Lumberjack

Veering out into the dating population again has been one of the most interesting and frightening experiences I've had in a while.  I've decided,

I like a lumberjack.

I'm a pretty confident and strong woman all on my own.  I do have my own fears and insecurities, but each and every day, I become more confident with my personality and the good traits that I have.  Part of this self awareness comes from having one of the best Core Group of Friends any person could find.  The other is that seeing the things in others that I like and don't  like has given me a frame of reference to decide qualities about myself that I value.  I have certainly become my own biggest fan over the past 2 years and I can honestly say, I'd date myself. 

Now a weak man?? He has…

No place in my life.

I do like an intellectual man.  You can parade 10 men in front of me and 9 of them I'm not going to find "attractive".  They can be handsome or cute – whatever the term is today – but that's not going to grab my attention.  Sit them down with me and the one who can hold his own in a conversation – especially if he can hold eye contact and make me laugh…

I'll take him.  Wrap him up.  Put a bow on his ass.

But I have discovered that…

I need a lumberjack.

Someone who can cut through all my bravado and make me feel a little weaker, a little more humble, maybe even that dreaded vulnerable.  In short order, someone who can make me shut up and turn off the thoughts that parade around in my head over and over, day in and day out, moment after moment.  Because, in reality, I'm probably my own worst enemy most of the time and shutting up might be the best course of action for me.

Listening to the Silence

I never thought I could

            or rather that I would

            listen to the silence of your heart.

I never knew I loved

            and that I also shoved

            my thoughts into the silence of your words.

You somehow felt I cared

            and when we truly shared

            the silence seemed to slip beyond.

You had to say goodbye

            and though I thought to cry

            the silence seemed to fill my eyes this time.

We moved our separate ways

            and yet I think to gaze

            back through the silence of our lives.

We love deep in our hearts

            and never truly part

            because the Silence says so much

            that words could never tell.

The Astrology of Love

I am an Aries:
fire sign ruled by Mars.

(are you my mars?)

Not understanding all this means,
But comprehending enough to know -

You and I will work this through.

The stars don't tell me what to do.
But then again, neither do you.

Can stars collide in the night?
If so, then You and I can make this Right.

Mama

I'm a 45 year old grandmother.  My mother has been gone physically from my life for almost 5 years.

And she's still "Mama".

I spend a lot of my life living in her shadow because she was her own "rock star", in a sense.  I never went anywhere or did anything without  being identified as her daughter.  Certainly a benefit the majority of the time, but it does tend to steal a tad bit of your identify from you.  You get wrapped in a skin that doesn't necessarily belong to you.  I was "her daughter"

And she was  "mama".  I never would have said "my mama", just "mama".

For as loved as she was through her friends, her job, the strangers she embraced in every aspect of her life, she tended to keep me at arms length.  At 16, I felt so slighted, my cousin could visit and drive her car, but not her daughter.  That's how Mother and Daughter existed.

But she was "mama".

When I write, I have a tendency to speak as I type.  Hearing the words, starting off timid and weak, reaching a pattern.  Feeling the pauses a comma makes,  the words falling into thoughts.  The finality of a period at the end of a sentence.

And I hear "mama".

I'm well beyond that trick early grief plays where a phone rings and you think for one moment that it's going to be the voice you miss.  I don't wake up from a dream and feel that groggy wonderment that maybe this despair has been a dream.

But I hear my own voice speak "mama" and she answers.

In a flash of my mind, as if she's here.  She turns, she smiles, she's gone again.

But she's "my mama".

Today

Today, I am in love with being in love.

I'm still single, not dating, no one's "caught my eye".

But today, I am in love with being in love.

Dear...

I want to write you a love letter.

One day.

I will.

Love always and in all ways,

Velvet

My first love

I fell in love for the first time during the summer of 1986 while I was at Governor's School. When it was over, I sometimes regretted that I had.  Especially since I almost hadn't fallen for him.

But it was his eyes.

Since re-entering the single world, I've had opportunities to exam "attraction". That elusive something that draws one person to another. I see girlfriends who have well defined "types" that attract them. The muscled-up men, the successful entrepreneurs, the shy boys. My attraction is first and foremost - the friend that makes me laugh. I can meet someone and have no gut physical attraction and then in the middle of a conversation something just clicks for me. Bless their poor heart if they don't feel it, too!!

But my first love - it was his eyes.

I actually started my first love in the same pattern that holds true today. I met a fire-headed guy, tall and lanky and his tall-lanky reserved friend. Not sure how we started hanging around one another, but we'd meet up at movies and dances and lunches and banter back and forth, to and fro. I'd skip back to my dorm and I was HAPPY. It's a simple trite word. But when you can just use the word and only the word and it explains everything, it's the purest, most rewarding sensation.  Then one day, on a grassy field, just sitting at 16 with my two friends - the fire-head who wrote the most intriguingly random notes with little doodles here and there with the darkest of dark black ink pens and his shy roommate always quietly on the fringe, "that" clicked for me.  I knew without a doubt what the super intelligent guy I'd dated the previous school year was missing and months later when I'd left Governor's School and The Date guy and I were swinging on a playground, I could finally verbalize it. My heart is pounding when I swing on this swing set. Lunging myself at the sky. I'm happy. I'm thinking of my last two weeks at Governor's School. I close my eyes and I see...

His eyes. His blue eyes.

So it clicks. Do I tear apart this three legged friendship because it's clicked?  I am 17. It's really all about me and I am happy.  So I put my heart on my sleeve and I let my fire-headed guy KNOW. "I like you".

A three legged stool NEEDS three legs. And it was awkward. And I wasn't happy long. Love at its best, doesn't always replace friendship at its purest.

So my fire-headed guy and I, we talk. How do we fix what's been broken?  It's been the three of us. Side by side. Now, the quiet one is late to join us and sits behind us when we go places. I'm not happy. It's late in our journey, our time at Governor's School is winding quickly down. I need to make this right so we can all stay friends and I can still have my love. I want to feel happy. But I also need my triumvirate  to be happy.

I walk with the quiet one to the library and we perch on the roof - back when the library at Hendrix was partially underground and from certain sides you could just walk onto the roof.  We talk about just junk for a few minutes and I steal myself to, in a sense, ask permission to be in love with the fire-headed laughter bringing guy. It's dusk now. Symbolic of the cycles of everything.  Dawn - the newness and calm. Midday - burning bright and hot. Dusk - winding down, closure. 

And I saw his blue eyes in the dusk.  Blue is my favorite color. 

I fell in love at 17. On a roof.  In the dark. With blue eyes and one first kiss. And the next day, we were complete. The triumvirate repaired itself.  My fire-headed guy, still sat with us. Side by side. Never behind us. Always on time.  I think he may have known before I did that I would love those other blue eyes.  My first almost love and my first true love. I was happy. I still am. 

Fortune Telling

My mind keeps getting interrupted by fortune-telling devices lately. Lunch at Taco Bell today offered one future predicting solution in the advice wielding sauce packets. Apparently, I have chosen wisely and the future promises to get hotter from here. Setting aside the fact that these kernels of knowledge were passed to me not by a wise Gandhi-ish figure but a weary eyed teenager who looked very much as if he had personally recognized his destiny in life was going to be confinment to the drive thru bay of this fine establishment, I decided to 100% embrace my new destiny because...

I have chosen wisely. 

I'm not much of a gambler. I drink too much when I drink. Play too hard when I play. Laugh to hard when I laugh. Love too much when I love. Knowing these facets of my personality, I worry gambling would be a vice I simply could not afford. But if I were a bettin' man, I'd back the underdog. The one scraggly horse that had the lowest odds. Sure the chances would be slim - but the payout would be fantastic. 

Not anymore, I am backing the wisest choice I have. ME. For years, my role and identity has simply been a collection of nouns. Wife, mom, boss, volunteer. But as an Ebglish tutor, I know my vocabulary consists of so many more parts of speech. 

Today I became an adjective.  Exciting, frivolous, spontaneous, frustrating.   I am embracing each and everyone today. I am backing the filly I know can win the race. Just call me National Velvet. It's not gambling when it's a sure thing. 

And that leads to my second Taco Bell nugget of knowledge - It only gets hotter from here. Fireworks explode overhead.  I'm setting my world on fire. 

The Velvet Primer

Wouldn't life be simple if we came with an instruction manual. Here's what makes me happy

• A good conversation  - my thoughts are valued not ridiculed
• Laughing - on my bed as we text stupid boy jokes back and forth 
• Bill Clinton and Jimmy Carter - examples of great political strength and human kindness 
• My granddaughter - there's nothing that makes me think of her that doesn't instantly lift any weight of the world from my mind
• A good war, sports or historical movie - Flags of Our Fathers, We are Marshall, Empire of the Sun
• Rooting for the underdog - Trayvon Martin, immigrants, 
• Flirting - the thrill of the chase is electrifying
• Being flirted with - 'cause everyone needs validation
• That distinct smell of a man - comforting 
• The color blue - a night blue sky winding its way to darkness
• My class of '87 - shared culture and friendship. It's like not having to start from scratch. Instant friendship - just add.... 
• Tequila shots - well, house, top shelf. I don't always care. 
• Motown - any song where the group wore matching outfits and had choreographed dance moves and the music told a story
• The blue lights at an airport - they make the world disappear into just me or just me and you
• A ballet - it pulls my back straight and I feel I am in stage myself
• Any children's program at a school - a child dressed up s Washington or a turkey
• An old fashioned fish fry - outside under the trees in late fall or early spring with grease popping, children giggling, pop tops cracking

These are the things that make a day. A day that ends with that gently upturned half smile and slowly escaping sigh of joy when my eyes flutter closed. 

Pre-conceived Notions

It's surprising how sometimes people can totally misinterpret a personality. I think this happens a great deal more with women than with men. I come from a very strong family of females. Only one boy on my mother's side of the family and he was the baby of the family. One aunt did "scientific stuff" that sadly, I never took the time to explore with her and went on to become a doctor. And this was all back in the 60's when black females were not as easily afforded opportunities as today. My own mother chose to stay in a small Southern town and raise me in a mixed environment during this time frame where that often required dodging bricks and cinder blocks thrown through your windows. I know strong women. I admire strong women.

But sometimes we see the persona and don't take the time to recognize that is merely a facade gently washed over a much more tender personality. Often a more fragile personality. Perhaps we should suspend our own judgement of a person and take the time to ask that person to open up and describe them self. Digest that self observation and use that rather than our own judgemental conception to guide us. Some of the strongest women I know are by far the most understanding, compassionate and loyal women I could ever wish to have in my life. We joke about having each other's backs, bail money and bags of lime in the back of our cars - but most often we are there with a movie, a Kleenex or a big ass margarita.

And just so there's no pre-conceived notion about me:  I would say I'm high energy, secretly shy, humorous and loyally protective.

For you

Annalyse,

I will eat the peel of the apple for you.

Love,

Maw Maw

"NO."

I've been hanging on to this "writing" for a while now, but I felt like blogging twice today...

 

As an older, recently singled person, many issues will tend to block your dating growth. The nervousness of stepping full force outside of what had once been your comfort zone (the ex); perhaps insecurity over your post-teenage body or even misplaced guilt that your last relationship sank like a ship because you weren't good at being the skipper of the boat (when it most likely sank because you had Gilligan as a First Mate). But as a person, you'll begin to ease yourself back into the dating pool and at some point you may expose yourself in a way that makes you feel more vulnerable than a fat girl in a polka dot bikini. Yes, you'll flirt and bat your glued in eyelashes. You may even slip a toothbrush and pack of condoms into your purse. You'll steel your nerves with a bottle of wine or shot of liquid courage and mercilessly throw yourself at some guy only to hear...

"NO."

Now, that reaction will either be followed with nothing in which case you'll simply realize that you've been swimming in the kiddie pool where the only men left at the end of the day are akin to the doo-doo terds kids leave behind or if you've been swimming in the deep end of the pool where the adults play it will be followed by a kind and friendly explanation that on the surface lets you tread water while you retrieve that bathing suit top that's floating away and exit the pool calmly and gracefully.

But, it still stinks to high heaven and makes you feel like you're never ever going to be able to squeeze yourself into a bathing suit again.

Just remember, the waters always coldest until you've managed to get wet up to your eyeballs. You've done that part.  It may have frozen you to your core for a moment, but you never have to be rejected again for the FIRST time. Stay in the water, swim solo for a while, and one day that first "No" will seem like a wave that crashed into you, broke and drifted to shore.

Charting

I posted a blog yesterday after several months of blog inactivity.  I felt bad not posting for so long because it is my personal goal to have a more awesome blog than my friend Martin Greenblat who keeps me in stitches with his posts from Brazil.  Now, the approval seeking persona in me always goes to the blog stats and anxiously checks to see how many "views" my blog has had.  I normally just pay attention to the hard numbers.  (30 yesterday, by the way).  But the chart caught my attention for some reason yesterday and I thought "Wow, just like my life"

It's strange how life can be charted with it's peaks and valleys and moments of complete and utter evenness.  Which is best?

Gut instinct says Peaks Rock.  Those moments of overwhelming excitement.  The stories that you laugh with your college roommate about year after year after mundane year.  Two Hendrix friends wondering how they could have for one moment believed that the UCA guys they'd met were from England and the detail you remember of the hills and darkness and lights from the dashboard twinkling with the stars .  The way you laughed inside every time your best pal Tim would slide into the lobby "rocking out" to Pour Some Sugar On Me in his white socks (knee socks, I'm sure) and his fresh starched jeans, button down shirt and glasses like only a good Catholic boy from Searcy could.  The trip to Alma, Arkansas with JJ over Christmas to visit his girlfriend.  Knowing that somehow, JJ was the one and only friend you'd ever had that had actually managed to impress your mother when he showed up.  And the sight of your first grandchild.  That bond that got created that runs from your toes to the top of your head and simply out shadows any other feeling you have ever experienced in your life.

But each peak has a corresponding valley it seems.  The friend of the fake English guys that you ended up dating for months before you and his fiancee realized he was patient zero in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders definition of a narcissistic psycho.  That pull in your heart every time you hear an 80' hair band and remember that you haven't talked to Tim in over 20 years but hope each time you think of him that he's got hardwood floors, a great iPod playlist and enough knee socks to keep him sliding for years.  Blowing bubbles on the bleachers with your buddies at Hendrix the next year when you'd hijacked the car and driven back to Conway to visit the school you'd never grace the dorms of again. The thought of Red - that first grandchild, that wakes you up in the middle of the night - wondering, panicked if everything in her life will always and forever be happy and content.  Wishing for a life of only peaks for her.

And the moments of evenness, when you've settled into a routine and life just chugs along, half speed, half steam.  No real effort needed.  Not too happy, not too sad, just contentment.  The routine of packing kids up in the morning and making the rounds from high school to junior high to middle school and back again.   The brunches with friends on your porch with the antique blue dinnerware.  Holiday routines, Christmas Eve at Aunt Rita's. Christmas brunch of breakfast casserole and raisin bran muffins at your home and Christmas Dinner at Momma's where the furniture will be moved against her will for the annual photo and Bobbie Jean will parade the cake into to living room only to be scolded.

So - life must be a graph to be enjoyed.  The peaks exhilarate you and give you those moments of pure joy that make life grand.  The valleys give you contrast.  A dark background upon which the brightness of the peaks appears more vibrant and vivid.  And the evenness, it prepares you.  Gives your body, mind, soul time to rest up for the energy that both the peaks and valleys drain from you.

What Football Taught Me...

I'm full on playing football.  I'm a guard.  My memories and heart are well protected.  I have "recovered" from the loss of my mother almost 5 years ago.  But I am not the same person I was before by any stretch of the imagination.  Someone asked me how I got over my grief and the words that instinctively popped out were just so true.  I didn't.  I think of my mother as being at work.  24/7.  I ignore holidays or I go overboard preparing, planning, occupying my mind so I don't have to face the rip in the fabric of my life.  I don't have to think about not having ribs and ice cream on her side porch.  Because each memory I face seems to lead to another distinct smile edged with sadness.  That side porch with its ribs and ice cream faces home where Jay lived.  He was such a part of our lives that when my own family moved to our first home in Texarkana, my then three year old just knew that our new neighbor's name was "Jay".  All neighbors were "Jay" and almost every holiday ended with Jay strolling over to join us on that porch for some coffee and desert.  

My own family misses out on me a lot during the holidays. I was not prepared for the dynamic shift in tradition that my mother's death created.  In a lot of ways, we prepare for that inevitable shift in holiday traditions.  We marry, start a family and traditions are redefined and tweaked.  Then perhaps, when the balance does shift and parents are no longer left, we have a security blanket already engulfing us.  But my separation/divorce  splintered my tiny fragile family even more and the routines we worked on having in place had to be scrapped as well. 

Football's a hard sport to play.  It wears on your body and beats your brain back and forth in your skull.  I spent three years trying to re-create those holiday settings that can never be recreated.  Now, I'm thinking the next holiday might find us trying another new tradition.   I'm hoping that my kids and grand-kids like pizza and beer.

Avoiding Orange Stripped Formal Wear

So, I'm hoping my blog doesn't get shut down and a lawsuit or injunction slapped on me after today.  This wonderfully accessible world that we live in today can often make you sit up and go - Huuumm, is that legal?

I spent about an hour trying to figure out what image copyright is as it applies to pictures from the internet.  I'm not an artist or a photographer - can't even manage to be the subject of a photo and be happy - much less compose a background and subject matter effectively enough to enter even the smallest of small country fair art shows.  So, I would like to use images from the internet to spice up my blog.  Particularly this blog I'm getting ready to post once I stop rambling about technicalities and legalities.  But am I risking jail time?  I hope not. I've got a long list of things I'll do jail time for - a dress is not one of them.

Cutting to the chase...

I have an event to attend in March that is probably going to require a new dress.  I'm not yet sure if it's going to be cocktail attire, old school church attire or  full blown junior prom attire.  Personally, I'm hoping and praying that it ends up being junior prom time all over again.  Unlike junior prom, there will certainly be no bad date or awkward moment where a corsage gets pinned to my chest drawing attention not only to my underdeveloped sense of ease around men as well as the underdevelopment of my breasts by the age of 16.  To clarify, it's not that my breasts ever developed much past the age of 16, I just won't be wearing a corsage to this event. 

So, as each ethereal dress floated by, I literally became a teenager again, imagining myself in each and every one.  Luckily, I always float back to reality and remember, I'm not 16 anymore.  I don't need a dress that swathes me in tight strips of fabric identified as "bandages" and as I've lifted 3 children and 1 grandchild like free weights for the past 20+ years, I'm not partial to spaghetti straps.  The rest, those of you who know me may be able to help me with.  I am looking forward to your feedback on these dresses.

Here are my choices so far, all from Neiman-Marcus and only one or two included that are absolutely, positively out of my price range.  While looking at these dresses online, I did actually find myself pondering the morality and legality of another issue.  Can I buy a $12,000 dress and just tuck the tag into my sleeve until the next day??  Since I decided I could not morally or legally justify that I would have to find some way to catapult myself to fame overnight and have some designer eager to loan me a dress.  Unfortunately, every viable option I have for that hurdle would inevitably result in some type of criminal charge which would preclude me from attending the event at all.  A real catch 22.

Dress 1

Dress 2

Dress 3

Dress 4

Dress 5

Dress 6

Dress 7

Dress 8

Dress 9

Dress 10

Dress 11

Dress 12

Dress 13

Dress 14

Dress 15

Dress 16

Approaching the Gates...

A little background for those of you who do not know anything about me...

I'm a yellow-dog democrat, mother of three, grandmother of three,  long separated, not yet divorced, motherless, bi-racial woman child of the South. 

And that's just a collection of words. Pieces of the English language that simply give a first, if not momentary, glimpse at the pieces which have shaped and formed me into a person not easily explained by any structure of the English language.  In totality, I am whole and unique, not categorized or categorize-able by any sentence that can be typed in the 15 minute coffee break I use to write this opening.