I hate when I try to kill two birds with one stone and end up hitting myself in the head with the stone. For instance, I get the sudden urge to go to Las Vegas to see all my friends play in a tournament they're having at the Riviera. I can drive, 5 hours, or I can fly an hour but spend just as much time in each airport going both ways. I'll drive, that way I can jam up my tunes, and I'll stay at the MGM Grand because, well, I love it there. The plan is in place. I was driving from Kolby's to my place, ready to pack and bail, make sure the neighbor feeds the cat and I'm gone! Nice.
I started thinking I may as well call my eldest brother Max who lives in Blue Diamond and see if he wants to have dinner while I'm in town. I'm only staying a couple days but I can certainly be a good sister and make an effort to see him. Personally, as I'm dialing I'm hoping he and Linn aren't home, he'll see I called on the Caller ID, and the effort was made. But unfortunately he answers and we make small talk. I tell him I'll be in town for a few days. I don't tell him why because he's not thrilled I'm into pool. Don't get me wrong, I love him because he's my family. I think if he were a stranger I wouldn't know him because we would never cross each others paths in life. Anyway, I just tell him I'm coming into town and he's thrilled! I haven't seen him since Just after Mom passed and he was worried I wasn't getting out and doing things. He missed me. Wow! I had a warm feeling, my brother loves me and misses me.
Then he was like, "If you're driving out tonight you'll be in time for dinner! Linn is home for the week and we're going up to the cabin tomorrow morning and of course you'll come with us! You can drive home from the cabin on Friday, I'll mapquest it for you. You're bringing David with you, right? You're not driving alone, are you?"
Huh. Well, I never told him I broke up with David because David was the one he liked. I brought David to dinner with Max and Linn when they were in town and they liked him so much that I left that image in their heads. We went to PF Changs with them, they joined us for dinner with David's parents in Troon North, and the following day Max went golfing with David and his father and one of his father's friends. Max was impressed, David's parents loved Max and Linn...why blow a perfect picture like that? I don't have to show up anywhere with a new boyfriend for years because he has it in his head I'll marry David and he doesn't have to worry about his little sister anymore. I know I'm going to Liars Hell. *twitch*
I tell him David can't make it and I really wanted to spend time at the pool tournament at the Riviera, I hadn't really meant to spend time at the cabin--how about next time? (This is why I don't discuss my plans with anyone, by the way, as committee is death of spontaneity. I can't just go if I take others into consideration.) Max is really enthusiastic about his plan and he launches into all the fun stuff to do at the cabin, we can go on the boat, I can meet Linn's sister and brother-in-law, campfires and on, and on. I tell him I'll have to think about it, as that wasn't the vacation I'd planned. Could I call him back? Sure.
I have a headache. I can go to Vegas and not tell my brother I'm there, but I already feel my stomach twisting. I lie to my brother about all kinds of stuff as a kindness, which is the way of my people. Beyond all the things I think about Max, I know he worries about me. His little sister running around Vegas alone would start a whole new conversation. If I tell him I'm staying home and I go, and one of his friends sees me (met them all at a barbeque over wine and brie, made a favorable impression) and he finds out--bad. I want to go. I want to blow him off as I would, and have, for years, but I've also started taking the people in my life seriously.
I just can't go. I'm already having an anxiety attack because he's so sincere. The only reason I want to go to Vegas is to see my friends play pool, not to spend a few days up at the cabin. Maybe I can drop in on the peeps, wish them luck, and then go to my brother's house--I'm working it out in my head. I'll call into work this weekend so I can go to the cabin, I'll spend time with my brother and his wife, relax...that isn't bad. No! I'm driving and wondering how I let myself get into these situations. So, I dial his number and tell him a light just came on in my car, the engine light. I'd better have it checked out, probably won't be making the trip. Oh, sorry to hear that, he said, and they'll be going up to the cabin many times this summer, I should plan to come out another time.
I feel better that I'm not in Vegas, paranoid I might be spotted by one of my brother's friends, but I really want to know how my three teams are doing!!! I'll find out later, as I'm sure everyone will have good stories to tell. Next time I'll plan to go for the whole thing and not do it all last minute and I'll have to keep my private life separate from my pool life. Is it possible to live just one life?
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
LOVE a good Surprise!!!
I will not liken love to a cookie but the meaning of the cookie production is pretty close. Why do I do it? Why do I wake up one day and decide to make thousands of cookies and take them to my friends at work, my friends at the pool hall, and even my neighbors that I don't really know? I started to think about it as I was baking Paul's cookies. Paul (Chocolate Chip with walnuts, which means now I get to call him Paully Walnuts, sweet!) is a guy at the pool hall who remembers when I used to bring in tons of cookies, a gallon of milk, and we would all eat cookies until we were as round as we were tall. I forgot those days. I mean sure, I've made the cookies for co-workers, or my best friend LeAnna, up in Oregon, when she was feeling blue (Oatmeal only, no raisins, extra rum). When Paul reminded me of back when I brought in the cookies I remember being at the pool hall, bored, and just telling him out of nowhere, "I feel like baking cookies." It's just an offhanded remark that might make me a candidate for a mental institution but he does what I love people to do, he just goes with it. "What kind of cookies?" Chocolate chip. I'll fund the project if you throw in walnuts. Sold!
So, with funds in hand I buy all the stuff at the grocery store and I drive home where my mom is home watching television and she asks about the grocery bags and I tell her I'm bored and I'm going to make cookies to take to the pool hall. I ask her if she'll chop the walnuts and she does what I've always loved my mother to do, she just goes with it. Of course, she'll chop the walnuts, she just needs the nuts, a bowl, and a paring knife. By this time I have the production down, eight pans rotating in and out of the oven two at a time, and soon I have an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl full of cookies covered with foil. I have enough money left over to buy milk on the way back to the pool hall and take them in. At the time Bob Jackson is running Tommy's and he's startled to see me bring in the cookies and milk, but everyone goes nuts and he does what I like a person (who could kick me out for bringing in outside food) to do, he just goes with it. It wasn't the enjoyment that everyone did what I wanted them to do, it was that I could do something that I learned from my upbringing, from the teaching of a farmer's daughter, that was unique to me that made so many people happy at once. It was strange, sure, but fun and out of the ordinary and for once being a straight forward girl from the Midwest with down home values wasn't like being an oddity from space.
That was the kind of reception I had when I moved from Ohio to Arizona and started meet people. I was admittedly abrubt and I swore ALOT, as that was the language back home, (F**kin' A!) and I told people exactly what I thought when really they were looking for the standard answer. How are you? Fine. Beth, how are you? I could use a nap. *blink* *blink* I hadn't learned any manner of finesse and, well, I miss those days when someone says something stupid and I just let them have it!! It felt good, but lacked popularity. Nowadays, my inner editor writes out my next lines, then hits the delete button, then writes it out, then deletes it and my shoulder-side diplomat whispers in my ear that it wouldn't go over well if I really gave this person a piece of my mind. How would I ever get that piece back?? Back then I found that the only person with a thick enough skin to take all I could dish out was LeAnna because she was an Italian Chicago/New Yorker whose family, frankly, made me look like Romper Room, still do. LeAnna and I would get into shouting match fights, storm off in opposite directions, and the next day it would be friendship as usual. I never was one to hold a grudge for long and neither was she, a trait we still share. She broke me of the swearing with, "You kiss your mother with that mouth??"
So, when Paul remembered the cookies I was brought back to the days when I was my mother's daughter. I'm still my mother's daughter, but without my mother, if that makes sense. For instance, I have to think of what she would do. I can't just come home and ask her what she would do, or call her from Texas and ask her what she would do, or call her from Oregon and ask her what she would do, or call her from San Francisco and ask her what she would do. There are no new instructions she can give, no way for her to figure it out or bounce ideas back forth with me, or just tell me, "Honey, I don't know, but I'll pray for you." But most of the time after I called my mother from these places, a few days later a shipping box would show up (And really, who loves a brown shipping box more than me??) and inside would be her Russian Tea Cakes, or her Carrot Cake, or best of all, her Brownies and it would be like she shipped all that was good about home and delivered it to foreign doorsteps. That's what the cookie means. It's doing something unexpected and good for those I care for and love. I'm horrible at telling people how I feel about them, but in the tradition of my people (Midwestern people who are too blunt for their own good!) I show them how I feel by doing something for them. When I called my mother from Texas, actually, she showed up two days later. She'd hopped into her car and drove from Phoenix to (If you've ever made the drive across the Texas Panhandle, you'll know what a truly heroic gesture my mother made. I wouldn't torture people I hate with that drive.) Dallas to come get me when she knew things just weren't going to get better. I'd never felt so loved in my entire life. It was the best surprise--ever. It's nice to be rescued, y'know?
All I have of her is what I carry with me, a limitless supply of baking pans, well-used stainless steel mixing bowls, and the love for a good surprise. I can't bring everyone over to my house and feed them, make them feel warm and protected, or even solve their problems but when I forget what day of the week it is because all the days seem to melt together, or I feel like I'm rowing with all the other slaves I can make some cookies, buy some milk, and make my own holiday. Surprise!
So, with funds in hand I buy all the stuff at the grocery store and I drive home where my mom is home watching television and she asks about the grocery bags and I tell her I'm bored and I'm going to make cookies to take to the pool hall. I ask her if she'll chop the walnuts and she does what I've always loved my mother to do, she just goes with it. Of course, she'll chop the walnuts, she just needs the nuts, a bowl, and a paring knife. By this time I have the production down, eight pans rotating in and out of the oven two at a time, and soon I have an enormous stainless steel mixing bowl full of cookies covered with foil. I have enough money left over to buy milk on the way back to the pool hall and take them in. At the time Bob Jackson is running Tommy's and he's startled to see me bring in the cookies and milk, but everyone goes nuts and he does what I like a person (who could kick me out for bringing in outside food) to do, he just goes with it. It wasn't the enjoyment that everyone did what I wanted them to do, it was that I could do something that I learned from my upbringing, from the teaching of a farmer's daughter, that was unique to me that made so many people happy at once. It was strange, sure, but fun and out of the ordinary and for once being a straight forward girl from the Midwest with down home values wasn't like being an oddity from space.
That was the kind of reception I had when I moved from Ohio to Arizona and started meet people. I was admittedly abrubt and I swore ALOT, as that was the language back home, (F**kin' A!) and I told people exactly what I thought when really they were looking for the standard answer. How are you? Fine. Beth, how are you? I could use a nap. *blink* *blink* I hadn't learned any manner of finesse and, well, I miss those days when someone says something stupid and I just let them have it!! It felt good, but lacked popularity. Nowadays, my inner editor writes out my next lines, then hits the delete button, then writes it out, then deletes it and my shoulder-side diplomat whispers in my ear that it wouldn't go over well if I really gave this person a piece of my mind. How would I ever get that piece back?? Back then I found that the only person with a thick enough skin to take all I could dish out was LeAnna because she was an Italian Chicago/New Yorker whose family, frankly, made me look like Romper Room, still do. LeAnna and I would get into shouting match fights, storm off in opposite directions, and the next day it would be friendship as usual. I never was one to hold a grudge for long and neither was she, a trait we still share. She broke me of the swearing with, "You kiss your mother with that mouth??"
So, when Paul remembered the cookies I was brought back to the days when I was my mother's daughter. I'm still my mother's daughter, but without my mother, if that makes sense. For instance, I have to think of what she would do. I can't just come home and ask her what she would do, or call her from Texas and ask her what she would do, or call her from Oregon and ask her what she would do, or call her from San Francisco and ask her what she would do. There are no new instructions she can give, no way for her to figure it out or bounce ideas back forth with me, or just tell me, "Honey, I don't know, but I'll pray for you." But most of the time after I called my mother from these places, a few days later a shipping box would show up (And really, who loves a brown shipping box more than me??) and inside would be her Russian Tea Cakes, or her Carrot Cake, or best of all, her Brownies and it would be like she shipped all that was good about home and delivered it to foreign doorsteps. That's what the cookie means. It's doing something unexpected and good for those I care for and love. I'm horrible at telling people how I feel about them, but in the tradition of my people (Midwestern people who are too blunt for their own good!) I show them how I feel by doing something for them. When I called my mother from Texas, actually, she showed up two days later. She'd hopped into her car and drove from Phoenix to (If you've ever made the drive across the Texas Panhandle, you'll know what a truly heroic gesture my mother made. I wouldn't torture people I hate with that drive.) Dallas to come get me when she knew things just weren't going to get better. I'd never felt so loved in my entire life. It was the best surprise--ever. It's nice to be rescued, y'know?
All I have of her is what I carry with me, a limitless supply of baking pans, well-used stainless steel mixing bowls, and the love for a good surprise. I can't bring everyone over to my house and feed them, make them feel warm and protected, or even solve their problems but when I forget what day of the week it is because all the days seem to melt together, or I feel like I'm rowing with all the other slaves I can make some cookies, buy some milk, and make my own holiday. Surprise!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
I'm a hater!!!!
Well, perhaps I'm not a hater entirely, but I'm hating people today. Tulips and kittens have done nothing to piss me off, so I don't hate everything...and watermelon is off the hook, love watermelon, and salt water taffy is still good in my book....hmm, well, I suppose there are things not to hate today. I'm not a hater!!! I'm a situational disliker!!! Much better.
I'm flipping through my memories...
Yes, so I'm going back a couple years when I was taking care of my mother. The girls here at work are talking about sleep dep and I'm amazingly well rested, but that wasn't always the case. When I worked nights proofreading at Bowne and took care of my mother, there were many times I didn't sleep days at a row, or I had to flip my sleep schedule until I couldn't remember what hour, or even day, it was. I remember going to sleep at three in the afternoon one day, setting my alarm for seven that night after not sleeping a couple days. I woke up at six-thirty, really refreshed, wow. I felt great, well rested, and I walked out to the living room and told my mom I'd had the best sleep ever. She nodded, "Well, you should have had the best sleep ever, you've been sleeping since yesterday afternoon." Er? She'd called my boss and told her that I was crashed and my boss put me on sick time, no harm no foul, but I think it was the only time in 2 years I had over five hours of sleep. That was until JT came to visit.
Alright, so I'm getting back to the story that is making me smile now. My youngest brother JT comes in from Ohio to see my mother just after she had to begin chemo the second time. The first year she did chemo was a dream. She had no major side effects, not a lot of nausea, and most of the time she would come home from chemo, toddle off to bed, and sleep for three days. She spent a year without having to do chemo (Frankly, a little scarier than the first chemo year because she insisted on driving while she was taking morphine and vicodin. She was perfectly lucid, sure, but once she called me from the corner of 'walk' and 'don't walk' and asked me how to get home. She was parked at the corner where her church was, the church she'd been a member of for over a decade...yeah. I jumped every time my cell rang.) and when she went back to chemo she had all the worst side effects. I was beaten down exhausted when there was a knock on the door and I open it to see my brother. My people aren't big on saying we're coming to visit, and we're even worse at saying goodbye, so I roll with it. I hug him, ask him why the surprise visit, and how is he doing? (If this were my eldest brother Max he'd have his white glove ready for a surpise inspection, but JT is cool. JT thinks the place is way cleaner than his apartment and tells me it smells April fresh, whether it does or not.)
JT was at his desk one day and thought about how much he would miss his mom when she was gone, called HR to schedule a week off, and was at the airport a couple hours later. Right on. So just then my mother wakes up from her nap, hearing me talking to someone, and she toddles out to see who has come to visit. I say 'toddle' because my mother can stand and immediately move forward, like a toddler, but if she has to stand and stay in one place, her legs shake and she falls down. She sees JT and she lights up like Christmas is early this year. JT stands, he smiles down at her, she smiles up at him and I realize, they have the same smile. He hugs her and she breaks down into tears, sobbing, and I'm almost there too, until he says, "Don't start crying old lady, I'm here to make you work." Sorry? My mom looks up, puzzled, and he follows that up with, "I'm here to learn the secret carrot cake recipe. I stopped at the grocery store on the way here. Teach me, Obi-mom."
There isn't anything more my mother loved than teaching her kids how to carry on traditions and she's again smiling happily, he's going to the car to get groceries, and she asks me if I knew he was coming. I told her I had no idea, as I'm picking up loose papers, notebooks, shoes, etc, but what a lovely surprise. JT returns with enough groceries to feed, well, everyone and I ask him how many carrot cakes he's planning to make and he said there might have to be many trials to get it right. Then he tells me I look like crap (Er, thanks!) and I should go to bed. I had the day off, sure, but I had errands to run and stuff to do, so he had me make a list and ordered me to bed. He'd get it done. Even if he didn't get it done, ten minutes of JT in the house had perked my mother up from her horrible experience, and that was worth twenty promises of getting it done.
I go to crash, this time a planned crash, and I sleep. I sleep like a baby. I sleep like nothing is wrong, which is really the best sleep, ever. I wake up the next day and Mom is in her chair, JT is on the floor, and they have her piano bench between them and they're playing gin rummy. The place is clean, I mean, really really really (Did I mention 'really'???) clean, and it smells like Chinese food and carrot cake, and on the dining room table are both. He tells me to help myself, so I go to the fridge for a soda and it's packed with groceries, so I pick out a diet Coke, grab a plate and go with it. I ask him about the groceries and he said it was important for a good house guest to pitch in. Nice! Mom's kicking the crap out of him at gin rummy, I have kung pao and mom's carrot cake, all is right with the world.
Well, all week he's doing my errands, refilling mom's meds, taking her to her next chemo treatment (chemo lasts 6 hours and he stays for the whole thing, what a champ) and he takes her to see a movie (I think it was Seabiscuit because there were many jokes about dog food and glue.) and he goes shopping for her. She's lost her hair and the hat she used for the last time she did chemo is alright but she's tired of it, so he buys another hat for her, he plants a garden on our patio, and once I woke up before work to find them pigging out on pies. I mean, seriously, my mother is sitting in her chair with a cherry pie and a fork. I always joked that my mother could have whatever she wanted, if she wanted a pie and a fork I'd give it to her, and he took me seriously. The last day he was there he took her out to the Cheesecake Factory and bought her new night gowns and slippers, and they spent a couple hours having a quiet conversation I could tell was private so I didn't bother them. My mother never told me what it was about and I didn't ask. I think people should have secrets and parents should have special moments with each child individually, even if the mother is 66 and her son is 34.
I walked JT to his rental car and thanked him for the most restful week of the year. He said he'd talked to our sister Mary on his cell from the airport, told her he'd decided to visit Mom, and she'd told him I'd taken the whole thing on myself, that everything from buying all the groceries, medications, chemo co-pays--just everything came out of my pocket and she didn't know how I did it, so he wanted to give me a rest and stock us up on everything. Wow. Now, I'm not a martyr by any means and mom had an income of her own, but it wasn't much and I filled in many, many gaps but she was my mom. She paid for everything when I was growing up, it was time to return the favor, eh? I gave JT a big hug and thanked him, but then he rubbed it in that he knew mom's secret carrot cake recipe and I didn't. I asked him to fess up and he refused, and so we're both in our thirties, standing in the parking lot, arguing like we're still in our single digits. I'm telling him he owes me from the time he gave my first Barbie doll a swirlie, and he's countering with the time I pushed him off Uncle Bob's second floor terrace into Aunt Arlene's rose bushes---sheesh. A boy has his mother and aunt pull out a hundred thorns with tweezers and I spend the rest of my life living it down.
A week after he left I run out of diet Coke, move the empty refrigerator box, and find a few Costco gift cards, which I later find out total more than $2,000. I call him at the office in Ohio and yell, "Punk!" and he counters with, "Muahahahahaaaaaaaaaaa." and hangs up.
Friday, May 11, 2007
It's the third day of the journey and I feel I have lost my mind!!!
Well, maybe I haven't lost it entirely. Although, I'm pretty sure if I had lost my mind I would think my rantings are perfectly normal and I wouldn't know I was crazy. I think all the things you think and do when you think you're in love are a form of insanity.
I mention love because I've been thinking and doing crazy things inspired by someone I think I love. Well, love is the only form of insanity that makes all the craziness fit into an acceptable format. Why is Elizabeth doing those crazy things? She must be in love. Of course. My outward actions haven't been crazy, come to think of it, because I'm not good at showing emotions. Emotions are messy and they make me uncomfortable, and who really wants to see me flip out anyway??? I have lived my whole life being subtle, hiding hurt and joy, so why advertise my private life? Why indeed, unless I want to tell someone that I love him, and my inner safeguards are throwing up walls and my inner warning bells go off.
Why the walls and bells? He has a girlfriend. And when he becomes a little personal with me I mention the girlfriend (Remember her??) and he says 'So?'. That's what kills me. My need for him, to have more of him, to get to know him better is running up against my walls and shattering with the loudness of the bells. He seems to be attracted to me, and I know I'm attracted to him. It isn't just sexual heat, but a feeling of comfort I have with him that I can tell him things (Well, apparently not that I love him...) but how I really feel about other things, things I don't tell anyone but family. He feels like family. There's a shade of moral ambiguity there that scares me a little.
Of course, I'm not the marrying kind, and seriously, I'd rather have my toenails ripped out than have someone think they can tell me what to do for the rest of my life, so I'm not in it for a committment, but I don't want to mess up someone else's relationship. Wherever you leak the world hangs a bucket (Gallagher), and the wrongs you do always catch up to you eventually. Even if they don't catch up to hurt me, I'm hurting someone else. I just can't do it. My moral compass still points due North, no matter how tempting the man. (Although there were days when it was starting to point just East of North, but I snapped out of it.)
I'm experiencing the acceptable form of crazy without any chance of finding out if he feels the same way. There are some questions that, once asked, can't be taken back.
*sigh*
I'm at work, making productive use of my down time. The system isn't down but we aren't all that busy and I have time to discuss my day. I'm working OT today, which, seriously, is my favorite part of the week. I like working the overtime far better than working the original 40 hours. For instance, if I'm dead tired of the place I can go home early without consequence, but I would really have to be tired to do such a thing. For example, if the beep of my phone is also used as my sleep alarm, it's time to go home.
I could have gone to play pool tonight but I would be thinking of the extra money I could be making and my fun would be stained with guilt. I reserve Tuesday for fun. On Tuesday I never feel guilty for avoiding overtime, or dodging errands I have to run, or sleeping all day. I reserve Tuesday just for me and pleasure. I also have Wednesday and Thursday off, so Wednesday is the day I run errands and maybe work OT, and Thursday is just for overtime. When I work the overtime I think about my next vacation.
I don't live for vacation, but I think about it a lot. I have three weeks of vacation to take before the end of the year and always I have two wildcard choices. A wildcard vacation is when I pack my backpack with a couple outfits, some survival stuff (Go without my favorite hair conditioner? Nuh-uh.), and some snacks and I park my car in long term parking at the airport. I walk into airport and go to an airline counter and find out which flights are available, what they cost, and take the first one that sounds reasonable. I've done this twice and each time has been really cool. I usually have enough time to call Alamo Car Rental to reserve a rental car for the week for the place where I just found out I'm going. I get where I'm going, ask which way to a cheap motel and good food, and I'm on my way. I've been to Tennesee and Alaska and each time was fun, although when I went to Alaska I ended up buying a snow jacket and gloves when I landed, but I still had fun. I go, I hang out, I ask people what I should see as a stranger to their land, and I do the tourist thing. It's random and often more expensive than if I had reserved a flight with any sort of notice, but I find I come home refreshed with good memories.
So two weeks, or maybe two long weekends will be wildcards, then I plan to go to Oregon to celebrate my 35th birthday with my best friend LeAnna and there will be a trip to Ohio this fall. I feel Ohio calling to me. When I go home just about everything is just how I remember it. If I go early enough in the fall I can hit the sweet spot when the little ice cream place that is in business all summer, that has a different flavor of the month (Apple pie ice cream, anyone?) every month, I can do a day or two at Cedar Point, as three days seems to be my limit, and I can watch Cleveland Browns football with my brother. JT loves football. Now, when I say this, I don't mean he paints himself orange and brown for the games, but he knows the stats of every player on every team, he plays Madden for Playstation with his very best friend Tom, and he really likes explain the game to me. Now, whether I know anything about football or not, I let him educate me on the game. His eyes light up, he can tell me about the college careers of all the players, how fast they ran the forty, the importance of knowing when to go offsides--all stuff I can live without knowing, but it's important to him so I enjoy learning about it. Also, it's time well spent with my brother, priceless.
JT is my youngest brother, 4 years older than me, and we are of the same generation. My oldest brother Max is 15 years older than me and we have absolutely nothing in common. When I go to visit Max he has the same light in his eyes, the same fervor, but he's talking about mutual funds and my retirement portfolio. I listen respectfully because everyone has something to say, but the setting with Max is always more formal. There are cocktails (Seriously, if someone offers you a Manhattan, run the other way!) pretentions, and there are always questions about my finances. I mean, seriously, I've never asked him about his finances--why should he care about mine?? Well, in my role as his baby sister, he feels it's his duty to make sure I'm not screwing my finances into the ground. Of course, as his baby sister, I feel it's better that there are things he doesn't know about my finances. For example, he doesn't know how much money I make, which mutual funds are actually in my portfolio, and how much money I blow on books I haven't read yet. His baby sister's ficticious portfolio and spending habits are very conservative, and that's the impression I want him to have.
Actually, since I'm talking brothers, if I were to visit my brother Chuck we would end up going to a baseball game, playing electronic trivia in a bar, and hanging out with my two oldest nephews and a good time would be had by all. If I spent time with my brother Robert (who I just saw the other day, which is a different story) we would be either drinking tons of beer, or tons of soda, depending whether he's on the wagon or not and having a barbeque of some sort. The man lives to grill stuff, who am I to judge?
So, back to vacations. Home calls to me and I go. It's about tradition, timing, and the sense of belonging I get when I go to a Cuyahoga Falls Tigers Varsity football game with JT, or hiking the Gorge, or snow sledding at the Cuyahoga Falls National Park and Reserve if I take my vacation a few weeks later.
I'm here working OT, planning the best use of my vacation time, which, in my opinion, is time well spent.
34 Things About Me
(I update this list every year.)
1. I suck at tennis.
2. I marvel at people who can do crafts, really good crafts that last for decades and centuries.
3. I’m never going to be thin.
4.Funny people stimulate me, until I realize their shtick only goes so far.
5. Similar to #4, intelligent people stimulate me, until I realize their depth and breadth of knowledge only goes so far, and they aren’t willing to learn more.
6. I always thought I loved all people in a global political correct sorta way…but I really don’t.
7. After considered thought on the topic, I couldn’t give a shit who is president.
8. Nobody (else) ever advertises when they’ve screwed up, but they have.
9. There are limits for any one thing to give me pleasure.
10. I’ll never know everything, and I’m not even sure the things I know now are accurate.
11. There are a lot of great people who don’t know they’re great.
12. There are a lot of people who suck, who don’t know they suck.
13. I love lasagna. Even bad lasagna is good lasagna.
14. I laugh at the people who pour their heart out to Oprah, but you know I’d tell her anything, and cry like a baby, if I were invited on the show.
15. I’m not a guy, but I cringe at feminine hygiene commercials.
16. I can’t stand oysters, or even the thought of others eating oysters…ewwwwwwwww.
17. I don’t care how old he gets; I’ll always have a thing for Paul Newman.
18. I’m never going to be a role model.
19. Everyone has, or has had, aspirations.
20. Not everyone is going to like me, and if they don’t, why should I give a shit if they don’t? Pfft.
21. Every time I eat French silk pie, which I adore, it makes me sick to my stomach.
22. It’s just easier in the long run to do things the right way. Short cuts are always going to end up being more work.
23. Now I know why old people have so many quirks because the older I get, the more I pick up.
24. I’m reserving #24 for the stuff I’ll never tell anyone. ANYONE.
25. I like prunes.
26. I'm fascinated with anyone who can play the violin well.
27. There are people who have to concentrate hard just to be nice, and they aren’t fooling anybody.
28. I know I’ll never be refined and elegant. (Raised by wolves)
29. I like art, but if it looks like something I could have done, I don’t consider it art.
30. I’m sorry I lost touch with all the people I don’t know how to reach anymore.
31. I have a short list of family members I’ve added to my ‘strangers’ list, and they’re so self-involved they haven’t noticed.
32. It’s God’s little bastard joke that a woman who loves cheesecake as much as I do is lactose intolerant.
33. I want everybody to be happy, even people I don't like.
34. I turn 35 in June, which puts me in a different marketing bracket and that's just a little depressing.
1. I suck at tennis.
2. I marvel at people who can do crafts, really good crafts that last for decades and centuries.
3. I’m never going to be thin.
4.Funny people stimulate me, until I realize their shtick only goes so far.
5. Similar to #4, intelligent people stimulate me, until I realize their depth and breadth of knowledge only goes so far, and they aren’t willing to learn more.
6. I always thought I loved all people in a global political correct sorta way…but I really don’t.
7. After considered thought on the topic, I couldn’t give a shit who is president.
8. Nobody (else) ever advertises when they’ve screwed up, but they have.
9. There are limits for any one thing to give me pleasure.
10. I’ll never know everything, and I’m not even sure the things I know now are accurate.
11. There are a lot of great people who don’t know they’re great.
12. There are a lot of people who suck, who don’t know they suck.
13. I love lasagna. Even bad lasagna is good lasagna.
14. I laugh at the people who pour their heart out to Oprah, but you know I’d tell her anything, and cry like a baby, if I were invited on the show.
15. I’m not a guy, but I cringe at feminine hygiene commercials.
16. I can’t stand oysters, or even the thought of others eating oysters…ewwwwwwwww.
17. I don’t care how old he gets; I’ll always have a thing for Paul Newman.
18. I’m never going to be a role model.
19. Everyone has, or has had, aspirations.
20. Not everyone is going to like me, and if they don’t, why should I give a shit if they don’t? Pfft.
21. Every time I eat French silk pie, which I adore, it makes me sick to my stomach.
22. It’s just easier in the long run to do things the right way. Short cuts are always going to end up being more work.
23. Now I know why old people have so many quirks because the older I get, the more I pick up.
24. I’m reserving #24 for the stuff I’ll never tell anyone. ANYONE.
25. I like prunes.
26. I'm fascinated with anyone who can play the violin well.
27. There are people who have to concentrate hard just to be nice, and they aren’t fooling anybody.
28. I know I’ll never be refined and elegant. (Raised by wolves)
29. I like art, but if it looks like something I could have done, I don’t consider it art.
30. I’m sorry I lost touch with all the people I don’t know how to reach anymore.
31. I have a short list of family members I’ve added to my ‘strangers’ list, and they’re so self-involved they haven’t noticed.
32. It’s God’s little bastard joke that a woman who loves cheesecake as much as I do is lactose intolerant.
33. I want everybody to be happy, even people I don't like.
34. I turn 35 in June, which puts me in a different marketing bracket and that's just a little depressing.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Mom
(transferred from my last blog and deserved to come over, this was done on February 27, 2005, the one about my Dad was in 2006)
In the end her breathing was labored, gurgling, tense with the death rattle that was an indication that she was ready to make her departure. I suppose in my mind I was thinking she would go with a serene look on her face, an angelic glow would surround her lovely face, and perhaps organ music would play in the background. Unfortunately the concept in my head was a far off dream or a pretty scene in a film I once saw because the actuality of the situation was not at all appealing. To answer the long standing question, "What happens when we die?", you don't want to know.
So then my mind drifted back to the days before my mother was sick, and even when I lived over a thousand miles away I could just pick up the phone and tell her about whatever situation I was facing and she would give me an answer. You see, the thing about my mother was, she always considered my dilemma thoroughly and she gave me the right answer. How can one person always be right? When she didn't know, she said she didn't know, which was correct. If it was a matter of right or wrong, she knew what was right.
When there was an opening to interject her own personal bias into her answer, she never took that opportunity. In short, my mother was truly wise. Her lovely blue eyes saw through people who weren't who they said they were, but she didn't embarrass them by exposing their idiocy. When it was right to roll up her sleeves and pitch in to help a person in need she did so without hesitation and she knew when to step back and give a person space.When my mother heard someone was going to have a baby she would ask if they knew the sex and that same day her hands would begin working on a baby blanket. Pink. Blue. Lavender. White with a light green edging. She could watch television or listen to music and yarn would flow through her fingers to be formed into a blanket that would swaddle a newborn, provide warmth and protection from the elements. It's amazing what a person can do with a piece of string. I still have mine.
My mother married, gave birth to seven children, divorced, earned her bachelor's degree from the University of Akron when she was over forty years old, raised her children with a firm hand and warm heart, played piano for her church, donated her body to science, and could count her regrets on one hand. Everyone should be so lucky.Elizabeth Ann Heeman09/13/1936 to 02/25/2005
In the end her breathing was labored, gurgling, tense with the death rattle that was an indication that she was ready to make her departure. I suppose in my mind I was thinking she would go with a serene look on her face, an angelic glow would surround her lovely face, and perhaps organ music would play in the background. Unfortunately the concept in my head was a far off dream or a pretty scene in a film I once saw because the actuality of the situation was not at all appealing. To answer the long standing question, "What happens when we die?", you don't want to know.
So then my mind drifted back to the days before my mother was sick, and even when I lived over a thousand miles away I could just pick up the phone and tell her about whatever situation I was facing and she would give me an answer. You see, the thing about my mother was, she always considered my dilemma thoroughly and she gave me the right answer. How can one person always be right? When she didn't know, she said she didn't know, which was correct. If it was a matter of right or wrong, she knew what was right.
When there was an opening to interject her own personal bias into her answer, she never took that opportunity. In short, my mother was truly wise. Her lovely blue eyes saw through people who weren't who they said they were, but she didn't embarrass them by exposing their idiocy. When it was right to roll up her sleeves and pitch in to help a person in need she did so without hesitation and she knew when to step back and give a person space.When my mother heard someone was going to have a baby she would ask if they knew the sex and that same day her hands would begin working on a baby blanket. Pink. Blue. Lavender. White with a light green edging. She could watch television or listen to music and yarn would flow through her fingers to be formed into a blanket that would swaddle a newborn, provide warmth and protection from the elements. It's amazing what a person can do with a piece of string. I still have mine.
My mother married, gave birth to seven children, divorced, earned her bachelor's degree from the University of Akron when she was over forty years old, raised her children with a firm hand and warm heart, played piano for her church, donated her body to science, and could count her regrets on one hand. Everyone should be so lucky.Elizabeth Ann Heeman09/13/1936 to 02/25/2005
Dear Old Dad
(Transferred from my last blog, one of my faves. It explains why I don't hang out with my Dad. Originally Posted 2006)
So, I finally speak with my father (in town, wants to see me, pelting me with phone calls) to find out he and Jane (stepmother) are leaving on Tuesday evening and since I've ducked them all weekend, I'm obligated to have lunch with them today. I'd rather plan to have lunch with them on Wednesday, but I don't seem to have a choice in the matter. I do have a choice, as Dad doesn't know where I live, I can easily avoid my cell phone, and if all that fails, I can forget I speak English, but he's getting old and regardless of who he is, I respect oldness.
Finally I call him back to set a time and place for the Heeman Cactus Showdown 2006 and he lets me pick the place. I choose, of course, The Cheesecake Factory, because if all else doesn't go well, I have cheesecake.
I dress up in my red outfit, which is light enough not to be stifling, I do my hair, nails and toes are perfect and I'm at my girly best. I expect my father to be different from what I remember, horribly aged, possibly sporting a walker, but really, he looks like him but with gray hair. His wife Jane looks much older, but her hair is dyed the same 'not to be found in nature' shade of red I remembering it being when I was five, and ten, and seventeen. She's got a sweet smile and swallows her stress, and though we have nothing in common, she shares my last name, so I give her a somewhat realistic, pleasant hug. Boy, she looks younger than ever, it's nice to see her, finally. During the hug I note that she has that old person hollowness, as though her bones were as delicate as that of a bird, easily broken if pressure were to be applied. I hug my father, who is as solid as ever. Of course he has a gut and his shoulders seem a little thinner, but I have no doubt as to his health, which is both annoying and reassuring. Why is it the bad parent who lives the longest??
We are seated promptly in a booth, so I'm sitting across from them, which brings back the time I was eight and found Bob's Big Boy mashed potatoes travel well when flung from a spoon and are really tough to get out of the hair of a woman who has her hair done once a week (Jane) with several coats of Aqua Net, applied daily. I bet cheesecake would travel at greater velocity and be harder to remove but, pfft, I'm a grownup. I'm pretty happy that, while I'm older now, I'm still a juvenile at heart. My father studies me and I have a feeling he too is remembering the mashed potato melee of '80 and the corner of his mouth tightens a little.
I don't want to tell my father anything, give him information that can be used against me later, or that can be related to relatives I no longer remember, nor care to remember. My brothers and sister, every time we get together, rehash what they remember of Dad's sister Phyllis, his brother Ben, weird Uncle Ben, but they never seem to be able to tell me how he earned that title, and my father's other two brothers. If I met any of these people I was still in diapers and while my attention at the time was spent on filling said diaper, I couldn't remember their faces.Though, while my father is staring at me, and then after he begins examining the menu as though dining at a place with more than 10 items on the menu is like reading Greek, I try to think why I don't like him. He was never abusive, really, and though he wasn't very sensitive, I can't remember a time when he was hugely unkind. All things given, I probably have a hotter temper than my father, so I can't fault him for being hot headed.
Other than having a long standing attachment to Elvis and Oreos, I really don't remember why I don't like him. But then, I think it's subtler than that, a natural uneasiness. If I were a basketball player on a professional team, I would be able to play anywhere, but I feel better about playing at home (Mom), where the fans love me and want me to win, than away (Dad), where the fans might appreciate my talent, but most definitely want me to lose.
We order and I wait for my father to explain why he called this meeting, to tell me something important, to do something overtly offensive, but nothing comes. Of course, we aren't really talking, either. I take the lead. (How are you enjoying Arizona? Who are you here to visit? We sure have a lot of cacti, eh?) After we receive our meals we discuss the loveliness of the food, very tasty (as the Midwesterners say when they really have nothing specific to say) and so much of it. Huh. Mid-meal, my father mentions how sorry he was to hear about my mother. I nod, expecting him to go on, to say something good about her, or bad about her to which I can react, but he simply goes on with his meal. Maybe we'll get out of this meal without an argument.Jane doesn't say anything, which is Jane's lot in life. Jane knows I don't remember the names of her children, who were in their twenties by the time she married my father, who is eight years her junior. She can't say anything about my mother because she understands that she lost that race decades ago. She can simply sit there, look pleasant, and eventually she admires the length of the list of cheesecakes and in true Jane fashion, she orders plain cheese cake, no topping, no whipped cream. My father orders Oreo, no surprise, and I order white chocolate/raspberry, and apparently with dessert comes the time to talk.
My father tells me he thinks it would be better if I moved back to Ohio. (Better? I'm thinking that my version of better and his version are entirely two different betters.) Better, he goes on, because he worries that I'll grow old without really enjoying life. I ask him why he thinks I don't already enjoy my life and he counters by saying that he talked to my sister Mary and the way she tells it, I don't attend church. Um, alright, I admit it, I don't attend church. And then I ask the stupidest question, blatantly inviting the kind of speech that might be delivered by an evangelist or some other manner of religious zealot. But, from what I remember, my father isn't one for religious zeal. I remember he and Jane went to church, but it was non-denominational, the least they could get away with and maintain the moral high ground. I ask, why is he bringing up religion?Not only do I refrain from going to church, he goes on, but I play pool, and poker, and I smoke—which is where I cut him off, as I quit smoking three years ago. How about the poker and pool? Now his tone is accusatory in the 'they have a reservation in hell for you' sorta way and I say in a voice loud enough for people in hell, the ones holding my reservation, to hear, "I play pool. I play poker. (Well, really, I watch poker on television, but I'm not willing to back down.) What does any of that have to do with you??"And my Dad just goes with it, in a voice I haven't heard since I beamed my brother JT in the head with a can of baked beans when I was nine, "If you don't know how to manage your life, Elizabeth, obviously you aren't the best person for the job!"Enter, the silence.
The silence was punctuated with people staring at us from every direction, and I opened my purse and drew out enough money to pay for my meal. My father told me he was paying for lunch, and I assured him I didn't want to owe him anything, and I walked out.*sigh* At least the cheesecake was good.
So, I finally speak with my father (in town, wants to see me, pelting me with phone calls) to find out he and Jane (stepmother) are leaving on Tuesday evening and since I've ducked them all weekend, I'm obligated to have lunch with them today. I'd rather plan to have lunch with them on Wednesday, but I don't seem to have a choice in the matter. I do have a choice, as Dad doesn't know where I live, I can easily avoid my cell phone, and if all that fails, I can forget I speak English, but he's getting old and regardless of who he is, I respect oldness.
Finally I call him back to set a time and place for the Heeman Cactus Showdown 2006 and he lets me pick the place. I choose, of course, The Cheesecake Factory, because if all else doesn't go well, I have cheesecake.
I dress up in my red outfit, which is light enough not to be stifling, I do my hair, nails and toes are perfect and I'm at my girly best. I expect my father to be different from what I remember, horribly aged, possibly sporting a walker, but really, he looks like him but with gray hair. His wife Jane looks much older, but her hair is dyed the same 'not to be found in nature' shade of red I remembering it being when I was five, and ten, and seventeen. She's got a sweet smile and swallows her stress, and though we have nothing in common, she shares my last name, so I give her a somewhat realistic, pleasant hug. Boy, she looks younger than ever, it's nice to see her, finally. During the hug I note that she has that old person hollowness, as though her bones were as delicate as that of a bird, easily broken if pressure were to be applied. I hug my father, who is as solid as ever. Of course he has a gut and his shoulders seem a little thinner, but I have no doubt as to his health, which is both annoying and reassuring. Why is it the bad parent who lives the longest??
We are seated promptly in a booth, so I'm sitting across from them, which brings back the time I was eight and found Bob's Big Boy mashed potatoes travel well when flung from a spoon and are really tough to get out of the hair of a woman who has her hair done once a week (Jane) with several coats of Aqua Net, applied daily. I bet cheesecake would travel at greater velocity and be harder to remove but, pfft, I'm a grownup. I'm pretty happy that, while I'm older now, I'm still a juvenile at heart. My father studies me and I have a feeling he too is remembering the mashed potato melee of '80 and the corner of his mouth tightens a little.
I don't want to tell my father anything, give him information that can be used against me later, or that can be related to relatives I no longer remember, nor care to remember. My brothers and sister, every time we get together, rehash what they remember of Dad's sister Phyllis, his brother Ben, weird Uncle Ben, but they never seem to be able to tell me how he earned that title, and my father's other two brothers. If I met any of these people I was still in diapers and while my attention at the time was spent on filling said diaper, I couldn't remember their faces.Though, while my father is staring at me, and then after he begins examining the menu as though dining at a place with more than 10 items on the menu is like reading Greek, I try to think why I don't like him. He was never abusive, really, and though he wasn't very sensitive, I can't remember a time when he was hugely unkind. All things given, I probably have a hotter temper than my father, so I can't fault him for being hot headed.
Other than having a long standing attachment to Elvis and Oreos, I really don't remember why I don't like him. But then, I think it's subtler than that, a natural uneasiness. If I were a basketball player on a professional team, I would be able to play anywhere, but I feel better about playing at home (Mom), where the fans love me and want me to win, than away (Dad), where the fans might appreciate my talent, but most definitely want me to lose.
We order and I wait for my father to explain why he called this meeting, to tell me something important, to do something overtly offensive, but nothing comes. Of course, we aren't really talking, either. I take the lead. (How are you enjoying Arizona? Who are you here to visit? We sure have a lot of cacti, eh?) After we receive our meals we discuss the loveliness of the food, very tasty (as the Midwesterners say when they really have nothing specific to say) and so much of it. Huh. Mid-meal, my father mentions how sorry he was to hear about my mother. I nod, expecting him to go on, to say something good about her, or bad about her to which I can react, but he simply goes on with his meal. Maybe we'll get out of this meal without an argument.Jane doesn't say anything, which is Jane's lot in life. Jane knows I don't remember the names of her children, who were in their twenties by the time she married my father, who is eight years her junior. She can't say anything about my mother because she understands that she lost that race decades ago. She can simply sit there, look pleasant, and eventually she admires the length of the list of cheesecakes and in true Jane fashion, she orders plain cheese cake, no topping, no whipped cream. My father orders Oreo, no surprise, and I order white chocolate/raspberry, and apparently with dessert comes the time to talk.
My father tells me he thinks it would be better if I moved back to Ohio. (Better? I'm thinking that my version of better and his version are entirely two different betters.) Better, he goes on, because he worries that I'll grow old without really enjoying life. I ask him why he thinks I don't already enjoy my life and he counters by saying that he talked to my sister Mary and the way she tells it, I don't attend church. Um, alright, I admit it, I don't attend church. And then I ask the stupidest question, blatantly inviting the kind of speech that might be delivered by an evangelist or some other manner of religious zealot. But, from what I remember, my father isn't one for religious zeal. I remember he and Jane went to church, but it was non-denominational, the least they could get away with and maintain the moral high ground. I ask, why is he bringing up religion?Not only do I refrain from going to church, he goes on, but I play pool, and poker, and I smoke—which is where I cut him off, as I quit smoking three years ago. How about the poker and pool? Now his tone is accusatory in the 'they have a reservation in hell for you' sorta way and I say in a voice loud enough for people in hell, the ones holding my reservation, to hear, "I play pool. I play poker. (Well, really, I watch poker on television, but I'm not willing to back down.) What does any of that have to do with you??"And my Dad just goes with it, in a voice I haven't heard since I beamed my brother JT in the head with a can of baked beans when I was nine, "If you don't know how to manage your life, Elizabeth, obviously you aren't the best person for the job!"Enter, the silence.
The silence was punctuated with people staring at us from every direction, and I opened my purse and drew out enough money to pay for my meal. My father told me he was paying for lunch, and I assured him I didn't want to owe him anything, and I walked out.*sigh* At least the cheesecake was good.
And so, I begin.
This is my first post, the first impression I provide, but the people who read this already know me so there won't be a great many surprises, but hopefully many great surprises.
I'm living in Arizona, on which I'm of two minds. One side of my brain loves to be near my friends, playing pool in pool halls that feel like home, able to access Filibertos (Or his lesser known, slightly shady cousins Elibertos, Rodibertos, and Alibertos) at 3 in the morning, and gamefully employed at Amex. I live in a nice place, drive a car that works, and I'm able to support my book buying habit so I have reading material until I die. Other people do drugs, I buy books, as boredom is the enemy. The other side of my brain keeps reminding me that it's the desert, triple digit weather is on its way, there are only two seasons (Hot and Not as Hot), and I miss having four seasons. I miss Cedar Point, living near my youngest brother JT so I can go over to his house and geek out on football and board games, and snow. Ah...snow. Pardon me while I take a moment and visualize snow...
Alright, I'm back. Anyway, I'll deal with the first side of my brain, as it involves having a nice, stable existance where I can play pool as much as I like, and now that I've instituted my 'wildcard vacation' plan (I'll explain that on the next post.) every time I get sick of the place I hop a plane to parts unknown. I have an autonomous life, for the most part, which means I don't have to run my plans of any sort past anyone before I go, or stay, or so something fabulous, or do something stupid. I most certainly wouldn't want someone to stop me from doing something stupid, as the most valuble lessons lurk behind a bad idea.
Now let us see what goes on with the other half of my brain, which always wants to go. Most of the time it has nothing to do with moving, but more with not wanting to be where I am than going other places. When I'm angry, especially, I don't want to really give someone a piece of my mind or cause a scene, so I just go. I've recently been given feedback on my quick exits so I'm trying to be a better social citizen and actually say 'goodbye' when I leave. The thing is, I think I exit a place without the fanfare because I hate when people ask me, 'Why are you leaving?', which I don't think they understand is a loaded question. If I'm mad, the reason for leaving is to go sort out why I'm angry in my head before I unleash it on the world. Usually, left to my own devices, I can forgive and forget before I've even left the parking lot, but what if I'm really irate? Who needs to see that? If I'm tired of the scene, I don't want my friends to think they have to make life more exciting for me to stick around. The other day I left due to a wardrobe malfunction but I was likely to come back, so do I say goodbye, but not goodbye? Did my friends really need to know that the reason I was leaving because my pants were too big and falling off my tush as I bent over to play pool? I guess I could have said 'I'll be back in awhile...', but I wasn't sure I was coming back. What if I want to go to another pool hall after I do the adjustment on my jeans? Now you know the thoughts that go through my head, I've revealed the level of silly freak I am, eh?
Of course, I miss coming home and bouncing ideas off my Mom. Mom knew everything. I could come home ticked about something and run the situation past her and she would tell me why I was a jerk, or ask my why I felt guilty over some stupid thing someone else did, or whatever fit the situation. I miss that. She passed away in February of 2005 and it still feels like yesterday. She still lives in my dreams. Of course, in those dreams I'm 8 years old, chasing fire flies in the front yard and my mother is standing on our old front porch, wiping her hands with a dish towel, shouting that supper is ready. She's tall (according to my eight year old self, when in actuality she was only 5'3"), strong, and a force of nature. She yells for supper and 7 kids come from all over the neighborhood, running home to clean up before eating. In my dreams she's alive, I live in Ohio in a house that now looks nothing like the house where I grew up (It wasn't as pretty when I lived there. Aluminum siding really does make a difference.), but in my dreams it never changed. Sometimes I'm really upset I had to wake up and it's that upset that tells me Arizona wasn't meant to be my home. I'm not planning to leave now, but it always lives in the back of my mind. I've discovered, actually, that I can travel without having to move my entire life, and Arizona is as good as any launching pad I've had. I'm here physically, if not in spirit.
Anyway, if you read what I write you'll learn more about me than perhaps you ever wanted to know, and if you're my friend Amy it should be dull reading, because I tell you everything anyway. =D Welcome to my inner thoughts and remember, forgiveness is divine.
I'm living in Arizona, on which I'm of two minds. One side of my brain loves to be near my friends, playing pool in pool halls that feel like home, able to access Filibertos (Or his lesser known, slightly shady cousins Elibertos, Rodibertos, and Alibertos) at 3 in the morning, and gamefully employed at Amex. I live in a nice place, drive a car that works, and I'm able to support my book buying habit so I have reading material until I die. Other people do drugs, I buy books, as boredom is the enemy. The other side of my brain keeps reminding me that it's the desert, triple digit weather is on its way, there are only two seasons (Hot and Not as Hot), and I miss having four seasons. I miss Cedar Point, living near my youngest brother JT so I can go over to his house and geek out on football and board games, and snow. Ah...snow. Pardon me while I take a moment and visualize snow...
Alright, I'm back. Anyway, I'll deal with the first side of my brain, as it involves having a nice, stable existance where I can play pool as much as I like, and now that I've instituted my 'wildcard vacation' plan (I'll explain that on the next post.) every time I get sick of the place I hop a plane to parts unknown. I have an autonomous life, for the most part, which means I don't have to run my plans of any sort past anyone before I go, or stay, or so something fabulous, or do something stupid. I most certainly wouldn't want someone to stop me from doing something stupid, as the most valuble lessons lurk behind a bad idea.
Now let us see what goes on with the other half of my brain, which always wants to go. Most of the time it has nothing to do with moving, but more with not wanting to be where I am than going other places. When I'm angry, especially, I don't want to really give someone a piece of my mind or cause a scene, so I just go. I've recently been given feedback on my quick exits so I'm trying to be a better social citizen and actually say 'goodbye' when I leave. The thing is, I think I exit a place without the fanfare because I hate when people ask me, 'Why are you leaving?', which I don't think they understand is a loaded question. If I'm mad, the reason for leaving is to go sort out why I'm angry in my head before I unleash it on the world. Usually, left to my own devices, I can forgive and forget before I've even left the parking lot, but what if I'm really irate? Who needs to see that? If I'm tired of the scene, I don't want my friends to think they have to make life more exciting for me to stick around. The other day I left due to a wardrobe malfunction but I was likely to come back, so do I say goodbye, but not goodbye? Did my friends really need to know that the reason I was leaving because my pants were too big and falling off my tush as I bent over to play pool? I guess I could have said 'I'll be back in awhile...', but I wasn't sure I was coming back. What if I want to go to another pool hall after I do the adjustment on my jeans? Now you know the thoughts that go through my head, I've revealed the level of silly freak I am, eh?
Of course, I miss coming home and bouncing ideas off my Mom. Mom knew everything. I could come home ticked about something and run the situation past her and she would tell me why I was a jerk, or ask my why I felt guilty over some stupid thing someone else did, or whatever fit the situation. I miss that. She passed away in February of 2005 and it still feels like yesterday. She still lives in my dreams. Of course, in those dreams I'm 8 years old, chasing fire flies in the front yard and my mother is standing on our old front porch, wiping her hands with a dish towel, shouting that supper is ready. She's tall (according to my eight year old self, when in actuality she was only 5'3"), strong, and a force of nature. She yells for supper and 7 kids come from all over the neighborhood, running home to clean up before eating. In my dreams she's alive, I live in Ohio in a house that now looks nothing like the house where I grew up (It wasn't as pretty when I lived there. Aluminum siding really does make a difference.), but in my dreams it never changed. Sometimes I'm really upset I had to wake up and it's that upset that tells me Arizona wasn't meant to be my home. I'm not planning to leave now, but it always lives in the back of my mind. I've discovered, actually, that I can travel without having to move my entire life, and Arizona is as good as any launching pad I've had. I'm here physically, if not in spirit.
Anyway, if you read what I write you'll learn more about me than perhaps you ever wanted to know, and if you're my friend Amy it should be dull reading, because I tell you everything anyway. =D Welcome to my inner thoughts and remember, forgiveness is divine.
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