There have been very few times that I’ve relished being in my late thirties, so please just let me have this moment. OK? You see, last week, I was at the salon, and for the first time in a decade, the event produced a happy ending... albeit not the same kind a guy would have.
But… to tell you the moral of this tale, I have to tell you the story first.
Now that we’re only a few short months away from the wedding, my stylist and I have a work plan: monthly facials, monthly haircuts and highlights, and pedicures every five weeks. It’s a lot like my normal regimen, except that the costs are considered “wedding expenses.” Think Enron meets Vera Wang. At any rate, should all go well, I will look about 38 instead of 40. But that’s the thing about goals… they should be measurable and achievable.
If it sounds shallow, that’s because it is. However, it’s important to plan the work then work the plan.
That said, that’s not the point of this blog post. The point is that, while I was at the salon, a wedding party came in to do a dry run of the bride and bridesmaids’ hair. They were all in their early twenties and heading to the bachelorette party immediately after their appointment. Intrigued, my stylist (who is about my age) and I listened to their agenda, which went something like this:
1. Hair
2. Drink
3. Drink more
4. Rave club
5. Drink some more
7. Pass out
8. Politely skip brunch the next day (this is implied)
I have to admit, I was slightly jealous and said to myself, “Self… there’s not one line on her face. There’s not one ounce of fat on her body. And she will not be standing at her wedding reception around ten o’clock at night… exhausted… wondering if it’s rude to leave and get some sleep.”
And that’s when it dawned on me; two emotions cannot co-exist in the same space. Instead of being jealous, I should be happy for her and wish her nothing but the best… the same sentiments I want others to have for DB and me. And not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because if there’s anything I’ve learned as I approach 40 -it’s that karma is unkind.
Besides, I was that bride and I’ve been that bridesmaid. I’ve been that girl at the wedding du jour… listening to the music du jour… drinking the shot du jour… in the bridesmaid's dress du jour. You know the dress I’m talking about… the several hundred dollar one that your friend, the bride, picked because, "It’s so pretty yet practical that you can actually use it again..." the dress du jour that I always feel like wearing to the brunch du jour… with the hang over du jour… just so I can say, "You're RIGHT! This one is different from the other forty that I own. I actually CAN wear it again.” But I digress.
The moral to this tale is this: While I could fake being sage and loosely quote Aesop who said, “Although sour grapes make a bitter but fine whine, the more fully matured ones make a truly enjoyable drink.” I’d rather quote Meatloaf instead and tell you that, “A wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age.” Party on young bride. Have a blast. Love with reckless abandon and enjoy the ride - even if it takes you to a salon twenty years from now... where you're eavesdropping with your stylist… slightly jealous of a young wedding party. Just remember to wish that bride the same thing I wish for you - nothing but sheer bliss.
Talk to you next week.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
My mom is right, “Real friends are the ones who walk in when everyone else is walking out.”
There’s a hole in the middle of our lot *clap clap*
There’s a hole in the middle of our lot *clap clap*
There’s a hole. There’s a hole. There’s a hole in the middle of our lot *clap clap*
There’s a loan on the hole in the middle of our lot…
And that’s where our story begins.
For those of you who know me, you know that I’m not good with paperwork. I’m just not. So thank God the task of dealing with the construction loan has fallen squarely onto DB’s very capable shoulders. Had I gotten stuck with it instead, the above ditty would have been more, “SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST” than “There’s a loan on the hole in the middle of our lot.” In other words, no progress would have been made whatsoever, because honestly - the last time I had to get a home loan, it was so therapy-inducing (for all involved) that I ended up severing all ties to a shallow acquaintance while clinging to my best friend for dear life.
However, to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Though my ex-husband and I bought our house in 1999, he handled the details. In fact, it wasn’t until after our divorce in 2008 (when I had to refinance and transfer the mortgage), that I looked at my first financial document… ever. As you can imagine, walking into a bank as an old dog unwilling to learn new tricks… with no fiscal experience and even less patience… in the midst of a global economic crisis… trying to understand equity and escrow and APRs and closing costs and appraisals… was NOT my finest moment. So I did what I do in every meltdown, I called my best friend... and not just to vent, but for help. You see, she’s owned several homes, is getting a PhD in Economics, and truly knows what she’s talking about. Add to that the fact that she knows how to handle me in just such moments, and voila – she’s my crisis hotline.
So for about thirty minutes straight, I called… and I texted… and I called… and I texted, but she didn’t respond. And that’s when I figured out that she must be in a meeting with her phone off, so I sent the following e-mail to her instead: Please come to the Credit Union with me and help me finish this fucking paperwork. Note, if you don’t, you leave me no choice but to tell them it’s for a Lesbian Boys Ranch… our Lesbian Boys Ranch (to be specific) and I will list you as the co-signer. Don't make this uglier than it has to be. See you Tuesday at 11:15. Love you."
Later that day, I received an e-mail back that said, "I'm sorry. I don't think you meant to send this to me." It was from the Head of a Women’s Club that I belong to… who happens to have the same initials as my best friend, TB. Yup - I e-mailed it to TB alright, just the wrong one. Now, to fully understand the horror of this situation, you have to understand that this woman (not my TB but the other TB) is a typical mid-western social club president. She is a prude and a gossip who believes that divorce is a disease... that it’s contagious... and that it’s coming for her like a semi on ice without breaks. So she wants nothing to do with me to begin with. And now, NOW she thinks I'm a lesbian... who wants to open a boy’s ranch... with my best friend... who also happens to be my lover. Needless to say, she didn't need any more fundraising help from me.
When I forwarded the entire string to TB… the real TB… she said, “See you at the bank. Wear that sweater I love that makes your eyes pop (and by that I mean shows off your boobs).” Clearly this is why we’re best friends.
At any rate... this story isn't about a shallow woman who walked away when it got hard or even about the amazing woman who didn’t. It's about a hole that’s been dug, on a lot that’s been purchased, with a loan that neither TB nor I had to handle. But it’s also about passing on my mother’s advice - with a twist, "Just because you don't keep the shallow friends doesn't mean you can't fuck with them. And just because you kept the good ones doesn't mean you can."
Talk to you next week!
There’s a hole in the middle of our lot *clap clap*
There’s a hole. There’s a hole. There’s a hole in the middle of our lot *clap clap*
There’s a loan on the hole in the middle of our lot…
And that’s where our story begins.
For those of you who know me, you know that I’m not good with paperwork. I’m just not. So thank God the task of dealing with the construction loan has fallen squarely onto DB’s very capable shoulders. Had I gotten stuck with it instead, the above ditty would have been more, “SECOND VERSE, SAME AS THE FIRST” than “There’s a loan on the hole in the middle of our lot.” In other words, no progress would have been made whatsoever, because honestly - the last time I had to get a home loan, it was so therapy-inducing (for all involved) that I ended up severing all ties to a shallow acquaintance while clinging to my best friend for dear life.
However, to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Though my ex-husband and I bought our house in 1999, he handled the details. In fact, it wasn’t until after our divorce in 2008 (when I had to refinance and transfer the mortgage), that I looked at my first financial document… ever. As you can imagine, walking into a bank as an old dog unwilling to learn new tricks… with no fiscal experience and even less patience… in the midst of a global economic crisis… trying to understand equity and escrow and APRs and closing costs and appraisals… was NOT my finest moment. So I did what I do in every meltdown, I called my best friend... and not just to vent, but for help. You see, she’s owned several homes, is getting a PhD in Economics, and truly knows what she’s talking about. Add to that the fact that she knows how to handle me in just such moments, and voila – she’s my crisis hotline.
So for about thirty minutes straight, I called… and I texted… and I called… and I texted, but she didn’t respond. And that’s when I figured out that she must be in a meeting with her phone off, so I sent the following e-mail to her instead: Please come to the Credit Union with me and help me finish this fucking paperwork. Note, if you don’t, you leave me no choice but to tell them it’s for a Lesbian Boys Ranch… our Lesbian Boys Ranch (to be specific) and I will list you as the co-signer. Don't make this uglier than it has to be. See you Tuesday at 11:15. Love you."
Later that day, I received an e-mail back that said, "I'm sorry. I don't think you meant to send this to me." It was from the Head of a Women’s Club that I belong to… who happens to have the same initials as my best friend, TB. Yup - I e-mailed it to TB alright, just the wrong one. Now, to fully understand the horror of this situation, you have to understand that this woman (not my TB but the other TB) is a typical mid-western social club president. She is a prude and a gossip who believes that divorce is a disease... that it’s contagious... and that it’s coming for her like a semi on ice without breaks. So she wants nothing to do with me to begin with. And now, NOW she thinks I'm a lesbian... who wants to open a boy’s ranch... with my best friend... who also happens to be my lover. Needless to say, she didn't need any more fundraising help from me.
When I forwarded the entire string to TB… the real TB… she said, “See you at the bank. Wear that sweater I love that makes your eyes pop (and by that I mean shows off your boobs).” Clearly this is why we’re best friends.
At any rate... this story isn't about a shallow woman who walked away when it got hard or even about the amazing woman who didn’t. It's about a hole that’s been dug, on a lot that’s been purchased, with a loan that neither TB nor I had to handle. But it’s also about passing on my mother’s advice - with a twist, "Just because you don't keep the shallow friends doesn't mean you can't fuck with them. And just because you kept the good ones doesn't mean you can."
Talk to you next week!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
happy birthday dear mkromd. happy birthday to you.
On April 10, 2010, I published mkromd’s first post. Had it been a birth announcement instead of a blog, it’d have been easy to see how my project was progressing. With writing, it’s not that simple. There isn’t a, “What to Expect the First Year” book, so I have no idea what the benchmarks for success and failure are. However, what I do know is that I gained twenty pounds and don’t have a toddler to blame it on. That said, since there isn’t an infant involved, it has to be better to have gotten stretch marks than sore nipples - because I’m not sure I’d know how to explain that... to anyone. But, as always, I digress.
The point is that, the other night, as we were getting hit by a thunderstorm, I decided that if I couldn’t track my growth as a writer, I could at least track it as a human being. And so, instead of logging into the back end and checking mkromd’s analytics, I started with the first post and read each and every one of them in order. To quote the late, great Selma Diamond of it’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, “I laughed. I cried. It became a part of me.”
I just wish the part of me that it went to wasn’t my ass.
At any rate, if there’s anything I learned from that exercise, it’s that the French are right… "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” The more things change, the more they stay the same.
- I still have a bat-shit crazy puppy who eyeballs me while masturbating on her dog bed. What's new is that she now has an all-glass sunroom and does it for the neighbors to watch. Because the sunroom is near the kitchen, I like to think of it as dinner and a show.
- I still have TB (the friend not the disease), but I'm told that a shot of penicillin can cure both.
- I still write mercilessly about my partner, my family, and my closest friends, albeit anonymously. However, I think my mother speaks for all of them when she tells me, “Honey, if you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing.”
And though I would tell you that I write because it saves me $100 a week in therapy bills, I'd be lying if I didn't say that her argument has merit. And that would be wrong, because birthdays aren't just about getting older, they're also about growing up. Talk to you next week.
The point is that, the other night, as we were getting hit by a thunderstorm, I decided that if I couldn’t track my growth as a writer, I could at least track it as a human being. And so, instead of logging into the back end and checking mkromd’s analytics, I started with the first post and read each and every one of them in order. To quote the late, great Selma Diamond of it’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, “I laughed. I cried. It became a part of me.”
I just wish the part of me that it went to wasn’t my ass.
At any rate, if there’s anything I learned from that exercise, it’s that the French are right… "plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.” The more things change, the more they stay the same.
- I still have a bat-shit crazy puppy who eyeballs me while masturbating on her dog bed. What's new is that she now has an all-glass sunroom and does it for the neighbors to watch. Because the sunroom is near the kitchen, I like to think of it as dinner and a show.
- I still have TB (the friend not the disease), but I'm told that a shot of penicillin can cure both.
- I still write mercilessly about my partner, my family, and my closest friends, albeit anonymously. However, I think my mother speaks for all of them when she tells me, “Honey, if you can't annoy somebody, there's little point in writing.”
And though I would tell you that I write because it saves me $100 a week in therapy bills, I'd be lying if I didn't say that her argument has merit. And that would be wrong, because birthdays aren't just about getting older, they're also about growing up. Talk to you next week.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Dr. Brothers said it best: Marriage isn't just about love. It's also about taking out the trash.
As you know, DB and I have been together for over two years now. In that time, we've designed a house, found and purchased a lot, buried his father, gotten engaged, sold my house, moved into a rental house, planned a wedding, and broken ground on our new home. However, it wasn't until yesterday that he saw me have a full-blown diva fit… at a city dump… in an Armani pantsuit, Ferragamo pumps, and an Ann Taylor sweater. Yes. Really.
That said, to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Not only did DB inherit his father’s good looks and love of nature and guitars, he also inherited a giant, red Dodge truck from him. It’s huge, and at the risk of sounding like I don’t care about the environment, it has come in VERY handy to:
- Move things from my house to our rental house.
- Move things from my old garage to the dump.
- Go skiing.
At this point, I need to remind you that DB is a TOTAL keeper, whom I love and adore with every fiber of my being. That amazing man has easily taken 100 loads of my 'stuff' to the dump (from when we worked on my landscaping, when we cleaned out my basement, and when we emptied my garage), he has done all of it in his very calm, Buddhisty way, and he has asked for nothing in return. So, two weeks ago, I said, “Please don’t go to the dump without me again. It’s the last load of shit from my house, and it’s massive. Your back hurts. Your shoulder hurts, and your neck hurts. I’ll handle this.” And… he waited. Through snowstorms, tornadoes, and rain showers, he waited… until yesterday.
You see, last weekend, we had agreed to meet at 4:45 to do it… which I didn’t remember until I got to work and saw it on my calendar… which was unfortunate – given my wardrobe selection. However, instead of cancelling… I showed up… ready to work... fashionably (my people are Irish, we know how to toil). So, I put on a pair of work gloves and started grabbing trash from the bed when a RANCID BAG OF GARBAGE EXPLODED ON ME.
That was it. There were tears... there was snot... there was even a little vomit... all of which was accompanied by a scream which was more like a whimper whose pitch was so high that only dogs could hear it. To be exact, it was a diva fit. However, in my defense, it was legitimate and warranted. The whole event was so disgusting that I had to change my clothes in the garage at our rental house and wash my hair with anti-bacterial soap... which is now so dry that it's going to break off at the root. And then, this morning, when I took the outfit to the dry cleaners, the woman had the nerve to say, “Only you would wear Armani to gut a bear.” She's lucky that I've already had one diva fit this week.
Talk to you next week.
That said, to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
Not only did DB inherit his father’s good looks and love of nature and guitars, he also inherited a giant, red Dodge truck from him. It’s huge, and at the risk of sounding like I don’t care about the environment, it has come in VERY handy to:
- Move things from my house to our rental house.
- Move things from my old garage to the dump.
- Go skiing.
At this point, I need to remind you that DB is a TOTAL keeper, whom I love and adore with every fiber of my being. That amazing man has easily taken 100 loads of my 'stuff' to the dump (from when we worked on my landscaping, when we cleaned out my basement, and when we emptied my garage), he has done all of it in his very calm, Buddhisty way, and he has asked for nothing in return. So, two weeks ago, I said, “Please don’t go to the dump without me again. It’s the last load of shit from my house, and it’s massive. Your back hurts. Your shoulder hurts, and your neck hurts. I’ll handle this.” And… he waited. Through snowstorms, tornadoes, and rain showers, he waited… until yesterday.
You see, last weekend, we had agreed to meet at 4:45 to do it… which I didn’t remember until I got to work and saw it on my calendar… which was unfortunate – given my wardrobe selection. However, instead of cancelling… I showed up… ready to work... fashionably (my people are Irish, we know how to toil). So, I put on a pair of work gloves and started grabbing trash from the bed when a RANCID BAG OF GARBAGE EXPLODED ON ME.
That was it. There were tears... there was snot... there was even a little vomit... all of which was accompanied by a scream which was more like a whimper whose pitch was so high that only dogs could hear it. To be exact, it was a diva fit. However, in my defense, it was legitimate and warranted. The whole event was so disgusting that I had to change my clothes in the garage at our rental house and wash my hair with anti-bacterial soap... which is now so dry that it's going to break off at the root. And then, this morning, when I took the outfit to the dry cleaners, the woman had the nerve to say, “Only you would wear Armani to gut a bear.” She's lucky that I've already had one diva fit this week.
Talk to you next week.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Mi casa es su casa
Although Thomas Wolfe is famous for saying, “You can never go home again,” I think the Swedish gods of pop, Abba, actually said it best, “Walking through an empty room, tears in your eyes. This is how the story ends. This is goodbye.” In other words, I sold my house. And so, for the last two weeks, I’ve been packing thirteen years of memories into boxes… and driving them across town… then stopping for comfort food… after each and every load. No really, it’s true. Clearly this was more difficult than I thought it would be.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew it would be hard. I just had no idea it’d be ‘four trips to Burger King in one day’ hard.
And last Saturday, before my dinner run but after my breakfast and lunch ones, the kid at the drive-thru actually had the nerve to say, “Welcome back. Would you like to try the Jalapeño and Cheddar Burger, or do you just want the same thing you ordered an hour ago?” God hates me. And… because I felt like that stupid teenage boy was judging me, I lied and said, “Oh, this isn’t mine. I’m buying lunch for the people who are helping me move.” Too bad he caught me inhaling my extra-large onion rings in the parking lot while sobbing and listening to the soundtrack to Mamma Mia. So, I did what any forty year old woman would do. I flipped him off then texted my best friend to say, “How could I have gained ten pounds this week?” To which she immediately replied, “That’s what happens when you consume shit-food, hire movers, and rely on Dancing Queens to help you. You get to eat, drink, and be Marys while someone else does all the work. See you at 5:30 tonight.”
With that, I'm off to unpack. Now that things have settled down, I should be able to write more regularly. Talk to you next week.
Don’t get me wrong, I knew it would be hard. I just had no idea it’d be ‘four trips to Burger King in one day’ hard.
And last Saturday, before my dinner run but after my breakfast and lunch ones, the kid at the drive-thru actually had the nerve to say, “Welcome back. Would you like to try the Jalapeño and Cheddar Burger, or do you just want the same thing you ordered an hour ago?” God hates me. And… because I felt like that stupid teenage boy was judging me, I lied and said, “Oh, this isn’t mine. I’m buying lunch for the people who are helping me move.” Too bad he caught me inhaling my extra-large onion rings in the parking lot while sobbing and listening to the soundtrack to Mamma Mia. So, I did what any forty year old woman would do. I flipped him off then texted my best friend to say, “How could I have gained ten pounds this week?” To which she immediately replied, “That’s what happens when you consume shit-food, hire movers, and rely on Dancing Queens to help you. You get to eat, drink, and be Marys while someone else does all the work. See you at 5:30 tonight.”
With that, I'm off to unpack. Now that things have settled down, I should be able to write more regularly. Talk to you next week.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
The Write Thing to Do
I’m sorry that I haven’t written for a while. Between what’s happening in the Middle East, the earthquake/tsunami/nuclear reactor catastrophes in Japan, and the fact that my house sold last week, I haven’t been able to hold a thought long enough to finish a sentence let alone a paragraph or a blog post. So, forgive me. That said - I also want to be honest. I haven’t known what to say… With so much horror happening to so many people in so many places, it somehow seemed wrong to write about myself.
At any rate… whatever the rhyme or reason, for the last two weeks, I’ve been “blog challenged”… until this morning, when I remembered something that Steve Martin once said about Writer’s Block, “When you’re stuck staring at a flashing cursor, get a book you love and steal your favorite sentence. That will get you started. The odds of being found out are very slim, and even if you are… there's usually no jail time.” And so, literary loophole in hand, I’ve chosen to pilfer Ben Franklin’s adage, “Laughter is the best medicine.” Actually, scratch that. For the purpose of this post, I’m going to quote SNL’s Jack Handy instead, “My dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis.”
Now… please let me clarify. I don’t think it’s OK to ignore or make fun of anyone’s suffering; however, given the current levels of chaos in our world, I firmly believe it’s alright to add some levity to each of our lives… And if I can make one person smile, then my work here is done. In other words, I shall attempt to be your karmic comic relief today, so please feel free to laugh at my expense as I catch you up on DB’s and my wedding plans...
Since this is our second marriage each, it’s been pretty easy to organize the event. We know When (this summer). We know Where (local). We know Who (family and close friends only). Hell, we even know How (Buddhist). The only things left to handle are the Whats (those miscellaneous and sundry details where the devil resides). This includes my dress, which I’m pleased to report I now have… regardless of how traumatic the process was for everyone involved (and believe me when I say that it was therapy-inducing).
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
You see, a few weeks ago, my best friend, her daughter, DB’s daughter, and I went shopping. We each picked two gowns for me to try on and the dress consultant picked three. And while this female rite-of-passage is fun when you’re twenty-one, in middle-age it falls squarely into Dante’s ninth level of hell: Sins of Betrayal. Seriously, at thirty-nine, your body begins to sabotage you in every way imaginable. In fact, I’d say that middle-age has shot me in the foot, but I think it’s more accurate to say that it's stabbing me in the back-fat. Because, honestly, when you spend less on the dress than you do the shit that goes UNDER it so the groom wants get you OUT of it, your dignity has been compromised.
But I digress, and for the men-folk who read mkromd and have never been through this, let me explain.
When buying the perfect wedding dress, the bride-to-be is:
1) Put into a room the size of a gym locker.
2) Handed a slip and a corset designed to “rearrange your figure into something more aesthetically appealing.”
3) Given one not-so-perfect dress after another to try on.
Please note:
1) The room doesn’t have mirrors, so you can’t reject a dress until the world has seen and ridiculed you in it.
2) A corset is an extremely tight, Victorian-era torture device with fifty eyelets that has to be put on like a bra (think Hitchcock meets porn). You cannot put it on by yourself unless you turn it around… fasten every damn hook up the front… THEN turn it around AGAIN… so the eyelets are in the back… along with your breasts. And while that sounds horrifying… and it is… it HAS be better than having a complete stranger do it for you… which is the bride’s only other option… when her best friend says, “The group rate on therapy isn’t low enough for the two of us to try that together.”
Anyway, after navigating through that nightmare, I put on the first dress and walked out, only to hear DB’s sweet, beautiful, brilliant daughter whom I love to bits say, “mkromd, why is your boob under your armpit?” I wanted to explain the corset debacle, but I didn’t want to scar her for life, so I let it go. And, after doing this almost ten MORE times, the dress consultant said, “I think I have the right one for you… It screams East Coast WASP.” I’m not sure I know what that means, but I fell in love with the dress, as did DB’s daughter, my best friend, and her daughter. Now I have approximately one month to get into shape before the final fitting (yes, really), which leads me to another What (what music to play at the reception).
See, DB was a Blues Guitarist in Austin for a decade, so his tastes are pretty refined. He’s a purist who likes good Blues. Period. Me… my iPod is as schizophrenic as I am with playlists called things like:
Shout Out– Including The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and The Clash
Chill Out– Including Bob Marley, Elvis Costello, and Leonard Cohen
Work Out– Including P. Diddy, Timbaland, and Eminem
Go Out– Including Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” Patti Smith’s, “Because the Night,” and The Weather Girls, "It's Raining Men." It should be noted that these three songs will turn me into a rock star inside my car faster than Lady Gaga can turn a homosexual man into diva at a gay club... in less than three snaps. But again, I digress.
My point is that it’s OK to laugh - even when CNN looks more like the Mayan Book of the Dead than it does the news. And so, as I was looking for books to pilfer sentences from (and help me shift some of my focus and energy towards something more positive and humorous), I stumbled across the Chick Lit Challenge. Here’s how it works, each participant has to read twelve books in this genre throughout 2011, two of which have to be from debut authors. It began in January, and the idea was one book per month; however, since I started late, I’m including Nora Ephron’s, “I Remember Nothing,” Elizabeth Gilbert’s, “Committed” and Meg Waite Clayton’s, “The Wednesday Sisters.” All of which I loved and would highly recommend. Next on my list, after Ekhart Tolle's, "A New Earth," is "Attachments" by Rainbow Rowell. I'll be sure to let you know what I think (of both).
My sincere hope in sharing is that each one of us can laugh, even if it's just a little until it's a lot, and I think this challenge will help us find witty, sweet, female-oriented literature that may heal some of our sadness… Because if laughter really is the best medicine, then a spoonful of sugar has to make it go down all the easier.
Talk to you next week (I promise).
At any rate… whatever the rhyme or reason, for the last two weeks, I’ve been “blog challenged”… until this morning, when I remembered something that Steve Martin once said about Writer’s Block, “When you’re stuck staring at a flashing cursor, get a book you love and steal your favorite sentence. That will get you started. The odds of being found out are very slim, and even if you are… there's usually no jail time.” And so, literary loophole in hand, I’ve chosen to pilfer Ben Franklin’s adage, “Laughter is the best medicine.” Actually, scratch that. For the purpose of this post, I’m going to quote SNL’s Jack Handy instead, “My dad always thought laughter was the best medicine, which I guess is why several of us died of tuberculosis.”
Now… please let me clarify. I don’t think it’s OK to ignore or make fun of anyone’s suffering; however, given the current levels of chaos in our world, I firmly believe it’s alright to add some levity to each of our lives… And if I can make one person smile, then my work here is done. In other words, I shall attempt to be your karmic comic relief today, so please feel free to laugh at my expense as I catch you up on DB’s and my wedding plans...
Since this is our second marriage each, it’s been pretty easy to organize the event. We know When (this summer). We know Where (local). We know Who (family and close friends only). Hell, we even know How (Buddhist). The only things left to handle are the Whats (those miscellaneous and sundry details where the devil resides). This includes my dress, which I’m pleased to report I now have… regardless of how traumatic the process was for everyone involved (and believe me when I say that it was therapy-inducing).
However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.
You see, a few weeks ago, my best friend, her daughter, DB’s daughter, and I went shopping. We each picked two gowns for me to try on and the dress consultant picked three. And while this female rite-of-passage is fun when you’re twenty-one, in middle-age it falls squarely into Dante’s ninth level of hell: Sins of Betrayal. Seriously, at thirty-nine, your body begins to sabotage you in every way imaginable. In fact, I’d say that middle-age has shot me in the foot, but I think it’s more accurate to say that it's stabbing me in the back-fat. Because, honestly, when you spend less on the dress than you do the shit that goes UNDER it so the groom wants get you OUT of it, your dignity has been compromised.
But I digress, and for the men-folk who read mkromd and have never been through this, let me explain.
When buying the perfect wedding dress, the bride-to-be is:
1) Put into a room the size of a gym locker.
2) Handed a slip and a corset designed to “rearrange your figure into something more aesthetically appealing.”
3) Given one not-so-perfect dress after another to try on.
Please note:
1) The room doesn’t have mirrors, so you can’t reject a dress until the world has seen and ridiculed you in it.
2) A corset is an extremely tight, Victorian-era torture device with fifty eyelets that has to be put on like a bra (think Hitchcock meets porn). You cannot put it on by yourself unless you turn it around… fasten every damn hook up the front… THEN turn it around AGAIN… so the eyelets are in the back… along with your breasts. And while that sounds horrifying… and it is… it HAS be better than having a complete stranger do it for you… which is the bride’s only other option… when her best friend says, “The group rate on therapy isn’t low enough for the two of us to try that together.”
Anyway, after navigating through that nightmare, I put on the first dress and walked out, only to hear DB’s sweet, beautiful, brilliant daughter whom I love to bits say, “mkromd, why is your boob under your armpit?” I wanted to explain the corset debacle, but I didn’t want to scar her for life, so I let it go. And, after doing this almost ten MORE times, the dress consultant said, “I think I have the right one for you… It screams East Coast WASP.” I’m not sure I know what that means, but I fell in love with the dress, as did DB’s daughter, my best friend, and her daughter. Now I have approximately one month to get into shape before the final fitting (yes, really), which leads me to another What (what music to play at the reception).
See, DB was a Blues Guitarist in Austin for a decade, so his tastes are pretty refined. He’s a purist who likes good Blues. Period. Me… my iPod is as schizophrenic as I am with playlists called things like:
Shout Out– Including The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and The Clash
Chill Out– Including Bob Marley, Elvis Costello, and Leonard Cohen
Work Out– Including P. Diddy, Timbaland, and Eminem
Go Out– Including Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” Patti Smith’s, “Because the Night,” and The Weather Girls, "It's Raining Men." It should be noted that these three songs will turn me into a rock star inside my car faster than Lady Gaga can turn a homosexual man into diva at a gay club... in less than three snaps. But again, I digress.
My point is that it’s OK to laugh - even when CNN looks more like the Mayan Book of the Dead than it does the news. And so, as I was looking for books to pilfer sentences from (and help me shift some of my focus and energy towards something more positive and humorous), I stumbled across the Chick Lit Challenge. Here’s how it works, each participant has to read twelve books in this genre throughout 2011, two of which have to be from debut authors. It began in January, and the idea was one book per month; however, since I started late, I’m including Nora Ephron’s, “I Remember Nothing,” Elizabeth Gilbert’s, “Committed” and Meg Waite Clayton’s, “The Wednesday Sisters.” All of which I loved and would highly recommend. Next on my list, after Ekhart Tolle's, "A New Earth," is "Attachments" by Rainbow Rowell. I'll be sure to let you know what I think (of both).
My sincere hope in sharing is that each one of us can laugh, even if it's just a little until it's a lot, and I think this challenge will help us find witty, sweet, female-oriented literature that may heal some of our sadness… Because if laughter really is the best medicine, then a spoonful of sugar has to make it go down all the easier.
Talk to you next week (I promise).
Friday, February 25, 2011
And they're off...
Last weekend, I went to Louisville, Kentucky for a friend’s wedding. I literally drove twelve hours on Thursday afternoon to attend the ceremony on Friday morning before driving another twelve hours to get home by Friday night. And while it may sound ridiculous, the bride is a very close friend and I couldn’t stomach missing their big day. Besides, it also gave me a lot of time to think… something that’s a little overdue considering the changes happening in my life right now. So, with that, below is an attempt to summarize my thoughts during that twenty-four hour period.
Note, the last time I had to recall the details of a road trip, I was twenty and woke up in Mexico City wearing a prison shirt, but that’s an entirely different story for an entirely different blog post, and I apologize for digressing.
Right now I’m reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Committed. She wrote Eat. Pray. Love and is one of my favorite writers. For the record, I place her in the same literary echelon as Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Jane Austin, and Nora Ephron. She’s honest and sincere… with herself, with her partner, and with her readers.
If you haven’t read either book, you should. I can’t promise that she will change your life. I can only say that her writing has deeply touched mine. And unlike Eat. Pray. Love, which explains how she ended a marriage and began a life, Committed actually weighs the pros and cons of marriage altogether. But it does more than that. It not only asks “why marriage?" It asks “how can we make marriage work”… something that has definitely been on my mind of late.
You see, I barely survived one divorce. I do not have the wherewithal to experience another, nor do I have the stomach to inflict that pain upon DB or the children we share in this relationship. So... last weekend... on the way to and from a wedding... inside a sporty, little Toyota Matrix... on Highway 65, I asked myself some very hard questions about matrimony, including:
1. Should we actually do this?
2. Does he really understand what he’s getting himself into?
Much deeper questions than the first time I got married - when all I wondered to myself was, “How do I know he’s the one?” Perhaps I should have probed more deeply when my brain responded, “Self, of course he’s the one, how else do you get to number two?”
But I didn’t do that emotional archaeology – and this time, I am.
To point one, I cannot imagine a life without DB. I can’t. He was the partner I knew I wanted long before I met him. In fact, if I had made a mental checklist of qualities in a man, he’d have exceeded in every category. But I need to say something about my remark. Please believe me, that’s not infatuation talking, nor is it desire or naiveté. I’ve been married. I’ve been divorced. I know those aforementioned lenses are transitional at best and illusions at worst, and I refuse to be their victim again... as the old adage goes, “Do it once shame on them, do it twice – shame on me.”
I get that we're human and that there will be problems. I also fully understand that DB and I have been divorced, so clearly we aren’t perfect, especially in the relationship department, but as my extremely wise mother once said, "Only a fool does the same thing the same way twice and expects to get different results." We've learned. We know what we expect of ourselves and each other, and we know what we can accept and what we won't tolerate. Those conversations have been had... repeatedly.
So why, "Til death do us part?"
Because there are very few people I trust with anything, and DB is the only person I trust with everything. When he says, "In sickness and in health, through thick and thin, come hell or high water - I will love, respect, and cherish you for the rest of my life," he will. And when he says that he's as committed to my happiness and well-being as he is to his own, he means it. This time around, I'll have and give that.
At this point in the story, it should be said that my ex-husband isn't a bad person and I don't hate him. We didn't fail out of malice. We failed because we were twenty-one and twenty-five with unrealistic expectations of marriage and each other. As Nora Ephron once said, "I was married. It didn't work out." That's all that I will say about the past. Today, DB and I are forty and forty-six, and we've been married. We understand that it's less like a Disney movie than it is trench warfare, and who we are today is who we will be for a very long time... maybe even the rest of our lives.
Hopefully, with age and experience comes wisdom and temperance.
Also novel is the fact that we’re brutally honest about ourselves and the space we share (the good, the bad, and the ugly). As a result, he knows who I am, and he accepts me regardless... which leads beautifully into point two: Does he really understand what he's getting himself into? Does he? I was actually once described as a, “squirrel on Jolt,” and I have more tragic flaws than an Aristotelian hero, which I could go on-and-on-and-on-and-on about in this post (believe me, the list is long but distinguished). Or… I could share Elizabeth Gilbert’s thoughts instead (I hope you don’t think I cheated by stealing a real writer’s list, but when the prose fits – use it).
Here is what DB is getting:
1. I think very highly of my own opinion. I generally believe that I know best how everyone in the world should be living their lives – and my partner, most of all, will be the victim of this.
2. I require an amount of emotional devotional attention that would have made Marie Antoinette blush.
3. I have far more enthusiasm in life than I have actual energy. In my excitement, I routinely take on more than I can physically or emotionally handle, which causes me to break down in quite predictable displays of dramatic exhaustion. My partner will be the one burdened with the job of mopping me up every time I’ve overextended myself and fallen apart after. This will be unbelievably tedious. I apologize in advance.
4. I am openly prideful, secretly judgmental and cowardly in conflict. All these things will collude at times and turn me into a big fat liar.
5. And my most dishonorable fault of all: Though it takes me a long while to get to this point, the moment I have decided that someone is unforgivable, that person will very likely remain unforgiven for life – all too often cut off forever, without fair warning, explanation, or another chance.
When I shared this passage from Committed with DB, he agreed. But in his calm, patient, Buddhisty way he explained why all of that is OK. However, that’s also a different post for a different time. For now, as they say at the Kentucky Derby (and after weddings in Louisville in general), “Annnnnnd they’re off.” I have no idea if that means people are ‘off their rockers,’ ‘off the mark,’ or ‘off and running,’ for getting married... but DB and I are definitely getting married.
Talk to you next week.
Note, the last time I had to recall the details of a road trip, I was twenty and woke up in Mexico City wearing a prison shirt, but that’s an entirely different story for an entirely different blog post, and I apologize for digressing.
Right now I’m reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Committed. She wrote Eat. Pray. Love and is one of my favorite writers. For the record, I place her in the same literary echelon as Toni Morrison, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Jane Austin, and Nora Ephron. She’s honest and sincere… with herself, with her partner, and with her readers.
If you haven’t read either book, you should. I can’t promise that she will change your life. I can only say that her writing has deeply touched mine. And unlike Eat. Pray. Love, which explains how she ended a marriage and began a life, Committed actually weighs the pros and cons of marriage altogether. But it does more than that. It not only asks “why marriage?" It asks “how can we make marriage work”… something that has definitely been on my mind of late.
You see, I barely survived one divorce. I do not have the wherewithal to experience another, nor do I have the stomach to inflict that pain upon DB or the children we share in this relationship. So... last weekend... on the way to and from a wedding... inside a sporty, little Toyota Matrix... on Highway 65, I asked myself some very hard questions about matrimony, including:
1. Should we actually do this?
2. Does he really understand what he’s getting himself into?
Much deeper questions than the first time I got married - when all I wondered to myself was, “How do I know he’s the one?” Perhaps I should have probed more deeply when my brain responded, “Self, of course he’s the one, how else do you get to number two?”
But I didn’t do that emotional archaeology – and this time, I am.
To point one, I cannot imagine a life without DB. I can’t. He was the partner I knew I wanted long before I met him. In fact, if I had made a mental checklist of qualities in a man, he’d have exceeded in every category. But I need to say something about my remark. Please believe me, that’s not infatuation talking, nor is it desire or naiveté. I’ve been married. I’ve been divorced. I know those aforementioned lenses are transitional at best and illusions at worst, and I refuse to be their victim again... as the old adage goes, “Do it once shame on them, do it twice – shame on me.”
I get that we're human and that there will be problems. I also fully understand that DB and I have been divorced, so clearly we aren’t perfect, especially in the relationship department, but as my extremely wise mother once said, "Only a fool does the same thing the same way twice and expects to get different results." We've learned. We know what we expect of ourselves and each other, and we know what we can accept and what we won't tolerate. Those conversations have been had... repeatedly.
So why, "Til death do us part?"
Because there are very few people I trust with anything, and DB is the only person I trust with everything. When he says, "In sickness and in health, through thick and thin, come hell or high water - I will love, respect, and cherish you for the rest of my life," he will. And when he says that he's as committed to my happiness and well-being as he is to his own, he means it. This time around, I'll have and give that.
At this point in the story, it should be said that my ex-husband isn't a bad person and I don't hate him. We didn't fail out of malice. We failed because we were twenty-one and twenty-five with unrealistic expectations of marriage and each other. As Nora Ephron once said, "I was married. It didn't work out." That's all that I will say about the past. Today, DB and I are forty and forty-six, and we've been married. We understand that it's less like a Disney movie than it is trench warfare, and who we are today is who we will be for a very long time... maybe even the rest of our lives.
Hopefully, with age and experience comes wisdom and temperance.
Also novel is the fact that we’re brutally honest about ourselves and the space we share (the good, the bad, and the ugly). As a result, he knows who I am, and he accepts me regardless... which leads beautifully into point two: Does he really understand what he's getting himself into? Does he? I was actually once described as a, “squirrel on Jolt,” and I have more tragic flaws than an Aristotelian hero, which I could go on-and-on-and-on-and-on about in this post (believe me, the list is long but distinguished). Or… I could share Elizabeth Gilbert’s thoughts instead (I hope you don’t think I cheated by stealing a real writer’s list, but when the prose fits – use it).
Here is what DB is getting:
1. I think very highly of my own opinion. I generally believe that I know best how everyone in the world should be living their lives – and my partner, most of all, will be the victim of this.
2. I require an amount of emotional devotional attention that would have made Marie Antoinette blush.
3. I have far more enthusiasm in life than I have actual energy. In my excitement, I routinely take on more than I can physically or emotionally handle, which causes me to break down in quite predictable displays of dramatic exhaustion. My partner will be the one burdened with the job of mopping me up every time I’ve overextended myself and fallen apart after. This will be unbelievably tedious. I apologize in advance.
4. I am openly prideful, secretly judgmental and cowardly in conflict. All these things will collude at times and turn me into a big fat liar.
5. And my most dishonorable fault of all: Though it takes me a long while to get to this point, the moment I have decided that someone is unforgivable, that person will very likely remain unforgiven for life – all too often cut off forever, without fair warning, explanation, or another chance.
When I shared this passage from Committed with DB, he agreed. But in his calm, patient, Buddhisty way he explained why all of that is OK. However, that’s also a different post for a different time. For now, as they say at the Kentucky Derby (and after weddings in Louisville in general), “Annnnnnd they’re off.” I have no idea if that means people are ‘off their rockers,’ ‘off the mark,’ or ‘off and running,’ for getting married... but DB and I are definitely getting married.
Talk to you next week.
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