Count on Me

I can think of fewer indicators of a great day than when I discover a song I love. The strange thing is that, in most cases, they're songs that have been around for decades. A classic example for me is "The Year of the Cat" by Al Stewart. It charted in the '70s and got tons of airplay on "Double Q," the local rock station where I grew up. But it wasn't until I was well into my teens in the mid-'80s that I discovered it. And it ranks among my top five favorite songs of all time.

I watched this film called "The Family Stone" last night on HBO as I was balancing my checkbook and tinkering around in iTunes downloading podcasts. The film, actually, is surprisingly good. The theatrical trailer made it look like just another "guess who's coming to dinner"-type holiday flick, which it was, but it had a good cast and...I don't know. I just liked it.

My favorite part, however, was the closing credits. There was this song I hadn't heard since I was probably a pre-teen called, "Count on Me." I'd heard it a thousand times, but I couldn't place the band. I Googled it and voila! It's by Jefferson Starship. Now, I don't know what it is about this song that made me fall in love with it. Maybe it was because the producers couldn't have picked a better song to close the film with. But it just struck a chord with me. The little musical bridge toward the end just sends my stomach a-knotting. Maybe it's the piano and guitar together. Go figure.

This is, by far, the very best song Jefferson Starship/Jefferson Aeroplane/Starship, or whatever you want to call them, has ever put out, in my opinion. I suppose other than "Go Ask Alice," "Dreams" is their most popular song, which my sister played ad nauseum when I was a pre-teen. What stuns me is that this is the same band that gave us "We Built This City on Rock and Roll," which is tied with Styx's "Mr. Roboto" as the worst song of ALL TIME.

Of course, I immediately hopped on iTunes and bought it, and I've played it about 10 times today. God, I love that. It's a thrill for me to find a song I love, especially one that's been around almost as long as I've been alive. That's the beauty of art. It's always there for you to discover.

"Sitting on a Gold Mine"

Gobble Gobble! For those of you who check this site on a semi-regular basis, I'm sure you are disappointed that you haven't heard from me in well over a month. Life has been crazy for the following reasons:

1. In the past month, I have been to Charleston, Wilmington and Raleigh for various reasons.

2. Mr. G has returned

3. Work, work, work! I have been putting in hellacious hours because it's "cruch time" with several projects. The pressure right now is simply immense.

Whilst in Wilmington for an indie film festival, a close friend of mine who recently procured her MFA in creative writing urged me to pick my pen up and capitalize on the "gold mine" that is my family and the stupefying dysfunctionality I grew up with and continue to experience upon every encounter with them. I gave this some thought and find it entirely appropriate for my blog to switch direction a bit: away from my current personal life, which is, let's face it, not that terribly exciting, to the exploits of my youth...or, should I say, the exploits of my siblings.

I'm sure that my current experiences will make their way into my "new" blog, but I've grown tired of trying to figure things out on here, to be honest. And, frankly, some things just need to be kept private so as not to invite scrutiny.

But, hey, my family? Different story altogether. My friend is right. I am sitting on a gold mine. I really am. And if David Sedaris can make a living at it, by golly, why can't I at least flesh out the same outlandish tales I've woven for my friend's entertainment (and, in many cases, to their horror) with the objective of developing them into something I might be able to submit for publication at some point. I mean, hell, I'm almost 40.

One of "Those People" Part II

So here I am. It's a Saturday, and I am at home with plenty -- and I mean PLENTY -- to keep me occupied. My house is stuffed beyond belief with crap I don't need or want anymore. I have laundry to do. Summer clothes to store (and trash) and fall clothes to wash and hang up (and trash), a bed to assemble, a bedroom to rearrange, a litterbox to clean out, a dishwasher to empty, a floor to vacuum, groceries to buy, bills to pay...the list is endless.

But it's Saturday. And I could have gone to a movie tonight. But I rescheduled for tomorrow because I'm stressed over how much I want to get done. And I'm paralyzed.

And while I would feel oh-so-much better digging in and getting it done -- or at least make some decent progress, I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin.

Because I am here. In my gilded cage. Alone.

I remember being in my 20s -- even in my early 30s -- looking forward to spending time alone, getting stuff done. I'd revel in spending an entire weekend rearranging my living room, moving pictures around, painting, whatever. I didn't need to go out very much. One or two nights a month was plenty. My home was my haven.

Now it feels more like a prison. For the past, say, four years, any period of time at home that exceeds two hours (unless I'm sleeping) leaves me feeling anxious and cut off from the rest of the world. I feel as if life is passing me by if I'm not out and about doing something with someone.

I don't know what my problem is. I was at my reunion last weekend. I'm going to a cabin in the mountains with friends next weekend. Just last night, I attended my first-ever NASCAR race. Life is definitely not passing me by. Skipping out on a movie with a friend won't kill me. But I swear, I feel like it will.

And it doesn't help that I miss Mr. G. I can't even call him because he doesn't have a phone yet. He doesn't have an Internet connection yet, at least one that's reliable. He is sometimes able to hop onto a free wifi connection from one of his neighbors and call me that way.

I just like having someone around. I remember looking down on people who were like that...who were rendered virtually useless if they were forced to spend any time with their own company.

Yet again, I have become one of "those people." And I hate it.

OB

One of "Those People"

In 10 minutes, one of my all-time favorite artists is set to walk on the stage in a small venue no more than four miles from me. She's Shawn Colvin, who I discovered in 1994 at the Kentucky Theatre while I was volunteering for the Troubador Concert Series. Since then, I have learned just about every word of every song on Steady On, Fat City, and A Few Small Repairs.

I haven't kept up with her much lately, and I haven't seen her live since she came to the area in 1997. That's almost 10 years. So why am I sitting here instead of in an orchestra seat at the McGlohon Theatre?

I have no one to go with.

I have become one of "those people" I have always pitied...the ones who never go anywhere or do anything unless they're tagging along with someone else. I made it my mission never to become one of "those people." You know the type. The ones who say nothing is fun if there's no one to share it with. Hogwash, I say! I went to London alone. Twice. I went to Dublin alone. And San Diego. And New York City. But those were all at least three years ago.

Honestly, the thought of going to that show alone has practically no appeal for me whatsoever. And I hate myself for becoming one of "those people." What has happened to me?

When I saw Shawn in '97, I went alone. Unencumbered by the demands of someone else whining to go home because it was a work night, I was able to linger by her tour bus and get my picture taken with her. Unfortunately, it's not very flattering. I wouldn't mind getting another one taken.

Well, I can't feel too badly...she doesn't look so hot, either. But who cares...it's Shawn frickin' Colvin!

Alma Mater Part 2 (Let's Talk Property)

It is a small, small, small world. It truly is. I can hardly go anywhere without bumping into someone I know. Even when I went to San Francisco in June, as I was walking on to the tram on my way to pick up my rental car, a voice greeted me with, "You know, OB, you run into the STRANGEST people in San Francisco!" I looked up to see someone I knew from where I live now and immediately replied, with eyes rolling, "Can I not go ANYWHERE without bumping into someone I freakin' know?! Sheesh!"

Back in February, Mr. G. and I began attending a new church I found about through a postcard in the mail. It's an upstart, part of the "emergent church" movement. It meets at a small reporatory theatre every Sunday morning, and it's co-pastored by two 30-something guys who met doing mission work in India and who now spend most of their days planning sermons in nearby cofffeehouses. I bump into them so often they probably think I'm stalking them.

At one of the first services we attended, Matt, one of the co-pastors, mentioned that he was born and raised in the same state I was. So I approached him after the service and asked him what town he was from. When he found out where I grew up, he asked me what year I graduated and what school I attended. After telling him, his eyes grew big and he said, "Oh wow ...do you know Jay X? He's my best friend and was the best man at my wedding!" Know him? I only went to school with him from first grade all the way through 12th. Too trippy.

Word has it that Jay is now a city councilman running for a second term. So I knew he was going to be shaking a lot of hands at our high school reunion last weekend.

Sure enough, Jay was there. I went up to him, and he immediately recognized me. I told him that Matt said hello, and proceeded to weave the tale of how I knew him. He quickly grabbed his cell phone, called Matt, and left an ascenine message about how I was standing right next to him and what a small world it was and blah blah blah.

Without warning, Jay launched an assault of 20 questions on me about my parents' house, saying he's mentioned my name probably 20 times in the past month because he drives by there just about every day. Just how many acres is it? Isn't there a barn in the back? Have developers come around making offers?

When my family was looking for a new house back in 1974, we came upon a "for sale" sign along a rural road rimmed completely by horse farms. The property was completely hidden by a tall line of trees and hedges. We turned in to find a long driveway that was a tunnel of trees. At the end of the long drive stood a modest limestone house sitting on seven acres of land. The front yard was as big -- if not bigger -- than a football field. Before even getting out of the car, Mom said, "That's our house." And that's where I grew up.

View from the front porch

The back yard and barn

You see, in the 32 years since my parents bought that house, it has become a haven practically in the middle of town. The city has grown it around like silt surrounds a cypress. My parents and our next door neighbor are the only ones who haven't sold our land. We're the last men standing.

My parents told me that they have their will arranged to split the house evenly among us three kids. Given that my brother lives in China and will probably stay there the rest of his life, and that my sister has nothing -- not even a job, I stand a fair chance of buying my siblings out and keeping the house. I've actually considered moving back home when my parents pass.

Now that Mom and Dad are 65 and 75, respectively, this is something I must think about, which terrifies me to no end.

And here's Jay, pitching himself as the benefactor to the place I grew up, where I climbed trees, made mud-cakes topped with poke berries and holly leaves, and created long passages among the treeline from one end of our property to the other.

As if I didn't feel enough like I was being stalked by a vulture, he signed my yearbook with this:
Yeah, I really feel the love, Jay....

Alma Mater

I attended my (gulp) 20th high school reunion last weekend. A reunion is a quagmire of unresolved feelings. I'd venture to guess that most folks attend reunions in the spirit of seeing old friends and recalling more carefree days: before jobs, kids, marriage, divorce, ill parents, and just plain old life started nipping at our heels.

Some people go to show off. Like my friend Ashley. He's a professional actor and has transformed himself from a chubby kid to a pretty hot gay man,if I say so myself. But I've kept in touch with him for years, so I've been acquainted His Royal Gay Hotness for many years. Something I found telling, though, was as he was driving me back to my parents' house at 4am after the "main event" on Saturday night. He said, "I bet this is the highlight of most of those people's year. I have something to go home to." I confess, I found that to be extremely arrogant. Which leads me to think that inside His Royal Gay Hotness lies a sexually confused chubby kid who just wants to be liked by the popular kids. Goodness knows he got his wish. He flitted around the room, senior yearbook in hand, asking anyone and everyone to sign it. By night's end, there was hardly a spot to write.

So, someone voted me least changed since high school. And someone else wrote in my yearbook that I'm the same crazy girl I was when I was a teenager. Very cool.

I voted myself most eligible bachelorette. Goodness knows no one else did.

While everyone (but me) is married, has kids, and is making a ton of money in fantastic careers, some things never change. Despite the most popular girls being married and moms, all the guys still follow them with hopeful attention. Not a one stopped to chat me up. Hmph...

Anyway, on to the dirt. Here are my awards:

Looks Most Like She's Been Ridden Hard Over The Years


Most Interesting Career
Strip club owner (met his wife when she gave him a lap dance. I think she's 12 years old.)

And...(drum roll please)

Most Changed Since High School
Ladies and gentleman, meet the former Mr. Jody, now Ms. Natalie.

A trannie at the 20th. It can't get any better.

The Big Chill

There's this song by the Eurythmics that's been playing on heavy rotation in my brain this past week. "You Have Placed a Chill in my Heart." I suppose it's fitting, because over the past seven days I've given more thought to northern climes than I have since my mother, brother, and foster brother set off for a two-month excursion to Canada and Alaska, leaving my sister and me behind to entertain ourselves in our old Kentucky home when I was around 9 or 10.

But I digress....

It's fitting that the weather is changing here in the South, from the muggy, oppressive blanket of summer to the crisp, silvery chill of fall. The weather has taken this turn just in the past week or so, which is fitting as well. Because it is within the past seven days that my sweet (and slightly impulsive) Mr. G., whilst perusing the Internet for jobs in Texas, randomly came upon a link to job opportunities in Alaska. Specifically, a small town called Bethel.

In this brief time, he has broken his lease, canceled his phone, Internet, and utility accounts, quit his job, applied for an Alaskan nursing license, gotten fingerprinted and background-checked, interviewed via telephone, sold his washer and dryer, and made arrangements to sell his car. He'll be gone inside a couple of weeks, I believe.

I've told him several times before, in different contexts, that I can't decide whether he is breathtakingly brave or just plain crazy. I think that even he would admit that he's running away rather than toward something. And, in most cases, I'd say that wasn't healthy.

Even when you're running helter-skelter from yourself, toward something you think will solve all your problems, any objective person watches and thinks, "Nothing good can come from this." But life is funny. Sometimes the runnings brings you exactly where you wanted, but it doesn't provide the solutions you were looking for. Nevertheless, in God's endless grace and seemingly random logic, He brings you answers anyway....just not from where you expected.

Mr. G. and I discussed this very topic tonight. I told him that when we met, I felt he was looking to me to be the magic pill to solve his problems, which freaked me out all along because there's no way I (or anyone else) could ever live up to those expectations. But he said to me, "I think you are an answer, just not in the way I expected." And I think he's right. There's a reason our lives intersected. And I think his life is richer for it. As for me...well, the richness is more subtle, and I'm still trying to find it. After all, I can't say I'm that happy with my life right now or where it's going.

I suppose none of this really matters. At least as it pertains to me. Before I know it, the ride will end. And I'll be here. And he'll be there. Could be two months. Could be two years. Could be for the rest of our lives. We are both entering the Frozen North of the Great Unknown. But I guess we've always been there. There's just a wicked windchill involved now.

I Need A Roommate

I am tired of living alone. I have, for all intents and purposes, lived alone ever since I was, say, 19 or 20 years old. I'm tired of it.

My threshhold for aloneness grows lower as each year passes. And, of course, having a taste of living with someone for the past year, the sting of solitude is a bit more intense these days. It's nice simply having someone around. I like seeing how other people live their daily lives. How often they clean. How often they cook. I'm a sponge and would probably learn new habits from them.

Maybe I should rent out my condo and room with someone. I think I'd be a lot happier, even if I didn't see them very much.

Think of the discretionary income we single, 30-something women are missing out on because we have decided that we must be fully independent adults, buy houses, buy furniture, buy gourmet cookware and appliances. That's all fine and good, but so many of the ones I know seem to be living alone because they're making room for the male suitor that might never come. And even if he does, would it not be easier to wrangle out of a rental arrangement with a roommate than to get out of a mortgage?

Personally, I think the day will come when all us singletons, when we are in our 50s and have made peace with the fact that we won't ever marry or have our own families, will band together and live in some sort of community....be it a condo building or a group of houses. We'll share meals, share common responsibilities.

Because years upon years of doing it all yourself gets old eventually.

Sigh....I'll write more later. Got lots on the brain.

Anniversary 2

Charleston, South Carolina is a city where I was transformed. It was to Charleston that I fled the confines of my hometown to start a new life. In many ways, that experience was as traumatic as birth itself. But it was, ultimately, redeeming. I consider it to be the damn smartest, bravest thing I ever did.

The 14 months I spent there in 1995 were mostly in solitude, but I refused to allow that to keep me from enjoying it to the best of my ability. The great thing about Charleston is that even if you're flat-ass broke (which I was), you can still find something to do on the cheap. I'd stop at a roadside stand on my way to Folly Beach to grab a $2 bag of boiled peanuts and feed the seagulls. I'd go to the Market and buy a bag of warm pralines. I'd leash up Sparky (my cocker spaniel) and we'd spend hours upon hours mindlessly ambling along the streets of the historic area or the Battery, watching the tourists, the locals, the lovers. Charleston is, basically, the Paris of the South.

I'd go to Palmetto Islands County Park and walk on wooden pathways over tidal marshes and watch the crabs scramble in the marsh grass as I approached. I'd watch the great blue herons circle and land on sun-bleached tree branches. I'd drive along Sam Rittenberg toward I-26 and stick my head out the window to inhale that distinctive mix of fishy low-tide, the Westvaco paper mill downstream on the banks of the Cooper River, and pluff mud.

I remember on one particularly bad night, I went to the end of the pier at Waterfront Park, sat on a big square footing, and felt about as lonely and forgotten as a deathrow inmate, when suddenly I heard a "pppppffffffftttt." It was a dolphin breaking the surface of Charleston Harbor, swimming so close I could almost touch him. And I felt as if he were reassuring me, somehow, that this, too, shall pass.

That part of Charleston -- the part that simultaneously hurts and heals in my memories -- isn't something I share with everyone. Only special people. And it was here that, a year ago this weekend, I shared Charleston with Mr. G.

We had a marvelous dinner at Garibali: flash-fried flounder that, to this day, remains the most unforgettable meal I've ever had. We stayed at a beautiful bed and breakfast, in the nicest room in the house (thanks to my old friend who knows the owners). The room, decked out in Asian-inspired antiques, had a hot tub in the bathroom, which we used, but we made better use of the hot tub outside in the courtyard, where we talked. And talked. And talked. For three hours.

It was in that hot tub where Mr. G was somehow able to finally convince my stubborn, stubborn heart that I was "she," and I realized my life would be different. I could hardly wrap my mind around it.

That weekend, we kayaked the tidal creeks in a tandem, jokingly referred to as "divorce boats," as couples passed us by -- the men looking at us with scorn and the women with jealousy -- as Mr. G paddled happily, and as I lay back, feet up on the deck, inhaling, inhaling, inhaling.

Sigh...what a happy memory.

A Hand to Hold

I didn't sleep well last night. I haven't managed to get in bed before midnight for a month. I had sad dreams last night of Mr. G and me at some restaurant making the acquaintance of other couples at a large picnic table. He held my hand the whole time and I remember thinking, "It's so nice to have his hand to hold."

Then, he got up and sidled up next to another woman and started holding her hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. And, in true OB fashion, yours truly slinked away silently, unnoticed, forgotten.

A friend of mine said the opposite of love isn't hate; it's apathy. I have experienced the shock and sting of apathy before, the awareness that someone has no interest whatsoever in how you are and does a fine job of going forth in the world without missing you at all. I don't think that's the case here, which comforts me sometimes.

In the year that I was with Mr. G, our relationship had gradually become the most important thing in my life, and I orchestrated most everything around it. Even when I took a weeklong trip to California without him -- a decision I struggled with for a long time before I finally decided at the last minute to go -- it was wholly based on the state of our relationship at that point, and I felt I shouldn't deny myself a good opportunity just because he wasn't going.

If I were a good Christian woman, Christ would be the most important thing. And if there was ever a good time for me to make Him #1, it's now.

But who am I fooling. My sadness has become the most important thing. That unruly child (see "Playlist" entry) runs the show. And she gets all my time and attention these days. I'm tired of her, but it feels like she's the only link to the emotional security I once felt that I have remaining.

On his myspace profile, Mr. G tells the world he's been married before and that he's been in several heart-breaking long-term relationships, but has changed and grown since then. Was I one of those relationships? And how can one change and grow in a month? I can say unequivocably that, while I know change and growth are taking place, I'm no different than I was a month ago. Faced with the same choices I had then, or a year ago, I'd probably do the same thing and make the same mistakes (provided they were mistakes, which I'm not sure they were. I understand that life involves risk and sometimes shit just happens).

So what lessons has he learned? Never to date someone whose feelings don't match his pace? Never to date someone who struggles sometimes to communicate? I really want to know what it is he's learned. Perhaps he's been too kind to tell me what a fuckup he thinks I am.

God, I wish someone would comment on this blog. Is anyone reading this?

I can't let Brat (the unruly child) run the show anymore. She isn't helping me. She's a glutton for punishment and she's a big ball of fear, anxiety and self-blame. And she has an all-or-nothing way of thinking, insisting that there are only one or two people on this planet who could tolerate her nail-biting, smoking and snoring (not that those who tolerated them liked them, but they had enough depth and compassion not to make them deal-breakers).

I want Mr. G to be happy. No question. I want him to have a hand to hold.

But I want to be the first one to find mine.

STOP! In the Name of Love!

I have been so insanely, inexcusably lazy for the last, say, two months that it's out-and-out depressing. With a 20-year reunion coming up in only five weeks, I need to get my arse in gear. Inspired by one of those "I need to do something good for myself" moments that follow a period of emotional duress, I decided to take the plunge and purchase something I've wanted for years: a treadmill.

So off I traipse over to Dick's on my lunch hour to look at what's out there, and there are several on clearance for as low as $400. I wrote down the models and checked them out online only to discover they aren't rated that high. Sigh....

Undeterred, I went to Dick's again today, determined to purchase a new treadmill. I went in for this....


...and walked out with this...




Sigh...I just couldn't do it. Which really pisses me off because I've wanted one of these for years.

But hey, the trampoline was only $29. But I have visions of Kathy Bates as Evelyn Couch in "Fried Green Tomatoes" bouncing about on her trampoline singing, "Stop! In the name of love!"

Dude, I don't want to go to my high school reunion looking like this...



Hey, at least my hair is more fabulous than hers! :-)

OB

Anniversary

It's a Sunday ritual that started four years ago, back when it seemed everyone I knew was getting married, and my recent ex had found the love of his life within days of our breakup. Out of curiosity or, arguably, self-punishment, I would check out the "celebrations" section of the Sunday paper that announced weddings, engagements, anniversaries and births.

My now ex-ex-ex has yet to appear on those pages and I doubt he ever will. He's still with the same woman, and they have bought a house together. But when I saw her a few weeks back at a nearby lunch spot, I did the obligatory ring check and see nothing shiny. I think his "starter marriage" burned him too badly to ever go back again.

Seeing this announcement in this morning's paper made me smile. Look at how happy they are in both pictures. I wonder what they have gone through together. Have they weathered infidelity? Financial ruin? Substance abuse? Do their kids love them? How many times have then fallen out of love with each other? How often was one of them more in love with the other and vice-versa? Or were they among the lucky ones (like my grandparents) who were on the same page the entire 50+ years they were together?

Life throws bad crap at you from all directions, and it seems to be worse today than ever before. So I wonder....in 25 years, will there even BE couples like this, celebrating 50 years of their life together, complete with a family they created, clean of ex-spouses, step-parents, half-siblings and visitation battles?

Chop-Chop! Time's A-Wastin'

Turning 25 was hard on me. Two years prior and fresh out of college, I had set off on what was supposed to be the experience of a lifetime -- a yearlong adventure across Asia, starting in Taipei living with my brother and his girlfriend (soon to be ex-wife...let's just gloss over the marriage part since it didn't last very long), teaching in Bushi-bans (that taught "American" English) for a few months in order to earn enough cash for passage on the folklore-laden, Agatha Cristie-immortalised Siberian Express, which would take my brother, his girlfriend Echo, and me across China, up through Russia and through Eastern Europe until we wound up in London, the city I'd dreamt of since childhood and which, in 1991, was still humming with teddy-boys, punks, and drugged up "nuns" sauntering along Kings Road listening to the Sex Pistols, Brian Eno, Roxy Music, Duran Duran and Heaven 17 on boom boxes...heaven, indeed. Then we'd fly home to the States together, full of wonderful stories of jade-colored mountains, $1 noodle dishes from roadside stands, myriad languages we couldn't speak or understand, and eccentric, fascinating, tragic and joyful people we'd met along the way.

But I came back three weeks later because I'd somehow convinced myself that my spirit wasn't large enough to take the opportunity I had. I thought then that I was too old. That it was something you did while you were still in college. I seemed to think that I needed to grow up, get a job with the degree I had, get an apartment and start paying bills. What was the fucking hurry?, I ask myself now. I was fucking TWENTY-THREE!

So I greeted 25 with a profound sense of failure. By that time, I had done pretty much what I had set out to do: I got a steady job at a hotel doing reservations (not using my degree at all); I got an apartment with a lease. I was paying for my own tires, cooking my own meals, and being smug in my independence. Not so surprisingly, a co-worker discovered my very first gray hair on my 25th birthday. No joke.

So here I am, 13 years later. In that time, I have procured a mortgage, a master's degree, a reliable and distinctly UN-sexy car, and an effin' awesome credit score. I have also been away from my hometown for 11 years. In 2000 (perhaps the best year of my life), I accomplished dreams I'd had for years: mainly, finally going to London (I've been three times now), traveling to other places I thought I'd never see (though not as much as I'd hoped by this point), and meeting Duran Duran in person. I have the picture to prove it.



I was 32 when that picture was taken. Being able to give that gift to my teenage self -- a self who believed she would never see Westminster Abbey in person or shake Simon LeBon's hand -- was bolstered by confidence so much that the next year I dropped 15 pounds and felt like I could take on anything I wanted to do: full-time freelancing, marriage, worldwide travel, you name it. Check out this happy, hot mama...



Well, that isn't exactly what's happened in the six years since. It's been an interesting ride, and I suppose I've done a lot. I have a gazillion friends and acquaintances -- so many I can't even go across the country without bumping into someone I know. I feel like I've sucked the marrow out of the independence I have created for myself. Better than marrying right out of college, having babies, and suddenly realizing you don't know who you are because you never gave yourself the chance to explore it, I told myself.

But here I am, just like the frazzled wife and mother, in the reality I have created for myself. And despite always feeling older than I really was, with the barometer of "what have you accomplished by this time in your life" having nipped at my heels for years and people telling me, "For God's sake...you have plenty of time"...well, they aren't telling me that now. I am teetering at the precipice of (gasp) middle age. And I have come to realize that it doesn't matter whether you got married and had kids early on. The weight of the choices you made bear down on you like an anvil. It's not like I took advantage of my unfettered life the way the world expects of a single woman. I'm not burning up the corporate ladder or enjoying the job of my dreams that pays me so much money that I could retire tomorrow if I wanted to...if ever. I have a modest life, a modest income, virtually no relationships with my own siblings, much less my extended family, leaving me with a feeling of dwindling security.

Now that I find my dreams of youth fading before me, I want something to work on. Something to work toward that will have lasting value. Be it a marriage or a child or both. I don't care how hard it is. I don't care how tired it makes me. Anything's better than having nothing to work toward that's bigger than just little old me and my little existential crises.

As recently as five years ago, I had maintained the position that kids just weren't for me. I perceived them the same way my father did: they steal your youth, your energy, your dreams, and your money (which is exactly what my siblings have done). They don't ever give back what you gave them. As for marriage....well, that's different. I always wanted to be married. Always. But I was almost ashamed of it and never admitted it. I didn't have girlhood dreams of a big white dress to match the big white cake. I thought that was all stupid, and I pitied my friends whose dreams were so pedestrian.

When I was younger, I was actually excited at the prospect of being on my own for the rest of my life, because I thought I'd be the woman everyone envied. I would embody the regrets those wives and mothers my age struggle with today. I'd be the woman with the cool job everyone would go "Wow" over. The woman whose life would resemble Justine's on Lonely Planet. The woman who, while fully immersed in the joy and simplicity of doing what she likes when she likes, would stumble upon a man so captivated by her radiance, happiness, lust for life and independence that he'd want to roam with her forever.

Who knows if this will ever happen? I try to keep hope alive that it will, or that if it doesn't, I will find a true passion in my life that gives it meaning beyond the confines of my own existence. But, dang it...with every failure I survive, the hope that some lesson will arise that will help me transcend this feeling of just frittering time away sometimes seems the furthest thing from me, leaving me to feel like a mouse on a wheel. Kinda like what Pink Floyd says, "Runnin' over the same old ground, but have we found the same old fear? Wish you were here."

After all, time REALLY is a-wastin'.

Mr. Nobodody

I don't know where it began, and, sadly, I don't know where it will end.

But back when I was, say, maybe 7 or 8 years old, I decided that I would be alone for the rest of my life. Marriage, kids, couplehood...it just didn't seem to fit into my reality for some mysterious reason. So in a fit of childhood depression, I went into my parents' bathroom and scribbled this little epithet on the bottom of a drawer.

Not so surpsingly, my parents still kept this cabinet in a quiet corner of my dad's basement hideaway. About two years ago, when I was undergoing my 2,468th existential crisis, I visited my parents, found that bathroom drawer, removed it, procured a rubber mallet, took it down to the barn, and proceeded to smash the hell out of it until I removed its bottom. I took it back home with the hope that one day, when I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that what I wrote was an evil lie, I could burn it in a semi-ritualistic fashion with my beloved, Mr. Nobodody.

The self-professed Mr. Nobodody came a-knockin' a little over a year ago. So happy to have found someone who was both lover AND friend to him, he listened sympathetically as I exumed the sad, living artifact from my childhood that became a guidepost for my life, and I told him what it all meant and pontificated on where such a tragic assumption originated. He then proclaimed himself as my personal "Mr. Nobodody."

Mr. Nobodody left the belongings I had at his house in the front seat of my car about five hours ago, along with the set of keys to my house and car that I had hesitantly given him almost a year ago.

He says he needs a break.

And not only do I believe him; I have absolutely no choice but to agree with him.

I need one, too.

Maybe I am splitting hairs, here, but I guess I could use a definition of "break."

I knew, from the very beginning, that Mr. Nobodody -- while sincere at the time -- could not possibly deliver on the promises (both implicit and spoken) he delivered: that marriage, forever kind of love. Call me over-analytical if you will, but I have always been one who believes it's the small things that reveal a person's character, intentions, and truest self. And, well, the small stuff he did wasn't jiving with the big stuff he was saying. I'm not saying he was deliberately setting out to deceive me. Far from it. He just didn't think about what that all really meant. He wasn't thinking ahead. He wasn't thinking to himself, "Yeah, she seems great right now, but I don't know her well enough yet. She might be what I want, but what I'm telling her might not be what I want."

I don't know. I don't expect anyone to be a fortune-teller. I think that's asking way too much. But $#%^! ...I was so careful not to over-promise and under-deliver until I knew, KNEW, that the two were in harmony. They weren't. And they certainly weren't on his end.

It's not like I didn't see it coming.

So here I sit, staring at my drawer-bottom and knowing it ain't burnin' anytime soon, if ever.

OB

Childhood Tragedy & Redemption

For all my outgoing-ness and gregariousness, some of my friends are surprised that in grade school, I was a) shy and b) unpopular. I think it was more of a self-imposed role than anything else.
Mr. Ellison was my 5th grade teacher who liked us so much, he took all of us with him when he decided to teach 6th grade. His classroom was lined with cubicles - one for each student that we could decorate any way we wanted. I draped with a beaded curtain, and I've hung beaded curtains in every domicile I've occupied since.

As a class, our collective passion was kickball. And I sucked at it. I was the cliche of childhood tragedy...last one picked...kids fighting over who would suffer the indignity of having me on their team...the fast, athletic boys playing around me.

One day, I played exceptionally badly and it cost us the game. That was the final straw. When we returned from recess, and before "Mr. E." came back, I was surrounded by everyone, yelling at me, calling me names, and telling me what a loser I was. I was sobbing and trying to get away, but they grabbed my arm, pulling me back into the center of their insults.

The thing about Mr. E. was that he was the coolest, friendliest, funnest teacher in the school. EVERYONE wanted to be in his class, and we were the envy of the school, especially when he kept us another year. But that man had a wicked temper that, when ignited, put the fear of God into all of us. Seriously, I honestly think that, were he teaching today, he'd be reprimanded or fired. That man could yell and pound the desk so loudly it shook our eardrums and made our ears ring for hours afterward.

When he walked into the classroom and saw me surrounded by throngs of 5th-graders, spitting as they launched invective after invective toward me, his anger ignited.

He pulled me out of the group and took me outside the classroom. He very gently told me to wait there and not to return until he got me. Then we went back in, closed the door, and the screaming and pounding started. I was mortified, but I was also moved by his compassion. Fortunately, everyone made an effort to be nicer to me from that time on, because no matter how ugly Mr. E. got, his students loved him and, miraculously, they listened to him as well.

A few weeks later, I was in my usual position on the kickball field: back left. The kicker lauched a cannonball straight up in the air, coming right toward me. Instead, however, the ball landed right in a huge oak tree in left field. I stood under it, and I watched it travel like a pinball between the branched. I held my arms out. And I caught it. And I was the class hero.

Well, until I screwed up the next day at recess.

Nonetheless, it was a brilliant moment.

Here's what was so cool about Mr. E. On Fridays, we'd stop whatever we were doing to watch "Happy Days" on TV. Mr. E. had a ritual. Five minutes before the show, he'd eat a Smoothie, a chocoloate-covered marshmallow cup. And as soon as he opened up, we'd sing "It's Happy Smoothie Time, It's Happy Smoothie Time, Oh what a great time, It's Happy Smoothie Time."

We had some politically incorrect songs we'd lauch into whenever the mood struck us"

My country 'tis of thee
Sweet land of Germany
My name is Shwartz
I love sweet saur kraut
It makes my ears pop out
From every mountain shout,
"Hotsi totsi I'm a Nazi!

Oops....

Mr. E. decided to declare one Friday in spring "Game Day," where we could bring our favorite board game and play it all day long. No homework. No lectures. Just games. I got an Operation game for my birthday and waited two weeks to open it until Game Day. I was so frickin' excited!

Game Day arrived, and I proudly displayed my Operation Game, which was THE shit among grade-school kids, even more than Mousetrap or Battleship. Suddenly, I was the most popular girl in the class. Everyone wanted to play my Operation game. I claimed a spot on the floor, removed the shrink wrap, and beamed as I set it up. It was beautiful.

I barely had time to think before the boot belonging to Laura Hammond landed squarely on my beloved game, my key to popularity once and for all. Laura, the snotty, popular girl, looked down at me and said, "I was going to the bathroom. Why'd you put the game there? I had nowhere else to walk!" Laura had brought an Operation game too.

I was, understandably, devastated. I should have kicked the daylights out of her; instead, I said, "It's OK. Accidents happen." And I wound up playing Old Maid with the unpopular kids the rest of the day.

This past Christmas, my boyfriend bought me an Operation Game for Christmas. I've only played it once so far, and I totally stink at it. But that's one of the sweetest things anyone's ever done for me.

I bet Laura doesn't have one now!

OB

Evite Etiquette: A Small Rant

I love Evite. I consider it the most ingenious invention on the World Wide Web since Badger Badger Badger. But being a heavy user of the service, I've discovered a persnickety habit of invitees that drives me bonkers, and, I think, is a little rude. So, for those of you reading this, let this be a small lesson in what I call "Evite Etiquette."

Here's a little tidbit of information you might find useful: The person who sends you an evite knows when you view it. Now, the host or hostess wouldn't have sent you the Evite if he or she didn't want you at their event. They think you're cool. They think you're peachy keen. They consider you someone they like spending time with.

What's so nifty about Evite is that you can kindly (and courteously) indicate whether you're coming, you aren't coming, or even if you're tentative because you don't know your schedule that far ahead. I won't be offended if you don't know.

It's a simple click of a mouse, people. But don't just look at it and do nothing. And for the love of God, don't start talking about the event to the host(ess) unless you've rsvp'd one way or another.

I don't think the folks who make it a habit of doing this mean any harm by it. I think technology, by its nature, lends itself to a sense of separation from the rest of the world, similar to the false sense of security our cars give us to be complete a-holes on the road. But I can't help but take it personally. I feel like these folks are saying, "Ooooo....I've been invited somewhere. But the host(ess) isn't cool enough. I'll wait to see who else is coming." Fine. You're entitled to that. Just rsvp as a "maybe" then.