Sounding off on Kim K

Alrighty then..... nothing like returning to blog with an ax to grind.

Here's the thing.... I'm your average American girl.  Really.  I'm from the south, went to public schools, briefly participated in the Girl Scouts and later a sorority (which shall remain unnamed as i depledged and caused great family shame).  My father served in the Army.  My mom raised three kids until her divorce (VERY american) and had to go to work.  I pack my kids' lunches for school and cut my own grass.

I may veer a little off the Garden Path (I travel.  A lot.  I own a "few" pairs of Prada shoes.  I consider reading in the bathroom socially unacceptable.  I have sterling place settings for 12).... but when it comes down to it, I'm pretty middle of the road.

HOWEVER

Let me tell you.... if there was anything close to American Royalty, it would NOT be Kim Kardashian.

Are you freaking kidding me?  For real?  I don't care if she spent $20 billion MORE than Wills and Kate, KK is, has been, always will be, absolute TRASH.  Now, does that mean that I believe that ROYALTY connotes manners, sophistication, class?  Not necessarily, but I do believe that Kate Middleton is infinitely more regal, sophisticated, mannerly and classy than that Calfornicated trollop otherwise known as Kim Kardashian.

Wow.  So over 400 people got to witness the circus that ensued over a Video 'Ho marrying a B'baller 4 years younger than she.  Impressive.  So during one of our countries most dire financial moments, some classless tart with Sex Tape notoriety saunters down an aisle in one of her three $20K custom made dresses?

Bravo.  Kudos.  Well done, Kim.  Just when I thought Ray J might have been the only one present to witness your most classless moment, you let the rest of the world in on the action.

Felicidades.

Time passes

"There are places I remember, all my life, though some have changed.  Some for forever not for better, some have gone and some remain.  All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends, I still can recall.  Some  dead and some are living, in my life, I've  loved them all.  But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you, and these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new.  Though I know I'll never lose affection, for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them, in my life, I've loved you more."

I danced to this song, by The Beatles, at our wedding.  Some sentiments never change.

Who knew at 40 I would love my husband more than when I married him?  Who could have suspected that after 4 decades, my personal hero would still be my gran?

Battle after battle with depression.... losing my focus, finding my way, gaining friends, saying goodbye more than hello... such a circus this life.

December 18th came and went.  Kristen, steadfast and true, remembered.  Candice asked how I was doing.  Angie Jackson, bless her sweet soul, reached out.  13 months now without Gran.  Does it get easier or did I get tougher?

I have fallen on my own sword so many times I am gouged through.  Didn't I say I would live up to her memory?

In the end, I was left a better person for knowing her... better, but forever grieved.

The best of times

There are moments you will remember the rest of your days... your first kiss, your wedding, the birth of your first child.

There are moments you wish you could forget.... 9/11 chief among them.

There are the uncelebrated hallowed moments which might even go unrecorded, yet will come back to you in the best of your dreams.... your child's first steps, your first paycheck, your first date with the person you eventually marry.

Then there are the unexpected glimmers, the shining moments in life when you stop and realize that you shouldn't be waiting for heaven, you should be relishing every moment on earth.

I turned 40 this year.  I've never dreaded this age, never feared turning older... in fact, I have spent most of my life longing to be older.

40.  My God.  How did we get this far?

My 40th birthday was celebrated 2 days before I actually turned that age.  It was supposed to be a surprise party, but I've never dealt well with surprises.  Sometime around October, convinced that my husband was not equipped to throw a suitable party, I began planning my own celebration.  Foolish.

Tim had it covered.  Actually, months before he had advised 18 friends to keep January 8th readily available.

In life, there are also those moments, meant to be celebrated, which are so stingingly anti-climactic, you swear your skin was left in welts... Prom, Graduation... in my case, the reception to my wedding.

40 was a coming out party, a Prom, a wedding reception, a birthday all in one.  It was the most magnificent event I have ever had the privilege to attend.

Staged at the most exquisite hotel in Washington, The Jefferson, my 18 dear friends and me and Tim ushered in this newest decade in my life.  We began the evening in the Library with Prosecco, tuna tartare, vichisoiyse, and goat cheese beignets.  Dinner was served in the wine cellar... a stellar 3 course meal accompanied with the most delectable wines.

It was an intimate, decadent event.  I felt feted, celebrated, and loved... and moreover, I felt blessed to share it with so many cherished friends.

None of us, the healthy, the sick, the wealthy, the poor, the pitiful, the brilliant, know how much time we have on this earth.  Each birthday should be a celebration, an homage to a life well lived.

I have been blessed to see 40 birthdays.  I am honored that my husband saw fit to regale me with such a lovely 40th birthday party.... it has inspired me to relish each and every moment.

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?