The View Askance

Years ago, I married into a pre-Revolutionary war family in the rural Piedmont of North Carolina. I’ve since left the family, but it’s very safe to say that the majority of my in-laws (and there were an awful lot of them) voted for W. in both his first and second term of office.

Well duh, Over 50% of the nation voted for him. At least in his second term. I maintain that he was appointed, not elected in 2000. In any case, my point is this: Until Hurricane Katrina (which we can probably all agree was really the beginning of the end), the average American thought that Bush was A-OK. It’s very popular to hate him these days, but we are theoretically still living in a democracy - he was hired by the American public in 2004 with eyes wide open.

I’ve thought often lately of what he must be thinking and feeling as he leaves office. When I left my marriage, I was reviled and ostracized as the ‘bad guy’ in our social circle. Can you imagine being hated by, conservatively speaking, over a billion people worldwide? I’m way too co-dependent. I’d quite simply have to pitch myself off the roof.

These days Bush bashing has become something of a National pastime. Other than the folks at Fox, no one seems to be on hand to defend our recently departed leader. Aside from universally screwing up the last 8 years, and potentially irrevocably tarnishing the American image (hey, you can’t blame me for joining in), I think W. has become an absolute necessity to our Evolution as a Nation. Here’s my thinking: A short 8 years ago, most of my in-laws (and our neighbors, and my co-workers… my state only turned Blue about 2 months ago) thought that W. was the best thing since the Hummer. They thought that the war in Iraq was a good idea. They may have occasionally dropped the N-bomb after a few too many cans of Bud. Bush has artificially accelerated the disintegration of the American self-image - which is a critical step in rebuilding a sustainable America for the future.

One of the most unique things about American politics (in the global sense) is our bloodless transfer of power. In very few nations could be outgoing and incoming heads of state break bread together. This year, approximately 51% of the American voting public thought that a black man would make the best President. I believe that if the Republican party was not almost laughably inept, if we didn’t have W. to face as the alternative, we would have seen rioting and violence by now. Ten years ago, there is no way that the white rural rednecks I knew would have countenanced a black man as President.

Hating our former President gives us something push against. He epitomizes everything that we have learned must ‘go’ in the American lifestyle and image. He has become nothing more or less than the outward personification of our own inward natures. Put more simply, if we didn’t have W. to hate, we’d have to turn this rampant criticism and judgment inward. How exhausting. It’s much easier to embrace change when we can export all of our previous national bad habits on the shoulders of one man.

One of the truest things I know is that change only happens when the pain of holding on becomes greater than the pain of letting go. Letting go of the American Dream (in it’s current incarnation) would have taken a lot more pain and effort without W. It’s like removing a band-aid… you can do it slow and painful, or just get it over with in one excruciating rip. I’ve always been a ripper, myself.

Aside from these very lofty political thoughts, I’m very worried about John Stewart. What will the Daily Show do without The Decider to pick on? I’m guessing that the next 4 years will be less funny than the last four, in a lot of ways.

© Copyright 2009

All Rights Reserved. All Wrongs Avenged.

I have a new theme song! Don’t you love that moment, when you fall completely in love with a new song? Here’s how it happened for me: I’ve been into kind of a Indie Chick thing these days (evidenced by recent reviews, particularly). I have made a big ole’ playlist of all my current favorite artists in this genre… I must have downloaded this song in an effort to find some unreleased stuff… I honestly have no recollection of how it made it’s way onto my iPod. This isn’t actually as unusual as you might think - my music collection is so extensive that it requires constant attention and management - what a blessing.

The Hammock in Question

So anyway, I was laying in the hammock at the Casa Pura Vida in Costa Rica last week, reading Wicked, listening to music. This song actually played almost halfway through before I realized I was singing along… and it took some conscious reflection to catch the memory. The artist is Sara Barelleis, and the song is a cover of the 1985 A-Ha hit, ‘Take On Me’. (You know the song… ‘Take on me; Take me on; I’ll be gone; In a day or two… with the cool real-life looking animation video). It’s a bluesy, live version, just the kind of song you want to sing along with.

Now, I was all of 10 years old in 1985, so although I remember most of the words to the song, I realize I’ve never really thought about the lyrics before. One line in particular caught my attention - like, made me sit up and spill beer on myself - and it is still reverberating through my consciousness.

Say after me: It is no better to be safe than sorry.

The song is about the end of a relationship, about the last ditch effort. My divorce has been final a short while now, and I feel like Janus - looking back and forward in equal measure. This is a great song for that - it is both a goodbye and a hello. These days, as I consciously shift my focus forward, and learn to let go, I must be brave. Featherheaded, even. I’ve got to remember that it is no better to be safe than sorry. I’m taking myself on these days, learning and growing and evolving just as much as I can. And the only people who are welcome in my life are the folks who are willing to take me on, to engage with me - and themselves - in full.

Take On Me

So needless to say/ I’m at odds and ends/ But that’s me stumbling away/ Finally learning that life is OK/ Say after me: It’s no better to be safe than sorry.

I used to be so friendly. I was brazen, I was bold, I feared no rejection. Even as a child, I never met a stranger. I could talk my way into or out of almost any situation. My favorite uncle suffered a series of debilitating strokes before he joined our family, and since I can remember he had very poor expressive communication… making him my favorite uncle by virtue of being an easy target for my incessant cheerful rambling. My mother has a photograph taken of me and Uncle George out in my childhood backyard. I’m sitting on the swing set, and Uncle George is sitting beside me. We are both in rapture - me at having someone to pay very close attention to my verbal meanderings, him presumably to have the rapt love and attention of a bright little girl. We were the perfect pair.

Aside from those awkward teenage years (which I successfully navigated by capitalizing on my winsome personality and becoming queen of the misfit toys), I have always been able to make good friends with complete strangers, under unusual circumstances, in no time whatsoever. Children, animals and the elderly all love me. I suppose it’s safe to say that I’m charismatic. A former employer once told me that I ‘flirted’ with everyone and everything. I just love people - I am turned on by our variety, the crazy mosaic of humanity, the intricate dance of circumstance and opinion.

All of that seems to have come to a screeching halt with the onset of my separation and the culmination of my divorce. The process of divorce is rather like having a really bad car accident every day for about 18 months. Ever been in a bad car accident? There’s this awful moment, after the crash and before the pain where you’re hanging from your seat belt wondering what the hell just happened…. How did the world become upside down all of a sudden? With divorce, you don’t just lose your best friend, your primary confidante, your presumed soul mate… you lose your friends. Married people beget married friends and regardless of how friendly the divorce, it’s uncomfortable for the bystanders. Suffice it to say that I find myself leading a rather solitary existence these days. Me! The girl who could, under dire circumstances, probably make friends with a cardboard box!

I found myself going through my regular daily routine on the elliptical the other day, bemoaning my bereft state. ‘ I used to be so friendly’, I thought. What has changed? I think perhaps it’s that, for the first time in my life, I truly lack a ‘home base’. I’m living in a new area, my closest family is 2500 miles away, I’m newly divorced. It’s kind of like being on an ice floe in the middle of the ocean. I’m on a fairly steady course these days, but I lack a foundation - who wants to align themselves with that? I’m not in school… I’m the ‘boss’ at work (and have already learned - the hard way of course - not to make friends with the help)… I have no children…. How does a single thirty-something woman of my ilk make friends? Here I am, paying for a gym membership and seeing the same people every day - and going about my routine with my earbuds stuffed in, hoping someone else will make the first move.

After my workout and shower, in the locker room, I found myself in possession of only one sock. Having two feet, this was not a tenable situation. ‘For the love of Pete’, I complained to my neighbor. ‘It’s not just the dryer anymore. Now my gym bag is eating my socks’.

Slightly crazy, but harmless...

Silence.

Thinking perhaps that she had slipped away while my back was turned and that I was actually talking to myself (this happens more than you can imagine, to me), I turned around. And found that the woman I had been cheerfully chattering at was in fact still there, and obviously had heard what I had said. I swear, there I stood, wrapped in my terry robe (ergo practically naked in front of a stranger), screwing my courage to the sticking point, trying to reach out to another human…. and she was looking at me as though I had sprouted a second head. I made eye contact. I smiled. Still nothing. Like, in my imagination, there were crickets. It was that quiet.

I honestly snapped a little. ‘OK’, I muttered. ‘I guess I’m alone in my barefoot misery’. Like she didn’t think I was crazy enough without that rejoinder, right? But seriously folks, how hard is it to extend a hand of friendship to the potentially crazy, one-socked woman in the gym locker room? I was clearly harmless. Thank goodness she was coming in as I was going out - she quickly stuffed her things into her locker and headed out to the gym, leaving me to finish toweling off and getting ready in peace. Alone again, naturally I thought, as I finished drying off.

It wasn’t until I was unpacking my gym bag at home later in the day that I caught sight of the feather. Sticking up jauntily from the top of my terry cloth hoodie, it must have sneaked out of one of my feather pillows into the laundry. No wonder gym-girl had looked at me as though I was from outer space. I bore a striking resemblance to Howard the Duck. Like the deck is not stacked enough against me… now I’m leaving the house looking like a deranged chicken. I have got to get out of my own way.

I am writing this from my favorite pool hall - rather than staying home tonight to write. I am the eternal optomist. I used to be so friendly.

Other Mythical Beasts

Every man says he’s different than the rest. And you know, he’s right. Each of us is a unique snowflake, a once-in-a-googlekabillion chance of existing on this crazy planet. And we’re all trying to connect with one another, right? So saying you’re different is a statement of truth. The trouble is that you’re all saying it. Rendering you all the same. Nullifying the premise that you’re all different.

Clearly I’m going somewhere with this, right? My married friends tell me that they miss their dating days. To them, I issue the following cautionary tale.

I met Mr. Different through an online dating service. He lives over an hour away and I wasn’t really sure about starting a ‘long’ distance relationship (seems long when gas is $4.00 a gallon….). Besides which, I didn’t much like him right away. He was pushy and opinionated in the extreme. What do I mean when I say pushy? When I finally coughed up my phone number, he called immediately. Now, I sincerely appreciated his obvious statement of interest, but I just happened to be spending my last evening of vacation in California with my brother and his wife. So I sent Mr. Different a text, telling him that I couldn’t talk, but that I would call him at a more convenient time. The man texted me incessantly for the next 3 hours. And called me twice before noon the next day. I was traveling from West to East coast that day, so I wasn’t able to chat much. He persevered.

Throughout our brief conversations and his continual texting, he persisted in claiming that He Was Different. He talked about having a great deal of respect for women, he talked about his lucrative career, he talked about his pro-football days and his double degree in economics and computer science… he worked very hard at selling himself. While this was flattering, he began to give off a desperate vibe, and he was kind of creeping me out. So I told him so. I’m not proud to say that I wasn’t particularly nice about it. And the next thing you know, I’m hearing his apologies and he’s telling me that he likes a direct woman and that he will learn how to communicate in a way I find more acceptable. He claims that He Is Different. Huh? OK, I thought to myself. Perhaps you actually are different.

We decided to ‘give it a shot’. I told him I had serious reservations, because all men say that They Are Different. He told me that He Was Different Anyway. I told him that I would be glad to see evidence of that, because it would reaffirm my belief in unicorns and miracles as well, and who doesn’t want to believe? So we continued our courtship, over the phone, with texts, and with a very nice first date. He looked good, he smelled good, he was nicely dressed, he bought a bottle of wine, we had a lovely chat and a nice kiss goodnight. Now, I know that doesn’t sound like a major accomplishment - everyone’s on their best behavior on a first date, right? But it’s rough out here for a single girl. The last man who bought me a drink looked like a lucky troll without the hair. Seriously, here’s a picture. All of that to say that I was genuinely impressed. Maybe even a little wooed. So we progressed, me keeping him at arm’s length, him courting me furiously. You know, the ritualistic mating dance. Then came time for the big night.

We were going to go out for his birthday. He had called me that afternoon to ask if I had plans to pay for dinner? Well, I replied, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead (thinking to myself - this is Certainly Different….). He proceeded to tell me that he was pretty sure that I would want to pay because it was his birthday, and that he really had troubles with letting women pay for anything. He went on to say that he had discussed this entire hypothetical situation with his female platonic friends, and that they had encouraged him to let me pay for dinner. So that’s what he was calling to tell me. That I was welcome to pay for dinner.

Again, I noted to myself how Very Different this was. I wondered if his bluster and strong opinions were really masking social ineptitude. I thought about bringing this up, but it was the man’s birthday, and he told me very clearly at the end of the conversation that he would be paying for everything else that night - including (he vehemently asserted) the alcohol we purchased at the restaurant. He stated that I would never pay for anything in our relationship except for special occasions like this one. That I should get used to being spoiled.

As it was his birthday, he decided that he wanted to go for Japanese food (you know, he said, where they cook the food in front of you). Afterwards, he told me, we would go to a teahouse for tea and dessert, and then to a Christmas concert at the local college. He hoped at the end of the evening that I would invite him to my home, perhaps even to spend the night. As things had been progressing nicely for a few weeks, I acquiesced. I spent the afternoon shopping for a new dress. I took special care with my appearance. I shaved everything I owned except my head. I painted my toenails. I bought a new shower curtain.

Over dinner, he was careful to tell me how much he had talked me up to his friends and family. He was so excited about possibly spending the holidays together, and wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas. ‘For you to be sweet to me’, I replied. Turns out I have everything in life that I want and need… except a good date now and then. He asked if I had told my friends about him. Well, they know I’m going out tonight on a date…. I replied. He seemed a bit rebuffed, and I reassured him that I was a pretty private person but that I was sure we’d be meeting one another’s friends soon.

After dinner he went out to the car to get the umbrella while I paid the check. Including the huge built-for-two alcoholic spectacular which he had ordered (it came in a bowl, flaming, with two straws). Despite his GPS, he couldn’t find the concert hall on campus. He did stop to ask for directions though, which further solidified his assertion of Being Different. After getting lost, we found ourselves back at the scene of our first date (tea free and concert-less), where we ordered another bottle of the same wine and cuddled up for a truly enjoyable evening. He was very charming, and asked me if he could see me again over the weekend…I won’t recount the rest, but suffice it to say that we made all of his birthday wishes come true.

The Burning Bush. There's a joke here somewhere.

The fairytale ended almost immediately. He didn’t spend the night. The calls slowed to a crawl. There were no more text messages. When I ran into computer trouble over the weekend, he had to take a nap. So much for the Knight In Shining Armor with the Computer Science Degree. He did ask when he could see me again, but never followed up with a date. After another week of this, when I finally called him on it, he got angry, told me that he had had a death in the family (really? Never Heard That One Before, Mr. Different), yelled at me, and hung up the phone.

I can’t believe I got played. I can’t believe I actually fell for it. You see, I listened to all his fancy words, combined them with a cashmere overcoat and a good smell, tossed in a pinch of holiday loneliness, and fell for it hook line & sinker. Silly girl. They All Say They’re Different. But you know, I want to believe. Just like I want to believe in unicorns and miracles. I just need to sharpen my instincts. Oh bullshit, my instincts were fine, I need to learn to pay attention to my instincts. I knew Mr. Different was just Mr. The Same in a nice suit.  Here’s where I should have seen it - their love for the Japanese steakhouse should be a dead giveaway that they are little boys in the bodies of men. I mean really - you want to woo me at a table with 6 complete strangers? Well, Mr. Different… I’m telling my friends about you now. Mostly so they can help me never make this mistake again. And the next man who says he’s Different is going to have a Much Tougher Sell.

The Hope Diamond.

I have a sign above my front door that reads ‘I will be brilliant’. It occurred to me the other day that my friends and comrades might wonder about my ego whilst leaving my home. Of course, I put it up to inspire myself. I’m dilligently working on positive self-talk these days. And I like the word ‘brilliant’, but not in the American sense. The Outside World has a slightly different, and more authentic use of the word in casual conversation that I particularly like. Brilliant – like the way jewels are brilliant. Bright and sparkly and precious. Illustrious. Not a bad list of goals for an aspiring author. Somehow in America brilliant always equates with smart – which is just as well. But I like to think of myself as brilliant – and I don’t mean smart. I mean really, that would be arrogant. I just think I’m bright, sparkly and precious.

Sometimes life distills a huge, magnificent, life-altering realization into a totally mundane life moment.

Today, my cat puked up a hairball. At first, I was contemplating regular cat puke vs. the hairball - how they differed, and the conditions under which each might….. ahem…. arise. (Turns out she was glad to illustrate the difference, as I found out only a few minutes later. I won’t share the details. You’re welcome.)

The posse in question

As I was cleaning up the mess, I happened to look up, through my bangs, to see my dog. I love my dog more than I love most people I know. There have been times where the very thought of losing him has made me catch my breath. He has been my most steadfast friend and truest companion during the most difficult time of my life. And yet, there he was, obviously thinking that he would love nothing more than for me to be distracted so that he might have a chance at the hairball. Yep. I know that look. If I had turned my back, he would have eaten it.

After a couple of years of feeling isolated and misunderstood by the rest of humanity, here’s the realization of the day: My dog and I do not have nearly as much in common as I would like to think. It’s possible I need more human companionship.

I love tea. It’s probably not exaggerating a whole lot to say that I’m a bit obsessive. First, let me explain the appeal. Tea, made properly, naturally invites a little ritualism. As any connoisseur will attest, I can tell the difference between cups of tea made with hot or cold tap water. And all tea drinkers have a different set of rituals. Of course, that’s not hard to imagine - most people make their coffee the same way every morning too. I start with cold water and use an electric kettle (although I’m saving up for a really nice stove top one). It is nice to rinse the cup with hot water to warm it up before making the tea - but we’re in drought conditions here, and mustn’t be wasteful. I like to bring the water all the way to boiling, then let it cool just for a quick minute before pouring it over the tea. Ah, the first fragrant steam of the day is a delight - along with it’s cousin, served right after dinner it bookends my days.

I only enter this lavish description of a fairly mundane task to support my habit of collecting tea. When a thing has a ritual, and you’re a ‘collector’, you’re not crazy. You’re ecclectic. So…. with preamble out of the way I now admit to currently owning 46 different types of tea. For the record many of these are expensive, gorgeous teas which have been bought for me over the years by friends and family. I honestly didn’t realize how out of hand my tea habit had become until I recently started dating. Now grant, I live in a part of the country where tea is served cold and sweet (which I also love - I’m not a tea snob!). But even that did not mitigate the repeated looks on the faces of every man I have brought home. ‘Wow’, they say….. rather cautiously, it seems. ‘You really like tea’.

Alright, so I’ve also moved into a much smaller house than I’m used to. So perhaps my collection now appears a little more overwhelming. But you know, it really got me thinking. And looking around. I am not a packrat. I throw things away if I haven’t used them in 6 months. My closets are lean and mean. But I hoard sustenance like the end of days is coming. And I don’t believe the end of days is coming. So what’s up? Well, a few things, I think. I come from a long line of women who cook - good farming wives and June Cleaveresque homemaking skills. A stocked pantry is the norm in our family. But that doesn’t explain it. It’s not just the tea. Wine, canned goods, dried grains and beans, a stocked freezer. I am rich in food. Am I afraid I’m going to run out? No, it’s more like each tea or special food or flavor represents a meal I’ve made, times shared with friends and family, a gift from someone. I don’t want to run out. I want to be able to sip that flavor of tea for years to come.

This reminds me of Halloween candy. I had similar habits as a child you see - I always had candy left at Easter. I would parcel it out so that it lasted. I have patience. But I also have a hard time letting things go.

I am not a child anymore. I don’t have to parcel out my candy. I can have new candy anytime I want it. I don’t have to hang on to tastes and flavors. There will be plenty in the store when I need more. I choose, today, to write to remember. I will not hoard. I am never moving this shit again. And I am not staying in this house forever. I am poised on the cusp of a great adventure, and I have no idea where it will take me - only that I will bloom here, and there. But never again will I pack boxes of wine and tea. I will drink, and be merry. I will be….. Enlightened.

Isn’t that really what enlightenment is? Deciding where you want to go, and then how much luggage you’re willing to leave behind.