missing a you

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable."   ~William Wordsworth

Today my family went to the beach.

We got their via boat because this particular beach is inaccessible by land unless you walk a LONG way.

The boaters that gather at this slice of beach have been coming here regularly for years.  It's their summer location.  They even have a gas powered blender (think string-trimmer motor meets blender.) they rig up specially for beachy drinks like margaritas, pina coladas, and daquaris. It really is the most lovely place to be on a hot summer day.

Today we made the trek out to this beach.  The waves were rolling at about 2 to 3 feet, but were sporadic enough that we could take the "small" boat (28 feet) without too much trouble.

As we approached the stretch of beach, we noticed that from where we were, it looked like the beach was nonexistent.  Or at least...vertical.  From where we were anchoring it looked as if the lake lapped up on shore and then the shore went straight up a dune.  For miles.

But we were determined.

And as everyone jumped in and handed off coolers and beach bags and children and bag chairs, I turned and looked out the other way.  To the part of the lake where there is no land in sight.

I remembered another time we road out to this beach.  A time almost five years ago.

We were on a bigger boat that time.  The waves were a bit smaller, but not much and it was just as breezy. 

On our way out, two brothers and a sister road together on the bow.  This would be their last time to take this ride together in this way.  This would be their last boat ride with dad.

As we cut the motors and floated, everyone gathered in the stern of the boat--around dad.  And the minister held dad.

There were many boats then as there was today, but unlike today, no one was anchoring.  No one was laughing and splashing water as they jumped off boats.  No one wore swimsuits.

Words were spoken.  I don't really remember the specific words.  I was too busy feeling watched.

After the words, dad was put in his favorite place--the lake.  The lake that gives way to the beach.  The beach that the boaters go to.

The boaters gave him a tribute.  They still do.

And this is where we visit him.  This is where we feel him most.  This is why, before jumping off the boat today, I took a big breath and said, "hey Pops!  Good to see you today! I like what you've done with the place."

And each time today I was told that my son looks like his grandpa, I smiled.  Because he does.  But I think he looked like him MORE today, if that is possible.

We had a cloudless, blue sky.  We had crashing, rolling waves to play in.  We had a breeze that kept us comfortable.

And we had a pleasant ride back.

Today was a good day visiting Pops.

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me),
it's always our self we find in the sea. 
~e.e. cummings

Who Sucked Out the Feeling?

Sunday has been my favorite day of the week for a long time.  Even now, after the fact, I have come to love Sunday again.  But for a while, Sunday was unbearable, debilitating me into a useless ball of nothingness.

Sunday felt cozy, like wrapping a down-filled comforter around me after a hot shower.  Sunday was sleepy.  Sunday was a day of rest, replenishing all the energy that was drained from me during the busy workweek.  Sunday was the day I spent with him.  He would watch football, commenting on the teams, criticizing the calls and complaining about the players on his fantasy team.  I would watch him, commenting on teams’ uniforms, criticizing the complexity of the calls, and complaining about the fact that he has so many fantasy teams.  Sunday smelled and tasted like pizza.  Half mushrooms and olives, half pepperoni and sausage.  Sunday meant togetherness.

Then Sunday changed.  I was alone a lot on Sunday. My heart felt like a deflated balloon left in the corner of the gym after a high school dance, useless and forgotten.  My body felt drained like something had sucked all of the feeling out of me with a vacuum cleaner, leaving me void of all emotion except emptiness.  I tried to go through the motions of what Sunday was supposed to be but it felt like I was outside of myself looking in, wondering if the fragile shell that I was walking around in would shatter and leave me as a pile of dust that would blow away as if I never existed.  Sunday suddenly felt like a heavy weight, a pile of bricks that someone had placed on my shoulders, crushing me little by little until I crumbled into a mound of hopeless human flesh.  Sunday blended with Monday and Thursday and Tuesday and Saturday and Friday and Wednesday.  Sunday was not special anymore; it was as painful as the rest of the days.  Sunday felt like it was a week long because, in a way, it was. 

Sunday is changing again, like summer is changing into fall.  With the return of football is the return of togetherness.  But just as the teams are slightly different this season in football, so has the togetherness been altered.

This was originally written six years ago.

Perfection

So there I was...sitting on the deck again with my book.

Again it was a perfect day.  Partly sunny.  mid to upper 70's.  slight breeze.

I put my head back and felt how comfy it was in my chair, breathed in deep, and went back to my book.

But then I looked up again and was slapped in the face with the reality of just how different this summer has been from last summer.

My brain quickly whirled back to last August.  I had an almost two-month old.  Two months since the C-section.  Two months of having a baby.  Two months.

It seemed like enough time.  It seemed like things should be under control.  It seemed like this little floppy being should NOT be crying more than he was NOT crying.

But it wasn't.  And looking back?  How did I ever think TWO months was long enough?  sigh.  rookie mistake.

But rookie or not, I was deeply depressed last August, I just didn't know it (or maybe I did).

By this time last year the Husband was back to work and I was home alone with a colicky screaming baby.  I could see the summer days out our big front window, but I was not participating.  I was in the house trying to get the screaming baby to scream quieter.

I would get on my computer during the brief spells of nap and see all the fun things people on facebook were doing and that I was NOT doing.

I cried a lot.  Then.

I cried for the long summers of relaxation and me time.

I cried for the quiet that was gone.

I cried for the fun, outgoing me that was trapped in a house.

I cried.  A lot.

But this summer?  Totally different.

This summer we have gone out.  We have done things.  The beach, the zoo, the children's museum, walks, playdates, the pool, the list goes on and on.

He sleeps regularly now.  This gives me a minimum of two hours of "me time" a day.

Things get done.  My house gets cleaned (ok, this still doesn't happen regularly, but who cares.  I have learned to let that go.  Sort of).

Books get read.  Last year I didn't go to the beach even once and I only read one book.

This year?  I lost count of how many times we've been to the beach AND how many books I've read.

And just as I am thinking happy thoughts, I look over.

And there he is.  peering at me through the glass sliding door.

When he realizes I see him, a HUGE smile breaks out over his face and he waves and bangs on the glass.

Sigh....

Things are different.

Things are....good.

Can't Lose You

He looked so ridiculous.  He clearly didn't belong at this concert.  In fact, I am pretty sure he only knows two songs that may or may not be performed.

He was there for me.  He knew I needed to get out of the house.  I needed to not drink this day away.  I needed to NOT sulk about that guy for awhile.

So he was there with me.  At a Type O Negative concert wearing a yellow Aeropostale hat and a polo shirt with cargo shorts and Adidas sneaks.  Amongst the black hair, black clothes, giant boots, black eyeliner (on guys as well as girls), black nail polish, black lipstick, well, you get it.

I was not quite that extreme.  I had on my jeans and black tank top, but i am a far cry from goth.  I just really like heavy music.  Or I did then.  It was sort of a leftover effect from the ex (another post for another time).

Anyway, he (the non-ex, but the friend) was here with me.  And I told him that I would drive so he could have some drinks.  He deserved that much after putting up with me night after night as I drank my dinner and cried.

There we were.  Quite a mismatched pair.

The heavy music started and he had some captains and cokes.  and after awhile, he got silly.  I had not seen him this silly in a while...it had been all about me and I hadn't cared about what anyone else had going.

But now I was seeing him.  Seeing what a good friend he was to me.  He consistently put my needy needs before his own.  Shoot, I didn't even know WHAT his needs were that summer.  I knew he needed a new vehicle.  And that was the extent of it.

And here he was, letting off steam, getting all silly on rum and coke at a concert where he TOTALLY didn't fit in, all for me.  He was such a great guy.  How does he NOT have a girlfriend?  I was just deciding that I would have to be a better friend and try harder to help him find a lady when it happened.

He leaned in to me as if he was going to tell me a secret.  He was all smiley and smelling like the inside of a captain morgan bottle.

"Hey," he says.  "you wanna know something?  I think I am starting to find you attractive."

Ok? What the hell?  Did he just use the phrase, "find you attractive?"  He had to be kidding, right?  RIGHT?

He couldn't be serious because A) we had known each other for eleventy billion years.  B) this just doesn't randomly happen at a Type O Negative concert. and C) he is my FRIEND.

So I started to laugh.  Of COURSE he was kidding!  Bwhahahaha!

Oh. Ok.  Phew.  He was laughing too.

We didn't talk about it again.  And that night, I drove him back to my house, but he still couldn't drive home, so he slept on my couch.

In the morning, he was gone.  We hadn't talked about it.  But we would.

The Neighbor Lady

After almost six years of living in this house I am still not used to our neighbors.

Our next door neighbor...well, I could probably write an entire post about the treat he is.  Let's just say he keeps us entertained with the dumb ways he goes about doing, well, pretty much everything.

And the kids in our neighborhood?  I am pretty sure their parents tell them to go outside and not come back until dark.  I never rarely see an adult outside while the hoards of kids are flying all over the place.

It took us until this summer at a garage sale to meet any of these neighbors.  I just don't get the whole neighbor thing.

Growing up we didn't live in a typical neighborhood.  Ours was just a stretch of country road of about a half a mile with a few houses spread out on either side.  And some of those houses--ours being one--was set about an eighth of a mile back from the road in the woods.

So we didn't have the neighbors that you could watch from your window. Nobody was keeping up with the Jones' because nobody could SEE the Jones'.

To get to either of our "next door neighbors's" houses, we had to walk about a quarter of the way down our gravel driveway.  Our closest neighbor was to the left.  Through the gravel "turnaround", through the trees, through their backyard, and around the front to their door.

I didn't much care for these neighbors.  They were just creepy to me for whatever reason.

The dad was about as tall as an oompa loompa and all squishy and wrinkly looking.  He even had sort of squeaker voice.  He owned the bike store downtown.  I don't know why, but that made him weirder.

All of his kids were "grown up" in my kid mind.  They were probably high schoolers, but to me?  Grown ups.  And I knew one of them died.  No one really told me anything about it, I just knew it happened and it was an accident.

The mom?  Her name was Gretta.  That is one thing that was weird.  Gretta is not a weird name to me NOW, but back then?  It was just an old lady from a European country's name.  She was also very tall.  Which was weird since she was married to a squishy little oompa loompa.

Gretta was also very severe looking.  I can't ever remember her smiling.  EVER.  We would trick or treat there...no smiles.  We would bring baked goods over.  No smiles.  She would even babysit us from time to time when my aunt was not able to.  Even fewer smiles than the none than she had doled out before.

I absolutely hated when my brother and I had to go to Gretta's house to be babysat.

My mom worked part-time and only two days a week.  The longest we were ever at Gretta's was 3:30pm.  Those days seemed never-ending.

My mom would drop us off around 7:00am.  It seemed to always still be dark out.  We would walk in the kitchen, past the island, and into the "TV room" where we were allowed to watch PBS.  My brother and I would sit next to each other on the itchy couch each with our small butter tubs of dry cereal that my mom would send along for breakfast.

After my mom left, the cereal was gone, and Sesame street was over?  Gretta turned off the TV for the rest of the day.  She had about seven toys to play with that were as old as she was.  And we were only allowed to play in the TV room.

I remember I could see glimpses of our house through the tree branches when the leaves had fallen off and I would BEG her to let me go play on our swing set.

The answer was always no.  We could go stand in her yard, though.  Since you know, she had NOTHING for us to play with outside.

Once in awhile she would let us color at the island.  Once in a while.  In coloring books that were almost all used up and with crayons that looked like her little rat dog had chewed on.

Mostly we sat on the itchy couch.  And waited for mom.

When my mom came to get us?  You would have thought she was a superstar the way we greeted her!  She never really believed that we were as tortured at Gretta's house as we said we were.  Now that i am a mom though?  I think she probably just didn't want to believe how totally unhappy we were going there.

Where we live now?  The neighbor kids play in the mud "ponds" under the easement next door to our house.  One small, blond-haired, chatty boy announced to me that there were tadpoles in there.  I have no idea where this kid lives or where his parents are.  All I know is that he just waved at me and said, "well, see ya later, neighbor lady!"

I just don't GET having neighbors.

The Time Chair

I have stories to tell you.  Hence why I started this bloggy blog.  But I am finding it hard to choose which ones to tell first.  I started with my tattoo story because it shows you what a Bad Ass wannabe I am...while at the same time, hopefully showing you that I WILL do stuff.  I WILL commit.

So where do I go now...hmmmm....

My other goal here is to sit and write EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. and then hit publish.  No scheduled posts.  Just write and run.

I have no idea what that is going to produce.  Could be a jumble of nonsensical words (um, this post?) or it could be gold, Jerry! (Seinfeld reference?  no? you're killing me).

Anyway, I was sitting outside yesterday.  We have a deck with a couple Adirondack chairs and a lounge chair. This is pretty much my favorite place in/around our whole house.  It's my spot.

So I was sitting in one of the chairs with my book.  It was warm, there was a breeze, and I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

Time is a weird thing.  When I am outside with my eyes closed, I could be 15 again.  I could be at my parents' house again.  I could be on the dock again.  The sun on my face and the breeze across my skin?  Is timeless.  It's felt the same to me my whole life.

But then I open my eyes and I am on a deck to a house that I own with a husband.  I have a kid inside that house who is napping in a nursery I helped prepare for him.

I have a career. I have debt.  I have responsibilities that I don't even really understand all the way.

I am an adult.

And yet...

I closed my eyes again because sometimes?  I don't feel like being in this time.  The adult that I am.

A Case of Swamp Ass

Was this a dumb choice?  This was a dumb choice, right?  I mean, I am going to regret this, right?  Well, it's clearly too late now.


It would be dumb to quit halfway through.  And I can't erase what has already been done.

My legs were starting to slide around on the chair.  It was plastic, like a dentist chair, and I was wearing shorts.

And I was sweating.

Isn't it hot in here?  I swear they cranked the heat or something.  But why would they do that?  It's AUGUST.

The room was much smaller than I had anticipated, but really not unlike other ones I had seen.  The four of us were sort of crammed in, but I wasn't going to do this alone.

Holy SHIT does this hurt.  Do. Not. Cry.  Do. Not. Admit. Pain.

It sort of smelled like college in this room.  You know, like incense, patchouli, and cigarettes all mixed together.  No one was actually smoking or burning incense, but it still SMELLED like it was in someone's clothes...or in the brick in the walls...or in the ink.

Is this what I will smell like from now on?

I couldn't look around.  I could hear what Trisha and MacKenzie were saying, but I couldn't look up at them. I did try to stay in the conversation though.  To keep my mind off the pain.

At first it really didn't hurt. I mean, it HURT, but it wasn't excruciating. I wasn't a huge fan of needles, but I didn't have to see it, and it wasn't like a stabbing pain.  More of an annoying scratching.  I could totally handle this. I could TOTALLY handle this.

I SWEAR it is getting warmer in here.  What the hell?

I was examining my fingernails since my head had to stay down and still.  I wasn't able to focus on all the samples on the walls.  And my fingernails?  Are not interesting enough to distract me from the scratching on the back of my neck.

Oh no.

Apparently the outline was done, but the fill?  That rubbed back and forth over my spine.  And that felt like someone was trying to scrape off my skin.

Oh, Lord, no...

You know that instantaneous feeling you get before you are sick? Where one minute you are uncomfortable, but the next?  Your insides feel swirly and you are POURING out sweat like someone bumped open a faucet?  And your head feels all light and funny?

All I really want is a drink of water.  Or some fresh air.  I am SURE they won't let me go out for air.

The artist totally noticed my discomfort.

"Are you Ok?"

"Oh yeah, I am TOTALLY Ok."

I am supposed to be the Bad Ass.  I am supposed to be able to handle this.  I kick ass....I kick...oh Lord.

I couldn't swallow.  My girls jumped into action.  There was a fan jammed in the corner of the room moving air around.  Someone pointed it RIGHT at my face.

Ahhhhhh....

The artist:  "wow.  You sweated so much I can hardly see my stencil anymore!  You know what we call that, right?"

me:  "sorry.  no, what?"

the artist:  "swamp ass".

Awesome.  I am trying to be a bad ass and I have a case of swamp ass.  And a stranger had to point it out.

She finished it up and told me I could use a hand mirror to see it in the big mirror over the desk that held all the supplies.

As I stood up I realized how much I had sweated.  My legs slide off the plastic chair.  I am pretty sure it probably looked like I peed myself.

My back was so sweaty I had a big wet spot in the middle of my back right through my shirt.

I was so classy.  And so proud.

That little black curly V on the back of my neck meant I did something I didn't think I could do.

I wasn't sure if I wanted that permanent mark on my neck.  But earlier that summer I lost a baby I didn't think I wanted. 

An unexpected loss brought me confidence about what I was capable as as a woman.

I used to be a MAJOR tom boy.  Every since being a kid I figured I got the raw end of the stick by not having a penis.

Dudes had EVERYTHING so much easier.  And when I learned about periods and childbirth?  I was sure life wasn't fair.

I didn't know if I wanted kids.  Being pregnant and giving birth scared the shit out of me.  I loved kids, but the thought of my body doing weird, painful things to have one? Um...no.

And then I found myself pregnant.

And then I lost the pregnancy.

The guilt was unreal.  If I had wanted it more?  Would it have stuck?  Was I responsible for the loss because of my bad attitude?

After it passed I suddenly realized what an amazing thing a woman's body is.  It creates LIFE.  My woman-specific roles (sister, wife, daughter, aunt, etc) were some of the most important parts of my life.

Yes.  I wanted children.

Yes.  I wanted to add MOMMA to that list of woman-specific roles.

And so the idea for the ink.  The Curly V?  It is the Aries sign (yes, I'm an Aries...a VERY typical one), but it is also Egyptian hieroglyphics for WOMAN.

And I?  Am a woman.

A woman with swamp ass, apparently.

Moments that Explode

Well hello there.

So I've started this little blog.  Someone may find it someday.  Or not.  Perhaps I will write in obscurity here in bloggy land forever.

And here I am writing that awkward first post.  The one where we always feel like we have to say what the blog is about...as if a million readers will tune in the minute we hit "publish".

Ok, well, then...

This is not my first blog.  Not even my second.  I now have three blogs out there.  This is my only "anonymous" blog though.  Although it is my guess that many who find this blog?  Will know who I am.

So if people will know me...why anonymous?

Well, that is the thing.  I have a LOVELY blog that is out there with lots (lots for ME anyway) great followers.  Most are bloggy peeps, but some are family.  In particular?  My mom.  My MIL, grandmas. You get the point.

It's not that I sugar-coat things on my other blog, but well, I can't fully write how i always want to.  That blog?  My mom checks for pictures of her grandson.  She loves my writing too, but lots of family relies on it to know what we are up to as a family.

This blog?  This one is just for me.  The other one has our family name.  Students, parents, random people can search us and find it.  This one?  Not so much.  it's a little freer for me and my writing.

So what do I want to write about?  I want to explode the moments of my life.  I want you to feel them, see them, hear them, hell even smell them and taste them, maybe.

I want to focus more on JUST ME here.  I can say things how I want to say them without having to think about gramma falling out of her chair with shock.

Not that all I have to say is shocking...not at all. 

It's just freer here.  I hope.