A Room of One's Own

I really want to jump the gun

Yesterday I went to a luncheon and they gave out those little raffle tickets. The fellow handed me mine and said, "Here's the winning ticket." A dubious assumption. I never win anything. I am always the one who graciously claps while others at my table win huge gift baskets and centerpieces. Smiling through spite. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Until today.

I had no idea what they were even raffling off. This is how certain I was that I would not win. They break out a large backet and say, "Here's a little something to start off your holiday season." I heard just that. And something about $75 worth of something. They call the number and I'm doing a very half hearted job of finding my ticket and HOLY CRAP! I won. I walked up to the podium, praying in my head that the basket had wine or other liquor in it, with the most smug of look I could possibly muster up. I reserved that right.

The basket was heavy. I plopped down in my chair, all kinds of proud at my good fortune and started showing my loot off to John, who happens to be one of the principals for a company who is my largest contractor at work and adorable in a large teddy bear way. He is as giddy as I am. There was no adult beverages but the was peppermint bark, toffee hot chocolate, holiday coasters (only me, with my Monica Gellar-esque tendencies, would be ecstatic over coasters...), a variety of other sugary items, a teddy bear ny daughter went nuts over and the two most perfect holiday mugs you will ever see. Ever.

I know. I am utterly jazzed over holiday mugs. I understand how weird that sounds but they are so damn cute I took them out of the basket all afternoon and just looked at them. They are not at all kitchy like the reindeer sweaters grandmothers in Walmart sport this time of year. Oh no. They are kind of funky and retro looking from Pier 1. One matches the decor of my whole house entirely too well. I see a trip to Pier 1 for a whole bunch more in my future, which is good because I apparantly need to go there to get "Indian takeaway faerie lights" per my posh British friend Sali. Two birds meet one stone. Really, I can't tell you enough how darling these mugs are. I might carry pictures of them in my wallet as though they are my children.

These mugs are creating a small problem, though. I now want to break out all of my Christmas stuff and go to town on my house. I may not be able to wait any longer. My friend Veronica gave me her full blessing to get my Martha on two weeks ago. If I did it next weekend, I'd only be two weeks early, right? No harm there if it makes me happy, right? And it does make me happy. I can sense this Christmas is going to be much better than last year. Honestly, I don't think it can get worse. Go check the Archives of Christmas Past. You'll agree. I have that going for me and that may be reason enough to celebrate.

So what are your thoughts? Bypass Thanksgiving and move right from Halloween to Christmas? Or go with my least favorite virtue - patience?

This woman KNOWS how to make sure I'm happy

Who might you ask? My lovely friend Jerusha. She does love me.

She let me know yesterday that she put a little something in the mail to me on Saturday. I was damn nearly giddy as a 6 year old on Christmas morning. I kid you not. She is in LA so I was fully expecting not to see anything until Tuesday. When I got home, l and behold there was something in my mailbox! It was dark but I could not see what it was. It was just a soft white packing envelope. But, I knew instantly it was from Jerusha. It was squishy.

Much to my dog's chagrin, I did not feed him the minute I got in the door. I ran for the kitchen shears to cut that package open. I gasped when I saw the contents. First, she took care of my Poodle (for anyone not aware, this my pet name formy daughter.) She sent her a Disney Princesses DVD. Excellent. So this means that after I pick her up from school today, I can make dinner in peace as she will be glued to said DVD. I have already told her that she has a present waiting from Aun' 'Rusha. Sidebar: Somehow Jerusha has gotten credit for giving my daughter a whole array of presents that did not, in fact, come from Jerusha. I have NO idea how this happened...

Then for me... Two skeins of the most gorgeous, soft, hand dyed Malabrigo yarn made in Uruguay in a rich garnet color. I hugged them. I put them in my neat little new yarn basket but picked them up several times last night just to fondle them. Note: I really must take a picture of the basket of yarn because the mere site makes me 18 kinds of warm, fuzzy and happy.

I called her to thank her and asked her to what do I owe this spectacular gift. She saidbecause no one should NOT have some Malabrigo in their yarn stash. Seriously. Then she tells me that flights prices have dropped between LA and Phoenix and she's checking dates. Umm hell yeah! Jerusha weekends are basically the two of us up until the wee hours talking and knitting and drinking vodka. Many times there has been really bad reality TV. We have always said her visits are not complete until Nick Carter cries. It's just the pinnacle of the weekend.

I am one happy happy chica.

If I could bottle this...

Yesterday was, for all intensive purposes, delightful. I needed a delightful day. I have been working incredibly hard and get very stressed out during the week. My weekend is the only salvation of my sanity. I have intentionally NOT gone anywhere for the last two weekends because I have just needed a break that bad.

The beauty of yesterday was that it was complete happenstance delightful. Very different from your contrived or planned delightful. I had a very nice man in my company for the better part of yesterday. A man who really does not need to be entertained by me in order to enjoy himself (let's face it, my mere existence is plenty entertaining to many.) A man with a serious penchant for cuddling on the couch. A man who shares my general philosophy of laziness and has no problem spending a significant amount of time in my exceptionally girly abode. This is why we keep inviting him there.

It was a little overcast yesterday, which is very welcome in Phoenix. We sat on the patio and had coffee and then watched a movie. We started watching a little football until we decided pizza was mandatory. We're gluttons. We know. It's fun. Don't judge. Let's just say that large amounts of really good pizza and slightly overcast skies lend themselves to a really truly fabulous activity. The midday nap. There is only one thing better than napping. It's waking up to the sound of thunder after sleeping god knows how long.

The highlight of my weekend was a good half an hour on my patio, under a blanket with aforementioned man, watching it pour down rain, my lantana plants perfuming the air, two large dogs trying very hard to climb under the blanket with us. It was just chilly enough to warrant the blanket but not so much that being outside was not tolerable. After it stopped raining, we went back inside to make more coffee, which we appropriately spiked. More football on the couch.

Eventually, he had to get back to his own house which left me with an entire early evening to do whatever I felt the need to do. I spend the rest of the night on my couch furiously trying to finish a wrap I'm knitting, watching old movies and drinking tea. I lit the first fire in my fireplace for the season. It was just too lovely not too. Really, Earl Grey and Gene Kelly need a fireplace. And it was perfect for watching movies in which Americans become Parisians and spending a few hours in a dream world where I got to be Audrey Hepburn being photographed by Fred Astaire.

I slept well and very peacefully last night.

Yes we DID!

I cast my ballot at a church by my house this morning because I like the whole ritual and tradition of going out with a group of people to exercise our rights as citizen to be part of democracy. I waited in line for about 15 minutes and had a delightful chat with Bernie Kaplan, the poll volunteer that when I asked how he was doing today, he said he "couldn't be better without bursting into a song and dance." Needless to say, I loved Bernie.

I picked up my daughter at school today and they held a mock election. They explained to the kids what the election was, what the president does, what the parties are and who is representing what parties. I asked who Caroline voted for and she told me the "blue guy." "Obama?" "Yeah, Orama!" I told her that it was a really important night and we were going to watch the news all night. She was game.

I voted for Obama.

21 months ago I had no idea who Obama was but I was reading a book called Bowling Alone - The Collapse and Revival of American Community by Robert Putnam. My friend Todd recommended it to me after I caught a scrolling quote from it as his screen saver. "Community happens when local people gather. The rest is metaphor." The book discusses the full realm of social capital. Social capital is the basis of the idea that norms of reciprocity and trustworthniess come directly out of social and civic connections. Pretty much sums up the entire reason for my being. Build social capital.

The book was completely inspiring. So much of what is wrong with our country comes as a result of absence of social capital. People come home, drive into their garages and close the door. We've lost social and civic engagement. As a result of the book, a group of leaders across the nation were called forth by the John F Kennedy School of Government at Harvard to review the implications and determine what it means for America, now and in the future, and what can be done to create a better America. The result was the Saguaro Seminar that summed up their findings in a report called Better Together. It was nearly 10 years ago and a member of the Seminar was a then completely unknown state senator from Illinois. That's when I started following Barack Obama.

When Obama got mocked for highlighting his work as a community organizer as work that could help him as president, I was more than a little perturbed. I work to build community and get paid to do it. I sit on three different boards because I want to create a better community where I live. If I had the time, I would serve on three more. It's my passion and now when people ask what I do, I just smile and say, "I'm a community organizer." It pretty much silences them. They have no idea what that means and most don't ask.

So much of what Obama believes in and speaks to goes back to social capital. And I am a bleeding heart liberal. I am an optimist. I am Pollyanna. I don't think that building a better America is all about economics and it infuriates me that when most Republicans heard I was voting for Obama their first response was, "So you're okay with the 'redistribution of wealth?'" Yeah, I sure as hell am! Back it with solid consideration from a Senate Appropriations Committee that will fund meaningful social programs that aren't considered a "handout." I've read the entire US Constitution. I'm smart enough to know these things need to pass through House and Senate. But I like the idea of a man leading the process that believes in people.

This country is about people. Bottom line. Obama is about people. I love what he sees and I love the sense of hope he has put back into the people of this country. He inspires people. He is the voice of "if I can do it, so can you." I think that anyone who said that hope doesn't win elections just learned a hard lesson. I think those people may also be shocked at what inspired people can do. I feel good. I feel hopeful.

Oh now THIS is what I need

The last few weeks have been so utterly stressful. I am wound up tighter than $2 watch. I have been trying to gain some kind of balance. Having the girls over on Friday for a nice dinner and some wine on the patio was nice. But, between getting the house ready, slicing my finger wide open 5 minutes before my guests' arrival, getting dinner together and getting my daughter to bed, I never really got a chance to wind down enough to really get relaxed.

It takes me a long time to wind down. My brain is just a flurry of activity and getting it shut down takes effort. I am in a place where that just needs to happen more. Plain and simple. Oddly this should be very easy as I know exactly what chills me out. It's a matter of sitting still long enough and letting it happen.

Tonight, I went over and spent some time reading my darling friend Deanna's blog. Oh, how Deanna gets me. She is a great centering point. I can't tell you how many times I have just been feeling a little...something. Either she offers me words or a laugh and I feel instantaneously better. Simply put, she puts a smile on my face. Tonight, as I was poking aroundon her blog, I checked out some of her links and clicked on Hip Tranquil Chick. Deanna and our friend Kelly and have been singing this lady's praises for years and I just never made it over to her website. Very dumb. I love this woman.

In one of her entries, she tells of doing a three day hip tranquil retreat. She offers up how to do a little mini retreat at home. I thought about writing her and pledging my love to her for it. I am going to spend the rest of my week getting everything done I need to have in order so I can spend part of my weekend doing nothing but relaxing. I am going to clean my house top to bottom. Fold all necessary laundry that is way over due. If my house is not pretty, I can't muster up the relaxation. Then I'm doing to dive in and do al the things I WANT to do.

In Austin, Kristin brought me Gabriel Garcia Marquez's Memoirs of My Melancholy Whores, of which I have read four lines and it is intoxicating. I think I am going to read the whole damn thing cover to cover. While listening to Chopin. I may plant all new annuals in the planter in the back yard. I will sit on the patio for quite a while. I am going to fix myself something easy and fabulous for dinner. I may sit and sip champagne just because I can. I'll spend some time knitting. I may pick up my guitar. I may take a girlish stab at writing. I may take a long hot bath. I may paint my nails. I will wash every linen in my house so I can eventually fall asleep on clean, crisp, fresh, white sheets.

I will not: turn on the tv, put on a movie, answer my phone (even if it is my mother), or connect to the internet. It's time to head to the cave, if not for just 8 hours.

Settled in with a good cup of tea. This is going to be a long one.

I know I have been remiss in my blogging duties. It's been a long few months with many ups and downs. I know that should be perfect fodder for writing by I've just not felt up to it. I open up the window and with the best of intentions, I sit there and can't muster it up. Tonight I'm ready. I'm got a playlist of Sarah MacLachlan, Joni Mitchell, Dixie Chicks and Norah Jones. I'm fixing a scotch and settling in.

I've hit a rough patch in several places and am trying very hard to find my happy place and, more importantly, the ability stay there. Work has been a struggle. I'm feel toward my job now much, if not exactly, like I did about teaching. I started both careers with an amazing and idealistic amount of passion. In both instances, I went in thinking my work would be worthwhile and good and it would somehow make a difference.

When I left teaching I felt like I was getting a divorce. I went in with everything I had and poured my soul into it. Four years learning how to do it and four years doing it. After eight years I was left drained and disillusioned, knowing that I would be better off without it. "I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. I wore a path from my door to the pond-side." Going through my divorce two years ago I realized it was exactly like going through a divorce.

Now I'm at a point in my life where I have recognized that I need to move on again I'm coming to terms with that. With the fact that my job has changed around me in the last eight years and has left me disappointed. The emotional battleground that is 40 hours of my week is taking way too much of a toll on me. The economy is bad and I have a mouth to feed and obligation and I have to think of my daughter and her security first. I never felt so helpless.Somewhere, however, through all this tumultousness, is this overwhelming feeling of hope and optimism.

After yet another not so pleasant afternoon, my collegue Suzanne popped her head in my office. I am not one to be able to hide my emotions. I blame my Italian, New York heritage for that. She told me that she and Melinda, my old boss, were going to Zinc Bistro for a glass of wine and did I want to join. Oh God, of course. She had the very sincere tone and look on her face that was remarkably comforting. She was genuine. I'd never taken notice.

I've not been receptive to Suzanne. She is my counterpart in the other department that makes up my organization. She is widely respected and has a great peace about her. I have much to learn from her and I have kept her at an arm's length out of stubbornness and pride. I have seen her as an interloper in my home. It's my own walls and defenses.

The three of us sat and we talked about work a little and we talked about life a little more. I didn't know Suzanne had a previous marriage and her story was much like mine. We talked about therapy and how lost we'd be without it. We talked about a whole myriad of things. Her calm made me feel good. She has an amazing peace about her and to hear her speak about how hard she strives to maintain it made her seem so human.

I've been working with a professional coach, Lynne, for about three months. This started after I had quit my job every month for six months straight. Melinda had convinced the company I worked for to foot the bill. Suzanne said that in just the short time she's known me, that she can see the effects of the work I've done with Lynne and then she said something that meant the world to me. She said it feels like I've let some of my armour down.

My armour is thick and plentiful. A few weeks ago one of my best friends gave it another blow when he called me completely to the floor on it. Lydell knows me and is one of the few people that gets to see me completely as I am. He's seen me go from frustration soaked tears to sheer childlike joy in the same evening. He told me that there was no way I was ever going to be loved for who I am unless I take off the armour and let myself be me.

Just a few months ago I was told the same thing by my therapist. I have serious problem with allowing myself to be vulnerable. I have a fear of rejection and hurt that keeps most at a safe distance from me. I have been told by nearly everyone who has seen me with armour stripped that it's endearing because of how authentic it is. I need to hold on to that more.

I've grown weary of always have to be "on." I'm expected to be the energy of a group. I'm There is a very relaxed and calm side of me that want very much just be. Someone told me that we're called human BEings for a reason. I'm feeling the need to be. And to be as I am. As Whitman wold say, "I exist as I am, that is all."

A few weeks ago my friend Cat got back in touch with me. And through her I got back in touch with my friend Ryan. Whereas most people say they should get togtether and never do, within a week of contact, there we were on my back patio drinking wine. Cat, Ryan and I are college friends. Both are married and brought their spouses. Cat's husband, Matt, is an English professor and a writer and writer and he adn I spent some time talking about writing and the human condition and Raymond Carver and how he captured it in dialogue. Cat brought me back to a very safe place and I time when I was who I was without fear or judgment.

As we opened our second bottle of wine of the night I told her as we stood in my kitchen that in finding me she has given me back part of myself. I have long forgotten parts of me. I am solid, and thoughtful and full of passion for so many things. That's how I was then and that's what I'm trying to find now.

I spent a great weekend with friends these past few days. After a long day of running around with them yesterday, I drove home on the 101 just before sunset. The colors of the sky were just turning to six different shades and the air was still warm but cool enough to roll down the windows in the car. I was listening to Pat Green. It was one of those perfect moments where things seem right and good and things start to make sense. The songs lyrics said, "There's a spot on earth a man can go To find himself and free his soul A place somewhere between hell and heaven Where no one hurts and all's forgiven A door that leads to light and grace But the keys are in the darkest place Though it feels like I've been there before Though I dont know what I'm looking for And I'm trying to find it ." This is me right now. I'm trying to find it.

For the first time in a long time I feel like I'm not walking mindlessly. I am here. I need a reformation. I need to peel back and let it be. Let go. Take deep breath and listen to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am...

Man am I a slacker

I have done a crabby job of blogging have I not? There are several reasons for my month long absence.

1 - Work is killing me dead. I am trying very hard to be actually good at my job. Man, it takes a lot of hard work! Who knew!

2 - My ex-husband went on vacation. I was on full kid duty for two week straight. After that, I slept for three days. Well, it seemed like it.

3 - I took a fabulous trip to Austin and fell in love with pineapple vodka.

4 - I have made new friends and am enjoying a social life. It's kind of exciting but I have no idea where the month went.

5 - I have that not-so-pithy feeling. I hate that.

I'll get back on track. I promise.         

Let me tell you what's fun

You may remember the guy that I dated that broke up with me via email back in May. He is part of a large circle of friends and we've successfully avoided each other (actually not intentional and merely accidental) since then. After he refused to acknowledge my return email in which I called him a chicken shit, I never spoke to him again. Deleted him from my phone moved on (of course with the help of a 26 year old smokin' hot nurse, but I digress.

Seems that life has turned amusing in the last three weeks or so. First, I found out from my friend Lydell that he started seeing another girl in June or so and had very recently done nearly the same thing to her. Come on strong and then BAM it's over. Very interesting. You would have thought he had learned.

Then, on the 6th, I get a text message. "Hey, sorry I was an ass. Hope everything is going well for you." It took me a little bit to figure out who the hell it was as I had deleted the number, remember? Then it occurred to me that it was Tony and I laughed very hard. I did not respond at all. I did keep the text because it just makes me laugh.

Then he emails me something similar about a week later. Yes, you're an ass and I don't care. Delete. I did not respond. Last weekend a bunch of us met up for some drinks and darts and such. I got to meet Donna very briefly. We hit it off even though neither one of us acknowledged the obvious.

On Saturday night I saw Donna again and this time we talked about it. And we laughed our ever loving heads off about it. The joke were endless as we also realized that she went on a date with a guy that asked me out back in December. We realized we must be the same person or certainly there is a type out there called the Vanessa/Donna. We were crying we were laughing so hard. We thougth it would be clever to just go on dates as a tag team. Some guy is bound to like one of us.

So now we've exchanged numbers and are continuing to laugh at Tony's expense, which makes us feel very good. I can see "I dated Tony and all I got was this stinkin' t-shirt" apparel in our future. Really, it should scare him. But, I have to say that we both adore the idea of us hanging out and being totally fabulous together and realizing that there is some poor slob out there that totally blew it with all this fabulousness! Can you think of anything more fun? I can't.    

I guess it has been a while

I am in a funk.

I went to bed last night at 8:45. My house is a mess and I knew I should clean it. I have a great book I'm in the middle of and I didn't even feel like reading it. I didn't feel like doing a damn thing. I couldn't think of one thing that would make me feel good to do. So I went to bed.

I'm absolutely exhausted. I have to restructure my department at work. I got this news a couple days before our big all day staff retreat. We locked ourselves away for 6 hours and did nothing but strategic planning. This entire week has been spent putting action plans together. It has consumed all of my time this week. But my staff feels inspired and morale is actually good for the first time in ages. I'm eaten lunch at my desk every day and put in some time after Caroline went to bed. The strategic plan is almost 7 pages so far and impressive. But it's not the end. Then I have to do the Board's strategic plan and put together a $7.5 million budget by the end of the month. I have no idea when sleep will be occurring.

I've been more short tempered than usual with Caroline because I've just not had anything left at the end of the day. I have had to force myself to step back, look at her, and she how wonderful she is and then just scoop her up and love on her. I feel bad for her that I can't give her more.

I feel like shit. I keep waking up feeling hungover without having even drank anything. I am still cramping like hell from my procedure. My hormone levels are still way above normal and when you combine this with the 5 pounds I currently have with me that I'd rather not have, I feel fat and ugly. Today starts the major ass kicking workouts at the gym as I'm going to Mexico at the end of the month and goddamn I want to look cute in my new bathing suit. How I'm going to actually find the energy to workout is way beyond me.

I'm beginning to completely lose faith in the male species. I have had the worst luck a girl could possibly have in the last two years. That's not even counting the two years of heinousness that I call the last two years of my marriage. That's a good four years of sheer disappointment. I am tired of being disappointed. I have been let down too much too often. I'm not getting bitter. I said I'd never do that but I've lost hope.

I have writer's block. I've not blogged much because I feel like I have nothing to say. About two weeks ago I did some outlining for some writing because I felt inspired and creative and very excited. I've sat down with those outlines a number of times and nothing has come out. Anything that did sounded trite and like absolute drivel. Just crap. Most times I've just sat and stared at a blank computer screen.

I know I just broke out the ballons and the banner for a full fledged pity party. And fuck it. I don't care. I'm allowed to feel this way every now and again. I reserve the right. It won't last forever but I may need to just wallow a little. And sleep. A lot.

Stream nothin', it's more like a river.

I have way too many thoughts running though my head. There is just a lot there. I have been laying here in bed writing for about an hour . Nothing of clarity in any way shape or form. Random and completely nonsensical paragraphs. I just don't think that logical thoughts are going to be occurring for me tonight. But again, I've hit the point where if they don't come out somehow, I'll be laying here aware and blinking for hours. Thus the random brain dumps occurs.

 

I am sadly disappointed with the new Alanis Morissette album. I'm also dubbing it the Ryan Reynolds Album. Some of the lyrics are beautiful and cathartic but it's not the perfection of Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie. Such a bummer. I still love her though.

 

I really fucked up the Year of No. I mean, bad. The verdict it still out as to whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Perhaps it just is. I have very mixed feelings about it. I'm sure it will all make sense in 7 years or so.

 

I want another tattoo. I can't decide what I want or where I want to put it.

 

I'm sterile. It can't be undone at this point. I am not having another kid. I got the emotional part of that out of the way early this morning. But still, it went beyond ripping a Band-Aid off and pouring salt in a wound. My wound has healed. This cut it open just a little bit. But just a little. Not like Christmas garland half hung on a stair case and a glass of red wine thrown across a room. Not like that. By tomorrow, there won't even be a need for a Band-Aid.

 

I want to redo my whole house. Paint the cabinets, wallpaper, curtains, pillows, closets, tile backsplashes, sinks, countertops. I am frustrated by the fact that I don't have the money to do it. But, I'll find a way. There's always a way. I am willing to cut just about anything out of my budget at this point to decorate my sanctuary.

 

I will never understand male ego. It's a weird dark place that seems to make no sense at all. I am certain men would say the same thing about women. The difference is that we wear our freakishness like an albatross around our necks. They try really hard to hide theirs.

 

I almost went to visit my grandmother yesterday. There is a lot I have to say to her. I didn't go. I think I realized that it would be like talking to a brick wall. She's never listened to a damn word anyone has every said to her in her whole life. Why should this be any different? At the same time, she's my blood. She is my daughter's Grandma Gigi. How do I explain it to her that Gigi lived two miles away and we never saw her? The whole thing makes me tired.

 

I'm still feeling an overwhelming need to feed people. I need to have a party. My lime tree is sagging from the weight of the fruit and will continue to taunt me until I have a bunch of people to my house and feed them enchiladas and guacamole and get them drunk on homemade margaritas.

My weekend in the cave

On Monday, I filled my cart on Amazon.com with a half a dozen books. Then I realized that I am way too impatient to wait for Amazon to deliver them. The irony is that there is no way I would be able to read six books during the delivery time for it to really matter. But yesterday I went to Barnes and Noble at lunch and filled my arms with a half dozen books. The reality that I have hundreds of books at home hit me shortly after and I put all but one back.

This weekend I am holing myself up and plowing through Sandra Cisneros' Carmelo. My love of Sandra Cisneros runs long and deep. I taught House on Mango Street my first year teaching. They actually loved it. It's hard not to love her. She is without a doubt one of the most amazing women I've never met. More so than a fiction writer, she's a poet. I keep Loose Woman, a book of her poetry, on my bedside table and I must pick that book up and read parts on a near weekly basis. I get completely lost in it.

That's my kind of book. If I can't get completely drunk and in love with the words on the page, I am just not interested. It's a complete given with certain writers and oddly, or maybe not, most come from Central or South America. I'm not sure exactly what makes them write with so much passion but I can only assume part of it must be the culture. They just feel differently. All the books I loaded up on were Hispanic authors, except one. I now have quite the reading list to get through.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I've never read One Hundred Years of Solitude. I've never finished Love in the Time of Cholera or Chronicle of a Death Foretold. All of this seems a shame. The man is beautiful. Like a Columbian Pablo Neruda and I could go on and on about my worship of Pablo Neruda.

Isabelle Allende. I had friends that taught House of Spirits. I missed that boat because I had to spend a considerable about of time teaching dead white guys. Aphrodite. A book of senses. A book of food and sex. Ummmm, yeah.

Laura Esquivel. She wrote Like Water for Chocolate, which must be one of the sexiest books and, subsequently, movies ever made. And it's all about food. I'm seeing a pattern. How can you not love a writer who has a character burn down an outdoor shower after a meal her sister makes turns her skin so hot everything around her bursts into flames? Law of Lovewas her second book and has been on my bookshelf for ten years. In the book the characters listen to Puccini arias. She includes a CD with the arias. There are also intermissions in the book for dancing. If this woman doesn't get me, I don't know who does.

The anomaly was Toni Morrison. I must have damn near every one of her books. Go ahead, ask me how many I've actually read. Unread books are like an illness running rampant in this house. The one I have read, Beloved, I loaned to my former mother in law who never returned it, which is odd because she didn't like it. Why was I not surprised? The painful part is that copy had all of my notes in it from when I had read it for a now totally abandoned Master's program. I'm neurotic in needing to have it in my house.

I have some work cut out for me and I feel like I'll be spending a lot of time holed up. I can't help it. Sometimes I feel a little lost and the only thing that can bring me back is books. It's what compels me to spend a ridiculous amount of time going through boxes and boxes of books that nearly always ends up with me sitting on the floor of my garage at 11:300 at night reading T.S. Eliot. It reminds me I'm alive and of who I am. Right now, I feel like being drunk and in love with words.

An upswing

My relationship with my house is a roller coaster. I paid too much for it. I bought it at I time I shouldn't have and for the wrong reasons. The backyard has been a disaster of irrigation repairs. I hate every major appliance in it with very specific disdain for my stove. But we've had our good days. In January, I filled this house with more love and laughter that I ever thought possible. That weekend it became a home and will be one of my fondest memories here and always. My child lives here and her laughter fills the halls, even when she's not here.

Today I found contentment and calm here. I got up early and cleaned the whole house and made a vat of marinara sauce. I lounged on my couch and read a backlog of Food & Wine about six months deep. The house was just quiet. I didn't even hold my usual Sunday morning church. After a long nap, I putzed around my house listening to Joni Mitchell and Jeff Buckley and not wanting to do much of anything else.

I settled into the couch, started reading a book on Toltec wisdom, which is amazing and exhausting all at the same time. Lit about 392 candles and I am on about hour three of Chopin. I've gone through all of the Nocturnes. I've prepped some food for tomorrow's dinner. I've not talked to a soul.

About an hour and a half ago it occurred to me that it just felt good.I saw, in a rare moment, how beautiful my house is. The candles are a substitute for the winter fireplace I've missed. The green wall of the kitchen is perfect, even as flawed as it is. I have pictures all over the house and books are in every single room, as many as I can logically put there. My bedroom has become like a sanctuary and a much happier place since I hung the pictures of downtown Savannah. Yes, the carpet needs replacing and the countertops stain way too easily and the master bath shower is way too small. But, it's mine and it's beautiful.

I could spend a lot more time like this. No TV, no voices, no expectations, no to-do list. I have a long way to finding peace here, but it's coming.

More absolute embarrassment for me

I am a social networking site whore. It's true. It started out small and now it has completely snowballed into a near addiction level. It's not my fault. I have been completely suckered by peer pressure. One is a very nice, very professional networking site called LinkedIn. You post your resume, can make introductions, look for jobs, recommend people. There is nothing frilly about it. You're there for work.

I had gotten a connection request for LinkedIn. While on the site I see this little thing where I can import my contacts from my email account and see who is on LinkedIn and who isn't and I can either invite them to connect or invite them to join the site.

I happily go about my skippy little way clicking the names of people that I see are on LinkedIn that I might was to add as a connection. After unclicking the undesirables (don't look at me like that. Most of them are undesirable because THEY hate ME) I go over and hit "send request." Excellent. Oh, not so much.

I get the confirmation notice at the top of the page. It says, "Thank you! We've sent your 374 invitations!" Do what?!?!? You huh?!?! 374?!?! Oh no. No. No. What did I do? What the hell did I just do? My heart immediately starts racing. I am in a complete panic mainly because I have no earthly idea what I did or how I did it. None.

I'm too afraid of hitting the back button to see what I did for fear that I might do it again. The only thing worse than sending an accidental piece of communication to someone is sending it twice. My God. So I'm sitting at my desk at work cursing under my breath, "Shit shit shit shit fucking shit." I had unclicked the undesirables who were part of LinkedIn but I missed the tab that sends invite to JOIN if they're not a member already. I send invites to everyone in my email contacts that I had ever sent an email to in the entire life of my email. Every single god damn one. 374 people.

Oh. My. God. Now I am really panicking as there are a good number of people I have no interest in connecting with at all. None. Those are the people I hate. There are the people that I emailed once for one reason and that was it. I had emailed 150 Phoenix area Realtors last year to push the Junior League cookbook. They have no idea who I am. At all. None. And vice versa. Yeah, they all got invitations.

So now I'm going through and trying to do some damage control. If some of these folks have no idea who I am, I want it to stay that way. I go into Operation Make It Look Like Damn Virus Did It. I find out that, though there is no way I can get the email out of their email boxes, I can cancel the invite so they CAN'T be connected with me. Spiffy. I also hide my profile so they can't see who  the hell the schmuck who sent them this lovely item is. Have I mentioned what a huge jackass I feel like? And that I'm still cursing under my breath?

Canceling the invite is a manual process in which I now have to go through the list of 374 people and click on each invite and cancel it. Then the humiliation really sets in. Besides the 150 Realtors I don't know from Adam's house cat, I manage to send this to my ex-husband, the guy who bought my patio table on Craigslist, an author who basically lives off the land in the Mohave Desert, at least two ex-boyfriends, one of which I would rather stick a knitting needle in my eye and twist it slowly than be connected to in any way, ladies from the Junior League that truly hate my guts, a few council members from a city I no longer live in, a girl who sold me fraudulent concert tickets, the county sheriff...

It is taking me forever. I am honestly contemplating having my assistant log in and help me. She already knows what happened because of the vast amount of obscenities emanating from my office. She is laughing at me. Bad. She has no fear of me doing her midyear review very soon and is letting it rip. She shouts at me, "How do you manage to do these things? Repeatedly?" I have no idea. I am just that stupid.

While I'm doing this, people are accepting the invitations! Great. Now I'm connected to people on a professional networking site that I had no intention of ever speaking to again. Brilliant. Now I'm trying to figure out how I could "unconnect" with them with making it seem obvious. Can I just delete them and go about my merry way? I'm not sure. I'm sure it would send an email to them that says, "We're sorry. Vanessa actually thinks you are a total asswipe and really wants nothing to do with you. Regrets!" I'm sure at this point that is the standard message. The only option I have is to hide under my desk until this whole thing blows over and it's safe to go into public. Going into public, however, just opens me up to a whole world of face to face humiliation. I'm screwed.

I love delusional people!

This little bit of journalism is really is why I love country music. You need to click hereand just read the article. It’s beautiful. No really. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

 

Okay. That was awesome, right? Now, I have never been to a Tim McGraw concert before. Despite the fact that he is so smokin’ hot that I would be enthralled watching him scrap paint off a fence, I only like a handful of his songs unlike our good buddy Marcus. This is apparently not Marcus’ rookie Tim McGraw concert going year.

 

I am so in love with this guy’s story. It’s perfect! Let’s dissect it shall we?

 

He was making his way up to his third row seat because he didn’t want to miss Indian Outlaw. This begs the question of where was he before. Shaking hands? Kissing babies? Helping granny find her seat? Oh no. I am certain he was in the beer line. My spidey sense tells me I’m correct here.

 

What happens next is absolutely exquisite. He says that when he saw Tim McGraw reach down toward him, he thought Tim was pulling him up on stage because he’s been to six shows and Tim recognized him. Yes, that’s exactly what Tim was doing because when Tim is on tour and seeing hundreds of thousands of people over several years, it’s you, Large Redneck Man Who is Still Wearing Jean Shorts*, that he is focusing on. It’s all about you big guy! Tim is so inspired by YOU that he wants YOU to come on stage and join him in singing the dumbest song he has ever recorded. Yeah. No, this guy wasn’t drunk. My favorite part is where he is so delusional he stands on a chair to get onstage easier. Brilliant.

 

We know he was not drunk because he remembers the event. I’m sorry but even as a hefty redneck man, I am certainly my ass would sober up real fast if Tim McGraw threw me across a stage and then I was pounced on by half a dozen security dudes. I’m just sayin’. And remembering does not count if you totally remember it wrong. There have been a few times (many?) that I absolutely recall after a night of drinking being downright adorable, fun, intriguing and fabulous only to find out that I wasn’t so much those things as I was a total jackass. It’s important to know the difference.

 

There is one thing to love about Marcus. He’s not a grudge holder. Oh no. He plans on going to see Tim McGraw again. It’s like he’s doing Tim a favor by not being mad at him for nearly having him pummeled. Again, only something you would see at a redneck concert. If that happened at a Kayne concert, you know damn well someone would have had a cap popped in their ass. You just can’t deny that one.

 

*Disclaimer – I didn’t have to watch the You Tube Videoof the ass beating in order to know I should describe him as such. I just intuitively knew it. The overuse of double negatives was a dead giveaway.

The meaning of life

is a bar in Pensacola and an old blue chair.

I played Jimmy Buffett's "Bama Breeze" on repeat at least a dozen or so times today. For a good 15 minutes I just sat in my office, staring out the window, playing the song over and over with a smile on my face. If I could bottle how that song makes me feel and the absolute peace and calm and quiet and happiness it gives me, I could make millions and retire to the Carribbean. And oddly, I've never stepped foot in the Florabama.

That's the meaning of life. That feeling. Sometimes you know it's happening and sometimes it takes a while to realize life happened to you. Knowing it is the secret.

It's sitting in a beach chair on Playa Las Gatas in Zihuatenejo, Mexico all by yourself watching the local fisherman deliver his morning catch to the bar owner and the radio on the boat plays Van Morrison's "And It Stoned Me."

It's King, an old black man, sitting on a bench on River St. in Savannah, Georgia making you a palmetto rose out of palm frawns.

It's driving around in a limousine, filled with Kim Taylor's big laugh, in Jackson, Mississippi, listening to Delbert McClinton and drinking Dom Perignon, too stuffed on lobster from Schimmel's to move, on the way to Hal and Mal's.

It's that moment ten miles outside of Rocky Point, with the windows rolled down, drinking your third beer, Kenny Chesney's "Old Blue Chair" on the stereo, when relaxation and the fact that your on vacation really hits you.

It's stepping off of the subway in New York City and being met by the sound of a string quartet of college age students playing Vivaldi's "Spring I Allegro."

It's waking up in the morning to a hand gently touching your face and opening your eyes and the first thing you hear that day is, "Mommy. You're so preeeeeeeetty."

It's the last mile of a ten mile run, late at night in September when the night air just starts to cool, nothing around you but the smell of creosote and Mahalia Jackson singing "Precious Lord."

It's just matter of letting it happen and knowing it's happened .