I hate election night

Yup.  I hate it.  I remember being so proud after voting in my first election.  I remember enjoying the whole process... the campaign, the self-education, the pomp and circumstance of presenting my i.d.

Then I met Tim.  And even those first 8 years or so, I still was proud to be a voting american... proud to be part of the process, even if my vote was in direct opposition with my soul mate's.

Now.  What an arduous process.  Ugh.  Do I really have to listen to one more incredibly juvenile ad on TV?  Do I have to suffer yet again through a night filled with phone calls and website updates?

It's not that Tim has beaten me down... I haven't succumbed to the dark side.  It's not that I am less passionate about certain issues... maybe I am even more passionate now.

It is simply the displeasure in going through the process alone.

I refuse to answer the phone if I recognize a Republican's (in-law, former college buddy) phone number.  I blog... unrelenting to cnn.com.

The thrill is gone, folks.  I don't feel the need to convert my husband anymore.  As much as his ideology can confound and infuriate me, frankly, my dear, I just don't give a damn.

So, there it is.  I hate election night.  I think I will go blog on Holcombgraydecor.blogspot.com  about something I do care about... like paper versus cloth napkins.

What Grace afforded me

Like being enveloped in fog, or trying to breath under water... trying to keep my wits about me is an extraordinary feat these days.

Scheduling, school, new job, subconscious... wherever, however you want to assign the blame, I lost track of time and my appointment with my psychiatrist and I have been off my medication for a month.

Life's little hiccups have become major obstacles.  My best friends are whispering about me behind my back.  I can't hold back the surge of tears at every touching commercial, every time I think of how fast Annelise has grown up.

But I've got this tiger by the tail... I'm holding tight.  I'm still answering the phone and keeping appointments and brushing my teeth.  I even managed to drag myself to Dr. Rahman and got back on my medication.

The gym, the shower, blink, make dinner, go to bed and start over.  I can do this.

I'm doing this.  We're doing this... my patient husband and me.  Our health insurance and us.

Lucky me.

Do you know the percentage of homeless people who suffer from a debilitating psychological affliction?

There but for the grace.... go I.

Defining yourself

Today, I completed an exam which will hopefully earn my a certification in decorating.  Hhhhmmm.  About 20 years ago, I thought I would be earning a Ph. D.

Where did the road diverge?

Was it somewhere between manic episodes?  Changing majors?  Changing boyfriends?  When did I aspire to, well, what I aspire to today?

All of a sudden, fabric swatches and paint colors are pertinent.  Does that make me vapid?

I've learned that interior decor is directly influenced by the fashion industry.  I can't help but feel a little shallow poring over Vogue and Traditional Home.

Somewhere a long the line, Juvenal and Iambic pentameter began to mean less to me.

Does that make me less?

Does what you "do" define who you are and if so, do you want it to?

to the people who got me here

It was like putting on slippers, or slipping into you favorite sweater come winter.  An easy fit.

Some say you spend your whole life looking for friends.  What if you made them without trying?  What if it just happened and you were almost a spectator in your own life?

Sometimes it happens.  Maybe you are 5 and you are both thrown into kindergarten, away from your mothers for the first time, still sucking that thumb.  Maybe you are 18, away from home for the first time and scared to death.  Maybe you are 30 and have just had your first child.  You being plural.  You and this new friend.

Maybe you are both from catholic families.  Or maybe one of you scrambled across a border to begin a better life while the other one of you was living it.

I have known these.

I spent Friday night with old dear friends and saturday night with friends made during my adulthood.

I could not, would not change a moment in my friendship with any of these people.

You spend your first 18 years thrown into social situations.  To some degree your friends are already made.  If you are one of the lucky ones, you go to college.... and start to make friends on your own.  Afterwards, work should bring new friends.  Then children.

What a lucky girl am  I.....

My old shoes, my new shoes, they all fit.  I treasure the vintage finds and relish the new.

Here's to you:  Buck, Missy, Rebecca, Ceily, Nestor,  Lori, Susan, Liz V., Liz w., Dusty, Wendy, Rich, Leah, Tom, Pam, Winthrop, Candice, Bill, Tanya, Kristen, Bruno, Michele, Angie Jackson, Heather, Jennifer, Melissa, Lisa, Blaire, Jenny, Annelliott, Drewry, Jack, you countless others who have made me laugh, sing, dance and cry.  And most especially to Tim.

Life isn't what you think you have accomplished... its the people along the way who got you there.

Thank you.

an Ugly Monday

I felt my face flush first.  My ears.  The pinpricks of tears in my eyes.  A short quick in take of breath.

I had made an, apparently, unforgivable transgression.  I promoted my business on a Yelp! talk thread.  The first response was barbed and nasty.... "...get your money back if you paid for a degree.  ....I know shabby chic and you are nothing but shabby....".  I stared at the page and swallowed hard.   Hundreds of heartfelt good sentiments eradicated by one virtual stranger's cruel words.

I've never claimed to be a designer.  I do not have a degree.  Nor do I consider my style shabby chic (um, bleck, for the record.  hate it)  but here was this woman lambasting me, personally attacking me, accosting my website, because I had made a minor infraction in Yelp! world?????

I responded to my attackers by thanking them for their words of "encouragement"; what else could I do?  I studied Shachi B.'s (my numero uno attacker) profile and found her on Facebook (careful who you curse).  She wrote about the breakfast of champions being brownies... she looked like the ultimate winner at the breakfast table.


A friend posted today that her uncle had died.  Life is what you reap, she wrote.  Smile more, piss on people less.  I get it.

Shachi B. is a recent George Mason Alum.  She deigned to impart to me ways that I might promote my business... for the record, I do all of which she recommended.  She lives here in Arlington.  She hides behind her anonymity and writes "snap"tasteque pithy remarks that are intended to cut the legs out from under her victim.  God, if I believed in you, I would wish for Karma.....

Looking forward to the Harvest

The days are still hot but there is a subtle change afoot.  The humidity has died down; the sky is a pure blue again; the vegetable vines are dying.  Autumn is upon us.

So many profound changes this year.  Annelise in her school uniform.  Teddy playing football.  And the launch of my own company, Holcomb Gray Decor.

If Spring is the season of rebirth, Autumn is the season of ripening, maturing, coming into one's own.

I feel this now.  The last week I have been preoccupied with obtaining a business license, creating a portfolio, launching a website, making a Facebook page.  I don't know if I have fully comprehended yet that my days will change (hopefully).  Will I have clients (two thus far)?  Will they write me testimonials?  Will my company make money?  Have I finally found a calling on which to embark?

As the children gather than tools and backpacks, I have my own gathering to do.   A laptop, a camera, perhaps an iPad... I just don't know yet what all I will need.

Night settles a little earlier these days.  When we wake, the air is a little cooler.  As sure as the leaves will turn their colors, my time will change as well.

Welcome to Autumn, to new leaves.

The Urge to Purge

Aside from purchasing quite a lot, I purge frequently.  Today a friend took the children so I took it upon myself to clean their rooms and playroom and discard old toys.

I find it exhilarating to get rid of little used items.  I gave away Teddy's remote control DinoRaptor and Annelise's easel.  I packed up games and puzzles, trucks, and tea sets.  Since the children rarely use the playroom, I'm guessing it will be weeks before either notices anything is missing.

Or I could be dead wrong.

Should I have Givers Remorse?  I didn't touch stuffed animals, books or blankies.  I do NOT count Happy Meal freebies as real toys, so they got tossed first.  Then I tried to be judicious; I boxed up toys I hadn't seen them play with for months.

Now I am flashing back to Toy Story 3.  Should I have let the children choose what to do with the toys?

Teddy's room is still inundated in his precious Bakugans and Annelise still has piles of her animals.

How much is enough?

I thought this thought for myself today as well.  My arms laden with Goodwill finds, I paused and asked myself if I NEEDED anything else.  I put everything back and left empty handed.

Certainly I have a full closet and dresser, so why do I keep trying to cram more in?

I chastise my children for hoarding, yet I realize no woman honestly needs 30 handbags.

Is it the constant search for the magical pair of jeans that will whittle my things to supermodel status?  Do I try to fill the void my father left with shoes?  Am I mothering properly?  Do I show my children enough love and spend enough time with them?

Yikes.

This is dangerous territory.

Yes.  I love my children and they know that.  Should I spend more time with them?  Probably.  Do they feel slighted and therefore need to gather as much as they can?  Most likely not.  Sometimes a greedy child is just a greedy child.

So their rooms are tidy and the playroom is a little more spacious.  I tossed in a bag of my clothes when I dropped the toys off at Goodwill.  I feel lighter, less indulgent.  The house feels cleaner and I am satisfied.

But there is no way I am parting with a single handbag.

How smart is pretty?

I am trying on clothes.  Tight pants, loose skirts, comfy tees, less than comfortable jeans.  My room looks like Nordstrom exploded in it.  The cats pull loose ends out of open drawers and the overhead fan rustles the stack of fashion magazines.  I am an unforgivable clothes horse.

I am also however an equal opportunity shopper.  I am just as likely to buy a cute pair of shoes at Payless as I am at Prada.  I shop Goodwill, Target and Neiman Marcus.

Two days ago, the most revered printed word published annually arrived in my mailbox, the Vogue September Issue.  Since then I have drooled over Marc Jacob's sexiest line ever for Louis Vuitton.  I have coveted the swirling skirts and cinched waists from Prada.  Don't even get me started on Max Mara.  Leathers and lace and gathers and pintucks.  This is a spectacular season.

Hence, I am twirling around my bedroom like some hopped up teenager, piling on necklaces and pinning up hems.

Somewhere, in a room close by my children are sitting mesmerized in front of the T.V.  I am vaguely aware of SpongeBob's droning laugh.  I am reluctant but I tear myself away from closet and peep into the living room.

Annelise is wrapped in a blanket, even though I keep the air at 77, and lounging on the sofa.  Teddy is ensconced in the "dog chair" with, who else but, the dog.

I quietly retreat, aiming back for the bedroom but sit to write this blog instead.

When did I become obsessed with fashion?  I remember in high school devouring the Utne Reader and The New Yorker.  Sure, my mom bought me a subscription to Seventeen but I was more likely to be found reading Anne Tyler or e.e.cummings.  Not to say I wore a bag over my head but when did I notice the way Carolina Herrera drapes material or Prada stacks a heel?  When  did hemlines and kid leather become as important to me as...as...well, as they are?

I don't watch Project Runway.  I've never been to Fashion Week.  I consider In Style vapid (though I do have a subscription.  Jeesh).

Recently I tried to entice Annelise to practice ballet.  Tutus and leotards, stockings and satin shoes... so pretty.  She abruptly informed me that she wants to take a form of martial arts (we immediately enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, white uniform included).  I felt proud.  I have raised a smart assertive little girl who frequently dons leg warmers, over the knee, and a newsboy.  She is no slave to fashion and barely tolerates my drivel about wanting her to look pretty.

Somewhere, at sometime, I decided that fashion and intelligence cannot be married.  When guests come over, I actually hide In Style and Vogue and put out The Smithsonian.

I guess I don't hide my dirty little obsession very well considering I actually wear the clothes and shoes I covet/purchase.  However, I do hope my epitaph doesn't read "She dressed well".... however, I am sure if given the opportunity I will choose want I want to be buried in.  I've always favored Oscar de la Renta...

Brave New World, I guess

So I have a client.  Mind you, I don't have a business, or even much of a plan, but on September 9th I am meeting a woman who will pay me for my time as I help her rearrange her furniture and assess her decor.

I am almost paralyzed with fear.  I feel like a fraud.  I am not licensed.  I'm not a designer, I'm not even a decorator.  I am a poser.  Sure, I've helped some friends... placed some furniture, arranged some knick knacks, assisted with color choices and wallpaper.  It was fun.  Like playing dress up or house.

Now the rules have changed... money will change hands.  It is a nominal fee but regardless, I am taking currency from another for services rendered.

I armed myself with what I believed to be appropriate questions and supplied limited but detailed information about myself and my abilities.  I had a great conversation with my client... and yet... could she detect the hint of wariness in my voice?  What shall I wear?  What should I bring with me?  Magazines, paint chips, catalogues, tape measure?  I don't even know how to gauge square footage.

In high school, I believed that I would grow up to be a professor, or a writer.  I would drive a Volvo station wagon and wear chunky wool sweaters.

In college, I fretted that I would end up a saleswoman, a ghastly pharmaceutical pusher.

In my early twenties, as I bounced from ridiculous job to ridiculous job, I worried I would never find a calling.

Now, as a mother, with a calling perceivably knocking on my door, I am confused and scared.

I'm 39.  I make a great Coq au Vin and can write a proper condolence letter.  I have a pretty good taste for wine and love to travel.  I've made my own pesto and children's clothes.  I have an uncanny knack for finding incredible items at Goodwill.  None of these would translate well on a resume.

So, here it goes.  Forward.  Armed with moxy and a stack of  Southern Accents.  Let's see how far we go....

get over it

Chicken tagine with greek green olives, israeli couscous and key limes.  Buttered smoked paprika pork chops with a dijon potato green bean salad.  Zucchini and feta fritters with a tapenade tomato salad.

As I obsess about my weight, I cook.  I pour my creativity into healthy delectable meals and erstwhile run, pound weights, pummel myself.  I shop for fresh herbs and garden my cucumbers while counting calories.

I long for red velvet, coca cola, meatloaf made with 8 0/20, mashed potatoes, gruyere, Fritoes, beer... I try on new clothes and preen in front of the mirror.  I get up, I run, I push, I lift.  I go to sleep and I dream of running... through pastry shops, through Timbuktu, through Nevis... I dream of wearing a swimsuit I wore three years ago.

I shuffle clothing... size 27 jeans to the back... size 6 to the forward.  My mother says I need to lose 15 pounds.  I stare at the mirror, only neck long, suck in my cheeks and jut my chin.  15 pounds.  15 pounds... a 3 month old baby, a kettle bell.  When did I ever have to lose 15 pounds?

I refuse to part with my clothing.  The St. John one armed side ruffled dress.  The Max Mara grey wool slacks.  The Tracey Reese dress I wore to our 1st Derby Party.  The gorgeous shirred red tankini.  

I buy shoes.  Lustrous leather.  4 inch heels.  Velvet.  Studded.  Stacked.  Platform.

I lament.

I read the papers.  1/5 of Pakistan is under water.  A mother smothered her children before driving the family car into a South Carolina river.  Another dead toddler was found in Arizona.

Jesus.

I am complaining because I eat too well?  Too much filet mignon?  Too many glasses of Pinot Noir?  Not enough plodding on the treadmill I pay $80 a month to use?

Relative.  Its all relative.

Right.

I need to get over myself.

The challenge of coping

In the midst of a hectic morning, the coffee maker stopped brewing.  I checked the clocks to make sure we hadn't had a power outage.  Strange.  And annoying.

Testily, I drove the children to their respective camps.  Ugh.  At Teddy's camp, we spied the child that he had had a physical alteration with in school this year.  I advised him to give the other child a wide berth and whisked Annelise off to gymnastics camp.  The mother of the the aforementioned child was dropping off her other child at gymnastics camp too.  Great.

At home I noticed spots on the carpet; damn dog.

Somehow though, chipping away at my day, I noticed that things didn't really seem that bad after all.  Sure, I was jonesing for coffee and I had agita over whether my children were in safe environments, but it all seemed manageable.

Medication, I thought appreciably.  Yes.  The great equalizers.  Wellbutrin.  Zoloft.  Abilify.  My three amigos.

Sure,  half the refrigerated vegetables have spoiled and Annelise stained her new leotard with red (red!) Kool - Aid and the cat threw up under the dining table (again), but there is money in the bank and gas in my car and the air conditioning is running and thank God for drive-thru Starbucks.

Now if only I could put my Mother's little helpers in the water system.  My God that woman at Target could sure use a big dose.

Scratch 'em

The humidity has abated and the pale blue sky is tinged fiery orange and peach.  A lone cicada shrilly sings its singular song, yearning for a return.  The tomatoes are mostly green on the vine and the watermelon plant is fringed with yellow blossoms.  It is summer in Virginia.

With the heat, summer showers and the cloak of mosquitoes, has settled a veil of ennui.  The children chirp in the living room and my husband sails through the study signing some ridiculous song.  I am thwarted.  Writing in a happy household is anything but.

It is not the heat or the swelter that deters me from what I want to write.  Could it be happiness?  Is it really a joyful noise which interrupts, disturbs me?  My own dissatisfaction, my inability to love, live in abandon?

"Scratch him means they took him out of the lineup", I hear my husband explain to my eight year old about Stephen Strasbourg.  Ah.  Of course.  The pressure.  I get it.

Late at night, as the moon silvers our bedroom and the cats settle into the folds of our covers, I lie looking at the ceiling.  I count not only blessings, but accidents and curses, mistakes and misfortunes.  I take a tally. It is not always favorable but more times than not it is.

I am a lucky woman.  I have known pain and joy and love and loss and the am old enough to know that I need to experience all of these to really experience any of them.

So tonight I am taciturn.  Tonight I yearn for a solitary space where I can write without wondering how people will react to what they are reading.  Instead, I write labored with concern.  Is it lyric, does it flow, does it make any sense?

They happily buzz in the room adjacent to mine.  A mindless hive alight with chatter.  I sit surly in the study.  Yet without their bright banter, would there be anything to say?

The sun has not yet dropped beyond the horizon; it hangs, suspended in its golden glory, casting a honey glow to the late July evening.  What was it I meant to write about?

Reflections

I remember blue eyes, pale as sky, almost lashless, piercing and unsearchable.

Empty promises.  Weak-limbed hugs.

When our mother met him in Woodstock, half way between D.C. and Lexington, he would buy a six pack for the drive home.  We three in the backseat, huddled like spinster sisters, like refugees.

Donoughts, Sweet Sixteens, from the 7-11.  Either steaks or jarred pasta sauce for dinner.

And I never told him, how much I hated every minute, how stifled I felt, how much of my life was passing me by back at home... because God knows I wasn't living any kind of life in Alexandria one weekend a month.  Movies, ballet recitals, soccer games, sock hops, sleepovers...  in the grand scheme of things, were they anything?  They were everything, in comparison.

And I don't feel callous.  I waited.  Sweet Jesus, I waited to feel the guilt, the sorrow, the pain.  After he's gone, I thought, it will all come down and I will fall beneath the weight.  Yet, I still mourn only my lost time with friends, weekends surrendered...

What is it with we the survivors?  We bite our lips and bide our time... waiting... waiting for the reckoning. Am I sorry that he died?  Do I miss him?  I miss what never transpired.

My father was an impossible man.  His death has been incomprehensible.

I only think of him when I make mistakes.  I worry that my parenting is sub par.  I worry that I do not possess enough humility.  I worry that I drink too much.  My legacy.  It is such.

Thin skin, big ears, thick thighs, short temper, quick judgement... I am not without parts of him.

It is the part of him that he never gave anyone that I am missing.

The continuing education

The older I get the more I realize the less I know.

Guess what?  I wasn't really smarter than my parents when I was 17.

Surprise; I didn't end up marrying my high school sweetheart.

Hhhhhmmm, a classics major really doesn't translate well in the working world.

I really do feel better if I go to bed around 9 PM.

Sure, I've had these epiphanies.  What I have also come to understand is my own insignificance and that I  am the only one who can change that.

I never really "got" physics or logics for that matter.  I still have trouble calculating square footage.  I can cook, but baking?  Forget it, that's a science.  I'm still not sure what I want to do when I grow up.

I'm still no closer to "understanding" God than I was 25 years ago.  I also still make wishes on eyelashes and shooting stars and pennies thrown into a fountain.

Here is what I do know.... putting a plate of food in front of a hungry person is a form of love, writing thank you notes is still the right thing to do, taking care of an animal instills responsibility and compassion, my mother was right more than she was wrong, saying your sorry may not completely heal the wound but it is still the best balm, love exists in a multi-hued world; there is no black or white, yes- your metabolism really does slow down, sometimes a grilled cheese tastes better than pan seared scallops and foie gras, and forgiving yourself will be your hardest task.

I hope to pick up more along the way.  Right now, I'm just grateful that I have somehow managed to glean as much as I have.

Tight wire under the sun

There is a pale shimmer on the horizon.  Please let it be the sun.  The ceiling of the sky hangs low and grey over us.  It is hard to maintain a happy outlook when the sun hidden from view.  After all, I am in Florida, damn it.

Sanibel.  An endless stretch of shelly sand, clear water the temperature of a warm bath, palm trees lining the shore.  I love this place.  I came to it reluctantly... not wishing to intrude on my in-laws vacation; they have the use of a 3 bedroom condo for a month during the summer.  As they have 4 children, each child is invited to visit for a week.  Tim and I did not take them up on this offer until 4 years ago.  Now this place is in my blood.  It is not quite what New Orleans means to me but it is close.  There are no high rises, no bustling big hotels, no McDonalds or even a Starbucks.  What they do have is beyond my description... dolphin cruises and white sand, exotic shells and bicycles for rent, nature preserves and  Quack Quack Shrimp (although techinically that can be found on Captiva, at the Mucky Duck). 

I read, collect shells, eat at fabulous restaurants and sunbathe.  This year we played tennis until we had hit all the balls into the marsh and were reluctant to retrieve them as we had spotted an alligator sunbathing the day before. 

Yet, with all of this subdued atmosphere, I am not totally at ease.  We share this generous condo with Tim's parents, who are beneficent beyond reproach.  However, I am constantly reminded that I am not a true Gray.  Don't ask me why or how, it is just how I feel.

It is curious... marrying into a family.  You spend so much time and effort in courtship but the relationship with in-laws can be difficult to cultivate.  You have entered a family in the most intimate of fashions... how to you endear yourself to a family that might perceive that you have stolen something? 

My mother-in-law and I are different creatures.  Politically, relgiously, morally, educationally, sentimentally... we are at odds.  Polar ends.  Maybe... maybe we are too close to being similar.  I haven't figured it all out.  I do know that we vy for Tin's soul.  Sons and mothers, boys and lovers.  It's all so difficult to figure out. 

Tim is adopted.  This of course makes absolutely no difference at all to Tim or his parents. 

Tim is also married, a husband, father and provider.  He is no longer a boy, no longer under a thumb. 

Love is, as Pat Benatar so eloquently put it, a battlefield.  We wage war with ourselves, our dreams and hopes, our fantasies and our realities.  The best we can hope for is coming out scarred but smarter.

The waves ebb and flow.  The sun sinks low and taints the sky an impossible fiery peach.  My in-laws are out for the evening.  We order pizza in and gorge ourselves. 

In the end, a man cleaves to his wife.  It is not an easy reckoning.  Apron strings are hard to sever. 

The beach is fraught for me.  The idyllic setting, the intensely personal battle. 

Yet, I cannot fathom a year without Sanibel... without the leisurely walks, the shelling, the sun...

I guess what it all comes down to is temperance.  Know your strengths, work on your weaknesses, love without bounds, think within reason.... Love is the tightest wire we will walk. 

Lucky number 13

It is approaching thirteen years... should I be wary?  July 3rd, 1997 was the day I met Tim, rather it was an evening.  A hot sultry evening in a cramped apartment in a section of town known mostly for catering to homosexuals.  I had just had cocktails with several girlfriends and confided that I was going to focus on my career, men be damned.  Going to a Independence celebration in DuPont Circle didn't bode well for romance anyway.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen with its glaring overhead.  The space seemed to pulse, with music and bodies and the thick summer air.  Tim was standing at the back of the kitchen, clutching his beer like a steadying hand.  He was wearing khakis, a tee shirt and running shoes.  He had a slight comeover and an affable grin.  He looked as bored as I thought I would be.  I walked right up to him and asked him if the party was as bad as it looked and he conceded that it was worse.  We launched into non stop banter... snide repartee, politics and beer.  He didn't look scholarly or wordly, yet he appeared intelligent, well studied.  He had a deep sonorous voice and was tall.  We proceeded to make fun of most of the people at the party.

There was no drama, no longing or painful self evaluation.  Falling in love with Tim was effortless, a sky without clouds.  After six weeks, we talked of marriage.  Over Thanksgiving, he spent the holiday with my extended family, including Gran, whose opinion was of the utmost importance.  By February, on the 15th to be exact, my grandparents anniversary, he proposed.

All my days spent with others, agonizing over a future with this boyfriend or that... it was all a different lifetime.  I had never known that love could be comfort.  I had known passion and desire and jealousy but comfort was new.  Meeting Tim was a homecoming.

The engagement was managed by my mother.  Tim and I planned the honeymoon and the actual ceremony.  I picked out my dress but that was the limit of our involvement.  The day of the wedding the florist called me in tears because the bridesmaids freesia bouquets were dead.  I laughed.  "Buster, I'm getting married today.  I don't care about flowers".  (His name really was Buster, by the way).

Later though, as my new husband fell into a languid sleep, I curled my legs into my chest and wrapped my arms around my knees.  What had I done?

I stole glances at his profile, the set of his jaw, the droop of his shoulders.  Had I never noticed he stooped?

He drank to excess one night on our honeymoon in Key West.  I sent him unceremoniously back to the B&B and stayed downtown with a salty old sailor to watch the local Christmas parade.  I asked my new friend if he had ever married.  He knocked back a tequila and squinted at me.  Marriage is a swan song, he said and left me while the middle school band warbled through Jingle Bells.

I sat there in the bar, streetside with the parade ringing in my ears and the bar's smoke encircling my head... a swan song.  A last desperate aria before dying?

I thought of my parents and their sham of a marriage, 16 years too many.  Infidelity and secrets and pain.    I thought of the divorce rate and the friends from high school I knew who had already ended their marriages.

Befuddled, I trudged back to the room.  I could hear Tim snoring before I even reached our room.  What other wonders awaited me, I thought.

That night the wind whipped the palm trees above us and the rain lashed the windows.  I stared wide eyed at the ceiling while Tim slept.

Tim awoke refreshed.  My eyes were swollen and I had cotton mouth.  I swung my legs off the bed and watched him dress.  I've made a mistake, I thought.  How do I tell him that I was wrong, that I was overwhelmed by emotion, caught up, mistaken.

He turned and smiled at me.  He walked towards me and kissed my head, "Time for breakfast".

I watched as he inhaled his eggs and french toast.  I cautiously sipped my coffee.  I scalded my tongue.  A tailless cat brushed against my legs underneath the table and I absentmindedly stroked his fur.

I excused myself and went back to the room.  I called Gran.  I couldn't bring myself to tell her my horrible secret but she softly spoke over the phone about commitment and fidelity, loyalty and love.  I hung up and shed my clothes, hoping a hot shower would resuscitate me.

And with the water pouring over me, I realized... I was without a compass, a map, a guide... I had wandered into uncharted territory and I was terrified.  This had almost nothing to do with Tim; almost subconsciously I had made the right decision, but now, in a full waking state, I was scared of the repercussions.  Sickness?  Health?  Had I committed to a life of wealth or a life of poverty?  Was I really willing to take that chance?  I had met Tim in health and wealth... could I really put up with anything else?

When I came out of the shower, Tim was sitting on the bed waiting for me.  I'm scared, I said.  I know, said he.  You've never seen me sick, suicidal, manic, said I.  I might, he said.  I don't know if I can do this.  You can.  What if I fail?  You won't.  How do you know?  I don't, you just have to trust me.  What if I can't?  I'm willing to wait.

The truth is, you never stop being scared.  The truth is marriage is a free fall.  I chose the right partner to jump with.  Sometimes I am the one shoring him up, other times it is he who carries the weight.  And there are times when we are in tandem.

Maybe it was blind luck.  Maybe it was karma or fate.  Somehow, almost unwittingly, I walked into this marriage.  I've heard your first impression is usually right.  Solid, I thought, when I first saw Tim Gray.  And so are we.

Charting the Journey

What would you erase, take back, eradicate?  That stupid comment at the last party, that failing grade junior year of high school, your college boyfriend?

I am driving my children to and from camps.  Without a working radio in the car, I reflect.  I see a man with a lilting gait crossing the street.  He reminds me of my high school boyfriend.  Its awkward now, when I see him.  He is married to the girl I always suspected he liked rather than me.  I am happy for them both and even happier for me that I married Tim.  What I am not happy about is that fact that the old flame has seen me naked.  Would I take that back?  Well.  Would I be here if it hadn't happened at all?  If we had only remained friends and not tortured each other through years of strained relations, would I have chosen Tim?

Then there are the little transgressions... the lie I told my mom my senior year of high school, the candy hearts I ate out of a classmates desk in third grade, that Prada dress that I may never be able to squeeze into again....these things I do wish I could change.

But am I the sum of all of these parts?  Do the minor roles added up make as much of an impact as the big deals?

I wish I had been diagnosed bipolar earlier.  I wish I had attended just one college.  I wish I had majored in Business.  I wish I was currently a stock broker... or an actress... or a writer.  But if any of those wishes had come to fruition, there would be no Teddy, no Annelise, no lovely 12 year marriage to Tim.  Does wishing for these things now, devalue what I already have?

I chose Miami of Ohio to be close to my high school boyfriend.  I left Miami for Washington & Lee because I was depressed.  I met Tim through friends I had made at W&L.

There you go.

Lying, thieving, eating to excess and being depressed got me to where I am today.

Where and how do I take myself now?

Feeding the love

I used Gran's china, the red and white toile.  I carefully selected the ecru lace placemats and the sterling.  Each time my parents visit, I feel compelled to make one special meal.  Spinach, avocado and pomegranate salad with dijon dressing.  Cold zucchini soup with pan seared scallops and fresh thyme.  Wild blueberry tarte.

Maybe it is because of the thousands of home cooked meals I received growing up.  Or the birthday cakes made from scratch.  The turkeys and dressings.  The blueberry pancakes and Lost Bread.  The red beans and rice, the cheese grits, sausage spaghetti.  How best to repay the generosity of food but with food?

Of course, it is more than food.  Each meal is a valentine, an expression that you care.

So I plan my menus in advance of their visits.  I scour Whole Foods and review cookbooks and Epicurious. This time I tried to emulate a dish from one of my favorite restaurants.

I know my strengths, entrees, and my weaknesses, desserts, and work accordingly to make the best meal possible.  I focused on the entree and salad and picked up the tarte at Trader Joe's (fantastic by the way).

A carefully selected wine, my good crystal, sometimes a floral arrangement... it takes so little to make an impression, to convey that I appreciate them.

Downstairs in the guest bedroom, I arranged the sunflowers in an old blue and white pitcher.  I put out a tray, stocked with waters and trail mix,  on the blanket chest.  I culled my newest magazines and put them bedside.

The funny thing is, as demonstrative and affectionate as I was with Gran, I am not with my mother.  I do not hold her hand or walk arm and arm with her.  Do not ask me why; I cannot fathom as I love her completely.

So I saute and sear, broil and finesse... I pour a lovely white burgundy and cut fresh flowers.

And with each bite, sip, I am sure she knows that I love her.

New Orleans

The air was moist and the temperature soaring.  I leaned back in the back seat of the taxi an inhaled deeply.  I felt at home.

Growing up, I only ever expected to live in one city - New Orleans.  I never dreamed that I would live somewhere else.

It had been nine long years since I had visited the Crescent City.  Post Katrina I wasn't sure what to expect.

The taxi bumped along the elevated highways and pitted streets.  The steeple of St. Louis appeared and then the cab descended into the city, past the Super Dome, through the CBD and finally arriving at Canal.

The city looked clean, for New Orleans.  It was crowded.  The hotel was packed.  I took my bag and met Lori in the courtyard.

The heat was delicious, perfect for quaffing Mint Juleps, which I did.  The geckos scaled the walls behind us as Lori and I caught up on each other's lives.  It was Girls Weekend in New Orleans.

Of course, Girls Weekend is always fun but I was especially looking forward to this one.  A weekend in my favorite city without children.  The beignets, the cafe au lait, shrimp remoulade, Pimm's Cups and pralines.... I love the tattered elegance and grit of the city.  The graceful porches and Jefferson windows, the gutter spouts shaped like fish, the magnolias and live oaks.  I love the edgy rawness of the Warehouse District, populated with new condominiums and restaurants.  We took the street car out St. Charles and rode past Gran's childhood home in the Garden District.  We ate at Antoines and drank at Napoleon House.

Lori and Susan and I dined with my dad who has been living in New Orleans working for FEMA for a year now.  Then we had breakfast at Brennan's with my aunt and uncle.  It was a family affair for me and also time with my girls.

It was wonderful.

At 39, I wonder now if I will ever be able to call New Orleans home but perhaps it is enough to say that it feels like a homecoming whenever I visit.

Life in Song

It was twilight.  The tall trees canopied the deck and the sun darted amongst their leaves.  The Connells came on... as if anything were different in here... such great lyrics, harkening back to such a long time ago.  Mary Washington.

I can smell the bourbon and tobacco... so thick you can practically taste both.  Tight bar, packed hallway, lines to the bathrooms.  College.  Beer and foozeball and coverage charges and $5 pitchers.

College.  I went so many places ....  Randolph Macon Women's College - traveling home every weekend.  The music... The Jam, The Connells, The English Beat.

Miami University of Ohio.  Clandestine romance and the FIJI house, heart wrenching distance from a hometown love, Billy Bragg, Thomas Dolby, Skinny Puppy.

Washington & Lee.  Frat parties and late night antics, Fancy Dress and Jim Beam, torrid love affair and guilt, U2, They Might be Giants, LL Cool J.

Music.  Time.  So much intertwined.  Love and loss and growth and the painful march of time, time, time.

Today, homework and soccer, playdates and date night, good wine and PJ Harvey, The National, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, the White Stripes, and the Connells, the English Beat, Billy Bragg, and U2.

Love and music.

Song.  The lyrics are evocative.  I feel transported.

Music and Love.

A face, a touch, gentle words, ephemeral moments.

Love, Music,Life.  It is such.

What we do when we are in love

Smile.  When their world is shaken and you are unsure of the earth beneath your feet, you smile.

Listen.  To the beat of their heart, their sleepy murmurs, the anguished outcries, their outraged screams.

Fortify.  Build up their dashed hopes, pick up jagged pieces, place together disjointed fractions.

We wash and we cook and we cry and we laugh and we shelter and we defend.

Love is a merciless master which takes us to task.

We go to bed worried and wake up anxious.

My loves are relentless.  My deep unshakable love for my husband, my revered, loyal love for my Gran, my unquestionable, protective love for my children.

Love makes you question authority and fight for the underdog.  Love makes you look past faults and fissures.  

Love can make you scream like a banshee, bellow like a wounded animal.

It can drive you to delirium, make you question your morality, your judgement, your faith.

And then, we seem to be dashed upon its rocks, it can redeem you, lift you from filth and degradation, and let you loose among the clouds.

When you are least willing to submit it to its call, it's tentacles wrap around your heart and seep into your soul.

So remember, when you are howling at your children or shrieking at your spouse, when you are cursing the dog and regretting taking in the cats, love can haunt you.  When all you want is to be alone, be wary... for you might get your wish and then you are left alone, with love's memory, long and vivid.

Making it your own

The walls are a deep caramel and the furniture is black.  The drapes are striped with slate blue, caramel and black.  We chose an open airy beige backgrounded brown damask for the small bathroom and a gorgeous pale beige and blue damask comforter.  Behind the cornered bed we will arrange gothic candlesticks of varying heights.

Leah's bedroom is going to be beautiful.  Wendy did a great job of arranging the furniture and picking out the paint color.  I just came in with some ideas about complimenting her choices.

Saturday, Tim and I hosted our Wine Tasting fundraiser for Teddy and Annelise's school.  I gave everyone the tour of the home.  I felt proud and also humbled by the remarks that everyone made about the decor.

I've mentioned this before but it is worth stating again... I look longingly at Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn;  I appreciate the cohesiveness and the seamless flow from room to room.  However, that is not me.

As I guided my guests throughout the house, I took inventory.  The moth eaten handed down Shiraz in Teddy's room, the $12 chair in the guest room, the shiny black "backsplash" I painted myself in the kitchen.

It is a patchwork quilt, my home.  It is hobbled together with love and curiosity and hopefully some style.

I used a Spode pitcher of Sassie's to hold the silverware.  I used Gran's green bisque vase for the centerpiece.

I am always secretly surprised and pleased when someone mentions they like my home.  It is such an amalgamation that sometimes I myself feel lost within it.  However, each affirmation is an envelopment.  Each compliment sends me soaring.  Like Sally Field, I want to scream "You like me!  You really like me!".

Saturday's party was a lovely success.  We sipped wine as the rain cascaded down outside the safe harbor of the screened porch.  Gran's vase held calla lillies and orchids.  People laughed and mingled and moved freely about the house.

It felt good.  It felt like home.  The night wore on and the party moved from the porch to living room.  I forgot to be concerned about the size and the shabby upholstery my cats had rendered.  I took stock.  A far cry from my mother's home, it is true.  My 1950s brick rambler will never have the graceful slopes and hollows that my mother's victorian possesses.  Yet, there is Gran's china and my uncle's modern Dorothy Mead and the Venetian glass chandelier in the study.  It will never be mistaken for a grand manse but it is a graceful home.  It encompasses all that I love... both material and not.

I know I know... ANOTHER blog about my house, decorating and expectations.  Yet this time I am happy to report, I feel at home.

Love be not proud

So I have posted 100 entries.

Each entry is a birth.  Each time I sit to compose I am writing something that needs to be released.

I have written about love, loss and the sad perplexing state of being in between.  I have written about children and parents and what it means to be both.  I have catalogued popping pills and swilling alcohol.  I have disparaged and praised.

It is no small feat... sitting here, trying to compose something worth reading.  I might want to spill salacious neighborhood details or air dirty private laundry.. . when you write, nothing is sacred.  It takes a certain amount of restraint to keep from dishing on love lives and abandoned conquests.

This weekend, I felt my place.  I went to a BBQ in Bethesda... for those not familiar with the DC area think Westchester to New York... the houses were grandiose and the cars were elegant.  I thought of myriad stories to tell... I gauged social rapport, I took note, I watched with rapture... I am a different breed.    I wore Anthropologie when others donned Cavalli.  I was happy with the keg beer, while others clamored for Grey Goose.  I hold a degree from a state university.  A B.A.  I could not match wits with those with doctorates from Ivy League schools.

Yet.  Yet, we were all humbled, equalized by the love we had for children.

Family.  We are beholden.  Whether scarred or blessed, each has their story to tell.  This weekend, I watched as my children ran round with others who came from much more gentrified backgrounds than ours.  They didn't pause to ask what each other did or where they came from or who were their parents.  They were kids... running wild, having fun.  Do you remember what that was like?

They are color blind, oblivious to wealth or the lack there of... give a child a ball, a bit of grass and a few contemporaries and you have a game to watch.

I wish I could say I had as much verve.  I felt inferior.  I felt less than attractive.  i felt inadequate.  No one uttered a word that wouldve made me feel such a way... I went there on my own.

I celebrated my sister-in-law's earning of a PH.D today.  I joked with relatives about how Tim and I were the stupid ones in the family since we were the only ones without advance degrees.  I was only half joking.

Life is hard.  Families are harder.  The best chance we have is to stand tall and take it on the chin.  I've weathered my storms and taken my hits.  I have more character than a shakespearan play.

I ache for the lessons my children will have to learn.  I shudder contemplating their losses.  I yearn to shelter them from the ugliness which inevitably ensues.

I've rambled... too much wine, too little forethought... well.  I part with this.... if only I had wings to shelter them from the blows, if only I could stand in their stead and take the fall, if only I could give them life's rich pageant... if I could shower them with knowledge and power.... if only.

I may not have a PH. D or live in Bethesda... I may not aspire to such an address or distinction.  I love my children unequivcoably.

Ah well.  What more could you ask for?

Furious

Teddy is the most naturally gregarious person I have ever encountered.  He considers everyone to be a friend.  He was dubbed the Mayor of Kindergarten.  He converses as easily with 8th graders as he does with children younger than he.

So I was naturally surprised when I learned that Teddy is being bullied in school.  Teddy could not be labeled as a classic victim; he is social, popular and athletically prow.  He is large for his age.  However, he is a gentle soul.  While protecting a new student from being bullied, he was slammed into a headlock and thrown to the ground.  He retaliated.  And ended up in the principal's office.  My own child did not give me these details; other eyewitnesses, both children and adults, relayed this information to me.

Today, I met with the principal to discuss the situation.  I was informed that it is my son's responsibility to (1) Say no to the Bully (2) walk away and (3) report the incident to an adult.  I find this ludicrous and a totally insufficient reaction to the situation.  My hackles are raised.

Teddy does not dislike this bully.  He is torn.  He has a certain loyalty to his "friends" and I respect that.  What I find annoying, is that this school administration has decided to place the onus on the victim.  My child is self assured and well liked.  He CAN stick up for himself.  What about the children who fall under the classic victim description?  A shy bullied child is supposed to tell a bully no?  That's exactly the reaction the bully is looking for.  With all of the media coverage about this escalating problem, the best we can offer our children in protection is Just Say No????

Everything is exacerbated for me because I know, and dislike, the family involved.  There are deep seeded issues and these are readily apparent to anyone who comes in contact with this family.  The mother refers to her children as Special Needs.  She claims the son in question is bi polar.  Being bi polar myself, I take great umbrage with the label Special Needs.  I also question the diagnosis and would like to know what measures are being taken with this child.  If indeed he should be classified Special Needs, he needs to be in a class that caters to his needs.

This is not a good day, despite a shining sun.

Dark Day

I can feel it seeping into my bones.  It reminds me of being cold in New Orleans.... a more brutal cold than anywhere else because you don't expect it.  Maybe it begins with self loathing... not being able to fit into a dress, regretting that last drink the night before.  Maybe it is the miserable weather, the unseasonable cold, the low lying gray clouds.  I can feel it sinking its teeth into my soft flesh.  I am never immune, never fully protected; my armor is flawed.

I live with depression the way many people live with a few extra pounds; it hangs around and for the most part I can ignore it, but in a weak moment, it prays upon me.  This morning it has settled in my mind like a thick fog; it has blurred my vision, masking what is truly important.  My limbs feel heavy, my head is thick.  Coffee tastes bitter and food sounds repulsive.  I hear the siren call of sleep.  The unmade bed beckons to me, softly at first.  I feel compelled to abandon the day.

I long for sunshine.  If only the sun would break forth, dispelling the gloom, maybe I could dress, function. It is no small feat to sit here and force my fingers to peck away at the keyboard.  I know where I should be but lifting my feet seems beyond my strength.  The steel sky and chill wind do little to alleviate my burden.

I swallow my pills and press forward.  If I can push myself into even 10 minutes of Pilates, I know it will help.  Running would be ideal but the thought of dragging myself to the gym is to much to bear.  Baby steps.

There is much to be done.

Sharing the love

I wasn't sure but it looked as if Leah's soft gray eyes were brimming with tears.  Liz Valencia I knew was excited to be joining us.  I had just invited the two mothers, whose husbands were working on Mother's Day, to join us for brunch.  I know their hardworking husbands wished they could be with them, but I was glad that we could step in to be substitutes.  I was looking forward to a special day with friends and family, being feted and loved.

Yet, it certainly wasn't that way for my own mother back in the day.  It wasn't until now, as I sit to compose, that I realize how very different my own mother's special days must have been.

I can only recall with clarity one Mother's Day gift I bestowed upon Merrie Gayle.  We kids had been sent to visit Bio Dad here in Northern Virginia for the weekend.  We went to Ballston Mall and I spent $30 on a peach linen blouse with heavy lace detail.  I must've been 16.

There were no flowers for my mother.  My father did not make a special breakfast and serve it in bed.  If she was given gifts, they were handcrafted in school.  My father did not take us out to buy her any treasures.  We did not have a celebratory dinner.

I am sure my mother got up on Mother's Day, like she did every day, and made us all breakfast.  I know the children would have accompanied her to church, but only begrudgingly and while Sandy stayed at home.

I guess in our own small way, we children gave her some solace and recognition but I know from my own experience how much a loving spouse contributes to Mother's Day.

Yesterday, we shared our morning with Leah, Liz and my mother Merrie Gayle.  Tim made sausage and eggs and bacon.  Leah brought champagne for Mimosas and Liz brought bagels.  We laughed over coffee and biscotti, telling stories of children and reliving the escapades of the weekend.  I know Leah and Liz missed Tom and Nestor as my own mother missed her husband but I was happy that mine could bring some happiness to them all.

Tim did not hesitate when I suggested that we share our day with friends.  He welcomed them as I did.  He even went out and bought extra supplies as he wanted to make sure the morning was special.

And it was special.  Sharing my family with three other mothers whom I love and respect made me appreciate Mother's Day all the more.

You are where you live

There are drawers which stick.  Chips of wood or gold leaf here and there.  Some legs are wobbly and the oil paintings are caked with cigarette smoke.  Yet, each piece is exquisite.

I live with relics.  My home is a collection of cast offs, discards, and inheritances.  Chairs have been salvaged from the street, tables have been stripped and painted and stripped again.  Paintings have been reframed and cleaned with nail polish remover (tread lightly).  Silver dimpled and polished, gleaming despite the dents.  Bone china, paper thin, displayed in the kitchen cupboards, one side from Sassie, the other from Gran.  Even my fine linens are handed down.  

And that which I couldn't beg or steal, I borrowed.  Only 8 of 40 silver mint julep cups are mine.  The centerpiece of the table, an urn which looks like a trophy, is my mothers.  I used 8 of her sterling forks for Derby party, not to mentions two egg plates.  

There is something comforting to me knowing that with which I live with has been loved before me.  The exceptional green bisque of the nymph which was Gran's, the sterling coffee pot of Sassie's, the stunning Dorothy Mead over my mantel which belonged to my uncle.  As I am a mosaic of people, so is my house.  I do not own a piece from Pottery Barn.  Once, I had a plastic bowl for Teddy from Ikea.  I find Reconstruction Hardware to be grossly overpriced.  

I prize my pair of handpainted italian end tables from Goodwill and the barrel chair I bought for 12 dollars at the flea market.  Even the pieces I have acquired from the monolithic Home Goods are "dent and grab" specials.  

As a child, I brought home birds with broken wings, worms, baby squirrels fallen from the nest.  I have always loved the unwanted.

I look longingly in the Horchow and Ballard Design catalogues.  I devour Traditional Home and vintage Southern Accents.  I yearn for the cohesiveness, the tranquility of matching nightstands and carpets chosen specifically for a room.  

I have rewritten the end of this blog 4 times now.  What is it exactly I am trying to say?  I guess, embrace what you have, work with you have got, don't be afraid to ask for more but be ready to accept what it already is.  My house is a metaphor.  Who knew?

Lucky Girl

I can see it still... the linoleum floors, the "soothing" green tile in the bathroom, the carpet mats for circle time.  I remember walking into Kindergarten, in my blue pinafore appliqued with a red hot air balloon, and feeling enveloped, embraced.  There was not an enemy in my class.  Instantly, I had sixteen friends.  Very little changed over the next 12 years.  Our friends were readily available, pre-chosen.  It is finding your friends along the rest of the way that is challenging.

Saturday, about 40 people descended upon my house.  The ladies, dressed for Derby, looked like flowers with their nodding bonnets.  The gentlemen were well appointed.  We looked quite the civilized bunch, clutching our silver cups.  As the night passed, the decorum wore off and the party thinned out.  The music was turned up.  After I escorted the last two guests to the door, I reflected on all my friends and how they became to be so.

My parents and stepmother were in attendance.  You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your how you relate with family members.  I do not forget my place; I am a child and will always be so to my parents.  However, now that I am an adult with a family of my own, I relate differently to my them.  It is an extraordinary thing to share a drink with your mother, laughing over a childhood past.

Having moved from my hometown a long time ago, there were no childhood friends in the group and my two college girlfriends couldn't make it this year.  My oldest, and dearest friend, Kristen and her wonderful husband Bruno were there.  Kristen and I worked together back in 1997.  I danced at their wedding.

My children attend a different school than do my neighbors children.  I have met some lovely people through St. Thomas More and was so pleased that they chose to attend Derby this year.

Of course, the largest, and most rowdy contingency, was from Barcroft.  Most of these people I have known for 7 years, some only for 3.  They are equally loved and respected.  I know everyone believes that their friends are special but I truly think there is something unique here in Barcroft.  We can parent one another's children.  We can divulge life changing secrets.  If a weekend passes and I don't see my Barcroft pals, I really miss them.  We babysit for each other and share clothes.  We have even traveled together.  It is a diverse group, yet cohesive.

We are losing a family this summer.  Amy, the newest member of the Barcroft clan, and her husband Larry must pack their family up and move  to San Diego.  I have survived this before, but it isn't fun.  I know that Wendy, Amy's closest friend, will feel the loss the most.  I remember, too well, the pain I felt when both Lori and Susan left Barcroft.  Of course, I am still friends with them and always will be but I miss sharing our daily experiences.

I looked about the room, at the well dressed crowd bobbing and weaving to the much too loud music and marveled at how all of this came to be.  The confidantes and gym partners, the book groups and sewing classes, the beach trips and Happy Hours, 4th of July and of course, Derby.  I thought about the stages we have all gone through together... when Kristen and I were just dating Tim and Bruno, when they came to visit us in Austin, starting playgroup with Lori and Susan and how it expanded; I thought of when Nestor used to come to playgroup with his Washington Post - too shy to interact with all the women?- and how he is my Go To man.  I pondered how all of our spouses melded right in.  I was cheered to see Michele and Joe Zummo, new friends from STM, staying late night with all the raging Barcrofters.

After I had locked the door, blown out candles and collected half empty glasses, I felt full, satiated in the knowledge that I have chosen well.

Contemplations on 40 years

It had been a lovely day, bright and warm enough.  The evening settled snuggly in and the air remained comfortable.  Slowly, our friends began to materialize.  Barcrofters first of course.  The ladies all in black, the men in various stages of dapper dressing.  The bar was open, the food was being passed and the bass in Kesha's latest song thumped in the background.  Tim was forty and we were celebrating.

I thought I would know more by now.  Tim is forty and I am thirty-nine.  I thought we would feel more responsible, more mature.  There we were, after midnight, in a bar.... as I danced Tim threw back shots.  Really?  This is where we are?  Of course, THIS is not every Friday night.  Still.

We pay bills, and taxes.  We lease cars and make tuition payments.  We change the air filters in our homes and have regular dental check ups.  Yet, where is the wisdom?  Where is the knowledge that I thought I would possess by now?

I still use acne medication.  I've been known to swear like a sailor and drink like a fish.  I still like to match my shoes with my outfit.

As the evening wore on, I weaved in and out of conversations and collections of friends... work friends, college buddies, neighbors, confidantes.   These are the people who know us best.  What did they think of a 40 year old Tim doing shots?  Me, outdancing twentysomethings.... are we where we are supposed to be by now?

When I wake up and feel old enough, will it be too late?  And for what?

California

The hills were verdant.  Like something out of East of Eden.  Rolling and lush, speckled here and there with cheery mustard plants.  Calla lillies grew in the ditches.  Camelia blossoms weighted down their branches and oranges hung heavy on the bough.

California.  Even in the pouring rain, its beauty could not be dampened.

Of course, the day we held reign, the sun sparkled like a prism and the sky seemed to yawn out before us, endless in its blue perfection.  We dressed up, as we are wont to do.  Southern Ladies.  We both wore skirts, my mother and I.  Our first stop on our vineyard tour was Jordan.  Even the ripe sonoma countryside could not prepare us for the beauty of Jordan; a french villa set in the heart of the Russian River Valley.  Live oaks bent their gnarled branches down to the immaculately trimmed lawn.  In the distance, hill after hill of vines and mustard.  We felt transported, plucked and placed in Burgundy.  The tasting itself was as much a culinary treat as one for an oenophile.  My mother gushed, overwhelmed by the luxury.

California does that to me... overwhelms my senses.  I want to forget time and place and succumb to the environment, embrace the different clime, the vibe.  I feel brazen in California.  I wear my hair parted on the opposite side, use eyeliner and unbutton my blouse a little lower.

As the temperatures varies here, and the sun darts behind the omnipresent spring clouds, I capitulate and dream, wish, wonder... California, I hear your Siren call.

Spring

Spring is the ficklest of seasons.  Even as birds sing and red buds burst forth, the air is chilled.  I, sunburned from a week in the Caribbean, stare longingly out the window as tulips and cherry blossoms dispatch their petals to the winds.

The breezes in Jamaica were a far cry from these chilly gusts.  The clouds had not yet lifted from the highest peaks on the island when we boarded the bus to take us to our private beach.  The skinny Jamaican girls flirted and chided as we wove through the countryside just outside of Ocho Rios.  Far from the mangy goats and dirty children, we, the bloated pasty americans from the gaudy cruise ship, rushed out onto the golden sands.  No beggars here.  No reefer.  Plenty of rum punch and jerk chicken and helpful attendants who at once seemed both friendly and weary with us.  The sea was an opal, shimmering under the sun's gaze.  In the distance, the lush rainforest dropped into the water.  I closed my eyes and wished I could always remain so warm, so satisfied, so satiated.

I skip out the door and barely get down the steps before I return to the house for a sweater.  The cheerful sun has tricked me once again.  Why are the birds singing so gaily in this chilly weather?  The daffodils bob their gentle bonnets in the wind as I wrap my arms around myself.  I long for Jamaica.  Or at least June.

House Beautiful

I am flat on my back, legs dangling off the edge of the bed.  The sun cascades through the westerly facing window.  The blue of the walls tints  the ceiling in the bright sunlight.  It appears as though I am under an endless summer sky.

Three days ago I dismantled, moved and reassembled my Queen size bed.  I hauled the mattress, box spring, head and foot boards and side rails across the house.  I felt a smug sense of satisfaction when I locked the side rails into the foot and head boards.  Yesterday, I hung the inside mount rattan blinds in my new bathroom.  The frameless glass door to the shower has yet to be installed but I am enchanted with the room and find myself in there frequently.

There is an indelible print upon this home.  The apple green chinoiserie toile wallpaper in the study leading to the robin's egg blue in the bedroom... the blue of the venetian glass chandelier picking up the color in the rug... the metallic silver design in the wallpaper echoed in the mercury glass sconces.  I have picked and chosen from my grandmother's New Orleanian background and made my own home, humble though it is.  Still a 1950s brick rambler, minutes from the Pentagon because this house was made for a DOD worker, undoubtedly.  Yet, there is something here; there is something peeking forth.  No St. Charles Avenue manse but... there are her red toile dishes, her French bisque, Aunt Dot's watercolors... there are subtle signs here of Gran's influence.

I only wish I could channel more.

Finding a path

The color is Forget Me Not and the trim is Ice the Cake.  The bathroom is papered with Thibaut in Julian, brown with metallic.  The sconces are mercuried glass with crystal accents.  The vanities are mirrored with marble tops.  For the shower, I chose a marble tile with silver and copper accented glass tiles.  The floors are hardwood.

I spent a lot of time designing our bathroom.   I wanted an exquisite jewel box.  Warm rich colors and cool striking accents.

I am not a designer.  Do I wish to be?

My mother has an inherent gift.  She can decorate for anyone... any palette, any taste, any budget.  I?  I only know what I like.  Decorating to me is like wine, I only know a personal preference... I cannot feign any knowledge.

Marymount has an excellent design program.  I have entertained the idea of getting a degree in design.  Then I took the GMAT.  Perhaps I am not good at testing... maybe I had an off day... my scores were lackluster and I was not admitted to the program.

What does that mean to me?  Am I disappointed?  Thwarted?  Challenged?  I am unsure.  There is no crossroads for me... I am not at a pivotal point... and yet.  I am undecided about my future and also certain that I am meant to have one out of my home.

I still love to decorate.  I still love to write.  I still love to write about decorating.

Madeline Albright didn't attend law school until she was in her fifties.  Maybe there is yet room for me to discover what I should do.

Passing it down

He is still a small boy despite the fact that he is 3/4 my size.  Tall yet slight.  Athletic but lean.  I watch as he stands in front of the kitchen sink, scrubbing dishes.  He uses a step stool which makes him slightly higher than he needs to be so he stoops to rinse the suds.

Teddy is honey colored with dirty blonde hair and long thick black lashes framing his slate blue eyes.  You are struck by his beauty until he smiles and you see his large adult teeth, crooked, in his small child mouth. His limbs are long and sinewy.  He is pushing through a size 3 shoe.

He is at once endearing and confounding.  He questions everything, defies authority and yet longs to be cuddled.

People, namely close family members, relish telling me that Teddy is "just like" me.  God, I hope not.  Not for my sake but for his.  What if he is Bi Polar?

No one thinks Annelise is my carbon copy... or anybody's for that matter.  Annelise is 100% original.  Her round little face and eyes, her fair skin, her propensity for hoarding.

What is it that we give our children?  Love, patience, knowledge, kindness... boundaries, rules, regulations... DNA.... what else?  A quick temper?  Apathy?  Intelligence?

I am quick to recognize Tim's traits in our children.... Teddy's love of sports and math, Annelise's analytical skills and gentle demeanor.

Harder to to identify are good traits I might have imparted.

I should compile a list... skepticism, tolerance, humility, a passion for cooking, wanderlust, devotion, generosity, the appreciation of a good cocktail, the ability to pull something together out of nothing, strong familial ties....

And of course love.  Abiding and true.  The kind that leaves you breathless and then consistently, daily, fills your lungs.

Fallen of the Clothes Horse

I am at war.  This insidious enemy is devious and destructive so I must be wary.  Actually, this enemy is unavoidable as I am battling myself.... embroiled in the Battle of the Bulge.

For six short weeks I adopted a Lassiez-faire attitude and indulged in food and drink.  I ignored the gym, eschewed any form of exercise.  After all, I thought, you should accrue a fit body from working out and that should ensure that you are immune to getting pudgy.  Andouille sausage, butter and olive foccacia, Dulce Tres Leche cake, a Sonoma wine tour, creme brulee, foie gras, pheasant slowly roasted in a butter sage sauce.  I didn't miss the burpees or the squats... until that fateful 42nd day.  As if overnight, I had added another inch to my frame and couldn't coax the zipper of my jeans past my hips.  A lifetime dedicated to diet and exercise eradicated in six weeks.

As I moved my clothes from my old closet to new yesterday, I stared wistfully at the size 2 Oscar de la Renta suit and the size 4 Diane von Furstenburg dresses.  The red satin crop pants, the strapless Tracey Reese cocktail dress I wore to the first Derby party, the horde of Citizens, Joe's and 7 for all Mankind jeans.  I care about the fate of the world, health care, the next election, Darfur and homeless animals... I do. However, I am also a slave to fashion.  God, I love clothes.  It is so painful to relegate these beautiful pieces, many acquired quite stealthily from Goodwill, to the Basement of Shame, where all my out of season and suddenly too small clothes go.

Was that 30 seconds of creme brulee worth a St. John one shouldered frock?  The pheasant for the Max Mara wool sheath?  I have returned to the gym, wearing fleece and sweats.  In quiet moments at the house, I will bust out 50 squats or 25 sit ups.  I also bought jeans a size larger, at Old Navy.  I had sorbet for dessert last night instead of the chocolate ganache torte.  I'm prepared to give up beer.  I have to get back down to my fighting weight, if for no other reason than because I cannot afford to replace my wardrobe.  Plus, I just downright love my clothes... I love telling my incredulous friends that I actually did find those Rock and Republic jeans at Goodwill and that I scored that Prada dress for 85% off at Neiman's Last Call.  I have put time, effort and yes, sometimes even money into my wardrobe.  I'm proud of it.

And maybe that is my problem... Pride goeth before the fall.

Ah, yes but there will always be shoes....

Outfitting for life

The carpenters have adjusted the last few rods in the closet.  A few more coats of paint on the shoe cubby and the closet will be done.  So tonight, I purged my clothing.

Hidden amongst the plentiful Ann Taylor shirts and Goodwill finds, was the jacket that Sassie, my paternal grandmother, aka the Princess of Darkness, was married in.

It is brown velvet with an ermine trim.  Her grandfather bought the suit and had it custom tailored at Bergdorf Goodman.  Sassie was married in City Hall in New York City.

I have a plenitude of Sassie's clothing.... I have cashmere twin sets and tailored silk sheaths.  I have cocktail dresses made in Hong Kong and an ensemble of woven straw from Florence.

Sassie lived large.  Maybe that was her problem... a spoiled young rich woman from the vast Texas oil country... maybe she assumed that my grandfather was landed Virginia gentry, he a small town commonwealth attorney.

No matter.  Though his pay might have been paltry, Sassie's mother had money, money to lavish upon the child she had abandoned.  She had, of course, abandoned all of her children, but in her old age, only Sassie survived.  Natalie.  She had run away with the horse trainer.  Sassie, known then as Sally, was shipped to a private New England boarding school.

She grew up mean.  She hated the world and threw money at it hoping that it would turn her way.

I have no clothing of Gran's... nothing to don and remember her by except a gold charm bracelet, given to me on my 18th birthday.  She dressed beautifully through the decades but never thought to save her clothing.  When Sassie died, as we delved among her things, I discovered a cache of gold charms and added them to my bracelet.

Both of my grandmothers were stylish.  One had money to indulge her wishes, the other was probably outfitted in debt.

It is an unusually warm November day.  It is the day before I am to be married.  The air is crisp but the sun is warm.  We, my bridal party and family, sit in a sunlit room at the country club.  I have worn a brown suit with an autumnal silk scarf.  Gran comments upon its beauty; Sassie criticizes its quality.

I chose very carefully for Gran's service.  I wore a Max Mara dress made of jersey with crepe sleeves and bodice.  I wore Gran's pearls, the ones Grandaddy gave her on their wedding day.

I cannot remember what I wore to Sassie's service.

Yet I remember Sassie every time I wear that fantastic straw dress from Florence or that simple silk sheath from Hong Kong.  Gran gave me unconditional love; Sassie gave me what she could.

I appreciate both.

Growth

The glint of the sun is still steely... not yet soft and ripe.  And the naked trees stand in stark contrast to the pastel blue sky.  Beneath my boots, I trod upon tufts of green grass bisecting the worn brown from autumn, newly uncovered of snow.  Somehow, magically, Spring has appeared.

There is a hum in the air.  Birds wake early, trilling into the still dark morning.  Jackets are needed to head off to school but carelessly stuffed in backpacks when coming home.  The atmosphere is electric.  Parties and trips and auctions loom in the near future.  We are abuzz with what to wear, how to look, who to see.

The earth has unfolded her long forgotten skirts and the colors which roll out are dazzling.  The deep purple of the crocus, the bloody magenta of the oak tree buds, the vibrant yellow of daffodils.  My son is a foot taller this spring.  His dirty blonde hair is cropped short and his teeth seem too large for his delicate mouth.  Gone is the baby fat from his face and high cheekbones are emerging.  His eyes are still a slate blue.  He is yet a beautiful child but he flops along, all feet and long limbs, an ambling puppy of the largest breed.

Her cheeks are still full but otherwise, Annelise has lengthened out of her baby body.  Her mouse brown hair easily grows lank if not trimmed but she has cerulean eyes and long thick black lashes.  Her beauty is at once petulant and innocent.  Her eyes are round, where Teddy's are almond, and give the appearance of incredulity.  Her mouth is a cherubic bow.  He is perpetually sun kissed whereas she has the pallor of fresh snow.

This spring in, as the outdoors erupts, I am particularly conscious of the growth of my children.  At seven and half and five, they seem worldly when I was sheltered.  Teddy has still never encountered a soul he couldn't charm and Annelise is still more apt to talk to adults than abide a playmate of the same age... but the softness, the roundness.... it is dissipating.

God, those days when I thought I couldn't stand another moment... what would I give to have those back?  Or would I?  Is it enough to have the beautiful photos from the stellar moments or do I wish to relive it all again?

And in the instant that we believe we cannot abide another moment, when we blink, it has changed.  What now do you wish for?

The Horror

Night yawns out before me, an eternity to grapple with as I twist sheets and stare at the ceiling.  I snap at my children like some feral dog and the sight of my husband's well toned torso is enough to drive me mad.

Yup.  Its bathing-suit-buying time.  That time of year when we peel off the layers of wool and uncover long neglected areas of the body.  Time to take inventory of what has changed over the last year and worse what needs to change in the next 6 weeks.

Blech.  I actually used to relish this time of year.  Before.  Before children, before 30, before I quit the gym for 6 weeks... I hate before.  I remember longing to shed my clothes and don a little bikini.  I recall the lightness I felt in the dressing room, the giddiness knowing that in a mere month or two I would feel the sunlight on my skin.  Ah, sunbathing.  Kissed by the rays, sitting by the pool.

Now, donning a suit is a mission in what I can hide while wearing very little.... the varicose  and spider veins trekking my legs, the bruises from unknown injuries, the cellulite rippling down the back of my thighs, the sad slow pull of gravity waging its war on my middle aged skin.

Alas, I cannot bring myself to purchase the Swimdress yet.  I find that I daydream about swimsuits from the early 1900s... cute!  Fashionable!  Emphasis on fashion instead of the figure!  Although I do wonder how many poor women drowned when their bloomers full of water dragged them beneath the waves.

Last summer we went to Palm Beach for a week and Dave Matthews had the cabana next to us.  While Dave is a great musician, male model will not be a fall back career.  He is though a doting husband and father and when I wasn't totally obsessed with sucking in my gut or positioning the legs in the most flattering pose, I noticed his lovely wife was... well, lovely but absolutely and completely average.  She was not too fat nor too thin.  She had brown hair.  I think she might have had cellulite.  Regardless, she was lovely and he treated her as such.  I wondered to myself how much thought she had put into her bathing suit and parading it out on the beach... she, the wife of a celebrity, sure to be photographed frolicking  on the shore... what must her angst be like during bathing-suit-buying time?

I guess if Dave Matthews' lovely regular wife can sport a bathing suit, I can too.  I mean it's not like the photogs will be out hunting me down on the beach!

Why I blog

So I read today in The New York Times about a Mommy blogger who garners 36,000 hits a day.  And I've read about the bloggers who get major endorsements and make a cottage industry out of blogging.

Where do I want this blog to take me?  Do I need validation?  Do I need an expanded readership?  I'm not sure.

When I started this blog, I wrote mainly to vent demons.  My brothers are still mortified that I air so many family secrets via my blog.  I wrote about Sandy and dysfunctional relationships, suicide and love.  Sometimes I wrote about the difficulties I experience with raising children... and then I wrote about Gran.

I write because I can no longer contain what is within me.  I write because I can't turn to the lady in the frozen food section of Harris Teeter and ask her if her children drive her to drink.  I write because sometimes I cannot even see what is directly in front of me unless it is put into the written word.

Ahead of me lie a 40th birthday party, First Holy Communion, Derby, the addition to the house, the end of school, Nevis, 12 years of marriage... I cannot fathom living these experiences and not writing about them.

For instance, today.  Today I am not in dreary, drizzly Virginia.  I am hundreds of miles away, dreaming in California.  I cannot shake the grip the state took upon me last month.  I traveled to Sonoma with my mother and I have been conjuring up schemes to move there ever since.  I dream of soil and grapes, sun and wine.  I want to own a vineyard.  I want to work the land.  I can still feel the dappled sunshine upon my skin when we visited Jordan.  I see the mustard winding through the pruned vines, yellowing the fields.  I can taste the velvet smoke of Lynmar Estates pinot noir.  It was a heady experience.  The food, the wine, the lush vegetation.  I felt a draw that I struggle to describe.  But here, in this venue, I can.

After Date Night...

He is extraordinary.  He carries himself with dignity and grace.  A little over 6 foot 4 inches tall, he is a commanding presence, yet he is humble and it is reflected in his stature; he stands tall, but not proud.  His eyes are a murky hazel and his hair has long since receeded.  It is his voice, deep and resonant, that commands attention.

I met Tim under the most absurd of circumstances.  A friend of a friend was hosting a 4th of July party in an un-airconditioned apartment in the Dupont Circle neighborhood of D.C.  I had just relished my friends with my latest diatribe about dedicating myself to work and swearing off men, when we entered the sweltering party.  A swirl of vapid recent college graduate girls flocked around a group of balding, pudgy, elitest aging prepsters.  I hoofed it to the kitchen to stow away my beer.  He stood with his back to the only window.  He looked disconsolate.  I asked him if the party sucked as bad as it looked.  That was all it took.

Tim is a Republican... and a catholic.  I'm agnostic and lean towards the left.  I am proud to be southern.  Tim has no geographical identity.  I'm gregarious... Tim not so much.  I'm a disciplinarian... Tim is a soft touch.

He asked me to marry him on the steps of the Capitol on my grandparents 55 anniversary.

We have weathered fierce storms and enjoyed lifes' most tranquil moments.

He is my first thought in the morning and the last before I sleep.

I am in love with my husband.


I have never put to words my feelings about Tim... and after over a year of blogging I still feel inadequate in expressing what he means to me.  A savior?  A lover?  A confidante?  All of these?  I do not possess the words to express the worth of my husband...beyond all of my dreams and wishes, I have landed somehow where I always wanted to be... with Tim.

Occupied residence

The cauliflower in the back of the fridge has turned and the smell is rancid.  I shut the door quickly, hoping that the odor has not escaped because I don't know how to say "Rancid Cauliflower" in spanish and I don't want the tile man to think that the stench is emanating from me.

Last week, I emerged from the shower and realized that I did not have a towel at my grasp.  I dried off dabbing myself with toilet paper.

I run downstairs to use the bathroom so no one will hear anything.

My house has been occupied!  Small men, large men, men without teeth, men who do not know english, men allergic to cats...  I am adding on to my house and therefore have silently invited a whole host of men into my midst.

I rise early, earlier, and dress... sometimes I shower but most times I wash my hair in the kitchen sink.  I would rather be caught dead than have a house full of men see me with dirty hair.

If the dog farts, which he usually does, I audibly cry out so that no one will think it was me.

I am mortified if one of the children has not flushed the toilet, even though I know the workers use the port-o-potty sitting atop my driveway.

I am careful not to swear, especially on the phone when I am talking to Candice.  I pay these men... I don't want them to hear me using foul language.

Did I mention I dried off with toilet paper?

Today though, they installed the light tubes in the kitchen.  And finished tiling the shower.  Tomorrow yet another man arrives, the wallpaper hanger.  And then the floor finishers.  And weeks from now the movers.

I haven't been surrounded by this many men since I spent a year at Washington & Lee University.

Here are some interesting things about men... they can pass by a mirror without stopping to touch their hair, they don't wet their lips, going to the bathroom is precisely that, they love dogs, lunch hour is more like lunch quarter hour, they can wear the same sweatshirt everyday and not worry about it, their jeans always look good, they kind of like killing bugs and don't mind being asked to do stuff that isn't in the contract.

Flip side?  They scratch themselves.  A lot.  They smoke and burp and emit god knows what other sounds, smells and just general nastiness.  They don't care if it is pretty or not, they are following the plans.  They like country music (yes, mostly all of them) and enjoy playing it pretty loud.

So here's to men....at least the ones working on my house. Sleep well, you've earned it.  Live hard, at least as hard as you work... play, laugh, love.  Understand that what you do is appreciated and admired and actually used.  It's been a pleasure, Gentlemen... our time is winding down.  Each of you has given me magnificent gifts, each of you will be remembered.  And when you wonder what you have done with your life... knock on my door.  We are all here enjoying the fruits of your labor.  Salud.

Fufillment

I am standing in the unadorned husk of my new room.  The freshly painted walls still smell faintly.  The unfinished floors look naked and innocent beneath my feet.  The unfiltered sunshine cascades through the new windows.  It is perfect.

Soon, the floors will be finished.  The rug will laid down and the drapes will adorn the three windows.  The rattan blinds will shade the bathroom and the shelves in the closet will be stocked.

For now, the room is is light and therefore luxurious.  Space.  It comes at such a premium.  Stretch out your arms... how much is that costing you?

I grew up in a sleepy southern town.  Our sidewalks, though crooked and bricked, were wide.  Our playgrounds yawned before us.  The local college campuses seemed to meander through the town.

I live now in a house roughly half the size of my mother's.  My husband uses the coat closet in the hall to shelter his things.

How much do I need?  What do I need?  Why do I need it?

Was it a deprived childhood?  Did I run barefooted?  Were my things kept in shoeboxes?  Why do I feel the need to expand?

I bought mirrored vanities for the bathroom.  Mirrored.  Yes.  How very Tallulah Bankhead of me.  the wallpaper is latticed in silver.  The sconces are mirrored with crystal drops.  I have a dressing table.  When did I feel the need to fill my life, my space with such things?  Why?

I was fifteen.  The aspirin had probably not yet burned through the lining of my stomach but the tintinabulation was unrelenting.    I didnt yearn to be famous.  I wasn't flummoxed by society or pressured by peers.  I lay on my mother's bedroom floor and watched the digital clock flash minute by minute.   The ringing in my ears was incessant and I began to worry that my mother would step on my cold body in the morning.  I tapped her awake.  I have swallowed a bottle of aspirin, I told her.

Maybe then.  Perhaps I began to need to fulfill some dreams then.  Lying in the ICU, conjuring up good lies to tell my friends about the bruises from the IV... yes.  I started to want.

It started with a boyfriend.  Then pretty skin.  A great bikini.  A good college.  A respectable job.  An engagement ring.  A handsome husband.  Healthy children.

Can I stop?  Will I ever be fulfilled?

Lately, I fill the void with food.  Rosemary bread spread with butter.  Cambazola.  Almonds, toasted and salted.  Chocolate covered pretzels.  Candied ginger.

And sensuous delights.  Champagne.  Silk pajamas.  Wolford pantyhose.  Chanel #5.

Of course, of course, the truth is.... I am lonely without Gran.  The silk pajamas are cold, the champagne gives me a headache, pantyhose are just pantyhose , Cambazola makes me fat and chocolate covered pretzels make me break out.

As I was lonely at fifteen, missing my father, at 39 I miss Gran.

Yet, now, on the cusp of 40, I know I am not alone.  Missing Gran sucks.  Gone though is the angst that stemmed from thinking that I was going through "this" all alone.  39 is OK.  39 is solid.  I can do this.  I can do 39.

in winter's fold

It is a taciturn night.  The piss yellow of the sun's last rays have sunk beneath the bitter sky.  Water boils over.  Pot roasts burn.  Milk turns sour and crocus,newly emerged from frozen ground lie trampled under bootprints.  It is March.

I hate Spring and its fickle facade.  Inevitably, the japanese magnolias will bloom too early and a curt frost will strike down the budding blossoms.    Rose bushes pushing forth their shoots will be stymied.  And my house, upon which this great extension has been bestowed, will sit and wait for the next thaw so that we might begin with the plumbing.

I am irritable.  Surely, it has to do with the constant shuffle of furniture, the fine mist of sanded spackle, the smell of wet paint.  Yet, no.  I recognize these things as signs of progress.  We are building, moving forward.  The electricians will be here tomorrow.  We plod along.

It is the weather.  This damn nuisance of snow and melt.  It is the outrageous heating bill.  It is the 20 extra pounds I have packed on.  It's the snow days, its the dog, the cats, the children, the dry cleaning bill, the weather report... anything, everything, but... me.

I have become a taciturn woman.  Sugar will not melt in my mouth.  I remember the care free summer days, sun kissed hair grazing my shoulders, the peel of tanned skin around my collar bone, the laze of days unscripted.  How long ago?

If Spring is youth,and Winter old age, then Summer is the blessed knowledge we all long for.  Bring forth the sun, the heat... let me feel the sting across my skin.  I wish to taste the salt upon my upper lip, embrace the summer constellations, dive into deep pools, testing my merit.

I feel nothing for the cold.  I want none of the snows or ice or blizzards. Let me be in a smooth sand, dotted with deserts roses.  I cannot take the pain of cold, the biting fire of freezing.  Let me wilt under the heat of the summer solstice, feel its rays beat upon my brow.


I hate the cold, the snow, the ice, the dark.  There is no romance for me in these things.  Light is joy.  Warmth is happiness.

The air is thin, pierced with the cold.  The dull steel of evening has long past.  The stars a little crisper this time of year... no matter.  I do not need the shine of the stars to know that you love me.  I'm done with winter.  Bring on the spring.

Home is where I want to be

Six months prior, I had talked one of my best friends out of moving to Houston and now here I was flying down there to set up our new apartment.  The airport was sprawling; I scanned the crowd for the tallest figure.  There was Tim.

Yes, it was hot.  Humid?  Check.  Cockroaches?  Yep.  However, it was also incredibly affordable, very attractive and super friendly.  I was prepared to make the most of our situation.

Yet, Tim's new boss was not.  He found Austin more alluring.  And so, after decorating our apartment but never spending a whole week there, I found we were moving to Austin.  We were still just engaged so I was living in Lexington and Tim was in Texas.

It was October when I met Tim in Austin to look at property.  I brought my bathing suit from D.C.  And used it.  The sky was cerulean.  The air was crisp but the sun was warm.

After much seeking, we found a 1400 ft. apt. in a development called Los Arboles.  The live oaks dipped and lunged, skirted gracefully with spanish moss.  Rosemary grew abundantly next to the common walkways.  The three pools were sparkling and swimmable by March.  It was bliss.

Yet.  Yet, the apartment was not our own.  We could not place our own stamp upon it.  No paint, no window treatments.  As the daughter of a decorator, this did not bode well for me.

And so our quest began.  We needed to find our own house.

Our journey lead us into the deepest recesses of Austin's society.  Boiling chicken, anyone?  Pink shag carpeting?  Mirrored bedroom walls?  Somehow, though swamped in the real estate quagmire of Austin in the early 2000's (AKA boom town), we found a home.  A thoroughly decent 1450 square foot ranch with the charm of a rabid pit bull.

So we stripped.  And buffeted.  Laminated and plumbed.  Wisely, we invested about $4000 in the house, for which we had paid a paltry sum (by East Coast standards).

It became Home.  I lived there for two years and considered myself lucky.

I have lived here in Barcroft, in Arlington, for 9 years, the longest I have ever lived in one place in my life.  Our 1950s ranch home is modest, even as we add a master suite and a screened porch.  I never imagined I would live in this style home for so long... but it is not the style I am wedded to.

I never aspired to owning a Ranch House.  I never considered closets luxurious.  Yet, here I am.  So why didn't we save our money and move to a large house in North Arlington?

Because I am home.  My children love and are loved.  My friends remember my birthday.  My Derby party has become a neighborhood institution.

I own roughly 2600 square feet of housing.  I share a bathroom with my children.

I might as well live in a castle.  I am rich beyond my wildest expectations.

I usually write this blog to satisfy two needs... a creative outlet for what I believe to be a talent for writing and a sounding board for someone who is bipolar.  Tonight, I wrote a blog about normalcy.  Perhaps it is boring or rote.  Regardless, I wrote something that meant something to me.  Selfish?  Perhaps.  Fulfilling?  Most definitely.

Ask yourself... is there anything wrong with what is doing that which might be considered a little selfish but most definitely fulfilling?  Rock on.