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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.