Peeyess

It's a beautiful nine-eleveny kind of day.

Am I allowed to say that?

The Beautiful Sunday I'm Too Hungover To Deal With It Blues

It's the ugly truth and I'm just gonna say it:

I am so hungover right now I feel like I could die.

I'm now one of those people who turns into a tipsy bon vivant after two glasses of wine or a single finger of Maker's, so the bottle of wine and handful of beers I drank with Nancy last night are kicking my ass in a completely deserved and righteous way.

I tried two cups of coffee, but all that did was make me wide awake and hungover. Took a scalding shower and drank a giant bottle of water. Tried to nap, but see above: coffee. Wide awake AND with the spins, not to mention the stupid cat wanted under the blanket, then out from under, and merely succeeded in slithering back and forth over my body from shoulders to feet while meowing loudly the whole time. Thought laying on the living room floor might help. Don't ask, I don't know why, either. Played the Seal song "Waiting For You," a couple of times and danced barefoot in my kitchen while singing along (have you ever noticed that when Seal sings, he makes everything sound so *urgent*?) Then I tried to reach that note in "I have been waiting, I have been WAIT-ing for you" with my injured I-smoked-a-million-cigarettes-last-night voice and I had to put both hands on the top of my head to keep it from exploding. So, shhh, no singing either, even though I'm
sorta liking the extra rasp I've got going on. Have resorted to scavenging a smoothie out of what's here, bananas and frozen blueberries and yogurt and granola and milk and orange juice and flax seed. Not many blueberries in the house, so it's not the rich purple I like but more -- purplish. Wish I had some Vita Coco in the fridge. Damn.

Barely managing the liner notes on this CD, and then this:

"But hey, that's life!...Isn't it? You allow yourself to be backed into a corner by the rejection, the adversity. You allow yourself to fall from grace and then you feel again. You re-ignite the senses, you re-evaluate the gift of being able to make someone happy and then...You strike! The frustration, the self-doubt, the all time low, the anxiety and the disappointment. You gather them and then you strike with the might of it all. You let it hurt you, maim you and even disgrace you. But you NEVER let it kill you. You let it get you down but then you get back up again and you strike!...with the might of the peaceful warrior." (Seal, 2003)

Present and Accounted For -- And Trying to Be Human

I'm trying to stay present, folks, while at the same time a big part of me is stretching its peripheral vision, looking for a bolt-hole.

I just need to do the next thing, and try to keep the lines of communication open between my out-of-practice heart and the outside world, instead of retreating to my oversized left brain and analyzing the hell out of every damn thing.

A warning: "We haven't made any promises to each other." I forgot that I was the one who said it first, flippantly, and yes, it's true.  But still, as the words were repeated back to me, the bartender slid a fear cocktail with a chaser of here-we-go-again across the bar and leaned conspiratorially on one arm, his face close to mine, his lips twisted in what might be a smile or a leer.

"Taste this," he says, "It's full of all the things you know."

I am staring down that drink and taking deep, nourishing breaths.  Keeping my hands loose at my sides, fingers gently fluttering, and giving my shoulders and arms a shake and a roll.  Staying on the balls of my feet with slightly bent knees -- just in case.

Cheri Huber says that fear is a sign that you're heading in the right direction, and that you should step on the gas.

So I think I'll take a big swallow of that fear cocktail.  It has not killed me yet, has it? Thinking back to when I was afraid and did it anyway, those were the moments when I shone like gold.

It's probably just V8 and Grey Goose anyway.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I may be starting another round of travel-travel-travel in a couple of weeks, and the thought of it makes me want to lay on the floor and scream and thrash like an oversugared 5-year-old in a Wal-mart candy aisle. What I really want is to sleep in my own bed for 60 days, knocking around in my funny little apartment, and rattling around in my funny little life.

Last night, I heard a song that my mother loved on the radio ("Oh, that '1-2-3 You're A Lady' is such a nice song!"), which triggered a sudden stormy cry behind closed doors.

You guys, my mother died.  (I just have to say it to myself again and again, to make it real.)

I worked late and decided to walk my city for awhile.  I haven't been able to walk very much this summer because it's been so crazy here at the Farm and oh, yeah, it's hot as hell. Who wants to walk around when it's 95 degrees and the entire city feels like Satan's armpit? Yecch.

But it was nine-ish when I left the office, and there was a good breeze, no doubt driven by Hurricane Earl off the coast, and I dunno, there was a lot of energy in the air.  A lot of folks were feeling festive and holidayish because it was the start of the long holiday weekend.  The pretty girls were going out in force, in their little flowered frocks and high heels, with brown shoulders with that perfect end-of-summer tan, smelling like little gardens as they walked past me.  I smiled as I remembered being them, with that excited, anticipatory look of another night of possibilities.

I ended up walking all the way from 59th Street to Union Square, and the strange energy seemed to trail me off the subway.  I crossed Bushwick Avenue and as I passed under a streetlight, it winked out over my head.  "So, that's how I am," I thought to myself.

It was after ten when I got home, and even though my long walk had cleared my head somewhat, the residual tendrils of sadness were still floating around me, wisps of smoke around my soul.  Got on the phone for a little while with someone who was in a different, more impish mood ("dickish" was his word), which I was ill-prepared for and not sure how to read. Sometimes I need a face in front of me to read what is behind the words. Maybe if that face had been in front of me, I would have been jollied instead.  As it was, I sat silently for a time, then spoke in a completely normal voice, with tears rolling down my face and soaking the neckline of my shirt.

This has been a strange and difficult and challenging and changeful time for me, and without sounding too much like Dorothy waking up after the twister, some of it has been terrible, but most of it has been beautiful, too.  I am dedicating myself to seeing both, discounting neither.

Because I see that now I contain all that terrible and beautiful stuff.

I'm joy and sadness.

I'm fear and bravery.

I'm wisdom and naivete.
I'm everything and nothing.

I belong everywhere and nowhere.

I am no way and all ways.

And that is just fine by me.

Random Thought As I Trawl Through Other People's Links

Not for nothin', but does anyone else miss Don?

I'm glad he's off doing Burny things and everything, and I'm sure he's going to come back full of good anecdotes and tall tales and ribaldry, but damn, I must be far too addicted to my strolls through my bloggy neighborhood in the morning and at lunchtime if I'm tweaked by a fellow blogger going on vacation!

******

Apropos of nothing, and not related to me missing Don's blog, I would really, really like to have some human contact, if you know what I mean. I mean with a real live human being, the kind made of skin and muscle and hair and man.

Just Say "Thank You"

Most days I look in the mirror and I'm fairly pleased with what I see.

I think I'm a reasonably attractive person.

Am I the prettiest girl in the room? No way.  The thinnest girl in the room? Not by a long shot, buddy. But there's certainly enough to merit a second look or two which, even at my advanced age, I do occasionally get (Spanish guys seem particularly taken with me, which I can't explain, but it may be the reason I've had two half-Puerto Rican boyfriends).

I almost never attribute it to the roll of the DNA dice that arranged my features a certain way. (If that were the case, if life were really fair, I would've gotten Mom's nose instead of Dad's, and his ass instead of hers.)   This helps, but good genes can only do so much. (We're not talking about models here, people. They're genetic anomalies, freaks of nature, and anyone who buys into that crap about "models make women feel bad about themselves," has bigger problems that I'm not qualified to address here.)

I think it's really because I try to go through life looking interested. This is nothing more than a defense mechanism, since I am after all, a New Yorker, and the spacey and unengaged may as well walk around with a flashing arrow pointing at their head with "VICTIM" written in neon letters next to it.  "Interested" is just code for "paying attention," as in, "yeah, dude, I see you walking toward me, and I am totally reading your body language and I just watched you shift your posture slightly toward me, and if you think you're getting my handbag, think again."  Spacey and unengaged got my purse snatched, for the record.
Anyhow.

I don't understand why so many women do not acknowledge their own beauty out loud. For some reason it's unseemly to like your whole package, and it's "ladylike" or "feminine" to say "oh, pshaw," when someone compliments you.

To you I say, when someone compliments you, pay attention to what your trained reaction is. So many women will take a compliment and then, without prompting, turn it around and insult themselves.

"Those new jeans look really good on you."

"Thank you. They make my thighs look big, though, don't they?"

"You look really pretty today."

"Thank you. The humidity is making my hair one big ball of frizz, though."

"You did a really great job on that project."

"Thank you. I wish I had remembered to include that one detail about xyz."

Okay.  Ladies?

I want you to stop it.

Listen, when someone is paying you a compliment, it is because they have noticed something about you that is pleasing to them, that they like. Every compliment is a little gift. When you turn it into an insult to yourself, you're not being becomingly modest, you're taking that gift and throwing it on the floor.

Practice doing this for one day:  take every compliment you are given, even the backhanded ones, and just say, "Thank you!"

After you've done it for one day, try doing it for another day. Then a week. Then a month.
See if it doesn't make you feel better.

Oh, and one more thing?  Stand up straight, and look interested, for God's sake.