon."  Funniest friend I've ever had.  Have.  Had.  Anywho...I gotta get this thing removed. 

To the hips he went, and by hips I mean glutes.  It hurt so much there was only one thing for me to do as he was poking and prodding and bruising:  put myself back in front of that fireplace, in my own little Quiet Room.

My body's aching and my time is at hand
And I won't make it any other way
Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I'd see you again

I will not be seeing Anthony again.  Or hopefully anyone named Leon.

Paying the Price

"Yep, that's true."

It is not a stretch to say I have been told on more than one occasion that I'm hard to argue with.  Since a preposition just ended that sentence, I'm not so sure that is actually true.  However, I will cop to unyielding and never forgetting one word someone with whom I'm "arguing" has either just said or has said in the past.  Anamnesis, if you will.  Sure, as necessary, I may gently remind them of their current or former statements and point out how they may be in complete contradiction to what they are screaming about in that exact moment.  Color me helpful.

Hard to argue with?  Nah.  Should have been a lawyer?  Yes.  (Although, I'd swim through an ocean of puke before I'd ever consider becoming one right now.)

Admitting you are wrong is a hard thing to do; admitting someone else is right is even harder.  Yet, admission to someone that they have you and your situation pegged is excruciatingly arduous.  Especially when you never wanted to end up in that situation in the first place. 

Being rendered defenseless against rhetorical questions about yourself is no picnic.  Definitely absent is any immediate image of a young and carefree girl with hair billowing in the wind as she holds hands with her soul mate while skipping across a field of overgrown corn on their way back to the checkered tablecloth where he uses his best manners and hand feeds her cheese in between sips of world-class white wine.

(Run on sentence.  Easy to argue with.)

Today granted me not only clarity but the opportunity to go through one more excruciatingly arduous situation vis a vis that type of admission.  Thankfully, mercifully, it was with the one individual whose motives I have never, nor will ever, question.  And I question everything.

As forever true and dear friend always tells me:  If you want something badly enough, you make it happen.  Everything else is just an excuse. 

I hate excuses.

Crazily Foolishly Rational

Today I was reminded that I loathe not only the French, but the Greek as well.  Maybe not the people of these origins, but the language.  Life.  It's one big oxymoron. 

I have two more Soprano's episodes to watch before I return the set to my Dad.  I'm still somewhat embarrassed to be taking life lessons from Tony Soprano, but, certainly not above it.  You simply can neither discount an Italian heritage nor ridiculous feelings which come to the surface under extreme duress, copious amounts of alcohol, or counseling sessions.  Dr. Melfi was trying to help Tony see why he's attracted to certain types of women.  Easy peasy.  He pays her enough in cash earned from his Waste Management profession that seemingly, it should be a breeze. 

But alas, things which should be typically never are.  Things which should be vary greatly from reality.  This I know all too well; just like I know that hearing Dr. Melfi say, "L'amour Fou" on a show which could not possibly be any more Italian is almost as asylum-funny as what I was taught in church this morning:

"Philosophy" is a combination of two words: "phileo" - to love; and "sophia" - "wisdom."

And this, my friends, is where I would end with a smiley face if I used them. 

J.D.

Salinger.  Probably my favorite author of all time, although I read recently that Philip Roth is now done writing which is a shame.  Another one of my all time favorites.

In an endless and ongoing list entitled "And THAT is my problem," add that one:  I struggle with all time favorites.  Sometimes, I'm too sentimental for my own good.  Sometimes, I allow a beautiful season of life which has occurred in the past to severely blur a new potential season.  And sometimes, I know it and just don't care.


 "Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone." --J.D. Salinger


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." --J.D. Salinger

election day and other stuff

It's 3:59am, otherwise known as my body has not yet gotten used to DST and thinks it is really 4:59am.  Coffee is brewing and I am getting ready for my 90 minute work out with Evan at 4:45am.  Good morning, Tuesday.  And good morning, blog.  It's been a while...

After I drop Liv off at school early this morning so she can make up a Spanish test, I will vote.  Nothing about this feels right - well, my choice does given the two "choices," - however the whole thing makes me question my profession.  Running for President is nothing if not the most over the top sales job ever.  One spewing with venom, malice, lies and stupidity when it comes to the business-like mindset which is required (in my opinion) to operate this great country of ours.  I miss the founding fathers.  They seemed pretty great.  If I lived back then, I may have even dated one.  Surely if they were as intelligent as they appeared especially in comparison to today's "leaders," then I would have easily been able to overlook dating someone with better hair.

So the reason Liv had a make up test is because I picked her (and her best friend) up from school at 1:00pm last Friday.  We took Liv's friend to Chicago to celebrate her 16th Birthday.  They are all turning 16; my childhood friends and I are all turning 40...yikes.  This is going to be such a wonderful year (seriously - no sarcasm, I am very much looking forward to ALL the exciting things which are on the books and in the works).

In an effort to "culture" the girls - or at least get them big city ready - I bought tickets to a show and made reservations at a fancy-ish Italian restaurant.  As we walked in to Francesca's on Chestnut (how could it not be fancy-ish with a name like that?) I was immediately in love.  Uh-oh.  No, Beth, no...no more impetuous with the falling in love immediately thing.  I had forgotten how much an Italian restaurant resonates with me.  The aroma, the ambiance, the attire, the obvious anticipation of calamari, wine, insalata caprese, and an unknown deliciziso entree.  Screw it, I was going to be in love for at least the next two hours. 

And in love I was.  The food was over the top fantastic - pumpkin ravioli?  Brilliantly sweet.  I savored every last amazing bite.  It was just the right portion size to leave me wanting more yet, realizing I had enough.  I'm sure there's a correlation or life-like simile here but let's leave it alone, people. 

While in Francesca's, I took in all the others dining around us.  The dynamics which were represented kept the smile on my face and warmth inside both my belly and soul illuminated.  There was the (clearly) loaded yuppie family, complete with a Dad in the obligatory navy blazer pretending not to be filthy successful, his wife - the Mom - with her $200 blow out hair (First Lady of a Whig in a former life?), and their four very handsome and way too young for me sons.  I loved watching them laugh together, rib a little, and genuinely enjoy each other's company. 

Next to them sat a very eclectic couple, but I deduced they were strictly friends who had either a) tried to date at one point and hated it or b) were about to and would end up crazily happily married with little eclectic kids running around their concrete floor in a flat somewhere.  Watching their dynamic was cool and exciting.  And somewhat tiring because she wouldn't shut up.

At a table to my left sat a Dad and his son.  Just the two of them in little matching sweaters with white polos underneath.  The Dad was not sporting a wedding ring.  Maybe it was his weekend.  Nonetheless, they were cute and engaged in a very parental-child-like conversation.  I enjoyed that as it reminded me of time I spent with Liv years ago.  Sans the gay matching sweaters.

And finally - finally there was the couple who got to me.  These two were seated just down from the Dad and son.  In fact, the husband was sharing the same booth back the Dad was...you know, the long row of a booth against the wall.  He was engaging her with his intellect; she was smitten.  He had very distinguished wrinkles around his kind and witty eyes.  His laugh was genuine and deep, matching his unconditional love and admiration for his wife.  Their hands touched once in a while across the table, carefully making sure they didn't knock over their wine - red for him, white for her - but it wasn't in a lovey-dovey kind of way.  It was more in an "and can you believe THAT?" emphatic sort of connecting kind of way.  If I had to guess their ages - I'd go early fifties.

That couple did me in.  Not because I no longer could resonate with the other relationship dynamics in the room.  I could.  For I had been involved in those other's before - the yuppie (well, Midwest yuppie) family, the platonic eclectic couple, the single parent with a cool mini-me kid.  However, that couple - the head over heels, profound respect, admiration, and friendship couple - I have not been.  And it wasn't even the recognition of that glaring omission in my life which made me tear up.

It was the fact that I could see me sitting in her spot.  Drinking her white wine.  Looking across the table at the man with whom she was in love.  The man whose company she was completely, utterly, and unapologetically enjoying, as she thought with anticipation of the things they were going to accomplish next.  And I saw me sitting there.  I could even picture what the guy I'd be with would be wearing.

Why yes, I could even see his face. 

?

"The world needs talkers too, honey."  That's what Liv's Dad told her once, about a year or so ago, when she and I were going at it in typical Mom vs. teenage daughter style.

I got it.  That's all I needed to be explained to me in order to understand.  Sometimes honestly, I just don't.  I don't understand why asking questions of someone like What'd you have for lunch? or How was your day? or Did you do have a good time? is so offensive.  But apparently it is for the non-talkers.  You know, for the people who just process differently than those of us who are right. 

Ok, fine.  I now realize, through that example and countless others, that just because I do something one way, it does not make it the right way.  That just because I operate, function, think, or feel in a certain manner does not make all those who don't freaks.  Asking questions is my way of showing love. I never really understood that either, but it makes sense, especially given the multitude of people who would believe I have given up question marks like they're gluten. 

So once I began to understand this perceived "flaw" of mine, I calmly explained it to Liv.  Why yes, I stupidly and methodically began to point out the rationale behind my (constant) question-asking to my daughter.  The one who does it her way, the right way, the only way, all the time. 

She totally got it.

The Ride.

I am not buying a Mercedes Benz even though in less than a year I'll be car shopping. 

No, this Mercedes is something much more important.  Something much more valuable.  Something I cannot just buy for if that were the case, I may have done so by now.  Clearly it would have saved more than money; it would have saved me from 4:15am wake-up calls, blisters, high-heel restrictions, pain, swearing, and other unladylike conduct.  It would have saved me from the constant carrot dangling right in front of my face... this self-imposed goal which has eluded me for some inexplicable reason. 

But what's the fun in that? 

We all know money can't buy happiness.  Or qualification to Boston.

February 17, 2013.  The Mercedes Marathon.

Pick Me Up

Coffee and I did not fall in love until just recently.  Recently as in we are approaching our two year anniversary which in the scheme of things, renders us in the newlywed-we-still-respect-each-other-stage.  I just never drank it other than at my Grandma Mar's house while eating an entire package of dunkers, otherwise known as Stella D'oro Anisette Sponge Coffee Treats.  I'd eat those suckers like I was in my cell on death row.  I have enough energy that adding any sort of caffeine to that inherent indefatigable mix would just make me seem abnormal.

Since I've embraced my abnormalities in all their glory along with my entire "abnormal" life based on societal standards, I drink coffee daily.  Couldn't be happier that Pumpkin Spice Coffee-Mate has hit the dairy case.  The other day as I sleepily poured fresh water into the coffee maker reservoir, I realized something not all that profound.  There are two kinds of coffee-drinking:  the necessary kind and the relaxing kind.

How I made it over 37 years with enough energy to sustain my life is now in question.  It's like when the Opthamologist tells you that once you start wearing glasses or contacts your eyes will get used to the new strength and just naturally become the worse strength.  They will, in a sense, become so attached to seeing life through their new lenses that they cannot see without them.  Long gone will be the innocent misconception of having eyes which are completely fine, of days where everything which needs to be conducted is conducted and your irises are none the wiser.

Coffee is now necessary for me to function.  As my Mom says, "I can't understand what you're saying, I haven't had enough coffee yet."  I used to think she was just disagreeing with whatever was coming out of my mouth early in the morning in a feeble attempt at maintaining her usual peace through obvious mismatched kinesics.  Now I know better.  That crap about caffeine and becoming more like your mother with age is totally true.

But on Saturday mornings, after a stress-relieving long run in crisp (or not) air, after the steaming hot shower where run reflections and muscle loosening occur, after walking into my kitchen with a newfound perspective on life - I make coffee.  And even though it's the exact same kind, prepared in the exact same manner, poured into the exact same mug, it tastes completely different.  It is hotter, fresher, and infinitely more comforting.  That coffee is a reward, a harmonious extension awaiting me like an old friend.

And that's when it hits me:  there are also two kinds of people in this life.  The necessary kind and the relaxing kind.  Who knows which comes first.  But in either case it doesn't even matter.  For in the end, they go hand-in-hand.

Hello...BRUT(al)US...

I know.  I know I said several posts ago that it was my "One and Only Political Rant," but call me Obama-like with my promise.

This won't take long.  That, I promise.  I simply want to say the following, in Romney-like fashion:

NUMBER ONE:  I loved it.
NUMBER TWO:  Who knew Mitt had that in him other than not Michelle?
NUMBER THREE:  I loved it.

Favorite line of the night?
"I've been in business 25 years and have no idea what you're talking about."

Neither do we.

Favorite one of many things Mr. President said which he knows nothing about?:
 "...when people go to The Cleveland Clinic for preventative visits..." 

Unless they've opened a RediMed in The Clinic's lobby that I've not yet heard about, um...no, Barack.  They don't go there for that.

Don't pretend you know and love our swinging Buckeyes unless you actually do.  Jack ass.

And for the record sir, it's too late to run there complaining of a (Simpson) Bowle issue.

This diagnosis just may be curable after all.

Fer Real?

So I have this friend - we'll call her "Elly May" - who has been through a lot in her life.  I know, I know, who hasn't, right?  But she's sort of an enigma.  One of her friends told her recently to not lose her "jaded" since it's one of her better qualities.  You see, she has become completely jaded given those lots of things she's been through in her life, particularly relationships.

Her way of feeling better about her sense of constant jadedness, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps sometimes not, is to help others.  Or at least try to.  Try and instill in them a sense of urgency about what making horrible decisions can do.  The consequences which will undoubtedly ensue, making the road ahead much more difficult than necessary to traverse. 

Elly May is a doer.  A fixer.  Fiercely independent.  Yet, at her core, she's compassionate and loving, and feels really badly about the people she's let down in her life because of those inherent qualities.  The qualities which are both a blessing and a curse.  She's labeled as thinking she's better than others, or she's labeled as not caring about others, or she's labeled as...fill in the blank.  Labels are given to her by those who are either insecure and jealous, or those who truly don't know her and refuse to take the time to do so given their insecure and jealous.  If, in their opinion, she's nice - she's patronizing; if she's not, she's an elitist bitch.

Tough place to be.  For my friend.

She told me this past week was particularly difficult for her.  While always introspective, she actually heard "it" this week.  She was on the receiving end of what undoubtedly is the root of the tears she sometimes sheds.  The ones no one would believe she cries since she's so "tough."  Elly met with a counselor at her church, in an effort to volunteer and help with one more program, share one more story, talk to one more person and connect her church to a similar program.  At the end of all the business talk, apparently the counselor asked her how everything was going and why she stayed so busy.  Forced introspection, I'm sure, was not easy for her since she likes to do things which she decides to do, and certainly not do them when anyone else tells her to.

I've tried to tell her this myself but as usual, she won't listen.  The counselor told her she didn't feel "accepted" and she has been trying to do things her entire life to fit in, since most people who don't know her box her out.  Or conversely, the people who do choose to be around her find they really enjoy it, but internally, if they are insecure with themselves, wish they weren't.  And, since she's not an idiot, she also picks up on this and then feels badly and somehow responsible all over again.

Wow do I get why the woman is jaded.  Kinda hard not to be with all that heady stuff being backed up day after day by 90% of the people she encounters.

Yesterday Elly May tried to attend an event which rendered her in the presence of people who, at one point in her life were her life, but are now just kind of an awkward ancillary memory.  An attempt for her to try and once again do the "right" thing, be accepted by people who probably never really fully did, and to put on a brave face for everyone around her.

She told me it was like having a giant target on her back or, more appropriately given the setting, a little red dot on her forehead.  When I asked her how she knew she maybe shouldn't have gone and that it was time to leave, she replied:

"I was standing in a pole barn holding a plate of corn bread and ranch dip while watching people ride up on 4-wheelers.  Discussing fishin' and huntin' and 'coons in freezer stories.  My ex-husband was acting like he was Obama at the DNC, his mother was shooting daggers at me, and I was the only one NOT wearing either a season or one of the aforementioned events on a sweatshirt.  Ask me again."

What a bitch.

el amor

I cry in church every Sunday.  Without fail, something makes me cry.  For the past year, it's been this overwhelming sense of God's love rather than sheer misery which preceded it for a longer period of time than I care to admit.  Today I had tears streaming down my cheeks while I sang and smiled as if I had a bigger mouth than I actually do.

With a complete sense of peace and unwavering amount of faith - I sang 10,000 Reasons.  I could not be any more in love with that song.  It moves me at my core.  The cadence is enveloping; the words are extraordinary.

So as I'm standing there, swaying, smiling, thanking, loving...I get it.  Maybe not everything - but whatever it is that I got, I didn't let go.  I hung on to the simple notion that I have had some very special people in my life, at exactly the right times, for exactly the right reasons, and I've had the opportunity to love them and be loved by them.  I hung on...

Sometimes longer than I should have, perhaps.  Sometimes, not tightly enough.  Sometimes, once, from afar.  Unspoken.  Unrequited.  Unbelievable.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, let me be singing when the evening comes.

I was singing this line moments ago as I climbed the stairs and Liv shushed me because she was reading.  So I hummed instead.

You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find

After the song was over, we sat down and continued learning about Paul's letter to the Colossians.  In our notes, we wrote down three of his character traits, which instantly confirmed for me why I came to the conclusion last week that I love Paul.

Paul had 1) a brilliant mind; 2) an indomitable will; 3) a tender heart

I love.  I love lists, I love these words, I love that I still have the propensity to believe in love.  I love knowing, unequivocally, that I'll feel it again.

Which is a song by Honeymoon Suite.  We did not sing that in church today.

Life-Altering Laughter Always Transpires at Bdubs

It's happening.  I always knew the day would eventually come when my mothering was no longer needed as much.  When my stellar parenting, directions, and advice - all based on my own remarkable choices - would no longer be required in Liv's quest for survival.  If I am honest, this whole transformation has been quietly occurring in the background for the last couple years.  I've been purposely ignoring it.  Until now.  Today marks the day in which I am accepting it; in fact after the lunch we just had, there's really no way I couldn't.

The girl is funny.  Wicked funny.  Sure, part of me wants to look at her as she's zinging these zingers and pretend I don't get a thing she's saying.  But the other part of me is secretly thinking 3 things as my gut is shaking uncontrollably in utter hysteria:  1) Nice one.  2) A good parent would consider that a punishable word.  3)  I am SO taking credit for at least some of her sardonic gifts.

We (ok, I) had a busy morning.  Ran 14 miles at 5:45am.  Home at 7:56, showered by 8:19, left for church at 8:50.  Service until 10:15; video shoot for Nicaragua sponsor child at 10:20; Spanish class at 10:30; volunteer at the Event Center at 11:30.  Uno madre and su hija...super famished.

Bdubs.  We're both kind of hooked on it, especially Liv.  I love it for very different reasons, but I love it nonetheless.  So in we go and the conversation immediately ensues.  For all the finger-licking that has gone down there, it will forever pale in comparison to the conversations.

Liv:  I'm excited to go to the OSU game next month.  Those seats will rock!
Me:  [Less excited, as we are taking her "boyfriend" for his 16th and a yet TBD "person" for me to sit with]  It'll be fun.

Liv:  Who do you think you'll take, Mom?
Me:  [Still trying to be "Mom" and not succumb to the impending role-reversal]  No idea, honey, but I'm sure someone will want to watch some football.  It's OSU! 

Liv:  You know, Mom, it's easy.
Me:  [Oh sh*t]:  Watching football?  I know it is.

Liv:  Duh, no.  Them.
Me:  I love Fall weather.  It's my favorite season EVER.

Liv:  Boys are just not all that complicated.  [pretend male voice]  "FOOD!  SEX!  ME NO HAVE EMOTION."
Me: Well Liv, while there might be a bit of underlying truth to those stereotypes, I for one hope to find one some day with a smidge more substance than the Big Three.

Liv:  You're the one who told me stereotypes exist for a reason.
Me:  [to myself]  Great parenting genius, although she totally got your steel trap never-forgets-anything-that-anyone-she-loves-says thing.

Thankfully, our food arrives.  Her dissertation continues with seemingly rhetorical questions such as, "Do you know how hypocritical boys can be, Mom?  They LOVE long legs, yet we can't be taller than they are.  How can I be short with looooonnng legs?  They want us to need them, yet we can't be needy.  They want us to be independent, but we can't be smarter than they are."

Honestly, it's like a stand-up routine.  Of course the audience would be all heterosexual women and men would hate her, but I'm pretty sure she could at least put herself through school with this monologue. 

(And for the record as a side note, we are honestly not feminists.  She is not forever jaded by my track record, nor do I speak ill about any most of it.  The constant message I preach is: foundational friendship.  Have it.) 

Just then, four high-school boys buffoon in and are seated immediately behind Liv.  I see them.  I see them pretend not to check out the back of her beautiful naturally curly hair and simultaneously wonder if I am actually her Mom, as if the mafia hit look I'm giving them isn't a tell-tale.

Dude, LET'S SMASH SOME WINGS!  I'M LIKE FREAKIN' STARVIN'.  DID YOU SEE THAT WAITRESS, C'MON, SHE IS SMOKIN'.  Dude, ANDREW LUCK IS SO GONNA BE BETTER THAN MANNING.  He's LIKE...OLD NOW.

Liv:  [With only a slight nod of her head over her shoulder, no turning around required]:  Exhibit A.

"It is impossible for a man to be cheated by anyone but himself." - Emerson

Today is day 4 of 5 at this Technology Conference.  I'm pretty ready to come home.  Snarfing a pizza while watching a movie in my room at 10:00pm only sounded like fun.  Sweating profusely the following day on the treadmill to purge myself of the extra calories and guilt was fun.

I'm learning a lot.  Not only about the new release of a particular suite of a software solution which I sell, but about people.  I know a lot about the former, in that it's been my profession for the last eighteen years; apparently I also know a lot about the latter, in that I've been interacting with them for the last thirty-nine.

People.  We are funny creatures.  Messy.  Fun.  Not so fun.  Annoying.  Disingenuous.  Smarmy.  Lots of smarm around here...

One guy actually said the words (ok, slurred):  Let's understand something.  I am not graced by your presence right now, even though you're beautiful.  There are so many things wrong with that, I'm not even going to touch it (pun intended) except to say I have this uncontrollable and unfortunate problem of bursting into laughter at the most inopportune times.  Only I'm pretty sure that timing was totally appropriate. 

I have no idea what chick in that loser's life made him feel like he was lucky to be with her, but obviously there was one.  Categorically, knowing absolutely nothing about it, two things are for certain:  she was right and there was only one.

Literally and metaphorically, there is so much baggage around this sprawling conference center that it's both saddening and providing cheap entertainment for me.  Yet it continues to remind me that I'm no different.  No different from any of these people (well, except that jack ass) or, from any of the jaded lenses we look through as we meet new individuals.

Another rather nice guy actually said these words to me:  I thought we had a connection?  Yeah, we've both read the same author.  Call me old-fashioned, but that does not equate to waking up together in MY book. 

The author was a fiction writer.  The only fiction I read, really, while on beach vacations.  And this week is no vacation. 

I'm ready to be home.

New Series

One of my friends told me in a not so polite manner that this blog appears in his start up each morning when he arrives to work.  Now mind you, my guilt when a new blog does not appear for His Highness is tempered by the fact I'm still not entirely convinced he actually "works."  That aside - I have one thing to say before I head out for a week long conference.

Yesterday we started a 21 week series on the book of Colossians.  I'm very excited about this study.  It is not a story, as so many books of the Bible are and as we all have come to expect and resonate with as we go about our daily lives.  Instead, Paul wrote this book (along with others) while he was imprisoned; this book was actually a letter to the people of Colossae, whom he had not yet even met.

I wish I could have known Paul back in the day.  Actually, I wish I could meet a Paul-ish guy in this day.  He was physically tough, sound-minded, right hearted, and experienced things that most of us won't even come close to even thinking about. 

Mostly, I just really like the guy for writing.  He was a prisoner so he couldn't do anything, per se, so he did what he was capable of doing in that moment - he wrote.  Exquisitely.  Passionately.  How cool it is that we can read through, learning about times in history and yet, be able to apply the lessons to our current day.  I wonder if it ever dawned on Paul as he was going through the situations, as he was being taught by Jesus, as he was living. 

I'd LOVE to do that.  Write - hand-write - letters daily for someone else to find someday.  They'd definitely think I wrote them from an insane asylum but that's ok.  I have a lot to say.  I have a lot that swirls in my head which I've not yet even begun to blog about.

What I could write would make for a good story, that's for sure.  Stuff no one knows about - well, maybe the guy who has time to know since he never works, but not the masses.  Man, the new shades of grey that would come of it, not to mention the new number for infinity, would be truly astounding.

Hmm.  One more thing to think about.

9-11

Today is my birthday.  Today I am:

1.  Overwhelmed with emotion
2.  Filled with joy
3.  Appreciative
4.  Remembering
5.  Surprised
6.  Inspired to be more, do more, become more
7.  Content
8.  Thankful
9.  Smiling
10.  Older

This Old Soul

Sunday evening:  7:39pm. 

Just finished cleaning the kitchen after eating a dinner consisting of chicken, sausage, sweet potatoes and noodles which I made for Liv.  (And...her boyfriend, although she eschews calling him such.)

I actually like the kid.  He's polite, normal, comes from a good family (I know because his parents refused to let him come over until they met me...guess I'm sort of normal, too).  Liv and I have this horrendous habit of watching TV when we eat dinner.  I'm sure Parenting magazine would have a field day with the whole scene, but they only write about fictitious little Ozzie and Harriet families and balloon making craft tables at birthday parties anyway. 

Liv grabs the remote as Kevin is cutting into his sweet potato.  We'll finish watching Wedding Crashers, she announces.  Yikes.  The only saving grace here is that it is the edited version. Sort of.

We've heard it all before, Mom.  I feel like asking her the age old, "If your friends all jumped off a bridge, would you follow?"  I'm not sure there's a correlation either.  It just sounded good in my defense.

It's early on in the movie.  I am staring at our TV screen as if it's Mission Earth at Epcot Center where, if you look away, the vertigo gets you and you immediately puke inside of that claustrophobic death trap as you're sardined next to other vacationing strangers.  I see Claire Cleary, played by the lovely Rachel McAdams, delivering the wedding toast.  With dewy, idealistic eyes, she says: True love is your soul's recognition of its counterpart in another.

Cue Gary Sinise's voice as CapCom because I was just transported to Orlando.  I want to hurl.  Perhaps it was from the punch in the gut as I heard these words which I somehow want to believe.  Probably even long to believe, being somewhat of a closet romantic. 

Just as Claire Cleary so astutely responds to John Beckwith when he first delivers this (blatant pick-up) line to her, "It's a little cheesy, but I like it," I couldn't agree more.

Obviously I have no idea if it's true.  Given my track record, I'm probably the wrong person to ask.  I do, however, know that earlier today I came across these gems which I can attest are COMPLETELY true:

 

These things are all the rave, so they normally repulse me.  But not these.  These made me appreciate that I still have my sense of humor and a teenage daughter who is way smarter than I was at her age.

Oh, and the house.  Which Kevin is leaving.

Sugar and Bitters

I hung up the phone awhile ago with one of my best highfalutin friends.  He laughs at the adjective, but secretly enjoys the accuracy.  I'm not thrilled that he now lives in Scottsdale (told you), but I am very happy to talk to him on the phone every now and then.  The actual phone.

While we may have been mobile in our respective homes while chatting, there is something about old-fashioned communication that enhances the exchange.  It's nice to hear an actual voice instead of some impostor emoticon.  I feel ripped off every time someone grants me 20-20 vision into the window of their meager little soul via one of those possessed symbols.

Now, if they're sent to me from someone who knows me well enough to do it strictly in sardonic fashion - fine.  Good.  Enjoyable.  But if one of my friends is upset and sends me the cry-baby face, it makes me want to send the Grrrr ANGRY-SMURF-MAN! face back, because I am now mad that I'm on the other end making fun of my friend - who is obviously upset.  I'd rather hear their voice cracking in grief or gut wrenching in laughter so I can feel connected to them instead of connected to Mr. Yuk and his family.

Anyway, I struggle with the conflict between instantaneous communication and old-fashioned means.  The former is a necessity in today's working world, but I would argue it does not translate whatsoever in today's social world.  In fact, it totally jacks it all up.  You can't get to know someone, really know someone, through texting or emailing alone.  It's the equivalent of liquid courage.  People say things when they're under the influence of alcohol that no way would they say stone cold sober. (My "friend" Deb would tell you that I told some cashier guy he was svelte - sure he was behind the register at Cap-N-Cork but she's a liar nonetheless). 

Old-fashioned communication is sweeter, more meaningful, and longer-lasting.  Hallmark cards?  I save them all.  Post-it notes left in surprise locations?  I leave them for Liv frequently; she saves them all.  A hand-written thank you card on vellum with a 24k cresty-seal from my highfalutin friend?  Still in my office - next to the other one until Cash For Gold branches out beyond jewelry.

People hide behind all sorts of facades, whether it's 4 glasses of wine or poetic words.  And tomorrow afternoon, when Liv's stupid teenage boy"friend" comes over after school to "study," he better remember this is 2012 - when all communication is done through non-sweet, non-meaningful, and lickety-split-like-lasting texts.  From separate rooms. 

Thank goodness they're too young to remember Roxanne.

A Little Left-Wing Country Never Hurt Anyone

It's borderline ridiculous to state the following:  I have always loved music.  I mean, who hasn't?  But I am almost in love with it, need it, crave it, want it at all times...and let's face it, had I not opened with my first sentence, music may not have been your final answer back to Regis.

I grew up in the 80's and therefore am a connoisseur of all things Rock and Metal.  Additionally, total ambiekinesis is created in my head when anything with a good beat, good refrain, or meaningful lyrics comes on.  Allegretto and I'm done.  Much like my every day penchants for a myriad of pastimes, I also enjoy a multitude of genres.  Except Country. Don't sing to me in twang about your hillbilly pickup truck and front porch which doubles as a laundry mat.  Don't sing to me about Earl or Jim-Bob or Jim Beam.  (However, you can sing to me about a guy straight-up named Bob because I used to spin to that song - something about a Yacht Club - with dear friends of mine who could make me laugh at anything).

Transportation back in time, to a specific conversation, to a specific feeling, and definitely to a specific person - I can get there instantaneously through a few notes.  While in the office, I listen to Jazz.  Unless I'm feeling like I can conquer anything and anyone in that moment and then it's Alternative.  You get the point.  Music.  Man, can it emote.

So imagine my utter contempt anytime I'm in the car with my now-driving-legally daughter.  WHAT is that noise?  Am I old?  Don't answer that.  No, I have taste.  An appreciation.  An understanding.  I love all things new, but whatever "New-Age" this is, I don't want to be.

Liv loves, loves, loves Taylor Swift (a/k/a "Can I be a Kennedy now that I own a home in Hyannis Port?").  Absolutely adores her music.  In fact, I think her iTunes cards may even be emblazoned with Taylor's mug sporting Jackie O's big black shades. 

Each and every time a new Taylor Swift song is released -  I really want to hate it.  I dismiss it as completely horrible, totally country, and ostentatiously annoying. 

But guess what?  "We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together."

Rock on, girl.

Love Wins.

And I'm not talking about my once in awhile "elephant in the room" love, I'm talking about true love.  The kind we can only find one place.

So it's Sunday morning - 8 days after my left foot told me I am on hiatus.  Funny how God uses not only unlikely people but our broken bones, too.  Apparently it is time for me to slow down, re-focus on Him, and rejoice in all that is around me instead of trying to zip past it at an 8:20 pace.

I'm sitting on my back deck drinking coffee, listening to Mercy Me, and watching this beautiful sun rise through the overgrown trees in my back yard.  His timing again.  Immediately after I begin to write this entry, I do my usual mind wandering, multi-tasking thing.  That deficiency (or, high-functioning ability) usually leads me to Facebook which is another post altogether.  And it is there that I read an article.  One that apologizes to non-believers on behalf of us.  The believers that sure as heck aren't living like it.

Like I do well with criticism.

But it could not be more true.  Not only do I see it everywhere I look, I see it when I try with all my might not to look at myself.  Even worse, I feel it when I try not to discuss this, or the myriad of other faults, flaws, and sins with God.  I try to outrun Him instead.  He and my left foot are laughing in irony.  One more reason I love my God - His comedic timing is excellent. 

Most days, I don't even stop to consider what I'm running towards.  Some other self-imposed goal is usually the answer.  Once in awhile when I reach it, do I stop and give thanks, change my inner self, or keep my new nice and appreciative leaf turned over?  Stupidly and sadly, almost as an affront to God, I just set another one. 

Happily however, our God is big enough to save us from not only the macro, but our nagging micros as well.  He meets us - these delicate works in progress - exactly where it is that we need to be met.  He is light; and His light shines on us, in us, and through us depending on what it is we're going through in this journey of life.

My favorite quote in the article I just read is as follows:  "This is why the triumph over the cross was a triumph over everything ugly we do to ourselves and to others.  It is the final promise that love wins."  This morning, I am giving thanks and praise for that promise, and for being made fearfully and wonderfully (Ps. 139:14).  There is nothing but hope for those of us who are, and have always been, simultaneously fragile and solid.

Broken feet, broken hearts, broken souls - we are never down and out.  We must always get back up, fight the good fight, and finish this race well.  While watching laps around a track, I was reminded just how strong people are; yet, with one wrong move, they and their "worldly" goals go down.

We must not look like Morgan Uceny in our own Olympics, for my faith allows me to know with certainty that the medals we'll receive in eternity someday are way better than the ones we keep trying to chase here anyway.

Now, if there are Boston Marathon jackets in Heaven that is totally another story.

Dorian Gray

It's 11:00am-ish Saturday morning.  Let the record show that this is the first Saturday in no-way-can-I -remember-how-long that I've not run.  According to some female "P.A." at Fort Wayne Orthopedics, my left foot has some bone which is broken.  Whatever x 2.  There are like 1,000 bones in the human foot and you have initials after your name lady, not before.

So here I sit.  Yes, sit.  With my left leg, in its Transformer-looking boot, flung over the neighboring bar stool.  Hey - Optimus Prime...you wanna go out?  Good.  Something to look forward to.

But this is not even what I want to write about.  I've reconciled the situation; I'm good with it.  Went to see Evan at 8:00am this morning.  I sent him a text from the exam room on Thursday, inquiring if he could be creative with the workouts for 2 weeks (poser doctor told me maybe 6-8 weeks in this thing, but all I saw were italics).  And if by "creative" I actually meant render my arms disabled, his answer was yes.

What I intended to write about this morning was Lance.  Given the coverage, I'm over it already, however there are a few high points to note.   After first seeing the headline pop up on my computer screen, my immediate reaction was simply disappointment.  For him - not necessarily in him.  My shoulders slumped, a little breath and grunt came out, and my gut was sucker punched.  Those were my natural reactions to reading one line about some man that I don't even know.

But do I know him?  Have I ever known a Lance?  Some of the lessons I've learned on this crazy journey would indicate a resounding YES.

Lance Armstrong is arguably one of the best athletes that has walked the planet.  No question, he is the best cyclist of all time.  Was his performance always on the up and up?  I have no idea and neither do you.  His teammates might, but that's neither here nor there.  Lance knows. 

Here's what we do know:  what we see.  All that we've seen, read, discussed, debated.  We know the image and persona that he wanted us to know.  And in that respect, we are all Lance's.  Just check with Oscar Wilde...

Will the stripping of seven Tour de France titles cause me to change my opinion of Mr. Livestrong?  No.  Would anyone with a brain in their head ever race the guy on a bike?  Of course not. 

I will continue to respect him for all that he has accomplished, because as a poser athlete, I know with certainty that he trained and trained and trained some more.  That he ate, slept, and breathed training.  Preparation.  Endurance.  Dedication.  The kind of hard work and discipline that very few people are ever willing to do. 

Lance Armstrong is a fierce, fierce competitor.  A warrior.  A survivor.  One that some people try, with epic failure, to emulate.  And when they find out they don't have it in them, they do what most jealous second-rate human beings do:  tear him down to make themselves feel better. 

At the end of the day, what is in him - legally or otherwise - is something he and he alone will have to live with.  As someone who not only has known a Lance or two in her lifetime, but is perhaps the female version of one can attest - there is nothing that anyone can say, do, or think that will make him feel any worse about himself than he already does.

If he does.

OutOfMyVulcanMind.

I am realizing, no - I am admitting - that most of my posts either recount stories about something which recently occurred, or they recount stories which happened way, way back down memory lane.

This is a problem.  Is this a problem?  This is a problem.  Is this...

Either way.  I'm not going to spend $100 bucks on therapy to find out.  Nor am I going to continue to write about my past.  At least not as much.

I vow, henceforth, to primarily write about things which I'm looking forward to.  To write about things which I ponder, struggle with, reflect upon, plan to fix, avoid.  And yes...to talk about the elephant in this room of a blog.

Within Me

My story begins, revolving around a boy;
perhaps a man - a very great man,
who talks in circles or not at all but speaks the truth

The truth in lies but truth nonetheless;
for what is it Emerson said which we ignore?
he's lied behind and before but now no more.

My story continues, revolving around lists;
perhaps the planned path and decided journey,
playing by rules, conspiring the escape

My story can't end, it won't end here;
because behind every line is a lesson yet to learn,
by the final curtain call, I truly forgot how it was like to love.

You know.  Something like that.  Maybe even sprinkled with a numbering system of traits.  Or qualities.  Or a wish list from time to time.  Just something different.  I need different.

Yeah. I'll think I'll go forth it.

Do As I Say, Not As I Have Done

At 2:00 yesterday afternoon, Liv sent me a text asking if I could pick her (and Mariam) up from school.  There was just no way.  Monday's are my standard nutso days at work and yesterday was no different.  So I instructed her to take the bus home and call me.

When she called, she had the usual "plans" all mapped out. 

"What do you want to do, sweets?" I ask. 

"Mariam's brother might pick me up and bring me over to their house, or maybe her uncle, or she might come over here, or maybe you could come home and get us and go back to work and then we could eat, go to the Y, or..."

I love that she thinks that I don't have a life.  I'm sure it may have something to do with her deductive reasoning skills and equating my social calendar with my work calendar. 

After I left the office at 4:30, sped home, picked her up, dropped her off at Mariam's, it was after 5:00.  Liv's "plan" was for me to pick her back up at 6:00 so she and I could go to the Y.  Yeah, I knew that wasn't happening.  Being the cool Mom that I am, I called her about ten till six.

"I'm tired, honey, want to skip the Y tonight?"

"YES!  Good!  I can run at home later."  (To which I silently repeated the exact same response.)

The girl has been running.  Nightly.  She's up to 3 miles.  I find it only slightly intolerable and ironic that I have a Dr. appointment this Thursday at FWO.  I'm 90% sure I have a stress fracture.  I'm also 90% sure they call it such for non-ironic reasons as well.

"How about I pick you up at 7:00?"

At 6:45, my phone rings.  I could tell by the hesitation, tone, and pretend stuttering what she was about to ask.

"Um, I feel badly that you've been running me around all day, but do you think..."

"What boy, Liv?"

"HOW did you KNOW, Mom?!"

While I might not know a damn thing about it personally, I do get it.  I have gotten it at one point or another in my life.  I'm not living with the Tibetan Monks yet.  Oh wait...could you imagine?  Never mind, I still don't get it.

She wanted me to take her to meet him at the Whispering Meadows park.  "A park?  Liv, girls don't meet boys at the park."

"We're going to play basketball and throw the football around."

Man this child knows how to work me.

"Fine, but I'm going to meet him and he better have two balls in his hands when he arrives or I'll make sure he does when he leaves."

She actually laughed.  Appreciation and excitment abounded.

And wouldn't you know.  As he walked across the field (which was swarming with at least a hundred kids and parents for a practice, btw), his stupid teenage face was lighting up.  The glare off the football and basketball which he carried made him look slightly angelic. 

I look over at Liv in the passenger's seat, wearing jeans and some scrubby T-shirt.  She is also beaming, except I know with every ounce of my being that she is an angel.  My angel.

Great.

Of Course

The year was 1979 when I met my first best friend, Becky, while sitting in Mrs. Mudrack's second-grade classroom.  She was an awful teacher; even as naive and impressionable little girls, we knew this.  So the understood glances coupled with the simultaneous head nods were given, and off we went to play checkers.  Competition.  Of course we'd become fast friends.

Beck and I attended school together, church together, CCD together, and generally hung out and talked from phones attached to walls in our homes constantly.  She was a country girl; I was not.  So we each thoroughly enjoyed having sleep-overs at the other's house every weekend.  It was highly enjoyable for her to be able to walk to my house after school while sometimes (if I could talk her into it) first making a pit stop at the Library.  We'd race out the front doors as soon as the bell rang, waving good-bye to those losers on the buses.  Of course the following week, the losers were the ones walking home.

With or without the extra stop at my favorite building - the one where learning actually occurred - the walk to my house at 400 Adelaide Street consisted of cutting through the school playground, up and over the grassy hill to the cemetery, and down an alley on the other side until we reached my backyard which was marked by pine trees (and the basketball court in later years).  Becky and I would walk, skip, run and laugh all the way there, betting each other who'd reach the trees first.

We were inseparable until the sixth grade.  There was another Elementary School in the Minerva district back then - simply called "West," so as not to infuse too many syllables into words the locals had to actually read and write - that fed into the one and only Middle school.

Chelsea and Beth attended West.  And when they inseparably marched into that one and only Middle school, it was completely evident that they presumed the same level of we own this place as Beck and I did. 

There was only one thing to do.  But it took at least a month of scoping the other side out, watching interactions with one another and in particular, boys and teachers, before that one thing happened.  Several notes were passed daily; multiple debriefing phone calls were conducted nightly before it was finally concluded.

Yet even after it was officially decided, nothing was announced.  Nothing had to be, because nothing changed.  We simply joined forces and this beautiful understanding as the female version of Al, Lucky, Bugsy and Frank was born.  No questions asked. 

---------------------

It was 1987 when we rolled into High School.  Chelsea's Mom was a teacher in the Middle School, so we were quite used to working the politics by the time we encountered Beth's Dad as the Vice Principal of the High School.  It was not uncommon for us to wave to Mr. Michael at Hardy's while he was there getting his morning brew, and we were in the drive-thru ordering those tasty little warm pastries.  The ones with raisins and warm gooey icing that made your hands all sticky.  Not exactly ideal for driving around town during the remainder of 2nd period...

We were all athletes, on the basketball team together.  Becky and I ran cross country and track, while Beth and Chels played volleyball.  When we were not running the court breaking the school record for most W's our Senior Year, we would cheer loudly during games at the others' respective sports.

We were all girls, in the game of life together.  The fellowship which is required to understand, work, maneuver, cajole, avoid, stop, start, and fall in "love" with your first high school boyfriend by far supersedes all other activities we participated in together.  From Rob to Ben to Todd 1 to Jamie to Jeff to Tony to Joe to Todd 2...wow did we have some doozies.  So too, was that inseparable fellowship required when dealing with all the other catty girls in their respective gangs.  More than once I found myself running my mouth and on the verge of taking a swing at some horrid know-it-all ("all" as in my boyfriend).  That is, until one of the other three stopped me.  Or finished selling tickets and collecting cash for the main event.

First dates, first kisses, and first heartbreaks - we went through them together.  When one was down, the others grabbed her and raised her back up to proper position.  Like an Olympian team, not only did we know where we would each be on the floor during fast breaks, give-and-go's, or plays I called from the top of the key off the cuff, we also knew where we each were in terms of emotions, difficulties, struggles, and, of course, while sneaking out with a boy. 

High School was pretty great for the four of us.  Sure, we had mishaps, trouble, idiots we (fine, I) dated, but overall...I wouldn't change a thing.

-----------------------

The year was 1991.  After graduating in May, summer flew by quickly.  Chels and I went to OSU; Beth and Beck went to OU.  Around our freshman year of high school, it was also an understood that Chelsea and I were solid-ly tight, while Beck and Beth were closer to one another. There was no separation among the four of us, as any would do anything for the other three, it was just more of that kind of bond you have with someone that you know will be everlasting.  Through thick and thin.  An always friendship with a level of intimacy which cannot be, nor should be, explained.

Columbus and Athens Ohio had another thing coming when we'd visit each other.  20-30 pounds gained, but nothing lost between the four of us.  More maneuvering, more decisions about life, more boys, (way) more partying.  But, we worked through those times together, too, albeit inside of dorm rooms, frat houses, and bars instead of classrooms or houses in the village.

In fact, so well did we work through those seemingly much more adult-like times that we decided to go to Clearwater for Spring Break together our Sophomore year as a reward.  (And since I'm uncertain about that statute of limitations thing in Florida...a story for another day...)

-----------------------

It was 10 days ago.  Chels and her daughter, Schae, drove to Minerva from Columbus.  I drove to Minerva with Liv.  Beth drove to Minerva from Ashland, having just moved back from Colorado. 

As I drove down that long country lane to Becky's house - the one right next door to the house (and barn) in which she/we grew up - tears streamed down my cheek meeting the giant smile which had overtaken my face.  Liv looked over at me and, already knowing the answer, asked anyway.

Why are you crying, Mom?

My mouth opened, but no words came out.  For of course, no words could have done sufficient justice.

-------------------------

There's something about the early formation of a group.  Its beginnings, the inception of a forever camaraderie, the makings of a team.  Of course, as it was occurring, I had no idea how special it was or would remain.  I only knew, when I was little and it was new, that it was fun.  Easy. 

While certainly none of our lives have been easy and, at age (almost) 40 we are far from new - we love each other still.  Nothing will ever change that irrefutable fact. 

I've always been a sucker for that kind of bond.  It invariably creates a visual to me like the opening scene from Reservoir Dogs.  I can hear the music, I can see the faces, I can feel the peace. Twice in my lifetime have I experienced that kind of commitment, adoration, camaraderie and friendship.  And I neither take anything for granted nor forget anything about it.

So what does this girl do any time she hears from Mr. (or Ms.) Blonde, Blue, Orange, or White out of no where after a period of silent darkness?

Why she thanks God, of course.


8/10/12



1995-ish

Placements

Three things. 

One.  You may have noticed my background is now blue.  Why, you ask?  Oh, well that would be because I am utterly sick of seeing my mug pop up when I launch this site.  Not only is it ridiculous that it's there in the first place (no idea what I was doing when I created this thing), but it reminds me of a time when I was on vacation.  Relaxed.  In Israel.  So, as much as this pains me to admit, I cannot for the life of me figure out how to fix it.  I mean, I'm sure I could, however my patience level will simply not allow that to occur at this given moment. 

Two.  I have innumerable stories to share, and the bug I have to write - really write - is more colossal than the hairy spider which was taking uninvited refuge in my garage earlier.  That sucker would have caused certain death had I not immediately gotten right back in my car and reversed over and over and over it.  I don't care if a spider is a bug, an insect, some type of -pede, or Charlotte.  Whatever the correct classification, I hate them.  But I do love to write and miss doing so.  Blink and it's Friday; breathe like a horse and it's the weekend at mile 15.  So, I need to find some time.

Three.  I have a buddy who also blogs, albeit very inconsistently.  Today I fell victim to intellectual asset thievery, although he'll never admit it since he was a little piggy and went to the market with it first.

Now, is the "it" all that compelling?  No, not really.  Not really at all.  It was just some random rant about people overusing certain words and phrases of which, apparently, I am an offender.

Interesting.  The only thing I find offensive is the incorrect usage of punctuation in conjunction with quotation marks.

"They go inside."

The Show

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life.  It goes on. 

                                                                                                        --Robert Frost


I went back "home" to Ohio for our family reunion last weekend.  My family has never been large and in fact, it keeps getting smaller.  In the last two years, I've lost both grandmother's and an uncle. 

Most days, everything functions like it always has:  up early, exercise, shower/yogurt/coffee, work, Liv, dinner, work some more, read, yada yada.  Nothing stops.  That is, until something forces you.  A decision.  A choice.  An event.  The other day, it was a smell.  Cover Girl powder.  My Grandma used to swipe that across her face religiously, right before she dabbed the wrong shade of pink across her lips.  Prior to that out of no where stop, it was Velamints.  My other Grandma used to keep those in her right corner kitchen cabinet, along with her Tic-Tacs and liquid cancer-causing sweetener.

But on Sunday, it was something else.  I stopped in the middle of reunion chaos to just soak it all in.  Family.  The ease of conversation, the roots, the ribbing, the laughter, the memories, the "what is her problem?" look, the void of other relatives who used to be there.

In typical family reunion style, we were sitting around after consuming burgers, dogs, pasta salad, fruit salad, cookies and wine, swapping stories.  Of course Liv's little ride in the 5-0 cruiser led the discourse.  Lots of laughs, followed by lots of our own 1980's teenage stories.  The apple didn't fall far, nor did it miss any extended family lines either. 

My only female cousin, Lynn, shared a similar yet didn't-almost-end-up-in-Juvie, "I can't find my kid" story. She has three boys:  Chris and Josh are twins and the same age as Liv; her other son, Zach, is a year younger.  All three are gifted cross-country runners.  In the 15's for a 5k.  They asked me if I wanted to go for a run, but, um, I didn't have my shoes.

So the three of them attend a XC camp in Mentor, Ohio.  The very first day, as Lynn arrives to pick them up, Chris and Zach trot exhaustively to her car while Josh is no where to be found.

"Where's Josh?" she asks.
"No idea.  Haven't seen him for 2 hours," they respond.

On and on it goes until the camp director tells them to wait there and he'll go out and search for Josh around Mentor.  They don't hang out in Mentor.  They are unfamiliar with Mentor. The route was 11 miles and it was 100 degrees.  Not great.

The counselor finally appears - Josh in tow - and my cousin smothers her twin son with hugs and tears.  (Again, that apple...)

She mumbles something to the guy who responds oh-so-stupidly, with:  "If your kid can't hang, he shouldn't be here."

Lynn ended her expletive-ridden retort with, "When I'm done with you and this death camp - there won't BE anywhere to be!"  (Yep...)

As we're all listening to her finish the story, Lynn's older brother, Rob, just kind of smirked and said:  "I don't know what the big deal was.  You have another one just like him."

Ah, my family.  Even though we don't see each other often - even though we simply try to keep up with one another via texting, Facebook, or the occasional phone call - there's something that just "is."  Something that cannot be replaced, cannot be manufactured, cannot be expressed.  There is no pretense; there is no show.

Our lives just go on.

Exit Stage 5

Work has been insane. 

Not the usual self-induced insane, mind you, but the kind where I just need to stop. 
Slow down 
Not kill any co-workers in my office
(not even that one)

What day is it?  Wednesday?  Right now I'm drinking Seattle's Best decaf coffee, as warm drinks calm me down.  Coffee reminds me of my Grandma Mar.  I miss my Grandma's.  At exactly 9:00pm, I have to go retrieve Liv and Mariam from Yo-Yo's where they are "just chillin, Mom" with two boys and a slew of other teenagers. 

Seattle's Best.  Yeah.  I know someone who lives in Seattle thanks to evil social networking.  Don't like her.  Never met her, but she annoys the crap out of me.  I'm sure she's extremely nice and all, but the woman "hearts" every stinking picture my buddy - fine, our buddy - throws up on FaceBook or Instagram.  Does she really love every one?  E-v-e-r-y single one?  Please.  I'd like to put a picture of Saran Wrap out there and see if she hearts hugs kisses x's and o's that. 

Anyway, work.  Clearly it is work which has me totally crabby at 8:38pm on a Wednesday evening.  I've been training a new hire the last two days.  Somehow, I always get stuck with them.  Only I like this one.  Smart.  Personable.  Go-getter.  My (doesn't know 'lil miss Seattle clinger) buddy Yaves is friends with her husband, so she came to us through that channel.

Today Elsy had to sit next to me in my office all day while I did my thing.  Non-stop calls, SalesForce, tracking, prospecting, new sales, old sales, customer service situations, in-depth conversations with customers about their families, their solutions, their needs. 

On and on I talked, mentored, advised, and answered.  Trust me - I know this sounds only slightly above Wal-Mart greeter in terms of grueling, but I would have rather been schlepping trash in those little flippy things with the matching whisk broom at an Amusement Park all day.  Ok maybe not, but I'm still utterly wiped out from the whole thing.  Tried to run the scheduled 6 miles at the Y a while ago and that even kind of sucked. 

The highlight of my day was this:

As Elsy was sitting in my office, studiously taking copious notes, in walks our HR Director:

HR:  Um, Elsy, I don't mean to sound, you know, like, well, I don't know how to, like, so here's why I'm asking...
Elsy:  [Mirroring my look and patience level]

HR:  So I have to fill out this EEOC thing, well I don't HAVE to but I like to, and I don't want to guess wrong or anything so, um, what is your, what are you, - are you from Canada?
Elsy:  [Very professionally]:  By nationality, yes.  My citizenship is from Canada.  Are you asking my ethnicity?
HR:  Well, um, only if you want to, I mean...

Me:  I think she dated Tiger Woods back in the day, but I don't want to confuse you.

Elsy:  My parents are both from El Salvador.
HR:   Oh good, I was going to guess Korean!

Me:  [Dialing the phone]:  Yes, is Col. Potter available?

My One and Only (Political Rant)

I've tried.  Really.  Typically I do not engage in any type of political conversation not because I can't, but because my preference is to delay a heart attack until my inactive years (lest there be any).

I made an oath with myself long ago to learn from my mistakes.  Yeah...that's obviously an ongoing, concerted effort.  However, at the top of my "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS IDIOT, DO NOT DO THAT AGAIN" list was watching my mouth.  Proverbs 10:19 is hanging in my office:  When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise. 

Always easier said than done for me.  Certain topics strike a nerve, and when my nerves are stricken, watch out.  Well, watch out if you knew me when I was younger.  Today, just hold your breath.  It's not that I mean to go off, nor is it that I even have much of a temper.  It's just that when certain injustices occur, my passion flares up.  For passionate I am.  Unapologetically.

Speaking of that, last evening I was at the Y on the dreadmill, avoiding the inevitable heatstroke outside would have caused.  I'm zipping along at 7.2 minding my own business, when the news catches my eye.  I see his face.  I read the words scrolling along at the bottom.  7.3.  Ignore him.  Bad song on the iPod.  Look up.  7.5.  Form, sweat, run, count...form, sweat, run, count.  Keep chanting, keep chanting.  Ok, Obama.  You win. 

So I become engaged in what he is saying.  People next to me start nudging me.  I'm already enraged - why are they making me more crazy mad by touching me?

"Oh, I'm sorry - I didn't realize I said that out loud."

It was like when I'm on the court and I have no idea what trash talk comes out of my mouth.  Apparently a barrage of F-bombs were flying at that TV screen unbeknownst to me while I was now running at 8.0 - wishing that lying sack of worthless garbage was back in Chicago, working at the American Girl Store as a waiter serving lunch to those overpriced dolls.

I hate him am vigorously opposed to anything his diabolical statements, policies, and beliefs reflect.

The idiot is on the offensive.  Why?  Oh, I don't know...maybe because he initiated a series of big bullshit policies that he promised would turn the economy around and clearly - clearly they have not.

Instead of defending his numb nuts economic policies, he attacks modern capitalism as it now exists.  I could stop there and just go, honestly?  Honestly, what are you doing attacking our country - the one that epitomizes (or, at least used to) capitalism?  You ingrate, you moron.  You are blaming the system for the economy?

You what, don't like the way unsuccessful firms go bust?  Well guess what?  I don't like the way unsuccessful people go bust.  They way they quit, lay down, say ah, screw it...those smart, rich people will feed me. 

You don't like CEO salaries.  Well guess what?  You ain't worth $400k a year either (I use "ain't" so as not to be confused with one of the "smart" ones).  You don't like financial shenanigans, you don't like outsourcing and offshoring.  Why yes, President Obama, you don't like modern capitalism one iota.  It's clear. 

So what do you do?  Do you defend your Fisher Price economic policies?  Nope...just blame the system.  It's totally easy to blame someone else for your woes.  And, do it with double ferocity if your opponent (mind you, I hate am not a Romney fan either) happens to be the embodiment of that system. 

You don't like that Bain Capital invested in companies that hired workers abroad?  It's "unpatriotic" to hire Mexican or Indian workers?  Ok, I'll stop here and not point out the obvious about your ahem... questionable roots.  You think that no worthy person, right-wing right or not, would do what most global business leaders have been doing for at least the past half-century?  You're challenging the entire logic of capitalism as it has existed over several decades.  And I'm just getting warmed up.

This focus shift has been a disgrace.  Despicable.  You've not been a critic of globalization over the years of your presidency.  I can't remember you having any kind of real problem with outsourcing or offshoring.  You kiss-assedly praised people like Steve Jobs and hired people like that CEO dude of GE, whose very company embodies the upsides of globalization.

I guess I give your people props.  Admittedly (and why my blood is boiling) this attack has shifted the focus of the race from being about big government which you clearly represent - to being about capitalism, which is what I, others with a brain, and Mitt Romney represent.

You're promising voters that they can have all the benefits of capitalism without any of the downsides such as plant closures, rich (and smart) CEO's, and outsourcing.  Just like the GOP used to tell the Dems they had to have high taxes in order to get their unending list of programs, the Dems are now telling the Republicans that they need to accept the pains of creative destruction if they want their prosperity. 

Here's what I want, Mr. President.  I want to not be punished for being a go-getter.  I want to not be called "smart" or "rich" by people laying on their couches, stuffing their fat faces with Pringles that I bought them.  I want to NEVER be running on a treadmill again and read that "the reason people thrive at work and are rich is solely because of government."  Are you (stop touching me treadmill neighbor!) kidding me? 

If anything - you've taught me how NOT to behave.  How NOT to live.  What NOT to emulate. 

Spend less than you earn.  Tell the truth.  Work hard.  Put others before yourself.  Proceed with the greater good in mind.  It's not hard.

If I had my druthers, I'd live in a country which is run under a theocracy.  Literally it boils down to greed, pride, and fallible human beings.  When the leaders are corrupt, the people follow (read The Book of Judges).  By George, we're in trouble.

However [political parties] may now and then answer popular ends, they are likely in the course of time and things, to become potent engines, by which cunning, ambitious, and UNPRINCIPLED men will be enabled to subvert the power of the people and to usurp for themselves the reins of government, destroying afterwards the very engines which have lifted them to unjust dominion. 

                                                                                                --George Washington
 

The Big Screen

I realize a couple things right now which is good - seeing as how I can't figure some other things out at this moment.  One, I still need to blog about the remainder of the Nicaragua trip and two, I can (maybe) be "verbose" at times so I'll try and cut to the chase with this post.  I'm operating on about 3 hours of sleep to boot, which means this is in everyone's best interest if I can actually accomplish it. 

We're on week two of seven in our study at church within the Book of Exodus.  Specifically, we're learning about the Mishkan - God's tabernacle and portable dwelling place which had very, very specific instructions in terms of how it was to be constructed.  From the colors, materials, sizes, etc...it's all laid out purposefully.  In fact, our congregation has reconstructed a true-to-scale altar of burnt offering that sits at the front of the sanctuary.  The altar was the place you went to confess any sins and get in right relationship with God before you continued inward to the more sacred places within the tabernacle.

All that to say - it's a totally boring study.  Yes, I wholeheartedly believe everything contained in the 66 books of The Bible.  No, I am not necessarily enthralled or interested in all of it. 

So today as I was tuning out, trying to simultaneously stay awake and ditch suppressed guilt, I immediately perked up when I heard our Pastor say, "When I was a teenager, someone told me that when you die and go to Heaven, you have to answer for your life as it all plays back on a big screen.  And everyone else, both in Heaven and still on earth will be watching it with you." 

Now we all understand that's utter hogwash, but yikes!  My stomach was doing some flips on its sinking way down to my toes.  I seriously wanted to puke.  Guess that was the point.

This life can be seriously tough at times.  It can be beautiful, simplistic, ritualistic, easy and then... wham!  All of those little white picket fence adjectives can be squashed by a freight train we didn't see barreling down the tracks.  And after it makes its cataclysmal way through, the only things left are difficulty, uncertainty, and confusion. 

When you're faced with those remains, it becomes challenging to remember and adhere to bottom lines at times.  Your own decision-making train, trying as hard as it can to keep rolling down the tracks, has no idea where it is even headed.  The tracks are crooked.  They're worn.  They're tired.  Depending on the day and the load the train is carrying, it can even run out of gas altogether.

But eventually it's got to pull into that station.  That final destination which is endlessly sought after in some kind of ridiculous pursuit of...of...of what? 

Declaration-like Happiness?  Well THAT inalienable right sure is nice and gray.  Thanks for that, Tommy.  Or Mr. John Locke, not the one from Lost.

I don't know.  In the midst of all this, I turned on Oprah's OWN channel as I wanted to watch her interview with D-Wade, Chris Bosch, and that other one who is dead to me.  Inspiring?  Maybe on a day when I'm not this crabby and tired, but today those 3 just made me want to puke again for the second time.  Maybe 2010's Game 6 vs. the Celtics should be looping on Mr. Unnamed's big screen so his (let's pretend he has some) guilt cannot stay suppressed.

The only thing I do know with absolute certainty is that I would very much appreciate it if "My Life In Film" could go straight to DVD. 

And then thrown in the bottom of the Red Box abyss forever and ever, Amen.