My Divorce From Facebook

About a month ago, I disabled my Facebook account.

Few people noticed.

Fewer asked me about it.

Which, in the end, after all these weeks, is why I am not upset about my intention to separate myself from this particular social medium.

I wasted an insurmountable time on Facebook.  It began to take my evenings from me.  I compared my photos to those of my friends, and worse, rather than celebrate folks lives, I began to have a sneaking suspicion that most of my intake of folks' updates was causing me a bit of sadness.

Okay, to the point, now.

I'm really tired of comparing myself, my life and my lack of accomplishments to people I love- it's sick, morose and sad.

I'm tired of friends comparing notes about the number of drinks they can consume without passing out.

Or the tension publicly displayed via page comments upon one another's pages.

I'm tired of looking at boob-shots and jock shots.  (I'm not prude, but seriously?  C'mon).

I'm tired of people's usage of the f-bomb on my page- my boss reads my page.  So does my Mom.  I cuss like a sailor, don't get me wrong, but not on a social media site.

Folks have every right to post as they please, compare their 2 year-old's $1,000+ birthday party expenditures and such.  But as they say...rather than complain, fight buy in to a hot mess, just exit the premises.  So, sadly, I've chosen not to involve myself.

With no ability to get a grasp on things, I bailed on the entire adventure...it's like therapy, but without meds.

And it's proven to be thoroughly productive.  Given such a separation, this venue gives me the chance to indulge in a few things I love.  It allows me the freedom to once again remember what it is that I'm good at, without the constant upkeep of "keeping up with the Jones'".  Also admitting that my time spent on Facebook is not well-harnessed by your's truly, I've moved on to better ventures, until I can presume my relationship with a little bit more maturity.

So there it is.  The folks closest to me might get it.  There's little to be gained in life, by the comparison of one's self to a mass of people.

So, instead of comparing my own "lacking," I've started a garden.  And I've used my KitchenAid a lot. I've written notes and mailed them, via snail mail.  Like when you use a pen to write on a card and then stick the card in an envelope, slap a stamp on it, and pass it off to the Post Woman (who in my neck of the woods is very much like Pheobe, from Friends.

Anyway, there it is.

I love people and it's never my intent to hurt or overlook, but Facebook is just not how I choose to maintain my relationships with the people I love.

Dang, it feels good to be a gangsta.

b

Even Mom Wonders About Me...

My mom just read my most recent blog, and she responded to it via a text (she learned how to do this a year ago?  or so?  and she really, really, really loves to text me).  She insinuated that in reading my most recent blog, after this one, that there was so much about me she doesn't know.

And this, as a wanna-be-writer, is one of the most magical things she could have said to me.

She knows me better than any other soul on this Earth (except maybe my cat) and there's still more to come from me.  It reminds me that there are a few tricks, stories and tales hiding up my sleeve.  Mom knows my demeanor, my wicked temper and my spinning head.  But sadly, what she, and some others may not always have the chance to see, are the spaces in me which create calm.  The stories and movies in my head.  I'm a wild, driven and pugnacious soul, but I am also quiet- that quiet gets lost in the sounds of my maddening voice.  There spaces of utter peace within me and for some sad reason, I am mostly, unable to exhibit that part of myself, in reality.  I immersed in the world around me.

And when I find my quiet, I remember the softer side of who I am- the girl who loves pink (but is scared to admit it, for fear of being stoned or...worse...deemed feminine.  That's another blog).

Thanks Mom, for reminding me that there is more to me than what I've shown.  It means there's still time for me.  Still time to take the quiet I hear now, and bring it, with me, in my pocket, as I travel outside, in such a noisy world.  I use my words to hide that part of me, I suppose.  My shield from chaos.

Sad.

Very sad.

How, ever, did it come to this?

But, then, there it is.  You write.  You are.

And when I write my novel some day, I will make certain that there is a tempered mention of the color pink.

And of a girl who learns to just be...quiet.

And happy.

On Mermaids and Selkies...mostly Mermaids though...

 

The waters rush'd, the waters rose,
 Wetting his naked feet;
As if his true love's words were those,
 His heart with longing beat.
She sang to him, to him spake she,
 His doom was fix'd, I ween;
Half drew she him, and half sank he,
 And ne'er again was seen. 

-The Fisherman

Goethe

I love the ocean just as much as the next person.  I grew up on the coast, in a small shore town, Half Moon Bay.

It's nestled from the world, south of the big city, San Francisco.  Half Moon Bay is unlike any typical Cali beach town.  It's a working town, filled with natives, transients, visitors, rich, poor, blue collar, surfers, escapists, cowboys and lost souls.  

It's a far cry from Barbie's ideal beach haven.

No, instead fisherman wake before the sun.  Surfers ply through black water, and farmers rise early, greeting the day with thoughts of fence posts, cattle and hay.

The mist rises and falls away again, like sleep from the eyes of a giant.

I spent hours passing time on trails leading to the edge of the world.  I stared a lot, lost track of time, got in trouble for not calling my parents and well, I dreamed a lot out there.  That giant expanse of water gave me the space to get into the better parts of my head.  

After years have passed me by, I come to find the real reason for my love of the sea.  It's not the blue hue of the ocean, reflecting off the bright cobalt of sky above.  It's not the hot guy changing out of a wet suit, on the side of the road, trunk open.  It's not the sound even.  And while there's something to be said for the weightlessness one feels, as your small body is pulled to and fro, in the hands of a wave, it's not even that.  It's not the feel of harsh sand beneath my feet, and in my toes.  It's not the summer sun either.

It's myth and legend.

The ocean holds her stories as a woman holds her pearls.

On any given night in such a small place, stories are told in a small bar, overlooking carefully clutched fishing boats.  Darkly paneled wood hugs visitors, while a wide-massed wall fire warms bitter toes and running noses. Fingers dissolve in to warmth, and the tap flows, wildly, for such a tiny enclosure.

Years ago, in this very place, I watched a haggard man take his place on a worn bar stool.  His eyes were tired and his beard...holy God...it was a thing of legend.  It tore through his face with a vengeance.  It wasn't the stuff of Santa Claus.  It wasn't the stuff of the placid Irish folk-tale stuff.  It was, er...yeah.  It had the slightest hue of mmm...green to it.  Green.  Old Man Sea had a green beard.  It took me a few minutes to get through the questions looming in my mind.  

Does he wash his beard?  Shampoo it maybe?  Can he use Pantene Pro-V?  Or does he need those huge bottles of Horse 'n' Mane?

Does he have a granddaughter who braids it on Sunday nights for him, while by the fire?

Does he have a seawife who brushes the gnarls from it, for him?

Has he seen it in the mirror?  Could he maybe dye it?   

I was transfixed for a few minutes until I saw the same green in his eyes.  Such a heavy sadness there.  He sipped something thick, the color of amber, in a tiny clear glass, slowly.  And as he set it down upon the bar, I watched his fingers, lightly trace the arms of the wood, fiddle with his napkin, and then trail the top-most portion of the glass with his left middle finger.  I wondered if the small shot glass sang to him, in the same way a light wine glass might.  

And I wondered what made his mind so busy.

And then, like any other twenty-five year old young woman stuck in a five-year old storybook mentality, I made up his story for him.

I knew, that at some point in his earlier years, perhaps also at the age of twenty five, he must have fallen in love with a mermaid.

It was the only reasonable explanation for seaweed eyes and such a lost space within him.

No one would have believed him, not the story of his love for a mermaid.  Never.

He would have seen her rarely, until her mother discovered her nasty little secret, barring her from returning to the tops of the waves, for an eternity.

Her love lost would cause the seas to rise with her tears, saving her human man from the torrents of the storm that very same night.  High seas would carry his ship to the shore, alleviated from the tumbling of her family's rage beneath the seas.

As his feet met earth again, the fog would drip with Rachel Yamagata's Duet, sung by the two brightest stars in the sky.  And he would walk in to this same bar, drinking this drink that now remains the only soul that kisses his lips.  The green upon him, the only reminder of his mermaid's touch, now emblazoned upon his personage, eyes and now beard, with age and time.  He would recall his mermaid's name, something like Lilania, or something close to it.  

And he would await the day he would be passed in to the deep waters, where his lovely mermaid still waits.  Even after all this time.

And then, once some sort of reality struck me, I would begin to wonder what mermaids and mermen think of humans.

Are they angry with us for the drips, drains, dumps and deaths we immerse upon their home?  How far down do they live?  Did they destroy Avalon, clutching it close to the heart of the sea, after the king's men discovered their presence?  Maybe that's why they say Avalon was washed away to the sea?  Do they war with Great Whites and swim with dolphins?  Do they think human men are as lovely a breed of creature we assume of mermaids?  Are their scales really like gold?

They probably think we're idiots.

Mermaids and selkies are myths.  And it's the stuff in these myths that draws, me so, to water.

Like I said, it's not really the sunny sky on beach day that pulls me to the water.

It's the tales told by old fisherman, in bars like that small spot on the coast.  

For as much time as I've spent on the water, by boat, board or wake, I've still never seen a mermaid.  So I've listened to old men tell stories about mermaids, and I'm still sort of young enough to take their word for it.

Dodge Rams, Horses, Boots and Lee Ann Womak. What?

When I was a kid, I remembered my dreams without fail.  I remembered the colors, the flavors, words spoken, tone and time.  I remember rainbow-colored wave about to wash over me, falling from the sky, my mind racing to understand the cognitive lucidity of it all.  As hard as I tried, I could never control my dream, could never end them, when fear struck, could never swim through maddening tides.

As I got older, the memory of dreams became less and less powerful.  These, days, I typically remember dreams, while at work, of all places.  As I sit at my desk, typing away, minding my own business, BAM! There it comes, a segment, the smallest fragment comes to life in my mind.  Somewhat out of place, and totally caught off guard, the film in my head comes on and comes on strong...but very rarely am I able to place it, or remember what came, on the dream reel, before or after that split second.  

Dangit!  I hate that...right there...wait for it...nope.  Can't remember a dang thing.

Well, everything changed this week.

Monday night I dreamed about this...

In a dream, I rode this baby, through a mass of trees, on a trail similar to that of where I grew up in, Half Moon Bay (HMB I love you).  I remember riding a friend's horse, Silver.  He was a gnar-gnar, that one.  Pushing my leg up against the wooden fence post, nipping at my hair, eating apple slices from my back pocket, testing my bit skills, moving every time I swung my short-ass leg over his back.  I imagine he laughed at me.  

A lot.  

Like, all the time.  

That damn horse taunted me.  And I totally loved him, mesmerized and hell-bent on riding like a natural.  I'd ride in a canyon, with an sweeping hundreds of feet...down.  Not like a sweet slope, I'm talking a massive drop.  Major big-time drop.  And Silver rode the very edge.  I'd pull the reign to the right, and he would go with direction for a few minutes, and then we were scraping the edge of the trail again, as I watched small rocks slip over the edge, falling...falling...still going...couldn't hear it anymore.  Silver was a pain in the tail, but he was old.  He was probably smarter than me too.  And he loved to punk me.  

Dear Silver,

May you rest in peace, you punk.  I never did learn to ride like a natural- but I did master the skill of cantering, thank you very much.

So, to re-cap, Monday I had a dream I was riding a horse, on a similar path, only this time, fighting branches overhead as opposed to falling off the edge of a cliff.

Last night, I had a dream I was driving one of these:

This one was fun.  I've always had a thing for big trucks, and I say, if you're gonna get a truck, do it right.

Buy a big'un.

I don't remember this one, really.  It came to me, during my drive to work this morning, and then all day long, I noticed a lot of Dodge trucks on the road.  More so, I really wanted one.  

And then, there's that whole "Secret" thing.  Wish it, imagine it, see it...and it will be.  Someday, I'll get the horse, a pygmy goat, and a lamb- and it will stay a lamb forever.   Oh, I'll probably have to get some chicks.  They can grow in to chickens- that's totally fine.  I love chickens.  They're really funny.

I'll name all these animals, and never eat them.  Every rancher, 4-H Club member and my Grandpa (God rest his soul) and my dad and my boyfriend just rolled their eyes right then.  When I said that.

The part where they wont be eaten.

Ha.

Where's it all coming from?

Well, it started with last Saturday, when I pulled out my old shite kickers from the closet.

I still have a faulty USB cord, so no pics and I dare not post a pic of just any boots, because no pair is even remotely as cool as my own, so you gotta just take my word for it, here.

I've also been listening to a lot of:

I totally love her...totally do.

And since we're in confession mode, I've been listening to some of his stuff too:

Mom just gasped with this one....Dad's proud.

So, here's what's so funny about all this.

My favorite bands in high school were The Cure and Depeche Mode.  Mmmm, and Tori Amos.  She's a staple.  And, you see, the thing is, these genres are...mmmm...in negative relation to one another.  They really just don't go together at all.

Though, I have to say, I grew closer the country thing when I determined Neil Young as my all-time, hands down favorite musician of all time.  E.V.E.R.  Only, I didn't know it at the time.  Look folks, Neil wears cowboy boots.  He may not heard cattle, but he got my freakin' foot in the door.

My summers were spent in North Carolina and my Mom's fam's from VA, baby, and well, I guess the music's in my blood, ears and head.  Like it or not.  

And then, there's the truth.

I love it. 

I totally romanticize the ranch lifestyle, I know, and it's really out of my element.  Though in high school, I had a crush on a cowboy, who didn't know I existed.  And besides, who wouldn't want the view from their boudoir...

That's the thing about letting go of the box that defines you.  You learn to open up a little, and start to appreciate some fragments outside of yourself.   I love cowboy boots, and open land.  I miss riding, and I want a big truck.  I'd still blast Depeche Mode...and...Tori Amos from the speakers, mind you.  I don't have a plot of land, or a yard to speak of, really, but I've planted herbs, peppers, tomatoes and flowers in pots.  I live in the sticks now, and I love every second of it.  I listen to Sara Evans when I'm outside, watering my planties.  (That's planties, folks, not panties.  Folks have a tough time with this Belleism).

And then, there are the memories of summers in North Carolina.  The music brings back all the good parts of my past life.  Folks who've never been to the South, experienced the calm the demeanor and charm...and food...just can't get my point here. The point, here is the calm that comes to me when I listen to country music, the smirk on my face when I think of cowboys, and the beauty of wide open space, well it's a small piece of bliss, in my head.

I guess that's stuff for another blog...

I l

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.