Thwarted Saturday

Everybody's working for the weekend. That's pretty much our reality during the school year. The husband spends weekdays facing upwards of thirty children during his twentieth year of teaching at the same school. It has become a journey that I share with him in many ways, in particular the long sigh of relief that accompanies Saturday mornings: OUR DAY.

This one greeted us with pure gorgeousness, which inspired the husband to conquer that front yard work and sent me indoors to deal with some long-procrastinated school stuff. We agreed to meet back up around mid-afternoon for our traditional, work-is-done, congratulatory beer and fries on the Derf's patio.

It can never be that simple, though, can it? We literally made it half-a-block around the corner before catching full view of the formerly beautiful day, which hadn't seemed so bad from our yard. The hazy smoke looked like the grosser-than-gross version of the smoggiest LA day enveloping our dear downtown Santa Barbara. As if on cue, the winds took this moment to really kick in, delivering us Zaca Fire Part Deux in the form of fine, dirty ashes squeezing through window sills and gritting their way into eyes and mouths all over town.

Always up for taking acts of nature as personal attacks, we headed back for home to commence our bitch festival. "Mother nature hates us!" "Is it so much to ask for one crisis-free day?" "The yard was perfect, but only for one minute!" "Why must this always happen on the weekend?!"

My weekday life is exponentially less hectic and energy-zapping than the husband's, so I was able to regain composure without too much effort. The day was saved with some Thai food leftovers (always better 24 hours later) and a little NFL channel. But what really turned it all around (and end-game for this entire post) was my brilliant assessment that we were experiencing...wait for it...

A Big-Ash Storm.

Coincidence?

It's odd, this life...and magical, and creepy, and welcome and amazing.

During the day yesterday, I found myself facing a moral dilemma: whether or not it was time to delete Annika's email address from my list of contacts. I paused, staring at her name, several times, and rather sheepishly sent her long defunct account the notice of my new address. The redundant "mail cannot be delivered" message stung a little too much and convinced me to - finally - let the email address go.

During the night yesterday, Annika visited my dreams again; but, for the first time, it was just Annika. There was no undercurrent of cancer or problems of any variety. She was merely joining her sister and our mother on a wild adventure through an airport and subsequent rodeo. In the dream, we were working together, laughing out loud, and having the most comfortable interactions imaginable.

Sure, the same-day email address deletion and dream visitation may be coincidental. It may also be coincidence that, last night, I happened to sleep in her white t-shirt with a blue Ganesha on it. But shrugging things off to boring coincidence is not how I roll. Annika doesn't show up in my dreams very often. Nor do I happen upon her email address or wear that shirt very often. Besides, it's more fun being a subscriber to the "it's all connected" line of thinking. It's sort of like religion - without having to be all religious - in the way it offers meaning to the daily drudgery and allows for a sense the profound.

Still, there's something niggling at me about this whole thing: we went to a freakin' rodeo?!

Blaaaaahg-ified

One week, I'm going about my business: breathing, eating, the usual. Tra la la la.

The next week I'm being trailed by an internal narrator who can't seem to stop herself from crafting every move I make into fully structured sentences. She's chasing me all over town, whispering in my head descriptive lines of witty prose sure to catapult me into fame as the world's most brilliantly poignant new author. So where the fuck is this narrator hiding when I finally have the chance to sit down and transcribe her strokes of genius? How convenient for her, really, to just up and evaporate like that.

What is it that holds a person back as they write, as they decide what they'd like to say and how to say it in a given moment? What is it that causes an artist to drink to excess and beat their spouse? Despite best efforts to convince myself of anything else, the answer is, indeed, the obvious one. Dammit if it's not the dreaded F-word, the middle finger that thrives on wagging itself in the face of vulnerable minds far and wide.

Fear. Fear of intimacy, fear of going deep, fear of the hurt, fear of experience, fear of lack of experience, fear of being found out, fear of looking stupid, fear of hurting feelings, fear of being wrong, fear of being right, fear of trying something different, fear of finding something I love, fear of the boogieman.

Right now the little narrator chick is telling me to relax and lighten up already. She's reminding me everyone starts from their own place, everyone brings their own level of experience - or inexperience - to their writing. She's telling me to knock off the elitist perfectionism and release the pressure that keeps me from making progress. She's telling me that I've already found my voice and to go ahead and use it. She's telling me...damn, disappeared again.

No matter, I've said what I came to say.

and now for something completely different

The husband tells me that a sick kid asked to be sent home early from school yesterday because he had a bad case of stripper throat.

True story.

Welcome to the Cruel World

I had been enjoying a refreshingly light mood the last week or so...but that's all over now. Yesterday delivered a triple whammy of frustration, disappointment and reality television; and today I find myself literally long in the face.

Today it doesn't matter whether or not I realize this "poor me" episode won't last more than a day or two because, basically, it's obnoxious and I don't want it and I'm supposed to be a princess, dammit!

Today it makes no difference that I've made my peace with Annika's death and am trying to honor her by living my life well. Nope, turns out three minutes of a stupid TV show has the power to rip my heart back open and leave me feeling as raw and vulnerable and confused as the day she died and my heart broke.

Today it's not enough to go about living my peaceful life, reducing my carbon footprint, and focusing what I can for those in need within my family, my friends, my community.

Today is a mascara-free day because every other thought I have or song lyric I hear sends me running down the hall and into the bathroom so I don't frighten anyone who might walk through the office door with my red, puffy eye slits.

Today, the universe revolves around my sorrow.

Today, the thing I wish I didn't understand about heartbreak is that it's never going to fully heal. I don't know what made me think it ever could. Now I must live with the knowledge that once you've been broken, you'll always know what it feels like to be broken...and the broken spots are sensitive to changes in the weather.

They Say the Mind is the First Thing To Go

I started out the day fretting over the fact that large chunks of my memories go missing on a relatively frequent basis. It's starting to be unsettling.

For example, that brain-burning pink, Parisian hotel room from fourteen years ago is somehow easily recalled. I spit gum out of the window and watched it hit - dead center - the top of a parked car, forming a perfectly flat circle. I sure thought that was clever, but, apparently much more that went on inside that room. A recent look through a friend's photo album proved that I actually co-hosted a small party in there; the European pinkiness of it all must have made it easy to pretend we were a group of sophisticated, worldly ladies (rather than the sheltered eighteen and nineteen year olds we, in fact, were). Why is it that don't I remember Jessica getting stuck between the two beds, having to be pulled to safety by her ankles? Why is it that I have no memory whatsoever of posing for pictures in a rose-shadowed corner, demonstrating the "French inhale" with a cigarette? What was I doing with a cigarette, anyway? These photos - taken long before I ever tried anything that might cause legitimate brain damage - sure do make it look like we were having one hell of a good time! So, what gives? Why can't I remember a thing about it?

I have no idea where I read the other day that creative-types tend to also be forgetful-types. Come to think of it, I do seem to take notes on every little thing that I think I'll need remember to keep my life together (translated as a cloud of post-it notes in my trail). Here all this time I thought I was just a touch absent minded, but now I know it's on account of I'm all kinds of creative and shit! One thing I've noticed is that my brain is non-discriminatory; that is, I'm equally capable of losing track of the fun life experiences as the nasty ones.

Chalk it up to my creative genius that, this morning, I arrived for my second scheduled punishment of the year - involving a dental hygienist stabbing and flossing her way through my troubled mouth of doom - without a hint of trepidation.

Suddenly, I See

Lately, I find myself drawn primarily to science fiction books. Long ago, my stubborn mind must have declared this genre unworthy of my time and pretty much have avoided ever reading any. Unfortunately, bull-headedness doesn't always work in my favor.

How did I miss the fact that these stories are a logical approach to exploring the problems that accompany humanity and warning us that we'd better get it together before the machine people show up to teach us a lesson in perspective? Who knew that it makes sense to use alternate universes and the intangible future world as a means of telling stories of philosophy? Of living for the present? Of tolerance and brotherhood? Of love? All this mixed in with hints of "Will it work?" and "Does it even matter?" It's great fun, honestly! I especially like the tales involving kid heroes/heroines who find themselves with the responsibility of saving the world from the adults' poor choices.

I do realize I'm not the first person to discover this truth about science fiction; I'm really just the latest newbie to join the club. Maybe it's as simple a explanation. Maybe I plain old didn't used to give a crap about these "humanity is doomed because of our actions" issues. It's interesting - and laughable, scary, even sort of sweetly naive - how the last few years of unfamiliar life experience has completely altered what I see. I guess I always have been a bit of a late bloomer.

It's a Miracle

This morning, the most amazing thing happened; it feels like I've had a visit from Santa Claus.

For six and half years now, we've been living with an invisible cat named Kizzy. OK, she's not actually invisible, but it sure feels that way every time we have to convince a visitor that the litter box, in fact, is not just a cleverly placed decoration. Way back, when I realized she was far more skittery than the shelter people had let on, I stubbornly - foolishly - declared to the husband that I'd have our adorable little fur factory sitting on my lap in no time. I hate it when I'm wrong.

Actually, she's almost like a normal pet when nobody's looking. I get to chase her from room to room, sometimes catching her long enough for a minute of huggy cuddles. I get toss her something to play with and deal with her blank stares, as if waiting for my next trick. I get to keep her well-fed and pretend not to mind cleaning up her occasional hairball on the carpet. I even get to share the bed with her, where she's careful never venture any closer to the lap than foot level.

Lately, though, Kizzy has been showing subtle signs of cracking under my "you SHALL sit on my god damned lap someday because I am the Cat Whisperer" pressure. In fact, she's been so responsive - sitting next to me on the couch for long stretches of time, snuggling against my thigh when she thinks I'm asleep, letting me pick her up after only half of a lap around the room - that I've started to wonder who this new cat is that looks so much like our Little Miss Priss.

Then today happened. October 14, 2007 began with my usual, stubborn routine of cooing at the cat, trying to get her to come to me, rather than the usual vice versa scenario. I'm still lying down in bed and all of a sudden, she's sitting on my lap and purring audibly! She even stayed there long enough for the husband to catch photographic evidence! Even if Kizzy never gives me lap time again, I'll always have today, the day I got to think for one fleeting, triumphant moment, "I WIN!"