Disappointing

I made the mistake of visiting my Gmail archives tonight. And one set, in particular, was akin to a visit with a ghost: hundreds and hundreds of conversations, laden with obvious affection and affinity. As a whole, they are the chronicle of a valued friendship, the words of someone I love. And they are all that's left.

I feel sad tonight, for in its absense from my day-to-day life, I had forgotten how much I loved this friendship, this person. I should not have read them. They are too much a reminder of that empty disappointment of someone who was supposed to be here.

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Disconnect

Last week, my teenage son broke up with his girlfriend. Apparently, at one point, the process involved her calling the house over and over and over and my son telling his sisters to tell her he isn't home.  Half of me was saying, "Good lord, honey, put a damper on the crazy behavior, you are making yourself look foolish and reinforcing the hysterical stereotype of women." The other half of me was saying, "Oh hell, what did he DO? Women don't go nuts like that unless men have pulled some sort of noncommunicative, game-playing bullshit. Tell me my son isn't one of THOSE guys."

As in all things, it's probably a little from column A and a little from column B, especially given the lovely combination of general clulessness and raging hormones that comes with the teen years.

Still, I figured it was a teachable moment that I ought to seize. I struggled for a moment with what to say, though, with how to explain to my son something I've found beyond the grasp—purely innocently in most cases—of most of the men in my life, friends and lovers. Call it Mars-Venus or whatever, but it just doesn't seem to compute.

I hemmed and hawed and stumbled about the conversation for a moment until I remembered the many protective comments my son has made in reference to his younger sisters. Epiphany. It could be summed up in a short statement: "I don't know exactly what happened here, but I want you to consider, in any interaction with the young women you date, whether your behavior toward her would be something that you would be OK with if a boy acted in a similar fashion toward your sister. If not, then you should probably adjust your actions."

He seemed to get it. Later that evening, I was thinking about our conversation in the context of my own experiences. I hope my son gets it, but I have my doubts. Most men don't seem to. They are fathers and brothers and sons and demand the highest level of consideration for those women from other men and, in most cases, from themselves. Yet in their romantic relationships, they do the very things that they have deemed "not good enough" for their sisters and daughters and mothers. I wonder why. I wonder if women do the same thing. Does sex really change things that much?

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Snapshots

The lights were back the other night for the first time this season and, as always, you were on my mind. I wrote this a while back; I don't remember why or what prompted it. It's how I remember that last week, though. Apropos, I guess, given what you loved most.

Snapshots

Flash

Late night, tired eyes, brains spent
Baby sleeping in his stroller
Another deadline, pages in paste-up, backlit
Glance down, our arms entwined on blueline

Flash

Morning light, cool table against my back
Quiet with my girlish thoughts
Why are you late?
Will you think me beautiful here waiting for you?

Flash

Ringing phone, dinner cooking
A familiar voice, broken
Words spilling from a yawning tunnel
Fall back
Wall stops
Sliding down
Why?

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What's in a name?

10-year-old: We had the meanest substitute teacher EVER today. All she did was yell at use for like two hours.
Mom: What is her name?
10-year-old: Miss Flunk.
Mom: Miss Flunk? Seriously?
14-year-old: I guess we know why she's not a REAL teacher.

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The virtual I, at the I

Now available LIVE from the Big I (starting at about 9 p.m.)

Cocktails

Looking for results? Visit the Alaska Division of Elections online.

Grab a beer, sit down and join us:




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Worth it

It was truly hell getting here. Days that stretched to weeks to months, past a year and nearly a second. Still nothing. Only wondering and waiting and struggling to keep that toehold on my own humanity, my eyes fixed steadfastly on that one thing, "it will be worth it." Until that wasn't there either. My tenacity and faith had no direction and they fell. It was dark, for as long again as before, my eyes unable to see even inches before my own face. I don't exactly remember how it became light again or why.

Sitting on the other side, I've found that the thing that made it "worth it" has nothing to do with the thing I was fighting for in the first place. The insight I gained and the people it brought into my life are for more precious than that thing I was so desperately trying to hold on to. That was not worth it. This is.

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Insight?

Somehow my son and I got into a discussion about grandchildren this evening. He declared he had no interest in having children: "They would have my genes, and thus your genes, and would be a neurotic mess."

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Why?

You asked me why I like that photo so much, why, of the scores of shots of your face, I love that one above all others. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, when you asked me, because it's not like you look any more beautiful than normal or that the photo is remarkably well-composed.

No, I love it because it is simply you, without pretense and unguarded. The smile on your face matches that in your eyes. Even your posture, soft and unposed, speaks to who you really are. Precious few shots have come close to that one. And they grow rarer with the passage of time. You, like all of us, have aged, but it isn't the lines on your face. No, in most of the pictures, the hardness in your eyes tells far more than the grin that belies contentment.

I love that one because it's real, because it's you, happy.

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The king of ...

I consider myself to be pretty open-minded about a lot of things and people, or at the very least it is something I admire in others and strive for myself. I try not to judge. However, I have a confession to make. I seriously look at someone differently if I find out they idolize Michael Jackson. A part of me doubts their grounding in reality and their ability to evaluate ... everything, really. OK, now once the laughing has died down, I'll continue.

I should note that gushing over celebrities is already something I just don't understand. But Michael Jackson gushers take things to a whole new level of absurdity. They go on and on about his talent and sexiness and loving nature and how misunderstood and giving he is. They name their dogs after him. Or their kids. Seriously? Can you imagine? "Honey, I named you after my favorite person in the whole world, a wonderful man, the king of pedophi ... I mean pop."

Perhaps fanatics just make me nervous. Still, I can get my mind around putting all sorts of people and things on a pedestal, and feeling irrationally passionate about those things. But a man who, while talented musically, was so disturbed as to do the sorts of things he did, to himself and to others? If you don't have the wherewithal to look at that scenario, at that person, and not see it for what it is, a part of me seriously doubts your ability to make ANY rational decision.

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Not meant to be landlocked

It's after midnight and the sounds of the city are background noise to the Atlantic rolling ashore. I'm restless and melancholy, knowing that tomorrow I'll return to places surrounded by little but land. I was born landlocked, but the few years I spent living by the sea defined where I belong. Every time I venture there, I am reminded. It's painful to leave. It always is. I'll sit here a while longer, enveloped in its sound, and try not to think about how long it might be before I find my way back home.

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Needed respite

Tonight, my friend's 2-year-old daughter spent several hours at my house while her mom worked. After I put my kids to bed, I put her into my bed in an attempt to get her to sleep. I slipped her little diaper-clad body between the sheets, pulled up the duvet and reclined beside her. I watched as she wiggled about, giggling to herself, rolling over and over, obviously delighted by the way the soft cotton felt against her bare skin. She was the personification of joyful sensation. She paused and turned her sweet face toward me, grinning and wiggling her fingers in front of her, that squeaky voice making some approximation of the word "spider." Five rounds of "Itsy Bitsy Spider" later, her mom came to pick her up.

In a week that has been, at times, blackened by some of the worst humanity has to offer, she was a beautiful, simple and welcome reminder of the best.

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The way it is

Overheard (and inspired):

"Yes, I am a person who is petty enough to look at people I don't really care for and think 'Oh, honey, you may not have the years, but you sure show the miles.'"

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Why I can fix that

Most people who know me would agree that I'm not very good at the word "can't." If something is broken or needs work, whether it be a relationship or a project or a light fixture, my first inclination is to break out the tools, roll up my sleeves and get started.

That I might fail, or not be up to the task at hand, rarely even occurs to me.

When I was younger, I chalked this up to being one of two daughters of a man who had no sons. We learned to shoot before we learned long division. We did yard work. We went fishing. We cut firewood. We helped build things. Now don't get me wrong, we were not complete tomboys. We took ballet lessons and learned to cook and sew too, but our experiences were certainly not limited to those reserved for the fairer sex.

As a young woman, I credited my father's influence almost exclusively for my willingness to charge forth when faced with a new situation or task. As I grow older, I recognize that while some of the technical ability came from my father, the mentality is one most accurately attributed to my mother.

She grew up in the midwest, one of 10 kids in a Catholic farm family. Her brothers and sisters all still live within about 20 miles of the farm. So do their children. So do their grandchildren. But she left, and she didn't stop at the next state. Not too long after high school, she packed up and first headed south, but found that not quite the right fit. She went, of all places, to Fairbanks, Alaska. I wonder if she was scared. Perhaps she just figured she would make it work.

Through the years I have watched my mother employ that technique in almost everything, from raising us to starting a business to running a household to home improvement. She just seems to step up and figure it out. And most times, it turns out OK.

When my chainsaw won't start or my water pump starts sucking air, I roll my eyes, curse a little, then pick out the right tools and figure out a way to fix it. My father taught me which tools too use. My mother taught me to have the courage to pick up the tools in the first place.

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Afternoon anthem

Sunshine streaming and sleepy eyes on a Saturday afternoon: It's perfect for drifting.

Come Away with Me

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Happy Cinco de Mayo

The air of warm-weather festivity was markedly lacking this afternoon. Yep, those are snowflakes. Apparently, nobody bothered to inform the weather gods that it was the fifth of May and thus snow was wildly inappropriate. Can margaritas be served hot?

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Comfort fail

My well-meaning 10-year-old has a friend whose mother is having surgery. She was attempting to be a good friend and comfort this other little girl, to empathize with her obvious concern for her mother. So she sincerely and sweetly looked at her and said, "That must be really tough, your mom could die." Her friend burst into tears. My daughter made a nice card tonight. Her friend's mother probably thinks my child is the meanest girl at school.

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Mini key

As if Twitter by text and RSS feeds weren't exciting enough, I thought I might really test my mad skillz by blogging on the Blackberry. 'Cause nothing says "hip and edgy" like pontificating with the phone carried by thousands of middle-aged white guys.

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Brave new bird

In the name of research, and not because I have no life, I'm now playing with twitter feed. Let's just call it "professional development" instead of "narcissistic boredom," shall we?

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The S word

I just filled a prescription for two new medications. Out of curiosity, I checked my receipts to see how much they would have cost, had I been one of the uninsured masses. I about choked: nearly $500 for a single month's supply. I recently heard about someone who has lousy insurance and has to purchase a similar medication out of pocket. That person pays about $65 for 100 days worth over the Internet. And where does this cheap medication come from? Why Canada, of course. You know, that continental neighbor that does the unthinkable: ensure that its citizens have affordable health care.

Those commie bastards.

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Everyday Prince Charming

A man and a woman, a couple not too much older than I am, were leaving their office. He went to the coat closet and helped her on with her coat. This simple, chivalrous gesture, carried out with obvious caring in his look and manner, was one of the sweetest things I have seen in a long time. Perhaps it's old-fashioned, but some things are classics for a reason. And it still makes me smile thinking about it.

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The conversations we're REALLY having

It's that special time of year, where couples profess their undying love and the singles pretend not to notice. "What? Oh yeah, is THAT why hearts and roses are plastered on every store end-cap?"

Yep, it's Valentine's Day, the ultimate holiday of the haves and have-nots. And nothing says "I heart u" like those chalky, sugary conversation hearts. This year, I decided to start some conversations that are a tad bit more relevant to my brothers and sisters who, like me, are braving the shallow and muddy dating pool of our 30s and 40s. Let's face it folks, it can be pretty damn scary out there.

So, without further adieu, I give you the "reduced for quick sale" holiday cookies:



Sometimes you're not really looking for something lasting. For those moments, the ONS Collection says it all:



Sure, we all have issues from our childhood, but every once in a while, you meet one of these. If they start saying things like, "I lacked male role models," run. The Parental Collection:



We've all been at this for a while, through the wringer, if you will. Embrace your secondhand status with the Salvo Armani Collection:



We all know the herd has been culled. Why lie? Tell it like it is with the Lowered Expectations Collection:



Raise your hand if you have experienced a crazy. You know what I am talking about. The ones who start using the word "we" after meeting for coffee once and start asking when you will want to meet their parents. The Cuckoo Collection captures this phenomenon with aplomb:



Happy Valentine's Day!

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Kitchen table breakthroughs

I long ago figured out that the dinnertime conversations my children and I have are not exactly of the "Leave it to Beaver" variety. My eldest was musing the other night about things like LSD and 'shrooms and how he wondered if drugs really could expand your mind, like some people say.

"Maybe that's how people could find a cure for cancer. They get super high and then ..."

Well, maybe, sure. It could end with a cure for cancer. It could also end with screaming and fleeing from the scary clown peeking in the window. To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to.

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Farewell friend

He was my next-door neighbor for 12 years, from the first day I bought my house. Everyone else has changed over the years. He stayed put, an aging and fiercely independent widower with no family here in town.

Each spring, I planted an extra basket of petunias and pansies and hung it outside his garage. He always kept it watered. He wasn't overtly social, certainly not the Ned Flanders model of a neighbor, but he was happy to stop and chat about the latest goings-on with his daughter in the Lower 48 or local politics or my job or his health. He watched my children grow up and always had kind words for and about them and about the horde of other kids that now live on our street. He even liked my obnoxious dog and took time to pet her when he went on his forays out to the mailbox. I watched him grow older and I worried, sometimes, about him living alone.

During the winter, if the snow got too deep, I or my teenage son or one of the other neighbors would clear it from in front of the garage. During the winter, he usually only came and went to take the garbage to the dumpster and get the mail. We checked in on him during the holidays. I always sent the kids over with a plate of goodies on Christmas.

And once April and May rolled around, like the rest of the Alaskans, he would emerge from his winter abode into the sunshine. We'd stop to chat in the driveway and he would remark that the kids had grown a lot over the winter.

He won't be meeting me in the driveway this spring. The state troopers stopped by tonight with a familiar and foreboding scenario. Had anyone spoken to him recently? A lone trooper watched the house for a couple of hours. Then the white van arrived. And the gurney. They went into the house and came out carrying a body bag.

It's not that he is gone. He was at least 70 years old. I know his aches and pains had become harder and harder to bear. He and I had talked about aging, and I know that he wanted to die on his own terms, in his own home. Still, I can't help but wonder if we should have checked on him more often, if I could have done something differently.

The spring won't be the same this year. I'm not sure what I will do with that extra flower basket. I'll miss those perfectly prosaic driveway conversations. Each of those moments are, taken alone, of little consequence. Together they form a presence in my life and the life of my family that will be missed. He will be missed. And I hope he knew that before he died.

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Overheard

"When I get an e-mail from her, I feel like the back of my head is in a vise."

Raise your hand if you have one of those people in your life.

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Recession? Reality?

I just did my taxes and found the entire experience quite depressing. Despite a promotion, I'm pretty sure I didn't even keep up with the increased cost of living this year. I'm one of the lucky ones. At least I still have a job. At least I still have a home.

All that said, I am 15 years into my career and am not sure there will ever come a day when I am not holding my breath until the next paycheck. And if things continue at this rate--skyrocketing health insurance rates, less-than-inflation pay increases, energy costs at triple the national average--it will get worse and worse every year. I find myself wondering how I might cope with the possibility of simply not making ends meet and how I ended up even having to think about something like that in the first place. And I wonder how many other people are out there thinking the same thing.

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Come, meet, come (if you're lucky)

A local hotel and restaurant are hosting a "Single Mingle" this weekend. Appetizers, drinks and, well, mingling. The flier boasts, "things are about to get more exciting in the dark ..."

I won't touch on the capitalization. Nor will I say anything about the clumsily executed sexual innuendo, which meshes quite nicely with the wavy Word art.

They dispense with the subtlety in the next section: "Rooms available for $59 plus tax."

C'mon out! Have a food. Drink a little wine. Meet new people. Score.

The waiter said that every call about the event has been from men. I'm shocked (and almost tempted to go and watch.)

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A bubble off

Tonight I sat in my bed in my pajama pants and wrote a press release about my ex. Then I processed pictures of him. It was unnatural. I didn't like it.

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Tenacious past

What if it never goes away, that thing that twists the knife like no other? So many attempts at exorcism, yet the images still remain; it still feels like yesterday. What if there is no finding a way out?

We all go through trials in our lives and time and distance usually renders them harmlessly soft. They are memories--painful, perhaps--but viewed through fog, their jagged edges no longer close enough to slice.

But what of those that refuse to sink into the fog?

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You put in on with what?

Ever heard someone say that a woman looks like she puts her makeup on with a putty knife? Well, apparently L'Oreal has come up with something pretty close:

True-Match roll-on foundation

I wonder if you can buy it at Home Depot along with your putty knife.

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Responsibly busted

Every once in while, my genetic Catholic guilt combined with frustration over lack of money prompts a budget check. I never have any money left over at the end of the month. I must be spending irresponsibly, right? I am 15 years into my career and one of the senior people in my field at my company. I should have money left to save, right. Paycheck-to-paycheck is something for 20-somethings in college, right?

So I pull up Excel and make little rows for my expenses: Utilities, credit cards, transportation. Expenses are high, but my debt-to-asset ratio is ridiculously good, given that I own my house outright. I don't have any expensive habits like smoking or gambling. I don't even have cable TV. I keep my thermostat at 60 degrees at night. I am typing in the dark right now.

Then I plug in my income. I'm feeling very proactive and organized and grown up right about now. I'm being Responsible. I am creating a personal Budget. I am an Adult.

Click, click. Tap, tap. Digits entered. Formula in. What the hell? Seriously? I am supposed to feed and clothe and pay medical expenses for my family of 4 on $1,100 a month. Shit. Groceries are at least $200 a week.

I'm not irresponsible. I'm just effing broke!

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