Yarnhead

A Christmas Prayer for My Family

2008-12-22T16:33:00.000-08:00

We come together today for Christmas as we have so many times before. Christmas is a little bit different each year. Sometimes we share gifts and sometimes only hugs. Sometimes there is permeating cheer. Sometimes sadness and resent. Sometimes Grandpa is grumpy. But usually he is the life of the party. The kids grow bigger each year and await their day at the grown-up table, even though there is never room. New guests come and sadly never return. But with all of the changes and the occasional struggles, I love this day. I anticipate with child-like giddiness the abundant decoration, the wealth of food, the sound of laughter, the games, the political jokes, the presentation of pictures of new babies in the family, the sharing of news, the wine, the nap, and the leftovers. But most of all, I love the people at this table. (And the kids' table too :o)! )

This past year in particular has been tough for all. We've endured more than our share of heartbreak. We have worried about our finances and our livelihoods. We have closed the doors of our dreams. We have felt disappointment and betrayal. We have had houses falling apart beneath our feet. We have had our hearts broken over loved ones. We have wept over the ailments of others deserving of better. We have had too many hospital visits that ended with tragedy. At times, we've lived breath-by-breath and day-by-day. And we said goodbye way too early to George, a beautiful soul and a warm, generous man who I believe still sits with us here in spirit. This year has been too much, too often. And I for one am ready to let it go.

I am ready to let go of that heartbreak and to give thanks. To give thanks for healing, for getting to know each other again, for the support, for the warm hugs, for the shared meals, for the middle-of-the-night phone calls when we just couldn't make it to morning on our own. For the ribbing, for the honesty, for the good and bad advice. For all of the sacrificed weekends of electrical repair & landscaping advice, for the recipe exchanges, for the kids' youthful airs. For trying to be better people. For the inappropriate discussions of Julia's sexual prowess at Thanksgiving dinner, for the election that ignited hope across the world. For nights of gay karaoke and tears in smoky bars, for living in the same house all year (that's me!), for forgiving each others' faults (except for Mom who tells us time and again that she doesn't have any), and for trying to forgive our own.

I pray on this day that we are able to recognize that we are part of a bigger plan and a larger world and for us to give thanks that we are not alone in our journeys. I pray that we can have faith that we will heal, that we will be prosperous, that we will continue to love and to find love, to laugh until our sides ache, and to seek out the beauty and inspiration that life brings even though it seems impossible to find at times. I love you all. Merry Christmas.

Making a Deposit in the Love Bank!

2008-08-20T19:13:00.000-07:00

On the first day of school, I sat at my desk dashing through paperwork while the kids were at specials. Another teacher came in the classroom carrying a spectacular bouquet of flowers. My heart beat a little faster, but I modestly asked if they were for my team teacher. When I found out that, no, they were in fact for me, I squealed and my heart melted. The most beautiful flowers and the most perfect card. The most lovely first day of school. And the most thoughtful boyfriend. Thank you.

This is the coffee cake I've been dreaming about. Literally.

2008-08-07T18:30:00.000-07:00

After an exhausting day of pre-back-to-school preparations in a classroom without air conditioning and a bunch of other extenuating circumstances that would bore anyone except other weary, bitching teachers dangling along my school grapevine, I took a nap. A sweet nap full of that blissful REM stuff. And I had a dream. A dream about this delicious cherry coffee cake that I haven't eaten or even thought about since I was a young child. At least, er twenty-something years or so. In my dream, it smelled and tasted just as warm and sweet and delicious as it was then. It even had been nibbled a-la-spoon-in-the-pan style by my mom. Just as she loves to do. And now I love to do. I was so confused by this buried memory that I called my mom in a fog right away upon waking to confirm that, yes, this very cherry coffee cake existed in my childhood and not just in my "dream childhood." She told me that it was my grandma's recipe and dug it out for me to record.

So tonight, while I should be writing my first week of school plans, I'm baking instead. I mean everyone needs a little sustenance while working late, right? No duh. (Another reversion to childhood. It seemed appropriate.) Of course it doesn't matter that this recipe has the fat/calorie content only of recipes from half a century ago. As I whisked ridiculous quantities of oil, eggs, and sugar together I reminded myself that my grandma is still alive. And she's alive despite having prayed and begged for death since my grandpa died in the late 70s. And I have a will to live so I should be fine.

So I placed the anticipated indulgence in the oven and as it baked the house filled with the aroma of childhood and Sunday funnies and of being tucked into bed at night. And here it is. Waiting for me to eat. A treat that has brought warmth and comfort to at least 3 generations (this must be the reason why my parents stayed married as long as they did!) and has been decades in the making in my head.

Poppy or Simon . . . We'll Never Know

2008-07-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

Elation

2008-07-02T07:40:00.000-07:00

I did it! I plumbed my entire kitchen sink, laundry supply lines, and drain! I can't believe it! I even added a water line to my refrigerator. It isn't even leaking yet!

Progress Continues

2008-06-27T13:12:00.001-07:00

Spontaneity is good, right?

2008-06-22T03:52:00.000-07:00

Right?

On Friday in the late afternoon, I was taking a break from cleaning and decided to jog through the IKEA catalogue. I savored the eclectic living rooms and the shiny kitchens and the restful boudoirs. I relished the - wait! Maybe I should redo my kitchen. After making several calculations, I thought, maybe I can redo my kitchen if I plan carefully, save up for a couple of months, and sell a lot of my stuff, including my current cabinets and cold, granite counter tops. So yesterday, I posted a listing for these items on Craigslist at a price I felt too high . . . umm . . . you know, just to see . . . and this is what my kitchen looks like at 7:00 in the morning on Sunday. I have yet to pick out flooring, back splash, counter top, cabinets, sink, and faucet. Maybe not my best laid plan. But definitely an adventure. An adventure! Yes! An adventure. Hmm. Adventures are fun, right? I don't think John thinks this an adventure.

Is it weird . . .

2008-06-21T18:43:00.001-07:00

That someone I've never met is coming to my house in the middle of the night tonight to take away my kitchen cabinets?

My Spaces? Head Book? What Does It All Mean?

2008-06-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

Okay. This is embarassing. I like to think I'm fairly technologically savvy. After all, I can make my DVR record every episode of CSI ever made, set my alarm clock, create a super-anal color-coded spreadsheet laying out curriculum for the upcoming year, and put music on my I-pod (no initially easy feat mind you!). I even ridicule my mom for not being able to use e-mail and to send text messages. I toy with her by sending her texts because I know she doesn't know how to reply. This is definitely bad karma.

So for years I've heard chatter about these stupid Myspace pages and then that crazy Facebook word. For years I have passed on these tools explaining to others that I'm just not cool enough. So the time finally came when I had to climb aboard. Not because I'm cool enough now (as anyone who knows me can attest to). Just because I should.

So I sit and I stare at my pages and wonder how in the hell I make it pretty like everyone else's pages. Clearly I'm missing some computer networking chromosome. How does it all work? I want flashy pictures and neat vampire survey/game/thingies (I have no idea what these are, but they look so fun!). I want countdowns and movies and little poke icons. I want it all. My head hurts.

Life Imitates Art. Or Art Imitates Life. I Can Never Remember.

2008-05-04T19:37:00.000-07:00

I always think about life through the eyes of a reader. The events unfolding in a book. The difference though is that books climax and end. They usually resolve in a series of gloriously serendipitous moments that leave the reader feeling joyful and satisfied. I think readers feel especially pleased at resolution because life rarely brings that resolve. That full circle. Complete and still and impenetrable. So I think sometimes about my life as a book. And the problems are clear. Always. The antagonists evident. And still at other times I feel so delighted. So fulfilled. So peaceful. That I wish I could end my book right in that very moment. That's how I feel tonight.

But I'm still looking forward to the sequel.

5 Signs That I'm Not As Young As I Used to Be . . .

2008-05-03T16:02:00.000-07:00

I drank 5 ciders (and most of John's 5 lb. Red Stripe) at the 500 Songs for Charity event at Smith's Olde Bar Last night. I laughed and danced for 5 (er, plus) hours at the unexpectedly entertaining 50 acts and many of the impromptu performances of intoxicated audience members ("Thank you" Karate Kid). After 5 hours of sleep and another 5-hour nap, I'm still hungover and feel like I've been beaten up by 5 large men. Hopefully, in 5 minutes, I'll be ready to do it all over again.

"People are as impaired when they drive and talk on a cell phone as they are when they drive intoxicated at the legal blood-alcohol limit."

2008-04-30T10:19:00.000-07:00

I can attest to this firsthand. No. Okay. This isn't my car. This is actually what I wanted to do with the culprit's cell phone. In fact, my car didn't really have, er, any, um, scratches or anything. But I did suffer a severe tire blow out at the hands of a self-absorbed, overtanned, bleached blonde oblivionite talking on her $500 iphone in her Nalley loaner BMW (which she probably was driving because her BMW was in the shop being repaired from another cell phone wreck). She ran me off the road without so much as a glance. I mean, why should she look? Why should she interrupt her very important conversation, probably about the newest Southbeach diet snack or her impending vacation to the Hamptons, to turn her head 45 degrees to glance in the other lane before moving? How selfish of me to expect such a courtesy.

Fortunately everyone (uh, me) was okay. There was no actual collision. Just my collision with the curb. Although Oblivionite's insurance wouldn't cover it since her car wasn't damaged, she says she will pay for my damage. Word to the wise (as stated by Atlanta police) . . . it's better to let someone run into you than to try to avoid the collision. If you just run someone off the road and cause other people's accidents, apparently you're not criminally liable and if you have Allstate, they're not going to cover it. Harumph. Wow.

Okay. I'm complaining a lot. On a happy note, my car wasn't hurt badly, I was only sore for the night, and my car is paid off next month! I'm having a party.

Why

2008-04-10T07:09:00.000-07:00

Does every A/C contractor I invite into my home have to make loud, troublesome grunts and groans? They say insensitive things like, "Ooooh, you've really got a problem here." Or, "Oh, they did this all wrong." They shake their heads. They look at me with pity. And I do look pitiful. This last one made me tear up a little bit. Because it was supposed to cost $200-$300 to hook up my condenser unit. Instead it's going to cost me half a car, seriously, to replace everything. Because apparently it's bad. It's all very bad. I'm going to drink.

A Chapter in my Dating Memoirs . . .

2008-04-08T09:51:00.000-07:00

Okay so, about 6 years ago I went through a divorce. And I started dating again. And it was a wild, hilarious ride. I almost loved the weirdest dates the best so I could laugh with my best friend on the phone from the bathroom. So I started writing my dating memoirs. Call me sentimental. I just didn't want to forget about the special men I dated. Like the nose picker. I was riding in the car with a man I had dated maybe once before. And we’re driving along on a cool evening. Making small talk. “What’s your family like?” “Where did you grow up?” Blah. Blah. Blah. And so he sticks his finger up his nose. And he digs around for a little bit. I’m feeling a bit awkward at this point. I’m polite and pretend not to notice. And he pulls out a big one. Then he rolls down the window to flick it out. OMG. But it doesn’t just come off. Because it’s sticky. So he has to roll it around a bit and flick a few times. Men are gross.

Then there’s the guy who orally assaulted me at the end of our date. He lunged at me forcing his tongue into my mouth. He wiggled it around at full throttle for a few seconds as I backed into the wall. Then he stood back, threw his hands in the air and shouted “Woo hoo!!!” Like he just won 5 bucks on an instant cash ticket. I had to bathe, drink a bottle of wine, and drunk-text my ex to recover.

So the chapter written below is the last chapter that I’ve written. A lot of stuff has happened since I wrote it. But I’ll save that for another day.

The Day I Fell in Love with John

Love happens in different ways. Sometimes people fall in love with each other the first time they look in each other’s eyes. It’s fast. And sure. And sometimes it fades. But it was there. Sometimes it grows slowly. Maybe beginning as a friendship. Sometimes it’s not love. It’s the satisfaction of a temporary need. Maybe a loneliness. Maybe an adventure. Then the need goes away and so does the lack of love. It becomes a memory.

I remember the first couple of months I dated John. He made my stomach anxious. Made my knees weak. Just like you read about in books or see in the movies. Usually bad movies. I remember our long talks telling each other about our lives. Getting to know each other. The crooks and crannies. Faded dreams. Disappointments. Surprises. It was like moving into a new home or learning to play a new instrument. John and I both really love music. I admired his passion for playing and writing songs. We’d go see shows. Amid the excitement of watching the musicians work their instruments and the flow of the songs, John would put his arm around me. He would rub my neck. Kiss my head. I felt surprised and happy and safe. I felt like it was important. Our relationship was important. It was different.

One night I sat on the front porch swing and talked to John on the phone. We said we didn’t know if we’d ever be able to fall in love again. You know, the kind of falling in love you do when you’re young. The kind that’s endlessly hopeful and optimistic and carefree and pure. Not poisoned by the disappointment and betrayal of relationships past. On that warm evening on the porch swing, I felt sad and nostalgic and hopeful.

Sometimes I thought that maybe I was in love with John. I’d wonder when we laid in bed together and I couldn’t sleep because our bodies were so close. It was so new. One night though, I fell in love. I knew it as much as anyone can know sort of thing. I mean there’s no playbook or significant event. And we’ve all thought we were and later realized that love paraded as something else and less.

But this one night. I remember it was toward the beginning of our relationship. We had dated maybe a month or two. I went over to his condo at about 7 or 7:30. It was a little bit chilly and I wore my heart sweatshirt and my corduroy jacket and a scarf. I remember John liked my jacket. I felt sad that night. I felt emotionally tortured. That’s what I said to myself – “tortured.” Maybe a little bit dramatic but what’s not dramatic about new relationship? I was crazy about him. I adored his sense of humor, his vulnerability, and his search. John’s a lot like me in that he’s always searching for something more. More happiness. A better home. More friends. More . . . meaning. Something more. I remember feeling tortured because I had these really strong feelings. They scared me. Sometimes they felt reciprocated. Sometimes not. Sometimes it felt like John was searching for something more, even in me.

I told him when I saw him that I was in a funk. He said he was as well. Instead of heading out to dinner right away like we usually did, we opened a bottle of merlot. Maybe a Yellowtail. And we went and sat on the back patio on his Victorian resin furniture that he inherited from a friend because she couldn’t have resin furniture. And I’m not sure how the conversation began but we ended up talking about past relationships. John told me he had been hurt by a girl. He was still angry about it although John doesn’t like to admit to lingering feelings about the past. I told him about my ex and how we worked so hard for so long and we were so close to making it.

So John and I talked and a gap narrowed the way that purging about past hurts usually brings people closer. I remember he looked sad. So on this night, I sat in John’s lap feeling the warmth of the wine and our newfound closeness. I put my arm around his neck. I told him that I hoped that one day he could fall in love with me. Because I wanted him to. Because it felt right. And in that very moment, it felt like we had made that journey to find each other. You know how we look for purpose in life? We try to find purpose and meaning in things that happen. In good things. But especially in difficult things. Difficult times. So in that moment, I had peace. Because I thought I had discovered a purpose to part of my journey. I was elated.

So that was it. That was how John and I were supposed to fall in love. Only it didn’t happen that way. I fell in love. By myself. John’s love just kind of wavered maybe. Even though there was no love in the first place.

I asked him tonight, I said, “John, are you in love with me?” He said that sometimes he felt like he was there and sometimes he didn’t. I’m not sure where “there” is. I thought it was kind of him to impersonalize it. You know like it didn’t have anything to do with me. Just a place he hadn’t arrived at yet. Like the Grand Canyon or a rest stop on the way to Washington.

And you know, I don’t know if it does have anything to do with me. At least in the sense that I’m flawed or something. I mean, I am, right? Everyone is.

I felt sad for me because I wanted John to love me. And I felt sad for him because I know he wanted to love me. And I’ve been there before. I wanted so badly to love someone back. But you just can’t force these things. Everyone knows that, right?

So anyway, John never fell in love with me. At least for now. And it hurt. It burned and exasperated and saddened. But I hold on to that belief in meaning and purpose. I hold on to it and hope that one day, the purpose of this hurt will become evident, just like I glimpsed purpose the night I fell in love with John.

And part of me hopes that one day I’ll find that love. That love that is simple and innocent and equal. That’s what I’ll wait for. And part of me hopes that one day, maybe it will be with John.

Subconscious Actions

2008-03-14T14:38:00.000-07:00

In an especially generous attempt to entertain the students at my school, I fell down the stairs this week and broke my toe. This is my fourth annual springtime foot injury. I'm thinking it may be a subliminal self-sabotage of my attempts to work out before the onset of evil summer-wear time. I will reflect on this. Will not have fabulous bod this year. Bugger. Will still have very good time wearing jeans and turtlenecks to the beach.

Lighter Times Ahead . . .

2008-03-14T14:32:00.000-07:00

“Well, I know these are generalizations, so I don’t have to prove them, which is exciting.”
-- Charles Baxter

While my mind spins a mile a minute, I seem to be unable to form a complete thought. I thought maybe I could express what I’m thinking in a poem, no? Maybe a sonnet? Mmmm, too sappy. A limerick? Appropriate given the imminent St. Paddy’s Day, but, er, please. An acrostic poem? Too, um, first grade. So I’m back to paragraphs. I sit in my chair reaching up to the keys of the computer 2 feet above me. Must lower computer shelf. Maybe I’ll put on some music. Maybe that will help me write.

That’s better. I’m reading a book right now. It’s beautiful. It unassumingly documents with seemingly no effort simple but profound movements, quiet thoughts often unheard by others, and inexplicable aches that unite us as mankind and yet rarely are discussed or shared. Those experiences that we’re only able to reach common ground with through a character rather than a friend or a lover. Seems strange. And sad. We’ve all read those books. Where it seems like the author climbed into our head and stole our thoughts for National Book Award acclaim. It’s a dangerous path. Blindly identifying with fiction while the rest of world becomes irrelevant and odd.

It’s been a difficult week. My best friend and her husband welcomed a beautiful baby boy last Friday. He’s gorgeous. And sweet. I was fortunate to be the designated videographer of his miraculous entry into the world. I was among the first to see those tiny fingers, that perfect nose, and his innocent exasperation at the new world before him. In his first act of rebellion, he presented his fine, smooth hair defying his mother’s gift of her wild, lovely curls. I’ve been told this act of defiance may not last and he still may inherit her unruly locks.

Amid the greatest bliss I’ve ever witnessed came the realization that this beautiful boy was different from other babies. I hate the word “normal.” I refuse to use it. I won’t go into details. I will say that he has a difficult road ahead of him.

I had a youth director/leader/whatever when I went to church regularly for a short period of time back in my teens. I might have been 15 or 16. He said that thinking about Jesus should be like breathing. I tried and tried to breathe in and out thoughts of Jesus. To feel him at the very base of my lungs and to see his name in my warm exhale. Despite my efforts, my Jesus breathing gave way to usual teenage thoughts of boys and college and clothes. And my exploration of the Catholic church gave way to a despondence for organized religion. My thoughts and prayers for my friends' baby have been the closest I’ve ever come to my Jesus breathing. I breath in and out thoughts of strength and optimism for him and his parents.

I struggle with clichés. I hate them. Really. And yet in a time like this, they seem relevant. And tested by the passing of time. Summations of learned experiences by generations before. As trite as it may sound, I believe that greatness and beauty arises in the face of great challenge. I believe that this baby will rise to levels of achievement and heroism unimaginable to those who have been blessed with plebian lives.

I guess I find peace in that.

Profile Views

2008-02-20T11:07:00.001-08:00

I have 13 so far. I think they're all from me. Bugger.

So many choices . . . .

2008-02-20T06:48:00.000-08:00

We are confronted by so many choices. For everything. Time or Newsweek, Latte or Cappucino, Hilary or Obama, city or suburb, monkey or meerkat (oooh, that's tough - they're both so funny AND cute!), . . . and the many options for my blog template.

I chose mine because it looked the best with my cats' fur. What? I don't care if that's weird. And lame.