A Good Place To Start...

In an effort to complain less and do more, I thought I might make note of things I love, love, love this week.  I'll delve in to a different category each day and to start on this Monday evening, we'll begin with one of my favorites: books.

Hands down, reading is a cherished hobby, one that I make more time for than eating and, er... visits to the gym.

Woops.

I've had a h.e.c.k. of a time with my camera, USB cord and the successful transfer of images, so I'll try this a way other than the creative one I'd planned on.

Here's a list to get us started (in no particular order, mind you):

This one was the first real novel I tore through.  I read it in Mrs. Brown's 3rd grade class, and it taught me why I would come to love reading so much...I could relate to something else, in the world, outside of my own reality...and...I could escape.  Thank you Ms. Brink for introducing me to my great love.

Paulo Coelho would become one of my most beloved favorites, e.v.e.r.  Of the all-time kind of beloved.  His pieces remind me to soar, to seek, to stand still, to be quiet, to love, to be.  I am enamored with this man and love everything he has ever written.  With a tumultuous past of his own, Coelho reigns superior in the fight to remain true to himself, to explore the unexplainable and myth.  His pen is magic realism, and he makes my soul fight to breath.

This master of Literature wrote, what is perhaps my most favorite love story of all-time.  She pens the reality of a time, past.  Reading anything by Jane Austen reminds me that being a woman on fire isn't such a new thing, really and that women have blazed the trail before me, so that my voice may be heard.  Elizabeth is a heroine for her time and reminds us all that social decorum, while pompous at times, is definable in a multitude of terms.  Mr. Darcy is, well, Mr. Darcy...and well...

Dear Patrick Rothfuss,

You write a damn good story.  Reading this mass of genius felt like sipping sweet tea in summertime.  I completely lost myself in this novel...and I am devoted to your blog.  You are a pairer (I made up this word) of words like no one else, Sir and I love you. I love faeries, and you must have met one, because I believed every word you wrote about Felurian.  And, I think she's real. Your second novel was just as amazing, and I anticipate the third installation in the same way a dog begs for meat on the dinner table.  I am happy to read any progressions for you...

Dear Andrew,

You are totally my literary boyfriend (I am sure my real-life boyfriend wont mind).  I am absolutely in love with you and this book, with ever fiber of my being.  This is the perfect novel, containing everything a novel ought.  Romance, remnants of myth and legend, mentions of classic literature, tragedy and adventure.  This will forever be on my Top 5 Favorites of All Time f.o.r.e.v.e.r.  Period.

Now...this one taught me that my obsession with food is completely and totally normal, and reasonable.  It also taught me that folks write about food in the same way they write about relationships.  This one taught me to run with my love of food, to cook more, write about it and enjoy every second of it.  

Before I began this blog this eve, I finished this book:

And while I waited for my unsuccessful attempt to load photos, I started this one:

And here's what's on the Summer Reading List:

So there it is, no complaints...okay, so I made mention of my inability to load some pictures, but in all, a success.  Some staples.

More to come.

Putting On My Big Girl Pants.

It's Sunday morning, and I woke up, to a view of this:

...which reminded me of this...

And then this...

Oh, and then this is what made me get up...

And with no dire plans to keep my mind busy, thought has set in.

And one notion, in particular, has taken up residence in my brain,  for over a week now, well, since last Monday  morning, if we're shooting for precision.  (Psychologists like it when we can pinpoint the precise moment ill thought takes hold.  It helps us in the process of overcoming.  Or something like that).

Anyway, on the drive to work last Monday, a sad thought occurred to me.

I had a moment of clarity- and it was a sad one, all things, considered.  It was pathetic, selfish, arrogant and desperate.  But it was honest, and once I got it, I realized what it is that remains the hardest part of growing up, for me.

Sure, I have a patch of unruly grey hairs, set atop the back portion of my head, to the left, though still well hidden beneath some solid brown.  My skinny jeans, no longer fit over my thighs, and my visits to the dentist and doctor are more frequent.

But those things aren't so bad, really.

I've earned my grey hairs, thank you.  And they are a lovely shade of grey, after all.

Nope, the hardest part of being an adult, for me, is...

Consider this fair warning: that I told you ahead of time, and admitted that this is a totally self-absorbed piece:

is...coming to the understanding that my importance and secure spot in some select lives, is just not as important as it once was.

Friends don't return phone calls.

They don't text back.

They don't even call for no reason at all.

They don't visit.

They don't call for romantic advice anymore.

There are no Sunday brunches, or sitting on couches, after sleepovers, recovering from a grossly inappropriate consumption of wine, the evening before.

There's no shrilled and girlish gossiping.

No more movie nights.

No more inviting myself over, without the courtesy of calling first.

I can't even get responses from friends on Facebook.

I thought, at first, it was me.

And then, after a decent self-loathing weep, I realized the inevitable: people are just too damn busy.  My friends are married, and they talk about their wedding days, comparing notes.  They are having babies, posting photos of their babies' first steps on Facebook, comparing notes and offering one another advice on potty training.  They are taking time off work to be "Mom."  They are proud, happy and fulfilling dreams.

And I just don't have a lot in common with my girlfriends these days.

That hurts more than anything else.  Really.  It does.  Say what you will, but it's the truth.

I don't even spend time talking about the old days anymore.

The feeling sucks- there's really no way to get around the brutal honesty of it all.  But it does offer me something else.

Without the hectic social calendar, the empty space gives me some breathing room.  I spend a lot of my time comparing my success to that of other people, and the measures of that said success have changed with the tides, from college graduation, and respective degrees, job titles, raises, and now, men, and life status.

I also realize that my life must exist outside of my own measures of success, outside of my friends' lives.  Outside of my past.

Everyone else seems to have moved on, grown up and accepted their stations, in life, with ease.  I have struggled, and why?

Simple:  I spend some serious time feeling sorry for myself.

God, it's so gross.

I love my friends, and quite honestly, I have some of the most amazing folks, on the planet, as friends.  Our friendships are wholly different than they started, and I have been there through weddings, breakups, babies, parties and losses- and I love them all for it.  More importantly, it makes my heart happy to see my friends at peace.  It's amazing to have been there, holding hands through it all...

...and I wouldn't change a thing...

It's time for me to be a grown up now...and without the care of comparison, and a schedule of chaos, I am learning what makes my life worthy, what makes my soul sing and what brings my life quiet and solid pleasure.

Like how lucky I was to have seen this:

And this...

Ahhh....

Bottle Me Up Some Dolly!

Most folks who know me, don't know that I hold a secret....er...not so much, now, fondness for country music.  To me, listening to country music, feels like putting on a swim suit, oiling up with sun screen that smells like vanilla-tinted coconut, and leisuring in a make-shift boat, drifting to nowhere fast, and loving every second of it

I would never play a round of "Name That Country Song In 8 Seconds Or Less," but sometimes it just feels good.

Still, there's one voice I could name out of thousands.

She's outrageous, somewhat plastic.  She's kind, open and gives back.  She's supportive of men, of the softer sort (yes, I just wrote that) who've spent years perfecting their best Dolly Mannerisms.  She's lovely.  She's not bashful about the "work" she's had done.  She's a legend.  She's genuine, and she's the kind of woman whose happiness I wish I could channel, bottle up, sell and swipe on my wrists, like perfume.

And when her song, "Jolene" plays, the axis upon which our Earth spins, ceases to spin...all is still.

I typically have a high regard for the quieter woman, whose footprint on this place is smaller, whose voices are softer and whose purpose on this planet is simpler...but...

I love Dolly Parton.

I think what I love most about this woman, is the fact that she is my polar opposite, with blonde hair, a voice like silk and a disposition which I'm certain would bring the Devil, himself, to his knees.  She is the embodiment of wicked-talent, and damn if she takes the 21st Century vision of "women in business" and throws it to the wolves.  Her boobs could float Naval ship and her hair could wrap that ship like a present.  Her lipstick is the color of blood and her nails are her backwoods instrument.  She is totally feminine, flirts like a demon, giggles like a school-girl and she OWNS it, never hiding behind herself. She proves that a woman can come out of the 70's, wearing heels, boobs, dresses, nails and still kick the Man's World where it hurts,  laughing all the way to the bank.  I used to think intelligent women, whose mission it was to be taken seriously, wore pants suits and gold stud earrings.  Uh-uh.  Nope.  Some wear 7-inch pink patten leather heels, with nails and lip color to match.  Buh-bye pants suits- you were never, ever cute.  Ever.

And that is why I smile when I see Ms Dolly Parton.

How 'bout Now?

I typically have an opinion about pretty much everything.  I started as a shy child, content to play in fields and then became a woman with a grave notion to hold the weight of the world upon tiny shoulders. At the moment I came to understand that some folks, things and creatures had no voice, I opted to speak up- and I've not shut up since; though I really ought to. I'm working on it.  Sorta.

There are, however, those rare moments, when I am stumped by a thought, a question or concept.  And most of the time, it's the simpler notions which beguile me most.  

When someone asks me, "How are you," I am content to answer with the socially accepted "good," or "crazy-busy," big smile, here.  Though, when someone stops to look at my face and asks me again, "No.  I mean it.  How are you?"  I block up.  My heart chokes a little, and my brain can't remember which pistons fire thought, and which way the blood's supposed to flow so that my vocal cords can verbalize what my brain has determined is a suitable answer.  So, today when a co-worker asked me what I really..."No.  Really wanted to do," I had to take a deep breath.  The simple answer was "write."And then, he put me to work.  Duh, I have a blog, but I am not fabulous about adding much to it..who cares what I have to say?

My Mum does.  She thinks I can write...but she also thinks that Yanni is a dream boat...so...

In putting me back to work, I in turn asked for some structure..."give me a topic, something to write about."

And he asked: Where are you?

Damn...another simple notion.  Where am I?

I am in a room, listening to a country song about a lovely woman who was cheated on by her husband...another one...god...my cat sits perches on my writing desk, and the rain falls like feathers.  And I am...writing! 

No.  Really.  Where am I?

I am stable, plain and simple.  I made it to age 31.  I read Better Homes and Gardens, kiss my friends new babies and listen to music, loudly. I've accomplished most goals I have set for myself.   I am financially independent, most important, and I have done a lot of necessary forgiving.  I say this because my uncanny ability to hold on to the bad stuff is one of my greatest faults.  It's one that has held me back.  And these days, with much of that finally let go, my life is very simple.

I often reason with myself, under the impression that I am far too complicated a person to achieve such a basic and reasonable a goal.  So, I suppose I am in a place of rebuilding a path, so to speak.  I have a lot of free time, now that my anger at life has subsided.  I have time to laugh now.  I appreciate my quiet moments, on the couch, getting entirely lost in a book.  I'm learning how to plant and nourish vegetables.  I'm cooking.  I'm learning how to be in the most healthy relationship I've ever been in and more importantly, how to sustain it.  I'm learning how to handle friendships that change, inevitably with age and how to let go of the them when I have to.  I'm learning how to be a person who is happy, and living according to my wants as opposed to being a "people pleaser."   And somewhere along the way, I also learned how to cuss like a wasted sailor.  I should know better- I mean, I went to Finishing School and my Mama didn't raise me that way, not with those Southern manners she instilled in me, no way.  I've also learned the entirely useful duel-concept of telling people where to stuff it...tactfully.  That's the newest one for me- I had a really hard time with this one, but I am well on my way to prying myself off of the doormat. 

I am also learning to look at the darkest hours of my past and pull from them, the good stuff.  And some of those memories are so magical, they bring me to tears.  Like being ten years old in North Carolina, sitting at the edge of a pond, after a thunder storm.  Lightning bugs filled up the sky (probably those fairies I searched so hard for) and the thunder sang, rather than roared.  I was escaping some pain, but at that moment, life made sense.  My left hand gripped a tall glass of sun warmed sweet tea (which of course I had stolen from the refrigerator) and my right hand plucked at the wet earth beside me.  I searched for worms, fairies, butterflies and a rare species of wild flower.  My pink corduroy pants were sodden with wet earth stains, my pink sleeves stained with grass remnants, at the elbows and my pink ribbons were torn from my hair at the hands of an angry tree branch.   A moment later would bring some unreasonable measure of reality, but for that moment, I was in heaven, utterly. 

Now, at least, amidst the darkness, I can remember the magic that existed there, all around me.  Some of the memories, held behind the curtain of a child's hurt, are some of the most profoundly awesome.  They help me remember the kid I was before cognitive awareness kicked in.  Mom and, now, Dad encouraged me to be whatever I saw in the mirror on any given day- mostly a carefree kid, so loved and whose greatest accomplished would have been to see a fairy... and help rescue sad animals.  Sifting through the garbage of memories to get a hold of the good ones is one of the kindest things I have ever done for myself. One of the most profound.  Important because remembering the smell of the earth after a storm, the flit of lightning bugs and kiss of thick Southern air reminds me of magic.  Such memories help me to, move on from some unfortunate circumstances. Most important, it gives me the space to remember who I was when I started down this path.  If I can just hold on tight enough, I can get some of that innocence back...

With so much left to the sky above me and the ground below me, I am trying to figure out three things mainly:

•   How do I shut up and simply accept what is right now?
•   What am I good at.  No.  Really.   It's  become an overbearing thought that keeps me up at night, my head in the clouds and my feet off the ground.
•  When I figure that out- how do I use that to move ahead?

So, I guess I am really at The Beginning.

I'm sort of starting over.  At 31.  

Alright then...that's where I am now.  At the beginning...

I don't have my usb cord, otherwise I would post a pic of my cat, still perched in the same pose, watching feathers fall like rain from the sky.

I heart my cat

He's King.  Period.  I'm just a serving maid.

My dad has a green thumb- it's an innate gift he possesses- I swear the man walks upon a path of greenery with each step he takes.  His foot meeting concrete equals greenery.  It has been like this for as long as I can remember.

His real gift remains with fruit trees; grape vines and above all: roses.  Roses of any and all species.  In the time that I have recognized his action of gardening...I would estimate he has cultivated some 50-60 rose bushes.

On a foggy Saturday I overheard the hushed voices of my parents discussing the cause of death for several species of rose bushes, near the front of our house.  I must have been near twelve at the time.  I remember the discussion  of gophers as the main cause.  I also remember the solution:  bombing rodents.  It's simply not enough to say I was mad.  Irate isn't powerful enough descriptor either.  Catastrophic anger?  Yes- that's more like it.  I cannot remember raising a voice to either of my parents before that moment.  I did then.  I didn't just raise my voice- I believe I screamed "at," my dad for believing that was remotely acceptable.  Then, I screamed at Mom for letting him do it.  I caused a scene, indeed.  And before too long, I was asked to find something else to occupy my time.

I made an ass of myself over...errrr... gophers..at the age of twelve.  And...I would again at the age of thirty.  I promise.

I believe in the magic of animals.  It matters not how much a reader laughs or mocks- it's an earnest understanding I own, rather openly.  Creatures of any given size, ability and creation give us heart and reason to wake up and smile. 

My love of animals has no real defined beginning- I suppose such massive love was something I was given at birth.  It has made for some minor complications in life.  I want them all.  In many instances, my respect for animals overwhelms that of my own species, at times- which isn't too hard to imagine if you pay any attention to the news.  I have come to a multitude of screeching halts, in order to avoid them on roads...and have risked accidents to do so.  I have quit a job over the White One below.  I have cried over them.  I have argued in their defenses...and been deemed a fool for such behavior.  I got in a earth-shattering fight with my parents over them.  I would call in sick, from work, at the loss of one of my own.

Many of us find ourselves blatantly consumed by an indescribable love of animals- or we simply don't.  In my experience- breaking it down is really that simple.  Great or small...some of us are destined to love most or all..  

My cat, Bosie, is well...he has a big part of my heart.  

Cat, bed and books...all in one space.  Perfection.

Most certainly NOT a morning cat.  Not at all...

Ready for bed- like clockwork.  An episode of The Tudors.  Thirty minutes reserved for reading.  And bedtime.

I simply cannot get enough of this little man.

 I would hope that every one of us finds an animal who inspires this much love.  It just reminds you to slow down, take a breath and simply be...

And a few friends from Costa Rica.

Costa Negro greeted us upon our arrival to an outdoor cafe in Costa Rica.  

This little Queen also claimed her stake on a chair in the same outdoor cafe.

Automatic Fail!

I really hate getting my car smogged.  The reason?  Simple:

Automatic Fail.

Every freakin' year.

This, undoubtedly, means that I will spend some ungodly amount of money, to ensure the security of a working vehicle.  Typically, it's been my dad that really just fixes the issue, effectively making the issue simply disappear; go away; buh-bye mass inconvenience.  I have memories of  my dad, patiently, explaining the inner workings of a well-tuned driving machine: pistons firing; break pad functionality; "aways check the integrity of your spark plugs before you spend a dime to have someone 'examine' your vehicle," he warned. 

His fingers stained black after time spent  "handling," any given situation carefully and methodically replaced, repaired and magically fixed any and all auto issues, in my eyes. My beloved first car, Sebastain, a maroon 240 DL Volvo knew and loved his hands well.  I still love my dad for these moments, for taking it upon himself to guide me, in all things "car."  I remember these moments fondly, along with the smell of citrus hand rinse.  Thanks, Papi.  You will always be my hero.

 As years have passed, he has been able to come to my rescue less and less.  Not because he cannot; or because he chooses not to, but because, well, I'm 30 and we are cities away from one another, and reality deems: Put on your Big Girl pants; pay some money and get the car fixed yourself.  Which, I really am not super excited about.  I am...ultimately...lazy when it comes to my car; hate maintaining; scheduling appointments; asking for longer lunch breaks from work, cleaning, etc.

I admit: I am a spoiled brat in this regard.  I admit this, totally, unabashed.

Thus brings me to a state of great irritation, at the notion of having to pay someone to not only test the car again...but then "fix," her.

Enter really sweet, nice, helpful, somewhat-mechanically-knowledgeable (and really cute) boyfriend (who also built this motorcycle).

He is somewhat of a methodical perfectionist in all things... cleanliness; car maintenance; home life, beer selection, work, etc.  He is also...er...dare I say...a fixer, and damn-well determined.  Did I also mention that he is very cute?  Well, he is.  He has a spot in the garage for all things related to the cleaning of cars (incliding a ginormous shop-vac and waxer.  He makes things shine...

Anyway, today, he pops the hood of my car; investigates the OBD Fault Code and makes the attempt to figure out what it means and how he might fix it.  For this, I am eternally grateful.  He may not fix it, and that it totally fine- at least he cares enough to try.  So, I bring him a beer as a "thank you."

Sweet Arya.  She's sick.

The point?  I am mildly angered by the fact that I have to spend more money that I have, to fix my car, but more than that?  I HAVE a car.  Ultimately, I am a lucky girl.  I have a couple of heroes, who make me smile.  And, when all is said and done, it is just money, right?  It comes and goes...but Dads stay for good, and good boyfriends prove that there are still a few good men out there.

Welcome, Autumn!

Welcome Autumn!

                           

October through January bring great peace to me.  Somewhat of a home-body, I take comfort in knowing that many of my most-treasured hobbies are about to be met, guilt-free:

•  Reading:  best indoors, beside a warm fire and wine in-hand (and cat nuzzled near by).  A few of my favorite reads for this season, but certainly not limited to:
• Wutherin Heights by Emily Bronte
• The Dubliners by James Joyce
• Rebeecca  Daphne Du Maurier
• Stephanie Meyers' Twilight Sage...again
• This year's goal: Begin The Dragon Lance Series by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickmann
•  Cooking: Summer grilling certainly takes it's own place inside the span of summer days, however, hot homemade potpie? Spicy hot chocolate?  And a biting red wine.  Done. Done, and done.  With hope that I have spent the warm summer months, wisely, this is the time I prepare to make use of the indoors.  
• Herbal Fever: And all those herbs you labored over, throughout summer?  Time to dry, hang, make use of and admire.  Now is the time to get a little creative.  Do a little research.  Herbs act as cures to slight ailments; make for delish teas, add flavor to warm comfort foods and makes for pretty decor.
• Sleep: There is absolutely no better sleep aid than rain.  Nothing beats it.  The sound sings like lullabies
• Writing: Seems the colder. more, dare I say, "moody," vibe best suits my inspiration to write.
• Wearing for the Weather: Bring on the sweaters, jeans and boots.  I love, love, love them all.  I can get away with scarfing myself daily during this season.  
• She's Crafty: A great time to start up some handmade Holiday cards; Christmas decor; gifts; party plannin', etc.  If you're stuck indoors due to weather, why not make the most of it, ey?
• Sloth Free: Just because I'm indoors DOES NOT mean physical activity remains to a minimum.  Climb the stairs; practice yoga; clean...it all burns calories...all of it.
• The Colors: The colors of Autumn enliven vision.  The Sierras are emboldened with the yellow of aspens; evergreen trees and the still-thriving wild flowers.  Taking this in before the glistening winter breathes her white fire.

Rainy days make for some good eats...

Good eats!  This....

...is what became of our homemade pot pie.

Now...not a big fan of Deviled Eggs, but my boyfriend and his son sure are...

Deviled eggs with the traditional mayonnaise and mustard with a swarm of dill, garlic and fresh chives.

                                      

THE Deviled egg.  A mixture of mayo, mustard, sweet pickle relish and paprika.