My daughter's at a fashion show. Her dog is sleeping near my feet, and Jason Mraz just finished singing. Life is grand.
All except the burnt bagel. It was burning so much it was on fire in the oven while I was on Facebook. YIKES! My last bagel. I had been drooling over the thought of it dripping with butter in my mouth. Instead it got flung from the oven and into a pan of water.
If you're wondering why I don't put it in a toaster, it's because I only buy the really fat bagels. The really, really fat ones. They're so fat that they've filled their holes with dough. It was an Everything bagel. It was everything to me at the time. And now it's black in the trash. Black and charred and ashy. I can't even look near the trash. It's a bagel cemetery. May it rest in peace. It didn't deserve to die that way. I apologize profusely for neglecting it. Its last act on earth was one of fire in the oven. Think about it. It was once just flour, water, sugar, and God only knows what else, and then it grew up to be an oven explosive. How's that for alchemy? I can turn a bagel into fire. I must be an alchemist. So what if it's not gold. Fire can be just as valuable on a cold night or when needing to cook something when you're starving. C'mon, I'm a miracle worker. It may not have been loaves and fishes, but it was fire.
Well now, my bagel was sacrificed for a great cause. It gave me a chance to see who I really am. If I can turn a bagel into fire, what else can I do?
Oh, and another thing -- it never set off the smoke detectors. How cool is that?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
First loves
What craziness shows up in my life over and over and over. I'm in awe. I stand back and observe how it has all unfolded (and is still unfolding) and am mesmerized by the perfection of it all.
My first love was this guy in high school. I have always questioned how much a 14-17 year old girl can really know about being in love, but now I'm questioning my questioning. Do I dare name him? Those of you who knew me back then know who it is, but by naming him it seems to make it more real, and I'm not sure I'm ready to take that leap just yet into cyberspace.
His name is Greg Driscoll. (I'm a leaper.) I was absolutely crazy about this guy, and I was just crazy. For the first time I verbally aired to an "old" high school friend I haven't seen in 25 years that he was the reason that I left Texas after graduation. Because of my need to get away from all the places that brought back memories of him, I got the heck out of Dodge at the ripe old age of 17. I thought that I had never really thought of him since. Really. I got married and stayed married for a hundred years, worked my ass off, raised a daughter, ran my own businesses, and I just don't recall him being in my thoughts. Period.
And then yesterday I picked up the manuscript of my first novel that I began about 10 years ago. The publisher's been waiting on the final edit, and for whatever reason I chose to pick it up yesterday and do my final reading. As I let the environment and the characters seep into my present day reality, I saw something else so clearly -- the main male character is Greg Driscoll. Okay, maybe not the shitty husband part because I don't know what he would be like as a husband, but the way I described him made me see my Jack character as I remembered Greg to be -- basketball player and all. Now, friends and neighbors, that has just blown me away. I've been "working" (and I use that term very, very lightly) on this manuscript for at least a decade, and I don't think I've ever thought of that before.
What else have I fooled myself about?
I also vowed in 1974 that I would never return to TX to live, and here I am.
I also said I'd never divorce, and on my 48th birthday I chose divorce.
I built my dream home, my luxuriously beautiful perfect house, in 2004 and said I would be buried there. All I can say is that it made a lovely coffin.
What morsels of information and cavernous feelings have I held back from myself all these years? I would've sworn on a stack of bibles that Greg Driscoll never entered my thoughts in all these years yet he shows up in the pages of my book. I read about Jack and I see Greg. Who did I see before?
My first love was this guy in high school. I have always questioned how much a 14-17 year old girl can really know about being in love, but now I'm questioning my questioning. Do I dare name him? Those of you who knew me back then know who it is, but by naming him it seems to make it more real, and I'm not sure I'm ready to take that leap just yet into cyberspace.
His name is Greg Driscoll. (I'm a leaper.) I was absolutely crazy about this guy, and I was just crazy. For the first time I verbally aired to an "old" high school friend I haven't seen in 25 years that he was the reason that I left Texas after graduation. Because of my need to get away from all the places that brought back memories of him, I got the heck out of Dodge at the ripe old age of 17. I thought that I had never really thought of him since. Really. I got married and stayed married for a hundred years, worked my ass off, raised a daughter, ran my own businesses, and I just don't recall him being in my thoughts. Period.
And then yesterday I picked up the manuscript of my first novel that I began about 10 years ago. The publisher's been waiting on the final edit, and for whatever reason I chose to pick it up yesterday and do my final reading. As I let the environment and the characters seep into my present day reality, I saw something else so clearly -- the main male character is Greg Driscoll. Okay, maybe not the shitty husband part because I don't know what he would be like as a husband, but the way I described him made me see my Jack character as I remembered Greg to be -- basketball player and all. Now, friends and neighbors, that has just blown me away. I've been "working" (and I use that term very, very lightly) on this manuscript for at least a decade, and I don't think I've ever thought of that before.
What else have I fooled myself about?
I also vowed in 1974 that I would never return to TX to live, and here I am.
I also said I'd never divorce, and on my 48th birthday I chose divorce.
I built my dream home, my luxuriously beautiful perfect house, in 2004 and said I would be buried there. All I can say is that it made a lovely coffin.
What morsels of information and cavernous feelings have I held back from myself all these years? I would've sworn on a stack of bibles that Greg Driscoll never entered my thoughts in all these years yet he shows up in the pages of my book. I read about Jack and I see Greg. Who did I see before?
Saturday, March 28, 2009
First things first
Hm...the first blog of my life -- ever. I couldn't NOT do it after reading Jason Mraz's blog last night and this morning. Now, he has pictures, videos, and links on his. Don't count on that with this one, at least not until my daughter returns from her fight in Arkansas to help me out.
Yes, I have a daughter, a 28 year old chiropractor who is fighting in her first match tonight in mixed martial arts. I remember the first time her perfect skin got a cut on it. She was 8 months old and fell on the heater grate in the floor. I had to run to the store and get band-aids. We didn't even have them in the house, because no one ever got hurt. Until then. And now, she has bruises all over her body. Her left thigh on the outside looks like a mini-cooper ran into her. It distresses me less as I let go more. I am no longer responsible for keeping her alive or healthy or without cuts and bruises.
She has been kind enough to open her home to me as I showed up at her door a few months ago without any intention of moving back to the state I left 34 years ago, but here I am. We fit together as roommates again very easily. James Arthur Ray called her his angel. Well, she's mine too. To all the powers that be, thank you.
I ended up at her door a few months ago because she invited me to visit. So, I did. Packed a few things in my car and drove through the mountains, plains, panhandle, and then concrete forest to get here. Lo and behold, I fell in love with the people. And the opportunities. And the weather. Did you know you can live in places in November that don't have snow? What a concept! Within two weeks I flew back to Colorado, packed a U-Haul, and crawled over Rabbit Ears Pass very gingerly in blowing snow and ice. And thanks to a very lovely man, I had a sore bum and had to rest on my stomach in a hotel room somewhere in eastern Colorado. Yes, Bo, I have fond memories. Thanks for the going-away present.
This is all so new to me -- this picking up and moving, this leaping first and then seeing what happens. I had almost 3 decades in one day called a marriage, where every morning started out the same and every night before falling asleep realizing that the same thundering thoughts still pounded my head. After years and years of living a life of being on autopilot, I took control of my own aircraft and soloed right out of the marriage and that dreamless life. It's been 2 1/2 years now and every morning is a new adventure. Not one night has been a repeat of the previous. I've experienced loveliness in ways I didn't know existed. Men, for instance. I didn't realize how magnificent they are.
I've had a few penis adventures in these past few years. It wasn't until post-marriage that I got to know penises. I thought that one size fits all. I thought they were this peculiar instrument used to bother me late at night after a long day's work. I thought they were something to slap at like a nasty fly when all I wanted was to be able to escape into dreamland. Now, I know better. They are instruments of peace. I remember singing the song of St. Francis in Catholic church as a school girl -- "Make me an instrument of your peace..." Well now, that just has a whole different concept for me now. After I've had a lovely entanglement with that instrument I feel all juicy and peaceful inside. Maybe if we used those instruments for peace instead of violence, love instead of fear, maybe, just maybe life would become more calm. Maybe we'd be able to breathe easier. I know I do after I've had an amazing ride on that joy stick. I say let's all stop acting prim and proper and stop being worried about what other people think. Let's stop acting like sex is never talked about except not to do it unless you're married and behind closed doors and lights off. Let's shine the light on naked bodies and enjoy each other and truly love and adore the divinity in each of us. Let's bring sexuality back into the light it was intended -- true spirituality. I've done my share of praying at those moments -- oh my god, oh my god. What a gift that is. What a celebration of being human. And what an elegant way to live. I send kisses to all the men I've bedded since singledom. You have all been magnificent teachers -- my pilot and my nyc friend especially. This, my friends, is living full-on. Being open.
I was once told by a writing professor that to write from the heart you must put yourself in front of the paper, put your pen in your hand, and open a vein. This is my first opening a vein in cyberspace. Jason Mraz gave me the balls after seeing his postings on masturbation. I figured if he was okay letting the world (and his mother) see those musings, then I too need to leap. Jason, thank you.
And to my daughter, come home safely. Bruises and all.
Yes, I have a daughter, a 28 year old chiropractor who is fighting in her first match tonight in mixed martial arts. I remember the first time her perfect skin got a cut on it. She was 8 months old and fell on the heater grate in the floor. I had to run to the store and get band-aids. We didn't even have them in the house, because no one ever got hurt. Until then. And now, she has bruises all over her body. Her left thigh on the outside looks like a mini-cooper ran into her. It distresses me less as I let go more. I am no longer responsible for keeping her alive or healthy or without cuts and bruises.
She has been kind enough to open her home to me as I showed up at her door a few months ago without any intention of moving back to the state I left 34 years ago, but here I am. We fit together as roommates again very easily. James Arthur Ray called her his angel. Well, she's mine too. To all the powers that be, thank you.
I ended up at her door a few months ago because she invited me to visit. So, I did. Packed a few things in my car and drove through the mountains, plains, panhandle, and then concrete forest to get here. Lo and behold, I fell in love with the people. And the opportunities. And the weather. Did you know you can live in places in November that don't have snow? What a concept! Within two weeks I flew back to Colorado, packed a U-Haul, and crawled over Rabbit Ears Pass very gingerly in blowing snow and ice. And thanks to a very lovely man, I had a sore bum and had to rest on my stomach in a hotel room somewhere in eastern Colorado. Yes, Bo, I have fond memories. Thanks for the going-away present.
This is all so new to me -- this picking up and moving, this leaping first and then seeing what happens. I had almost 3 decades in one day called a marriage, where every morning started out the same and every night before falling asleep realizing that the same thundering thoughts still pounded my head. After years and years of living a life of being on autopilot, I took control of my own aircraft and soloed right out of the marriage and that dreamless life. It's been 2 1/2 years now and every morning is a new adventure. Not one night has been a repeat of the previous. I've experienced loveliness in ways I didn't know existed. Men, for instance. I didn't realize how magnificent they are.
I've had a few penis adventures in these past few years. It wasn't until post-marriage that I got to know penises. I thought that one size fits all. I thought they were this peculiar instrument used to bother me late at night after a long day's work. I thought they were something to slap at like a nasty fly when all I wanted was to be able to escape into dreamland. Now, I know better. They are instruments of peace. I remember singing the song of St. Francis in Catholic church as a school girl -- "Make me an instrument of your peace..." Well now, that just has a whole different concept for me now. After I've had a lovely entanglement with that instrument I feel all juicy and peaceful inside. Maybe if we used those instruments for peace instead of violence, love instead of fear, maybe, just maybe life would become more calm. Maybe we'd be able to breathe easier. I know I do after I've had an amazing ride on that joy stick. I say let's all stop acting prim and proper and stop being worried about what other people think. Let's stop acting like sex is never talked about except not to do it unless you're married and behind closed doors and lights off. Let's shine the light on naked bodies and enjoy each other and truly love and adore the divinity in each of us. Let's bring sexuality back into the light it was intended -- true spirituality. I've done my share of praying at those moments -- oh my god, oh my god. What a gift that is. What a celebration of being human. And what an elegant way to live. I send kisses to all the men I've bedded since singledom. You have all been magnificent teachers -- my pilot and my nyc friend especially. This, my friends, is living full-on. Being open.
I was once told by a writing professor that to write from the heart you must put yourself in front of the paper, put your pen in your hand, and open a vein. This is my first opening a vein in cyberspace. Jason Mraz gave me the balls after seeing his postings on masturbation. I figured if he was okay letting the world (and his mother) see those musings, then I too need to leap. Jason, thank you.
And to my daughter, come home safely. Bruises and all.
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