unrequited, unresponsive, unhealthy: gotta have it

I find it amusing that everyone has a tale entitled: The One That Got Away, and many, many people blame their current misery on this phenomenon. I find it odd that rationally speaking hindsight is 20/20, but emotionally those early angsty feelings are so passionate that we attribute them with super human qualities. We allow these myopic memories to alter our present courses. I am no saint as I too have a sordid history chock full of unrequited love and wishful thinking.

I met him in the third grade, I was nine. It took little more than a once over to realize that I loved him; he was a skater, an individual, a comic, the nine-year equivalent to perfection, as far as I was concerned. (It was 1985 and he wore Vans, for pete's sake.) And even today, I look back upon my earliest memories of him and the third grader in me is blushing furiously, hoping he'll choose me in Red Rover. He never does though, unless bored.

By the time we were in hs I gave up pursuit, contented to be his friend and hang out with the same friends, but I never stopped believing he would someday want me. He always played my feelings to his advantage and strung me along. We even at some point became each others "back up," deciding at the old age of 17, that if neither was married by 30 we would get together then.

After hs, I got the hell outta dodge and our friendship suffered; I saw him randomly when I could be cajoled into coming home for a family event, he was always the first person I called. He never called me nor came to visit me and that hurt so I stopped contact.

At our 10-year reunion, I saw him again and I think it was the first time he initiated contact. All I know is that he bear-hugged me from behind and proceeded to get drunk with me, sitting next to me. Sufficiently numbed, he admitted (staged?) that he was disappointed I had gotten married, that we were almost 30 and it was supposed to be him, it was The Plan. I was stunned and although the almost thirty year old me knew it had all been a game to him, that he was disappointed in me only because I stopped pining for him, the nine year old little girl felt vindicated. Finally!, I thought, but what I said surprised even me, "The Plan? I had a baby with Crazy-Mexican and then met the love of my life and got married in four months, who just happens to be from the other side of the world. Does my life sound planned? I gave up The Plan a long time ago, it was too painful. Waiting for you to want me was too painful."

Excuse me for not throwing away a great life to be someone's doormat. heh.

5penny and the terrible horrible no good very bad day

I haven't suffered much tragedy in my life, sure there have been hard times, but very few instances of actual why God? type tragedy. There is, however, a day I would consider The Worst Day of My Life.

It all started out normal enough. I was living in this super tiny (think the size of your kitchen) studio cabin in the mountains, it was my haven. Sure there was no indoor plumbing save for the kitchen sink, but an outhouse is a small price to pay for the view from my outdoor shower. Yes, I said outdoor shower. It was magnificent, there is no comparable experience to showering while snow falls around you. While not a very good picture, it is the actual view from the mountain where I lived. (courtesy of Nicole Holmquist)
Despite awakening to this beauty, February 14, 1998 was anything but a beautiful day. I started out on a walk with my dog, Shiloh. We were headed to a very secret meadow, my thinking spot. As we walked along the bank of the canal, I let my mind drift as my body continued on autopilot. I may have also been talking to my dog, she was a hyper boxer and seemed not to walk so much as bounce. Bounce, bounce-bounce, splash! She had bounced herself right into the ice cold canal and was quickly been swept downstream with the current. Pulling myself out of my reverie, I sprinted downstream, passed her, bellyflopped onto the hard ground and extended my upper body into the ice cold water and scooped her out. I zipped her into my jacket so we would retain some body heat and headed home. Of course, the fire was out. I got it going and we cuddled in my sleeping bag until normal temperatures were restored.

I was supposed to visit my parents later that day and so I packed my dirty laundry an overnight bag and we got into my p.o.s. orange Volkswagen bug. It wouldn't start. No problem, I told myself, I live on a hill so I'll just pop the clutch on my way down and all will be well. Or so I thought. The blonde in me had different plans. She thought it would be hysterical if I forgot to turn the ignition key on. Fucking hysterical. At the bottom of the hill, no running engine, no problem, I decided to a) turn on the damn ignition, and b) push the damn car until I got enough momentum to pop the clutch.

Which, obviously as this is my story, did not work.

After an hour or so of pushing, I gave up. I walked back up to my cabin in paradise and made a sandwich. A couple hours later, I went down to inspect the orange nightmare and thought, hehe, I'll just try to turn it over and see what happens: the car started. Of it's own volition. I whistled for the dog and we were off.

The drive to my parents took about 45 minutes of foothill driving through the barren nothingness. Golden grasses and rolling hills. Coming down the last big hill, I slipped the gear clutch into neutral and coasted (which is totally illegal in California, so I, of course, didn't really *wink*). It was the only way my orange p.o.s. would hit 65mph. Nearing the bottom of the hill I heard a clunk and looked out the driver's window just in time to see my rear tire pass me, roll off the highway, jump the bridge, and land in the middle of the creek. I amazingly kept the car from losing control and by the grace of a higher power, maneuvered it onto the shoulder where I did not turn the engine off, in case it would not start. (You know, cause tires that fall off can be easily reattached without the need for specials tools or parts. Geez, what an idiot.) The car behind me pulled over as well, stunned that I hadn't gone off the bridge and offered to let me use their cell phone (in 1998! how lucky was I) to call for help. A tow truck was dispatched and while I waited for it to tow my sorry ass to my parents, I took my second river bath that day.

By this point I could not believe the day I was having and immediately upon arriving started relaying my craptastic day to my dad. He was somber and not very interested and didn't once laugh at me. Something was wrong. My father would never purposely pass up an opportunity to laugh at my pain.

When I had finished my "can you believe this crap?" story, my father said the oddest thing. "Well, no matter how shitty your day, it's definitely better than Uncle Ted's."
"Whaa? What is that supposed to mean?" I asked.
"You know about Ted, doncha? Oh.", he sighed.
Loooong silence.
"Of course you don't. You don't have a damn phone, how would you know. Um, your uncle was involved in a fatal farming accident this morning. He's dead."

Ever have a day like that? Tell me about it.

taking control

It is hard to have a trusting relationship with a medical professional when the AMA disagrees with your lifestyle choices. For me that means that I continuously bounce from gynecologist to gynecologist, each one belittling my stance on birth control.

Which is no birth control, by the way, just thought I should put that out there.

I wasn't always this way, as an 18 year old beginning her sexual journey, I relied heavily upon depo provera in shot form. I showed up religiously to get my shot despite living on a commune, despite being a vegan, despite everything. I knew that I was not ready to be a parent (not with the amount of recreational drugs I enjoyed) nor was I to be trusted with a pill. (I do not take pills well, I have a box of vitamins my mother has given me over the years that I could never remember to take, let alone remember to throw away...) So I chose the shot. Not having a period for 3 years was an added bonus, or so I thought.

When I decided to go off the shot and explore other options my period didn't return. For six months it didn't return and I was unaffected by its disappearance. Until it painfully appeared. It started out as a normal period but quickly progressed to "why the hell am I still bleeding?"

After 3 months of profuse bleeding, I sought out medical advice: uh, sometimes when a cycle has been absent for a significant amount of time due to prescription birth control, it plays catch up. I bled for 9 (NINE!) months straight and no I am not exaggerating. It wreaked crazy havoc on my life, I suffered from acute lower back pain, I couldn't stand for long periods of time nor could I sit. I consulted with some of the best doctors in California and after much probing and prodding was told that most likely I would spend my life on birth control to control the bleeding which would negatively affect any reproductive plans I might have held for the future.

Uh. Hmm, I was 21 years old. I was in severe pain, and was told I couldn't have children. Life was so very far from okay.

My mom at the time (who knew nothing of the birth control) was just getting in to holistic healing and herbology, she attended a conference and gave me a progesterone cream to try, claiming that hormonal imbalance can result in profuse bleeding... It worked. It took two cycles to regulate and I only used it for about 6 months (see previous confession re: pills). My "Specialists" regarded the results as coincidence and still urged me to resume birth control to control my cycle. I didn't/ don't want to control my cycle, I wanted to facilitate a healthy and normal cycle.

In fact, every doctor I have since consulted be it for pregnancy (wow! not barren, hmm.), yearly checkup, 6 week postpartum check, whatever the case, they've always pressured me to resume birth control. One Ob/Gyn actually phrased it as "the only choice to avoid another unwanted pregnancy." (which was really odd considering she wasn't my ob/gyn during pregnancy and if she had been she would have known that it was no surprise that I was pregnant.) I was so stunned by her shunning of my personal choices that I could only mutter a polite, "um, no thanks, I'd be more comfortable abstaining for the rest of my natural life. But thanks for your disdain." (Coincidentally, she was the same doctor who told me I might want to look into a baby leash. We did not last long there. Insurance be damned.)

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the medical society's ability to save my life, set a broken bone, etcetera, but personal decisions regarding OPTIONAL drugs and/or procedures are best left with the individual, thankyouverymuch.

The bakery

nine or so years ago I worked at a rustic breads bakery. Now, any job within spitting distance of a restaurant or food is right up my alley (isn't that imagery just plain gross: Spitting! around food!). I just know what to do in a restaurant, I'm comfortable there. Yada, yada, back to the bakery: the coolest girl (she was 27) owned the place because she had had a whim that she wanted to be a baker. I loved that. A whim. So, at that point in life I only had front of house experience and was intrigued by baking. Not even the hours scared me.

Mel, the owner, met me at the front door on my first day. She was late and I loved that. As she was explaining the procedure she announced that in her bakery you measure with feeling not arbitrary units. Though she had a scale to weigh she made me feel everything: the grain of the flour, the coarseness of salt, a pound of butter, the slippery, sticky-wet dough. She made me taste the raw dough to correct the seasoning. Every batch is slightly different, unique; like a snowflake you mistake for all snowflakes but upon closer inspection is only similar in composition and name. She believed that understanding the individual ingredients made a better product. That theory made sense to me and I embraced it fully. I was good at baking; I am good at baking. It makes sense to me.

I still feel my recipes and "eyeball" the measurements, I know what the proportions resemble in the mixing bowl; how salty the wet dough tastes when sucked on.

I fell in love that morning: the predawn gray, coffee, conversation, and sticky hands shaping loaves.

little bit of this, pinch of that, whole lotta red

Since Zoli went to a fly fishing competition in Poland this weekend, his mom invited Julia and me to a Tupperware® party today. Just what evey 4 year old wants: to go to a party full of adult women, oohing and ahhing over the latest Ultra Plus silicone technology. Yesterday, after agreeing to attend, Zoli's mom called to ask me how to make lasagne. I started to explain but she cut me off stating, "it will be easier if you just come over early and make it." Okay, so now I'm the un-hired help, I guess that's better than sitting in a room full of non-English speakers trying to piece together broken Hungarian.

Luckily, I am nothing if not great at making lasagne; the secret's in the sauce. *wink* But how to receive compliments?No clue. I usually just bow my head and don this "oh, shucks" grimace while turning 32 shades of embarassed. Which is cool and all, but Jesus-Christ, I am 29 years old; when am I going to grow up and shed the humiliating blush? I look like the freaking tomato sauce. I get that red.

It started when I was in the third grade. We had the worst substitute teacher ever on the same day school pictures came back. Also, my mom had trimmed butchered my bangs. Mr B. held each envelope up, showed the entire class the portrait and made a rude comment. About 9 yr-olds. He got to mine (which were horrible but still!) and said that it was fitting that my hair-cut was as lopsided as my face. An adult to a class of 35 9 yr-olds. To make matters worse, the love of my young life was in the same class and I died.

Around 13, things just got worse. My first "big" piano recital. I was, I dunno, probably playing Moonlight Sonata - which, to this day, I know by heart; I loved it that much - and in the second movement, which is played both staccato and allegro, I goofed. Despite six intense years of lessons, learning how to mask a mess-up (and not cry), I froze. I withdrew my hands from the keyboard as though the entire thing were ablaze, realized my non-masked error, shoved my fingers back onto the keys, and resumed playing. Iwas certain the audience knew I had goofed and I felt the beginnings of shame and embarassment rise from my neck to my cheeks, finally resting in my ears. It was the worst feeling of my life and with it came a self-realization: my dreams of being a pianist were dashed; I would never again play publicly without recoiling in terror everytime I even thought about messing up.

As a teenager, I often succumbed to daily embarassment: If the teacher asked me a direct question, I gave no answer, just red. If a boy spoke to me: oh my gosh, no words, redder. There was no reason not to suffer embarassment, I might get it wrong otherwise. That single tiny, unimportant glitch in my first recital sent me on a downward spiral of dwindling self-esteem. I knew that I knew [enter whatever subject/conversation], but I was afraid my words would betray me.

Somewhere, somehow, I started to realize that I in fact knew what I was talking about and slowly regained my voice. Although, if you pay me a compliment I WILL stutter, blush, kick at the ground, and tell you how much [complimented item] cost.

I'm cool like that.

gone to hell, will return shortly

Well, in case anyone is wondering, courtesy of Laid off dad, I've been stuck in the online game version of hell (Warning: do not click unless you are prepared to be sucked in.) for going on three days. It originally made me laugh and kept my interest. That soon turned to bloody knuckles and an addiction that has caused me to google the following: scientology + british bands + karma, Jesus + computer science + poker stars, and levitation + time + statue of liberty. This is not a pretty place people, but I love this fucking game.

what is wrong with me

... that until yesterday I had never watched Legends of the Fall? I am 29, throughout most of my late teens/early 20's I had a healthy infatuation with Brad Pitt; I was 17 when it came out and what 17 year old didn't see that movie?

Oh wait. I think I know why. After I got caught sneaking out to a party when I was 14*, not only was I grounded for an entire year but when I was allowed to resume a social agenda, I had to specify where, what, when, how, and why. Also, my mom had to know their parents. So, I started using movies as the where so that I could hang out, experiment with drugs, and have a boyfriend.

My friends, being the supportive ones they were, would help to sort out the details before anyone asked if they could go out. We researched films, figured out at which theater it was playing, the showtime, and made cliff notes. You know, in case my mom called their mom and asked what their kid had done. She did that sort of stuff.

I know it caused my friends to lie to their parents as well, but it worked quite nicely and I never got caught again. Although I never again told my parents I was spending the night somewhere unless I really was. It just takes once, people.

Anyhow, we had a great system and according to our parents, junior and senior year we saw approximately 200 movies. In all actuality we probably saw 10 movies and all of them were at the 99-cent-theater.

We spent a lot of time hanging out at our friend's house whose mom worked swing shift, making smoothie parties and playing ultimate frisbee. Yea, we did watch a movie from time to time but mostly we just hung out as only teens and the fake-believe world of Friends can.

Which leads me to a daughter raising question: how do I keep the lines of communication open so that Julia won't feel she has to lie to me to hang out, and yet still be a stricter type of parent? I know how I was and while I don't think I was particularly bad (I mean, come on, I had a job, I maintained straight A's, and took courses at the local J.C. just to get a head start) I did take my fair share of hallucinogens. Is there such a thing as promoting a safe experimentation agenda? How do you promote any teenage agenda without the teen completely rebelling?

Thank God I have at least 10 years to think about this, it's going to take that long just to get my story straight.

*Okay, so I wasn't the most common sense filled teen out there; I told my parents I was staying at a friends' and she said she was staying at mine and it almost worked until my mom called her mom in the morning to see if I needed a ride to church. Surprise! I wasn't there.

salty tears and permanent stains

I have very few memories of my childhood.
Randomly, I remember bits and pieces and this saddens me as I know it was extremely happy and mostly normal and what is there, lodged forever, speaks only of pain. The rejection, the failings of childhood. I chose moments of crisis and pain to store, memories to remind me of the bitterness of life. Why bother with the precious or fun memories?, I thought, they teach you nothing. The pain is what I always recalled, until recently.
It hasn't been too long, maybe since the birth of my daughter, possibly since meeting my husband, that I began to take stock of what went into my permanent memory. I can recall with great anguish, any number of "bad moments" in my life, but I know that there are 500 times as many experiences that don't taste of salty tears. What would it be like to remember the exhilaration of riding a bicycle for the first time? Looking back only to realize that your father, sister, mother, let go a good block behind you.
I bet that memory tastes like strawberries in whip cream, juice running down the front of your shirt; a permanent stain to mark the occasion.