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...