Sticky

She was just trying to be sweet, to say good morning. But I was eating breakfast — leftover pancakes. She came up beside me and laid her tail in my plate, dredging it thoroughly with sticky maple syrup. A piece of pancake stuck to her tail too, and as she turned it chased her and she jumped. I laughed, as good a laugh as I could manage with my cold before I had to blow my nose. Again.

Now Miss Kitty has a choice: eat breakfast or clean her tail.

I think this is a hilarious way to wake up, but probably wouldn’t be as good-natured about it if there was syrup on my bedspread. I consist of many levels of acceptance.

Snowed in

Snowed in, knitting
cat stretching her toes toward the fire
Weeds, chocolate milk
Perfect.

Mark those words

When I read a book, if one passage or another in particular appeals to me I tend to turn down a very tiny corner of that page so I can revisit those words when I’m done with the book. I’ve done it before; it’s sort of a mini-book club discussion forum with my own brain. Why did these words speak to me? What memories or actions did I recall when reading this paragraph? How did these words make me feel?

Recently, I gulped down Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I’d borrowed the book from Jamie finally, my curiosity piqued by other reviews. These were my turned-down pages:

p. 95

But what if, either by choice or by reluctant necessity, you end up not participating in this comforting cycle of family and continuity? What if you step out? Where do you sit at the reunion? How do you mark time’s passage without the fear that you’ve just frittered away your time on earth without being relevant? You’ll need to find another purpose, another measure by which to judge whether or not you have been a successful human being. I love children, but what if I don’t have any? What kind of person does that make me?

p. 157

This is what we are like. Collectively, as a species, this is our emotional landscape. I met an old lady once, almost one hundred years old, and she told me, “There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. How much do you love me? And Who’s in charge? Everything else is somehow manageable. But these two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief and suffering.

p. 183

So, during lunch one day, we were all having this conversation together about marriage, and the plumber/poet from New Zealand said, “I see marriage as an operation that sews two people together, and divorce is a kind of amputation that can take a long time to heal. The longer you were married, or the rougher the amputation, the harder it is to recover.”

p. 285

I have a history of making decisions very quickly about men. I have always fallen in love fast and without measuring risks. I have a tendency not only to see the best in everyone, but to assume that everyone is emotionally capable of reaching his highest potential. I have fallen in love more times than I care to count with the highest potential of a man, rather than with the man himself, and then I have hung on to the relationship for a long time (sometimes far too long) waiting for the man to ascend to his own greatness. Many times in romance I have been the victim of my own optimism.

Have you read this book? Did you find any passages that made you a little introspective, that make you think? If you haven’t read this one, have you read anything else recently that made you want to turn down a few pages? Leave a comment and let me know!

Coming up for air

One thing I’ve learned about coming home from any vacation away from your regularly scheduled life: you’d better hit the ground running or be prepared to lose some skin when you hit. Did I really only just get back from my trip to Kentucky 16 days ago?! What the hell happened?!

:: inhale ::
:: exhale ::

Okay… here are the highlights:

• I attended my first gallery reception as an artist (photographer) for GLOW. Sarah and Keith were there, of course, since Keith was my co-photographer for the entry. My Dad, my 92-year-old Grandma, family friends Alice & John, and the entire Jones Family all came with their love and support. It was so great to have each and every one of you there!

• I worked my tail off, at home with my fingers attached to my desktop computer, and finally finished a month-plus-long super-secret, super-special Christmas project. It’s the thing I’m most excited about giving this holiday season!
• I sent out this tweet: “After successfully creating four of my signature baby shower gifts, I respectfully request a cease of procreation until after the holidays.”
• My dear friend Steph — now six-months pregnant and one of the recipients of a baby shower gift — came back to MD to go see the Trans Siberian Orchestra with me! The show was great (even if it did include a lot of hairography), and afterwards we ate at the fabulous TenPenh restaurant where we got to hear the words, “Compliments of the Chef!” not once, but twice!
• Sarah S-E and I made peppermint bark and she let me wash her dishes. YUM, and YES!
• I attended Karin’s baby shower (again, armed with signature gift), and won a Crate & Barrel tea light after successfully pinning the diaper on a paper-poster Baby Stewart, who strangely enough looked JUST like his? her? it’s? father.
• I have not completed my Christmas shopping yet, and so the only explanation can be that I’ve officially switched over to the Bizarro universe without realizing it. I did, however, manage to wrap what gifts I had gathered up and it only took Wolverine and The Fox and the Hound to do it.
• Mom and I spent more than three hours in the kitchen baking and decorating Christmas cookies. And that was AFTER she’d already mixed up all of the dough.

In other news, I cat-sat for five at my parents’ house while Mom went to Blacksburg to visit Jaci, and Dad went hunting. They came home in time to celebrate their 32nd wedding anniversary (Go Parents!), and I inhaled finished reading two books and got caught up with my Hulu queue just as all of the new episodes stopped airing for the holiday break.

Now I’m focusing all of my energies on those end-of-the-year tasks that are elbowing each other, unwilling or unable to wait patiently in line sorted in any manner of sense whatsoever. There’s Christmas cards and gift packages to prepare, then mail. A box of stuff that needs to be turned into a list and then taken to Goodwill. I need to fix my checkbook error, which is going to go one way or the other by about $100. I’ll be attending a small dinner party this Saturday, and since Sarah’s cooking I should probably start starving myself now so I’ll have room for all the goodness about to appear on my plate.

Mom’s Christmas tree needs decorating, my yard needs to be raked, and one way or the other I’m going to have to troubleshoot my front door else be locked in (or out) of my house entirely. I’m swimming a mile once a week, but want to get back into the gym and make some use out of this membership I’m paying for. There are emails to respond to, a cat’s toenails to trim, and a legion of dust to attack throughout the house.

Oh yes, and on Wednesday I’m getting a new windshield for my car, because an old star from driving to and from Baltimore decided to become a three-foot-long, horizontal fissure last Friday night.

:: inhale ::
:: exhale ::

Interrogation

She pressed her fingers into the meat on the back of my arm, following the tight pain like a tracker down to my elbow. Her fingers slide through my skin and carve into uncooperative muscle; the sharp, exquisite torment is like a comet burning across the landscape of my body. I vacilate between wanting to retreat in distress and needing to taste it, to bear witness to the location and movement of every spark and ache of pain. Air sucked through clenched teeth fills my mouth with a cold, tingling sensation, and clears my mind enough to continue to pay attention, to focus on the work being performed. Her movement is slow and deliberate, an encouragement of release. The intent is clear: loosen or be loosened. She finishes the stroke, leaving the damaged, aching flesh to contemplate the wisdom  of unlocking its strangled hold on my body. There is no answer from within, and she quietly, patiently, begins the process again.

Disappearing act

I disappeared for a week. I walked away from the drama, worry and discomfort that has been haunting me, and got on a plane headed to Louisville. I watched movies and browsed through little downtown shops, I drank and I danced… but above all I laughed. Tiny giggles like the bubbles in carbonated drinks and big, booming Julia Roberts-esque laughter that erupts from deep within. It felt so good to smile again, and mean it.

Then I got on a second plane, this time headed back home. I was fine until I finished my book, a great murder mystery that even I couldn’t figure out until the author wrote her secrets down on the page. Staring at the closed paperback in my hands, I felt a little twitch in my left shoulder — a nagging reminder that the story (and the vacation) was over. It was time to reappear.

I deboarded the plane and collected my bag without incident, and without realizing I’d picked my baggage back up as well. A suitcase of worry. A garment bag of drama. A backpack of pain. I’d forgotten how heavy they were.

My eyebrows attempted to touch one another, laugh lines morphing into forehead furrows. A remembered state of being. I discovered my mother swimming in a sea of sedans, minivans and cabs and waded towards her. “Hi!” I said, brightly. “Thanks for picking me up. I’ve missed you, I love you.”

As we traveled towards home, Worry climbed into the front seat with me and sat on my lap. Pain kept tickling my shoulder and neck, a nagging little brother in the backseat. Drama waited until this morning to announce herself, refreshed and ready for action, accessorized with Responsibility and Guilt. I could feel Patience retreating to a back corner, and Selfishness sat up a bit straighter.

I’m home, but it’s not what it used to be. I’m home, but I’m not who I used to be. I find myself wanting to disappear again.