Sunday, May 30, 2010

Anywhere's good

I have a blanket in the back of my car. I know, I know. It's not what you're thinking, although that would be nice on one of these hot days (or nights). Breeze lightly touching the skin, sun washing over every muscle...whew! Anyway, back to the blanket. It's pretty beat up, a mass-produced "Navajo" weave I got some 10 years ago at a Mohican trade shop (although, the owner is a Cherokee, trust me, I asked). I keep it there, neatly folded, in the event that there is an opportunity to lay it out somewhere next to a river or an alfalfa field or on a beach somewhere, and just sit and enjoy the sun and the smells, whatever that moment brings really. I spread it out next to a river today and nearly fell asleep in the sun, my belly full, my sandals resting beside me in the grass. I didn't have a book to read, no iPod, just the blanket, the water, the sun...
It was miraculous.
This blanket is what I would call a true veteran of my life. It has seen all that I have seen in these moments. It has softened the ground for my daughter when she rolled around on it, just an infant entranced by her own fingers. It has nestled tightly over the laps of cold children desperate for the heat to work in the car. It has even, in times of need, caught a few tears in its fibers when I needed to catch my breath driving from point a to point b, unable to fathom how chaotic my life had become.
It's a good blanket. I have thrown it over shivering shoulders during school fire drills, dreamed lazily on it while sharing a crisp apple and bread with a friend. It never stays folded for too long. It is in constant use. It smells like dirt and sky and rain and dryer sheets. And I couldn't help but think, when I was crashed out on it this afternoon, the sun beating down on my collar bones and legs, through my skirt and hair, that I need to use this blanket even more. It's not enough that it comes out only when I think I'm ready to relax on it. It needs to be in constant use in order for the message that it carries to become more habit than privilege. Like I said, it'd be nice to lay there on a fall day, in the middle of an apple orchard, with someone beside me who enjoys the peace as much as I do. And that's not to say I haven't shared the blanket many a time, but I don't have to. I can and have been alone on this blanket, I just need to stay there longer until it smells like me, not someone else.

Saturday, May 29, 2010

Fire and ice

"Some say the world will end in fire..." Gotta love Robert Frost for his lucid observations of nature and human nature. I am thinking that, despite the beauty of his words and thoughts, he probably hated being right about certain things.
I'm with ya, Bob.
I usually like to be right. It's validating. Being right says, "Hey, good job. You know your sh*t. Once again, you hit the nail right on the head. Nice going, Nichole."
But these moments are somewhat rare. It's the moments when you know you're right and you really wish you weren't, that's what kills me, because those moments are becoming commonplace for me. The universe is practicing the Socratic method on me. A bit late, don't you think? Even this scholar hates learning sometimes.
Yesterday I used the fire water analogy to describe the slow hissing of the human flame. Water representing doubt (and common sense) and fire representing the raging inferno of lust, love and new emotions.
Well, there is another analogy which, I think, deserves some attention.
You guessed it; fire and ice.
The instantaneous transformation of fire into ice is only possible with human beings. Ever feel a handshake go completely cold? Ever see a marriage that began with smiles end in tight-lipped indifference? Ever feel your heart surge at the sight of someone only to be laid cold hours later?
That is human fire and human ice. The transition happens when you buy 800 honey yogurts at the store because your weird-ass nine-year-old loves Greek, honey yogurt, has been eating it voraciously, even on her pancakes, and suddenly tells you, when you proudly show her the stockpile of yogurt, that she doesn't even like yogurt anymore.
Poof, just like that. And suddenly you're stuck with all of that yogurt.
The transition is almost too much to bear. It is confusing, it is a left field pop fly that you would've caught, no problem, if the goddamn sun hadn't been in your eyes.
The goddamn fire.
So, I missed the pop fly, I bought the f*cking crate of Chobani, how the hell was I supposed to know?!
Hints, words and indications are always helpful. I had no idea they were a luxury. I wish I had some warning that I was supposed to bring my skates. It was 80 degrees today, I was happy, I was wearing my favorite red shoes.
But I should've brought the skates.
Lucky for me, I have friends who don't require me to wear ice skates. Once I chipped the freezer burn off of shoulders and small parts of my heart, I had two margaritas and an amazing meal with my friend Jerome, my sort-of-sage. With full bellies, the sun waning and some overly serious conversation about being too broken to be fixed, he said the nicest thing I have heard in many months.
"You're a hero to me."
"Excuse me?" I laughed nervously. It just seemed so preposterous.
"I'm serious, you're a hero. You've had all of this sh*t happen to you and you just lock it away and say f*ck it, I'm moving on with my life."
"I'm a happy person. I don't like getting in my own way. I want other people to be happy when they see me. I don't always inspire this reaction for some reason, even when I'm at my happiest. Like today, for instance."
"Well, still..."
Yes, still. No ice, no blinding, heart-rending transition from fire to ice. Just a nice thing to say to someone who needed to hear a nice thing. That should keep the flame lit for a little longer.

Friday, May 28, 2010

"Tyger, tyger..."

You ever see a roaring bonfire get snuffed out by mild, misty rain? It's an amazing sight, a poetic testament to nature's power.
It sucks when it's a metaphor for human interaction. C'mon, you know what I'm talking about. You've seen the flames, we all have. The skin burns, the eyes glow, all you can smell is fire and smoke and the sweet knowledge that you may be eaten alive by heat and you don't care.
And then, out of nowhere, the rain comes. At first it is barely noticeable. Maybe a little water on the forehead while you are engulfed in your fire. But then, you get a little chilly, things are wet and suddenly your inferno that could have called the devil up from hell is hissing and popping under the suffocating weight of water. Little droplets that, as individuals, are useless in dousing the flames, but as a collective, could put out a drum of gasoline.
And so the hiss, pop, crack, ssss is on its way. I can feel it. And I bet you know what what I'm talking about here, too.
The fizzle begins with noticing things, little things that you were too busy to see while lusting your way into oblivion on the surface of the sun.
Just little epiphanies at first.
"Huh, I'm always the one doing the initiating." Or, "Huh, that's weird, we've really never been out in public except that one time," or, and this is my personal favorite because you can see the mist turning into big fat rain drops, "Huh, I wonder if I'm not the only one in his fire."
And that's where it all begins. Of course, all of this wondering and hissing could be abated if basic questions were asked and answered honestly, but when was the last time that happened? Questions like: "So, um, do you even like me?" Or, "How come you never ask me to do anything?" or, and this has several applications, "How was that?"
And so, if you can't ask these questions then you certainly can't drop bombs like "Are you, um, seeing other people, too?" or "Is there something about the combination of me and the sun that you don't like?" or "Hey, what color are my eyes, man?"
And this is why I am a big fan of communication. I'm not a very good practitioner, but I think it's time to start asking some questions and to get ready for answers.
Or just get burned up before I even give a sh*t, but it's already too late for that. Damn.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

shrink my head, not my dreams

I have enrolled myself in the hideous cliche known as "therapy." It has been two months since my beloved Katherine, the therapist who got me on a better road despite my ridiculously stubborn behavior, has jumped ship to go to Boston.
Of course, that is the first thing that the new therapist, I will call him El Doctor, wanted to talk about.
"Were you angry when Katherine left?" He had his notepad at the ready.
"No. People leave. It was a f*cking opportunity for her. I would have done the same thing."
"Hmm. Okay, but what would you say to her now."
"How's things in Boston? I don't f*cking know. Something like that."
"You seem very rational about the whole thing."
"I'm a rational person most times."
"Any other thoughts?" He scribbled a bit, then kept a steady eye on my darting glances and restless foot. More notes.
"Well, maybe that I was jealous of that fact that she had a new baby and her husband seemed supportive."
"Jealous...okay. And...?"
"I don't know, maybe a little cynical of her situation. You know, new baby, moving, new start. I wanted to say good f*cking luck with that one, girlie." My foot was going nuts at this point.
"You like the f-word don't you?" He laughed a little.
"I don't like it, per say. It is one of my safe words."
I could see the question mark forming on his forehead, I just waved my hand. "You know what, don't worry about it. I use it a lot. I will try to stop. It's offensive, I know, I know."
"Maybe you're the one who has been offended this whole time."
"What do you mean?"
And that, my darlings, is when the Red Sea parted and sand flew up in big wet globs as the waves crashed on both sides of life.
"I mean, that you've been offended for so long, now you are defending yourself against it. Do you tell people if they've upset you or if you're upset and not feeling exactly cheery that day? Do you give them a chance to see you as you really are, in all of your moments."
I nearly choked on my coffee.
"Why the f*ck would I do that? I don't want to burden people with my sh*t. My sh*t sucks. It's a downer. It makes people uncomfortable."
"When did you last keep something to yourself?"
"Um, right before I got here."
"And...?"
"And in March, the day before I met someone I now find myself liking too much, I buried one of my students. She died in a car accident. I met this guy, happenstance in a cafe, and I was as raw as could be. And he still wanted to talk to me."
"Did you tell him you went to a funeral the day before? Did you tell him you were sad?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I didn't want him to know the kind of sh*t I carry around with me, I guess. I don't f*cking know. He probably wouldn't give a sh*t anyway."
"That's a harsh assumption. He's a human being right? He should know more of you, right?"
"Maybe sometime. Maybe sometime later. When I'm sure it's safe." More scribbling in the pad. More foot craziness.
"How will you know when it's safe, Nichole?"
Good question, Doc. I have no idea. When is it safe to let some things out? When is it safe to tell someone, anyone, that you are a walking fracture? When's a good time to say, "Hey, you know, the first man I ever loved hanged himself. That was fun." Or how about leaning over to him in the movie theater, while he's slurping loudly on a Coke and laughing and whispering, "Baby, guess what, when I was five months pregnant the baby daddy, my boyfriend of 3 years, left me high and dry."
Yeah, f*cking right. Ever see those cartoons where the character is running so fast that lightening and flames shoot out of their shoes? That's what that business would look like.
"Have you told him anything about yourself. Not the funny stuff, but anything serious?"
"Um, once, in an attempt to comfort him, I hinted at the fact that my little brother tried to ice himself two years ago."
"Ice..himself? You mean...commit suicide?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"And what did he say when you told him?"
"Not a f*cking word. Not even a 'huh."
"Huh. Interesting."
Keep scribbling, Doc. My friend's 3-year-old daughter has an expression that I think I will be using a lot this summer.
"AWWW-KWWARD! Poopy-face."
It's cute when she says it.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

am I doing them a favor?

Sunday morning, at the ass crack of dawn, Lucian woke me up. Now, knowing how fast kids grow up (seems like just yesterday he was sleeping in my hair, only 6 months old) I am usually delighted when they sneak into the room and snooze with me. It's rare these days and I can barely breathe when I think of a time when their voices won't ring and blast through the house. So, at 5:30, he was there. Mind you, I am an insomniac and had just dozed off 3 hours before the wake up.
Clearly I am setting the scene so that you will sympathize with me when I get to the goddamn point of this story. Just remember, sleep deprived, splitting pain in my head, nose and face from a pride-wrecking work accident, and chronic worry about money. This combined with vague amounts of self-pity that I am going it alone, all the time it seems. I'd like to collapse against someone else once in awhile and let them shush me into a deep sleep, maybe take up some of this anguish.
Of course, I would lose the joy, and so, thus, alone it is.
Anyway, in a haze of fatigue I was just about to take my first blessed sip of coffee (after having pounded several Alleve and considering putting the nitro under my tongue because my heart has been insane this week) when Lucian called me into the living room.
"They're stuck." He was near to tears.
"What's stuck, man?"
He handed me his new light up spy goggles and sure enough, against my distinct orders, he had rammed three batteries in, each going the wrong way.
"Goddamnit, Lucian," I hissed. I set the coffee down as if I were parting from a lover at a Paris train station and tried prying the batteries out with my fingers. No go. I got my pocket knife out and began excavating the batteries, the whole while knowing that my coffee was getting cold.
"You know, Mom, you could probably just use your pinkie finger to get those out." Anna began coaching me on my extraction technique. I popped all three batteries out, nearly cutting my thumb off, and then whipped around to face her. She was, of course, still hovered over me giving pointers.
That's when I lost my sh*t.
"Anna, I have been on this planet for 33 effin years. I have cleaned up shit, piss, blood and people for half of those. You get me? I have been stabbed at, shot at and beat up before I even earned the right to drink. I have prayed to the Virgin Mary in the bathroom of a train station an ocean away from here. So, don't worry about a thing, baby, I can handle the goddamn batteries."
You would think that this litany would silence a crowd of 5000. Not here. As I was taking a tepid swig of coffee and trying to calm myself down lest I get into a way-too-dark place for a Sunday, Anna started shooting off questions left and right. Lucian followed suit.
"You were shot at?! When?"
"Who tried to stab you? Were you just a kid?"
"Why did you have to clean up blood? Whose blood was it?"
I just shook my head and waved my hands in surrender, "Don't worry about it. I'll tell you some other time."
That's when Anna dropped the bomb.
"Why were you praying in a bathroom? Were your prayers answered?"
I stopped at that one. Were they answered? Hmm.
"Well, yeah, I just didn't like the answer at the time."
"What was the answer to your prayer?"
"I lived."
"Is that what you prayed for?"
"I guess so, I just didn't know it at the time."
Her eyes got very, very wide.
"Or did you want to die?"
I set the coffee down and put my hands on her face.
"It doesn't matter what I prayed for. I got what I needed."
End of conversation.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

wealth of kings

It is rare, very rare, to have perfect days. Or almost perfect ones. Came goddamn close for the last two, though.
Yesterday, I was officially offered a job, the job, that I have most wanted on this loooong path of mine. Did I take it?
You bet your ass.
I had only to tell a few friends and suddenly all was right with the world. One took me out to lunch, and told the whole restaurant, including the bartender, about the exciting news. Toasts all around, even with people I didn't know. And all before 3:30. I was giddy by the time I went home to shower and get dolled up for a gala event. For the first time in a long time, after all of those compliments and positive energy, I saw what I wanted to see in the mirror.
Of course, the rum punch and the gushing strangers and hugs helped.
This morning, I woke up to find a gorgeous man in my bed. He was loving, attentive, adoring.
Then he asked me if I could make him a spinach omelet.
"No problem, Lucian." It took a bit to drag my ass out of bed, a little weary from indulging the day before, but still happy. I made the omelets, hunted down Anna's tae kwon do uniform (had to pull it out of the dirty laundry) and we were out the door to my favorite place; the farmer's market.
I plied the kids with chocolate croissants and while they ate contentedly under the tent, I breathed in the damp-dirt smell and felt up the begonias and foxgloves at the flower stand.
It doesn't take much to make me giddy.
Later, in the car, after martial arts and in a croissant coma Anna spoke up amidst the blaring lyrics of "Sweet Virginia."
"Avery's family is as wealthy as King Tut." She sounded almost indignant.
"Oh yeah, how do you know?"
"He told me. His nana has boxes of money."
"Just remember, Anna, the Pharaohs had slaves."
"Good point."
I'm not sure if she got the point, but she let the matter drop. Maybe she sensed the hope around her, maybe she was tired, who knows. "Sweet Virginia" continued to play, we all bobbed our heads to the rhythm of the Stones. And I felt like a king.
There is a cliche often used that we want better for our children than we had. The truth of this cannot be denied. I dream, pray, weep and worry over their quality of life. I think of my own childhood and the broken bits of that place and I am certain that theirs is a better one already. No, I cannot give them all that they desire, but what I do have to give, I give it with no attachment, no thought at all. And with the hope that there is more to come. The same friend who took me out to lunch and raised a glass to my success (and laughed at my flushed face after the rum punch) asked me about my "mothering style."
"Are you maternal? You know, that mother hen thing," he said.
I nearly choked on my calamari.
"Um, no. Actually, they hate me sometimes because I draw a hard line."
"So, you're like a momma bear, then? Not a June Cleaver."
"Yeah, you could say that. I'm not a nurturer, that's for sure."
"So, how would you describe it then?"
"Ferocious. I love them fiercely and recklessly," I said. I stopped at this.
Scary stuff. Not something I go around telling people, but the truth of it hit me tonight. In this weird silence punctuated by traffic noises and the neighbor's sad attempts at karaoke stardom.
I have my "people" and I love them fiercely. To the point of blindness it seems. The real killer (perhaps literally) is that once I decide to unleash this love on others, it is the very thing that may drive them away. What I think is one of my greatest gifts to someone is actually too intense to open. Good thing I know that now.
At least the kids can handle it, the rest can run.
I wonder if they ever realize, or will ever realize, that they were standing on a goldmine.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Just be...yourself?

I have a job interview today. Yeah, remember those? Jobs? Interviews? So 2007 I know, but they still exist. This is the second round of interviews for this job, and, given my type A personality I have, of course, managed to nearly mindf*ck this thing into the ground.
Thank good for Tussin with codeine (sp?).
The main thread of advice that I've been given is "just be yourself." My mother's exact words, actually. And then, of course, some commentary.
"Oh, honey, just be yourself. Er, well, maybe not all of it, but most of it."
Right, good point. Anna said the same thing this morning. She said I looked a little "bouncy" and I told her I really wanted to make a good impression because a lot (i.e. her quality of life, her brother's quality of life, my sanity and physical well-being, my career as an editor) was riding on this job.
"Oh that will be easy, Mom," she said, toast crumbs dropping out of her mouth. "People think you're hilarious. Just don't swear. You never know if someone doesn't like the F-bomb."
True, true. So, no swearing, perhaps no crude jokes about fecal matter, and maybe not gonna unload about the time I almost went crashing into the Cliffs of Moher due to whiskey and wind.
"Well, Anna, if I don't get this job, then that means the universe is talking to me and there is something else that's going to happen instead."
This is when Lucian finally lifted his head from the task of inhaling his omelet. Yes, I do still make breakfast for my children in the morning.
"The universe can talk?"
"Yup, sometimes it talks so loud we can't hear anything else. It talks through earthquakes, roaring wind, thunder, everything."
"What's it saying?" His magnificent blue eyes were wide with concern. Or maybe just curiosity.
"It's saying...um...stop making war on my skin and in my guts and in my heart. I'm tired."
There was a brief contemplative moment among the three of us. A bird even chirped. Then Lucian spoke.
"Hey, Anna, have you ever seen a machine gun?!"
Moment over.
So, be myself minus one eighth of myself. Minus the lcoarse language, minus the perverse humor, minus the scarring of a thousand little battles lost and fewer won, minus the blind pride that comes with working myself into the ground merely to survive.
I will give it a shot. If there is one thing that I don't mind sharing with folks, no matter the company, it is a gut laugh and with that a sense that hope is somehow lingering, waiting for the next joke.

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Sets and more sets

Lucian came barreling out of his room this morning wearing a tank top and very heavy fleece pants. This was his plan for school. I immediately was skeptical.

"Luca, you're going to sweat your gonads off in those things. Don't you have gym class today?"
It was very difficulty not to laugh at his little pipe cleaner arms as he puffed up his chest and scrunched up his eyes into his "man face" expression.

"Huh. Mom, can I really sweat my nuts OFF?"
I sighed. I guess I should've flinched that my six-year-old uses terms like "nuts," "gonads," and "balls" on a regular basis. I didn't flinch. In fact, given that it was 5:30 in the morning and I was just taking my first swig of coffee (after having extracted the Kleenex from my nose, see previous post for explanation) I don't think I even noticed the language.
"Yeah," I said, grinning. "They can sweat right off and then you'll have to shake them out of your pant leg."
Fortunately, my son has a very sharp, Dupontian sense of humor. He started laughing, almost to the point of choking, as big blobs of muffin fell out of his mouth. Anna had entered the kitchen at this point. And, of course, had to give her two cents.
"Well, Mom, you haven't been sweating too much then. You still have your nuts."
Wow. I thanked her. What else could I do? She watched me ice my face, pack my nose, and pour peroxide on open wounds all of last night. Not to mention downing an entire bottle of Alleve while making dinner and wincing in pain every time I spoke or smiled.
Yes, Anna, I do still have my nuts. And thanks for noticing.
My little philosopher.
To all of you who now have to gather the remains of your jaw from the floor, please, try not to judge. I am just so pleased that my kids GET me and laugh with me and are so smart when it comes to communication, that I forget that perhaps there are social rules which have fallen shamelessly to the wayside. Part of the problem is that I am lacking perspective. There is no voice of the "judger" that pops up to remind me that taking my kids to the ink shop (for instance) might not be the most appropriate venue. Or that having Lucian slather moisturizer on my tattoo is most likely going to send him into therapy by next year.
We do things differently around here. We are honest, if somewhat rough around the edges. But I like the edges so much. They tell the best story, the nicks and dings and gashes are like wood scars on a ship. You can see, plain as day, what waters the thing has sailed and how high the waves were.

Monday, May 17, 2010

Broke...broken?

Wouldn't you know, the week I decide to put the breaks on my trucker mouth and be a little gentler as a human being, especially with the kids, is shaping up to be the week that my shell (physical and emotional) will harden and dry like mummy skin. I am the taught bit of flesh stretched across the 5000 year old cadaver of a f*cking king.
Perfect.
Morbid, you bet. True, I hope not. I was really looking forward to softening a little, maybe smiling a bit more, being more trusting and "sunny" (yeah, I'm gagging on that one, too), but by 11 o'clock this morning that plan nearly ate itself alive. In an effort to make some cash (which is in terrifyingly short supply around here, food stores may follow this vein) I did some major landclearing (i.e. felling trees, hauling limbs the size of trees, hefting wood twice the size of me, burning brush illegally, you Berkshire folks get what I'm saying) with the Sisco kid. I was moving way too fast and chucked a log into a pile of logs just as another log was rolling down a hill. Wow, lotta logs. Anyway the piece I hucked met the falling one at just the right angle, we can call it wood kizmet, and bounced back catching me right in the face. My stomach rolls when I think about that noise. My nose took the hit, and of course, the thing busted open right there. Blood and snot everywhere, it was like a bad Rocky movie, 'cause there are so few of those right? Caught most of the blood with my work gloves, let the rest poor out into a handkerchief.
Now, mind you, I need this cash. So, I got some napkins from the car, took a deep breath, and stuffed the thing, and continued to work. There were a few moments during the day when I thought I was going to puke, or maybe pass out if I was lucky. But I wasn't lucky and stayed painfully cognizant up until this very moment.
And it throbs on. My teeth hurt, the side of my face is black and I just extracted what I hope is the last nasty chunk of dried blood, out of my angry nose. The skin between the two nostrils is split open.
Guess where I'm going tomorrow? Back to clearing and hauling and burning. Hopefully no bleeding. I finally went to the gas station halfway through the day to get some more tissue and Neosporin. The very kind Indian man at the register took one look at me and asked if I wanted him to call the police.
"Um, no. Do you have a restroom? I need to clean up a little." He gestured, his hand still on the phone. I didn't want him to worry that I was some kind of coke addict, so I just wet down some paper towels and brought them out to my car. And there I sat, in the Stewart's parking lot, cleaning out the gush and splinters and pain from my nose. That's when I started laughing and crying uncontrollably.
"You got to be f*cking kidding me." That was all I could muster at the dirty, bloody face in the visor mirror. Not a gentle image. All I can say is thank God I didn't ruin my smile. In all the years that the smile has waxed and waned it has been the thing on my face that always manages to break through.
Oh, that reminds me, I need to go clean out the puncture hole in my thigh from the barbed wire that nobody saw.
And just as an aside, when I opened my email tonight, the first message to greet me was a nice little note from Baby Daddy #1 saying that he was not sure that he could send child support (he's sent it three times within the almost 10-year span of Anna's life) this month.
I didn't know that was a choice thing.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Fine things and my things

In my bright, echo-y living room two things immediately catch the eye. One is the upright piano that sits gleaming from several dustings. Of course, the sheet music is eye-catching too because it looks like a hundred mice ran across a sheet of paper shitting with every breath. Yeah, a nice little Debussy number that I told my daughter I could learn in a week. That wasn't even a cocky promise, it was just plain stupid. I'm three pages in and almost started playing "Chopsticks" before slinging the whole instrument out the window....
So, there's the piano. And then there is my "tv set" as I am now calling it. A few weeks ago, I hoisted (yes, by my f*cking self) a giant tv up the stairs and into the new place, dropped it on my foot once and destroyed the inside of my arms with all of that sharp-cut decorative, veneer that encases this monster. I purchased a DVD player for the dinosaur tv, the kids and I picked out a movie from the library (took an hour for them to decide, which I did eventually because the fighting did not cease and people were starting to stare), set up the "system" and then discovered that the tv is so goddamn old that it requires an adapter for the DVD player.
"Motherf*cker" I hissed under my breath, watching the angry bruises grow on my arm.
"What'd you say, Mom?" Anna was alert, and ready to scold.
"I said what a bummer."
"Huh, that's weird. It sounded like what you say in the car when someone is going too slow."
I had no idea she was listening. Yet another note to self moment.
The end result of the tv situation is that we now have a very tiny flatscreen successfully hooked to a DVD player, all of which is resting quite comfortably atop the old, giant tv.
You can't say I'm not resourceful. So far the reactions have been mostly confusion or laughter. My friend, the Sisco kid, was over last night. We mowed on pasta and ice cream and discussed the finer points of how messed up we are and reminisced about our favorite mind-bending drugs. Mid-laugh he peered into the living room.
"What the f*ck you got going on here?"
"It's a statement about technology and rebirth."
He gave me a very critical stare.
"I don't have any money to buy a tv stand it was all I could think of."
He shook his head. "You're not going to get any dates with that thing."
Yeah, no sh*t man.
The very sad fact is, that I do have taste, but it is constantly blocked by reality. Constantly. Of course I know what kind of black walnut antique German bar I want sitting in my living room. I know the worn-out throw on the back of my couch would be so much better if it were Persian wool. Do I care that my flatware was 8 bucks for the whole set? Am I allowed to care?
After all of these years of education, travel, living, loving and burying, I can say that the awareness of fine, gorgeous things will never leave me. But, the acquisition of these things has fallen quite far, almost to the bottom of a very long list. Yes, I still dream of returning to Paris just to go to a mustard shop I fell in love with years ago. But when I look around and see what is here, see the wind shake entire meadows when no one is looking, see the silhouette of the baby that will come to our family in the fall, see joy in faces that have grown hard with worry, what could be finer than this?
I will eventually make it back to the Rue for the mustard. Now, all of those fine things are wrapped up in daydreams.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

spasms

We twitch. It is a simple fact of being human. Sometimes the twitches are short-lived like when you blink to get an eyelash out of your actual eye. Or when you silently flick a spider off of your son's head before he even realizes it is there and is able to get out the first squeal of fear.
Then, you knew this was coming, there are the long lasting twitches born of years and years of repetition. Sometimes they can be charming; the shy batting of eyelashes, the hair toss, the quick childish smile. But these are rare, and usually only happen in movies and since we hate movie stars because they are so charming, these twitches don't count.
There are others, the not-so-charming ones which, and I may be alone on this, are much more fascinating and revealing and even dangerous depending on the twitch. It has been pointed out to me that my legs are always moving, especially my foot. Apparently I shake couches and even entire rooms with my crazy leg. Some may even venture to say that it's annoying. Do I know I'm doing it? Of course not. I also grind my teeth at night, supposedly. That would explain the occasional raw flesh lining the inside of my cheek, as well as the cramped jaw I have to unclamp before I take my first swig of coffee. And this uncharming list continues.
And it ain't just me.
My brother rolls his eyes back every other blink. My best friend puffs her cheeks out before she laughs, my son farts uncontrollably when he's done something wrong that I haven't discovered yet, my father sucks air through his teeth before he smokes his pipe. I had a history teacher, who, without fail, always got a nipple erection when he was pissed off.
My mother covers her mouth when she laughs out loud.
This little idiosyncrasies, odd as they are and quick as they are, are more substantial than a biography. Yes, all of those life details have their place, but you can still know a person, and know them well, by observing their habits and movements. I don't know your favorite color and I haven't memorized your birthday (haven't even tried) but I watch your eyes dart around when I look at you square in the face. I hear my own voice fall when I've reached a tough spot in a conversation, that hard laugh I hear tells me you're scared out of your mind and have been for awhile.
There is no shame in spasms. It may be your body's involuntary way of volunteering precious information. The ones who really know you, or want to know you, will pick up on these things right away and store them in a file marked "you". Of course, who knows when the file will be dragged out, and who knows what it will be used for. But just having one is a good start. It means somebody's been paying attention.
I saw a doctor yesterday whom I've never seen before. She listened to my lungs, checked my pulse, leaned in to hear my heart.
"Huh, something funny going on in there. Have you been having trouble again?"
I resisted the urge to laugh and ask her to define trouble.
"It's a little tight," I said.
"Well, I guess you need to loosen up. And soon."
See, tiny details, profound truths. I'm off to grind my teeth and raise my left eyebrow in suspicion of everything.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

conTextual

I think our modern society has finally reached the point where there is a clear need for a Texting Etiquette for Dummies publication. I do not claim to be an expert on this subject, in fact, any light that could be shed would be much appreciated.
What are the rules?
I ask myself this every single f*cking day and for so many reason. I ask other people, or I at least shrug my shoulders, or smile shyly, or clench my jaw.
"I don't know," I say, "What are the rules? Are there rules?"
They think I'm kidding. I know that I'm not so while they're laughing at my funny little (presumably coy) question, I'm shaking my head at myself and the utter lack awareness that I have accumulated over a lifetime of gypsy living and poor training.
Ever been to Paris after taking the night train from Madrid? Ever try to get breakfast in Paris, after said night trip, and accidentally order in Spanish? That's me. Wrong country, wrong culture, wrong context and totally wrong gut reaction.
I just wanted a coffee and a croissant. Instead I got a mean stare. And the coffee, of course.
And that is texting for Nichole. It's mostly a shoot from the heart approach, which I am finding is the worst kind...ever...in any situation. Common side effects that result from shooting-from-the-heart texts are
1) Feelings of dread that you sent the text in the first place. This situation usually involves some sort of emotional and/or physical intimacy that is followed by said text. You're jacked up on love hormones and send something off trying to be sincere. Something like "u r lovely. had a gr8 time. Can't w8 2 c u again."
This is not good. It implies that you are waiting, that someone has taken up a place in your mind, maybe even your heart. You are not playing it cool, and they will know it.

2) Feelings of desolation when the above text is not answered. More self-doubt. Did I scare them, do they not give a sh*t, did they drop the phone in a toilet, or worse yet, they do not feel even remotely the same way.

3) Feelings of spite and anger (defense walls is what a shrink would call them). Well, f*ck them if they didn't like it, I was trying to be nice, maybe wear my heart a little. There are fatalist tendencies which follow this side effect. Well, maybe it's all for the best that I know now before I get too attached. The most dangerous possibility of this reaction is to harden and do something stupid out of spite. Really f*cking stupid.

4) Maybe there's someone else. This type of thinking gets ugly for obvious reasons. Because, in all likelihood, in this day and age, there IS someone else and options are being weighed in that colossal silence between your heartfelt cyber Hallmark and some hottie blonde who is ten years younger than you.

As you can see, it's a mess from beginning to end. In fact, I think my life was much better and much less painful before texting. I am not good at any of it. I say what I mean, I try to show it, and yet, I come up short, even in my own mind.
It's too bad because the heart-on-the-sleeve approach, while it is dangerous, is coming from such an honest (and in my case physically precarious for those of you who know my heart history) place. I have no desire to be less honest.
But every wish in the world to be less stupid. Can't wait for that damn book.

Monday, May 10, 2010

ain't nothing like the real thing

I am a big fan of dancing. Always have been, at least according to the cracked photos of me as a tangle-haired tomboy wearing my brother's ripped jeans over a leotard. Those were the days. Of course, I graduated from the braided tomboy, having earned some serious jade in the last decade or so. But the dancing always brings me back to when, even if I did give a f*ck, I was too young and wild to know why.
Just a kid with a dream.
So when I was invited to go dancing I said yes with no reservations, completely overlooking the fact that the dance hall is notorious for unsavory goings on and it has a meat market-y feel. Good thing I knew that going in.
Or, I knew to some extent. When I did walk in the place was dark, seedy and vaguely lonely. The Maker's on ice did nothing to take the edge off of that vacant quality. Women, some I knew, leaned up against the wood walls. They were flipping their hair, stirring their drinks and pretending to be utterly absorbed in the low tones of the men who flocked around them. I noticed something immediately then.
I did not get the memo that it was hot pants night at the dance hall. In fact, I would venture to say that I was the ONLY WOMAN in the entire place whose buttcheeks and cleavage were not on display. The only thing visible on me was my raised eyebrow and high cheekbones.
"Why did you bring me here, again?" I asked my friend between the heavy thump of a Black-Eyed Peas number. Yes, there was actual ass-slapping on the dance floor, cowgirl style.
"Because, I wanted to have a more visceral experience with you." He smiled. I did not.
"Huh, well, you should've just said something." A healthy woman in a black hotsuit and yellow belt squealed with delight. I nearly jumped at the sound of hand hitting a fleshy ass. "We could go to the batting cages and have a visceral experience there."
I know, not charming, not even nice. But, if he was after the real Nichole, he got it, and like a broken toy, wanted to take it back immediately. Thing is, there is a water line between brain and body, at least for me. My brain sees drunk women with blue eyeshadow and thick thighs letting their hopes ride (literally) on the idea that Cinderella ran from a puke-stained bar and prince charming staggered after her with a sopping slipper. My body curls up in fear like a fiddlehead.
Ain't no hip shaking salsa for me in there, although I was looking forward to the abandon and to showing off my skill as a dancer.
Unfortunately, as in many cases, it was the wrong dance.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

picking and choosing

I have friends in just about every realm of age, culture, sexual orientation, ethnicity and income bracket you can imagine. I have friends in Ghana who give me advice about how to style and braid Anna's hair before it becomes a giant dread lock. I have friends who teach in the ghetto in D.C., friends who are older than my parents who still party like rock stars, friends who know that I prefer french press to auto drip, who know where to find the nitro if my heart freaks out, friends who notice when my skinny jeans are baggy, friends who know how to make catfish like my grandmama, etc., etc....
With all of their tastes and backgrounds and support, you'd think that these friends could find no common ground on the playing field of my life. Not so. In my life, as with the lives of many who have travelled down the circuitous, torturous, mind-blowing road of parenthood, people eventually slide into two categories.
The ones who accept me for all that I am, including the colossal role of being a mother to two children.
The ones who don't. And they are gone as quickly as a breeze in August.
Which brings me to picking and choosing. I've learned, through years of singlehood, motherhood, marriagehood, sisterhood, teacherhood, writerhood, that you cannot pick and choose the parts of a person you like and then only be with those parts. That's like saying I have nice legs and you're going to take them to the movies and leave the rest of me at home in my other life.
I would pay money to see someone sitting next to a set of legs in the movie theater, but that's besides the point.
Trust me, I've wanted to hang out with just the legs, too, but in the end, the legs need to be with the body to survive and still be functional and vibrant and recognizable.
In many cases, the question comes down to kids, or, as they are commonly referred to, "live baggage." Trust me, I've seen the recoil when I say I have kids. As if after that announcement I'm supposed to apologize or something, like I've brought a dog with a bad case of diarrhea into the kitchen.
Screw that. Yes, I have to pack a lunch for my baggage, drive it to school, take it to the skate park, nurse it when it's sick, make sure it's happy, give it a hug everyday....
How the hell is that any different from the "invisible" baggage that other people carry around with them every day? Kids are no more or less of a presence or an obstacle than a drug addiction or a broken childhood. These things talk just as loudly and need just as much attention as children, if not more.
Point being, we all have a big set of luggage attached to us, especially now. You can't pick and choose the luggage. It stays, you just have to be patient and decide if the trip is worth all of that hefting.
And, as all of my kid-accepting friends know, it is a goddamn honor when someone invites you into their lives and trusts you with their luggage.

Friday, May 7, 2010

Tea tagging

After 33 years of blessed resistance, I think I have finally developed allergies. Bad allergies. The kind where, when I wake up in the morning I can feel the popping in my face and the already warm snot getting ready to make an escape.
It's disgusting.
So, I've tried a few remedies and finally had to bite the bullet and give the ol' Zyrtec a try.
I almost found myself face down at the seedling table at the school open house. Zyrtec, apparently, makes men drowsy and small women comatose. Good to know.
It's back to lemon, Zycam, sh*tloads of herbal supplements (I burped Fenugreek yesterday, it was disgusting), honey and tea. And, if all else fails, I will have to suck it up (perhaps literally) and buy the ginger brandy.
Aaahh, memories of childhood.
Aside from the not being able to breath, the most annoying thing about the allergies is having to read the tags on the medicinal tea. Today, for instance, the tag read "Meditation is medicine for the mind." I grunted at that.
"Yeah, so is Clonapin," I muttered into the empty kitchen.
Of course, reading the enlightenment tag instantly inspired me to want to churn out little tea tags of my own, so that instead of nodding in reflective contemplation tea drinkers of my tea will guffaw or cry upon reading the little nuggets of wisdom at the end of the string.
For instance:
"You are guaranteed to be disappointed at least 10 times this week. You will probably cry 4 out of those 10 times."

"Trim your nethers very carefully."

"If it doesn't kill you, then you will still have to pay the bill."

"Same shit, different day. Bigger pile, smaller spoon."

"Remember the wisdom of your father. He was too drunk to remember."

"Don't wait for enlightenment. It doesn't give a f*ck."

You get the drift. I invite other ideas for tea tags at this time. I'm sure by tomorrow morning I will have 500 more, and still be sneezing and snotting and laughing at the ironies.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Watch your plate carefully

I'm not sure if I've written this before, although I am going to make it a point to go through my blogs from the year and see if I can't manage to compile some kind of book.
There is an offer on the table...I'll let you know what happens.
So, if this is redundant, I apologize. Back in the days of being a teacher (which, by the way, is also a mother, life-coach, father, jail warden, nutritionist, preacher, feeder, hater, lover, cheerleader, etc.) I had my students try and compile some kind of life philosophy on the first day of class. A lot of them went something along the lines of "Live every day like it's your last." You know, a cool reckless thought which inevitably follow youth like the blessing plague that it is. I nodded my head at this one, yes, yes, enjoy life to the fullest (as I looked out into the sea of their miserable, pale, sunless faces).
"What's yours?" they asked.
"Don't shit where you eat." There was a stunned silence.
"That's not very exciting."
"It is if you actually forget," I said, sighing a little.
And I still try to follow this rule. You'd think it would be simple. Not so much. There is nothing simple about keeping your grubby fingers away from something you want, maybe even need. It takes restraint, it takes courage, it takes contemplation.
It also takes your mother looking you dead in the eye with her hand on her hip shaking her head in disbelief and saying, "What the f*ck did I say to you?! Don't sh*t where you eat. Did you forget?"
This means:
Don't f*ck your boss, no matter what, ever.

Don't lie to your family, especially not your children. They're on to you.

Don't lie to yourself.

Probably best to avoid having an affair with your best friend's spouse. That usually ends up with at least a bar fight and at best a bad movie.

Don't disrespect your mother. I've heard men talk to their mommas on the phone, oftentimes that was the deal breaker for me. Nobody should say "what the f*ck" to their momma.

Don't use your friends. Just ask, they'll help you out.

So, no matter how badly you want to do something, remember this. Keep it's unglamorous language close to your heart and revel in the truth of it.
Keep them dishes clean.

Monday, May 3, 2010

Say something!

Ok, there is some old wisdom that I seem to recall, something about "say what you mean, mean what you say." I don't think it could get much simpler than this, but, apparently, this is not such an easy task to perform. It is surprisingly difficult to say what you mean. I watch people (myself included) fumble and trip for the right words to express the right thing at the right time. In fact, I know people who say all of the wrong things just because they're nervous about "getting it right." For instance, remember in first grade when, if you had a crush on someone, you made it a point to beat the sh*t out of them out recess? Makes no sense. Yet it does. The intention was pure, to give attention to someone you're attracted to. The expression, well, it's first grade. Every expression of feeling in first grade is accompanied by either ass-kicking or vomiting, or both.
So, we say the wrong things because there is a block somewhere, a lack of tools while sitting in front of a beautiful pile of mahogany that is begging to be made into a headboard.
Ok, so, what if you have the tools. I always pride myself in having them. I'm a writer for chrissakes, I can express the sh*t out of myself.
Sure.
Being a writer makes it worse, trust me. I get cocky and think I'm so well-versed that I will have no trouble getting the word out, whatever the word will be. And suddenly, I am tongue tied. Mute, even. And so, instead of doing what a normal person does, which apparently is to work through the difficulty with some simple words, I go straight for the gold hoping to fill the awful void that is created by my inadequate heart.
I start asking questions. Tons and tons of stupid, awkward questions. Boxers or briefs? Sox or Yankees? White collar family or food stamp reliant? Long term or short term? Family secrets or family pride? Organic or boxed?
And that's just for starters. The more I truly want to tell someone I'm enjoying myself in some way, or that I might be softening to their presence, the worse it gets.
So, so much worse.
What is the worst memory you have of your childhood? Why? How come you don't read more fiction? So, do you prefer blondes? Why are you so quiet all of the time?
I think I will stick to the written word and pray for some kind of miracle. Maybe my tongue will fall out in the middle of the night.
Or I will wake up and be cool.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

The distance between point A and point B

I underestimate the people in my life, and I need to stop doing that. Like yesterday, for instance, I had my bed delivered (see previous post), it was 90 f*cking degrees outside and I had an inking scheduled for 3 p.m. Of course, I'd been up since early in the morning, tossing as usual, covered a street party in one of the worst neighborhoods in the county (I say this because I've lived in New Haven, Boston, Worcester, slept in train stations the world over, spent many nights on streets in NYC, San Fran-I chatted it up with hookers there, etc.), and I was peaking in terms of stress.
That is when my father showed up, 20 minutes before my tat appointment. He had a frosted glass jug filled with margarita mix (con tequila).
"Figured you could use one of these before you get inked," he said lifting the jug.
"You figured right," I said, already setting the glasses on the table. I had no ice, so we sat in my new kitchen, somewhere in my new life, sipping tepid margaritas and talking life.
"You nervous?" he asked. Course, I didn't know if he was talking about the tat or the cataclysmic transition that has taken place over the last year.
"Kinda, it's gonna hurt like hell, that's all I know."
"It's only a tattoo," he said. "It's a mile from your heart."
I guess he was talking about both.
So, I was pretty relaxed during the ink session. If someone asked me which section hurt the worst I couldn't tell them. The whole f*cking thing hurt. I could feel the thick rips going across every vertebrae in my back, then out into the muscle in my shoulders, the buzzing at the top of my spine.ZZZZZZZ. I didn't flinch, in fact, I almost fell asleep.
The artist thought that was weird. I had to assure him several times that I wasn't drugged. That I was just tired from what seemed like a lifetime of shattered chaos leaking out of my back with the leftover black ink. Their are ink stains on my shirt this morning. I think that's the last of it.
Despite the burn (think "I fell asleep on the beach for six hours") it ain't nothin' compared to what the last two years have dropped in front of me. I counted, it's two big boots, the sky looks all clear for now.