Gnaw Thyself

A while back, Masked Mom reviewed the movie, Catfish. So intrigued was I that I immediately reserved it at the library. I won't go into the details of the movie, you'll just have to watch it, but at it's heart, it's about who we are versus how we represent ourselves. It also explores the idea of online socializing, online personae and how these things can become tricky. This is part one of the worm that has been gnawing at the back of my brain.

A while back I had a discussion with a fellow blogger in which I tried to explain that because of the nature of blogging, there is a potentially wide gulf for misunderstanding between blogger and reader. My writing style tends to be somewhat intense and lends a feeling of intimacy with the reader. I have been accused of being manipulative and duplicitous because of this, but that is not ever the intention. I mostly write pictures of things, I paint a thought I want to explore, I want to draw the reader into that thought and swim around in it for a while. People write for a number of reasons, in infinitely different styles. This style just happens to be mine. I like the interior view and I'm not a very good storyteller, so there you have it. This is part two of the worm. Chomp chomp.

I'm reading Jonathan Lethem's Ecstasy of Influence right now. The book explores the relationship of the writer to his own writing, to the writing of others, to the art, music, and presence of others, to the writer's world, both interior and exterior and how all of these things influence each other almost inexplicably. One of the most fascinating ideas that keeps recurring throughout the book is the notion of what Lethem calls his "public avatar". He writes novels, essays, and articles, many of which contain personal information about him, about his childhood, about his life. One could conceivably sit down and piece together a timeline of his life based on his published work. One could also know how intensely he felt about different events and people throughout that timeline. He does interviews on television, on the radio, and in print. In many of these interviews he answers personal questions about himself. All of this lends fans the idea that they "know" Lethem. His reaction to compiling this public/private information about himself, from himself, is interesting. It is a separate Lethem. It is the Lethem that readers know. It is not the man himself. This is the end of that brain worm that is now crapping out this halting essay.

Where, exactly, in this whole mess is the Self? How often do we presume knowledge of another person based on scant evidence? What if the evidence is copious but not complete? Would the evidence ever be complete? I can confidently say that my husband knows me better than anyone else. One of the things that I have adored about him from the start is that I can be fully "myself" around him. I have maybe two or three other friends with whom I feel the same. I have plenty of friends with whom I feel comfortable and amiable, but I spare them the full disclosure. I have someone I consider a dear friend, whom I have never actually met in person. I am completely open and candid on a variety of subjects in our written communication, but there again, is it complete? Is it possible to know someone without having ever spent time in their physical presence? There are people in my life with whom I spent way too much time in person, but never really got to know who they were. There are several men that I've dated that never, ever even had the tiniest idea who I was. All of these people, however, see me in different lights. Their assessments of my characteristics would overlap to some degree, but would each paint slightly skewed pictures. If this makes me duplicitous and manipulative, then so be it. But I don't think I would be alone in wearing those descriptors.

Perhaps the Self is the person we, and we alone, know? Fair enough. But do you know anyone who seems to be completely deluded about their Self? A talkative person who says "I'm shy." An intense and tightly wound person who tells you that they are easy going? Who has made the errant perception? You or your friend? Are they perhaps privy to interior information to which you have no access? On the other hand, I have known several people throughout my lifetime who spent a great deal of time and energy telling people how wonderful they were. This is a behavior I find off-putting and strange, but in almost every case, people believed them. "Oh, So-and-So? She's wonderful." I have nearly bitten off my tongue to keep from asking "Why?" Is it just that this sort of person is better at PR? Or are they really as wonderful as they tell everyone they are and I just can't see it? Maybe it's just me, but I find the greater the dissonance between my perception of a person and what they say they are, the less I like them. In these types of situations, is it I or they who don't know that Self?

Is this whole concept of Self further muddied by our assorted profiles and online accounts? Blogging is a relatively new means of communication. It's less personal than an email, longer than a status update, and virtually limitless in its reach and subject matter. We post the pictures on Facebook of the days when everyone's smiling. We list the preferences and hobbies that we want. We expose only the dirty secrets that we feel like exposing, some not at all. We use screen names, acronyms, nicknames, pseudonyms. We tell stories, divulge information, give the impression of intimacy, but there's a difference, isn't there? For one, I think it would be pretty boring to look in on people's every move. "Going to the can now, probably should bring a magazine." We paint with broad brushstrokes the pictures we want others to see: for some it's a constant string of dramas, a litany of woes; for others it's the opposite - everything's great, the children are adorable and I never sweat. For most of us, it's something in between. Does all of this add another layer to the Self that didn't exist ten years ago? Or is it just a digitized facet of something that was already there?

I have no definitive answers to any of these questions, in case you were wondering. They've just been composting back in the waste heap of my brain and I throw the worms on when they come up and they gnaw away, turning it over and over, hopefully into something more viable. If I had to hazard a guess, I would suppose that the true Self lies somewhere in the middle of the perception gap. That if we took all of these varying accounts and lay them one over the other like overheads on a projector (remember those) that the picture that emerged would probably surprise us all. Maybe most of all, my Self.


This was written for GBE2's topic this week: Self

Guest Post: Changing the Traditions of Relationships

Today's post is a bit of a change of speed from my usual rantings. Tonya Vrba contacted me with this post and thought it would be a good fit for the readers here around the Periphery.

Author Bio: Tonya Vrba is a passionate writer. Her work has been published in newspapers and blogs. She writes frequently about health, career and online dating. Learn more about her work at her personal website

Changing the Traditions of Relationships: good or bad for society?

In the tragic romance of Romeo and Juliet, the two lovers marry before meeting their unfortunate demise. Juliet is 13 years of age. While his age is never specifically mentioned in the play, it is reasonable to assume he is in his late teens or early 20s given the traditions of the period. When looking back at one’s family history it is common to find grandparents and great grandparents who married in their late teens or early 20s. Many of us have parents who were wed in their early to mid 20s as well.
Today, young people are waiting longer to get married. It’s not uncommon for high school or college sweet hearts to date for six or seven years before they finally decide to tie the knot. Sometimes they even move into together before getting married and sometimes they never get married at all. All this is, of course, untraditional. It goes against the official beliefs of many religions and may be seen as indecent or sinful by older generations.
We are witnessing an interesting clash of cultures as we see old traditions challenged and new codes of morality and purity established. In the United States, 92 percent of the population believe in a God. Most religious traditions frown upon having sex before marriage, conceiving a child out of wedlock, moving in together before marriage and homosexual marriage. Despite these traditions, 95 percent of Americans have had premarital sex, 40 percent of all births are out of wedlock and 53 percent of Americans support gay marriage.
None of these cultural changes in relationships has passed traditional people unseen. There are strong campaigns against all these changes. The changing traditions today are not left to the older age of marriages but to how relationships are viewed across the board.
As a culture, we must be headed in a positive direction. Since divorced peaked in the 1980s,  more married couples have remained together. This is blamed on the facts that couples are waiting longer to get married and that they also wait until they become financially stable. Yet, too often there is substantial pressure on young people to get married.
After I had been with my boyfriend for about two and a half years, I started hearing the question. So where are you tying the knot? Any marriage plans? When, in your early 20s, you have family members dropping hints and friends who are choosing to marry young, these comments can be very distressing. This can be especially true if a person is also single.
Now, of course, every person has their own goals in life. The truth of the matter is no one deserves to feel unimportant simply for being single. They also should feel more than welcomed to carry on a long relationship if that’s what they want. The hard part of carrying on those lifestyles is that parents and grandparents may not be so supportive. A single lifestyle does not mean an abstinent one and couples who move in together are always assumed to be sexually active.
That may be the main factor in tradition’s resistance toward our changing culture. These newly acceptable relationships erase any thoughts of an abstinent, and therefore pure, relationship. While there are many who see our changing traditions as deplorable, in many ways they are preferable. Marriages that have happier children who tend to be better in school. Modifying that more, relationships that remain together are good for the next generation, whether there is a ring on the finger or not.
What are your thoughts on our changing traditions? Has the definition of purity been changed and is it even important anymore? Is it possible to have a close relationship to a God while also approving of sexual activity and child bearing out of wedlock?

Guest Post: 3 Poems

Deb at Kicking Corners is our guest today. She's one of my new favorite bloggers with her thought-provoking posts and incredible range. She sent me these lovely poems that have instantly taken up residence in my sub-conscious. Thank you, Deb, for sharing these vibrant little bits of life with us.

Untitled

You're helping me get past the part

where I feel like throwing up.

Me being quiet protects you

from having to know.

And from having to do.

I want to live somewhere

that's it's okay to make mistakes.

In this world you have to be perfect.

Pictures don't talk.

This grey place is calm --

but not for long.

Learn to Too

When I get mad at you,

here are some things you can do:

You can call me a bitch and walk away.

You can talk over me, not listen to a word I say.

Or you can smirk at me, laugh. Make me feel dumb.

You can rip my emotions apart until I feel numb.

You can lock me away from what I care for.

You can keep tally of comments, like sport with a score.

These are drops in an ocean of things you could do.

But if you really love me,

like I love you --

then when I get mad at you,

show me you love me anyway.

Despite the things I say.

Because the deep down secret is this:

I'm really just mad at me.

I know this ocean because I've learned to tread water in it.

Nearly over my self-depreciating head,

I'm spinning in it.

But if you can still love me,

no matter what I do,

maybe I can learn to too.

Myth's Creations

Ha! Ha! Ha!

Bubbling out.

We are a spring brook.

We are full of fish and tadpols.

We tumble together.

Waves washing over and over each other.

Roaring, we are the ocean,

laughing.

Lazy snakes, not wiley.

We lay on rocks.

Soaking. Sun.

You are warm to me.

You are my tree of knowledge:

teaching me good and evil.

You are my tree of life:

we are forever.

We are creation myths.

I believe in you.

Tangled Names

You know how when you say a word too much, you start to forget what it means? Everyone does this. It's really fun if you do it with your own name. You find yourself sitting there thinking: Who is that? How can that be the name of anything? How can that have been my name my whole life and I'm only now just hearing how ridiculous it is?! Or at least I do. My name is not ridiculous. It's not terribly common for my particular age group. It is related to a much more common name which I get called quite often and it grates. Oddly, though, my real name doesn't get used much.

My mom calls me by it occasionally, but as we mostly talk on phones with caller ID, she already knows it's me and just says "Hi." or "Hi honey."

My dad rarely ever called me by my full name. He was the only one who was ever allowed to shorten it or make a diminutive out of it. He also called my by my sister's name or sometimes my brother's as parents are sometimes apt to do.

My kids call me Mama, sometimes Mom. Never Mommy. Sometimes they call me by my first name. It sounds so funny in their little mouths, so I let them. I don't hold to old notions of disrespect and it is, in fact, my name. They probably use it more than anyone, but even they don't use it that often.

My punk-face junior high students call me Mrs. and I let them. They think I'm old and horrible because I have gray hair and children and no iPhone and I make them read things for understanding. No one else calls me Mrs. That is someone else's name.

The parents, teachers and students at my daughter's school call me jBird's Mom, which suits me fine. She is far more memorable than I am and any capacity in which those people know me, it is unnecessary for them to know me personally, only the function I serve as jBird's mom. Ditto my son's school. Except the children there are mostly at an age where they don't know anyone's name anyway, or care. And I avoid their parents because they frighten me with loud baby talk and fur coats.

I have a friend who calls me Roxy, a friend who calls me Buttercup, a friend who calls me Esther, another who calls me Special K. All very old nicknames from different origins, times and places. They are perhaps the only ones besides my husband who have had nicknames adhere to me.

My husband calls me Lou. I call my husband Lou. It's a habit started in our first year of marriage. It comes from One Legged Lou - the name of the finger I use to poke my husband when he's sleeping, just to startle him. I'm annoying that way. It also comes from Lou Dominguez - the man whose mail my mother-in-law started to receive after living in her house for well over 20 years. We created a back story for him and my mother-in-law that was profoundly funny. At least we thought so.

We have called each other Lou so long that we forget when we say it in front of other people and they are surprised. When both kids were first learning to talk, Lou was among their first words. My jBird would stand in her crib and holler "Llllooooouuuu!" in the sweetest little voice if ever I dared to put her down for a nap in that little baby cage. The Hooligan was much more terse. He would point to me and say "Wou!" and then point to his daddy and say "Wou!"

My dad tried to call my husband Lou once and it was so awkward that we all just blushed silently for a minute and then never spoke of it again.

We knew before we were ever pregnant with the jBird what her name would be. The Hooligan's name was not solidified until a few hours after he was born. We carefully chose their names for very specific reasons and then after they were born proceeded to call them by a series of nicknames anyway. My sister-in-law said that jBird wouldn't know what her name was because we never called her by it. But she did. Very early on, she did. Same for the Hooligan.

I protect our names online because you never know who might be reading or what they might do with the information they do read. I find this a little silly and paranoid, but I'm told it's a good idea. I will be silly if it means protecting my children. I am silly for far less important reasons sometimes. So online I am Tangled Lou, decidedly silly. Tangled because that is the state of my mind, my tongue and my writing a lot of times. Tangled because of my knitting obsession. Tangled because the play on words is too irresistible with the Bob Dylan song, Tangled Up In Blue.

But somehow in this state of tangled names, with each their own source, their own piece of me, there in the center of it all is just Me. The Me that no matter how much I repeat it, does not begin to sound ridiculous. The Me that friends from grade school still recognize. The Me in whom my mom still sees shadows of the baby I was. The Me that I recognize no matter what the outward circumstances of my life. The Me that does not change. This is the Me that I embrace with all of her flaws and idiosyncratic ways, with her brilliance and her silliness, with her monstrous thoughts and tender heart, with her knowing and her wonder, with her naivete and her wisdom, with her intensity and heat, with her hideousness and beauty. This is the Me that has been there for as long as I can remember, the Me that no one can touch. And honestly, I don't really know how to pronounce her name.  

Things That Made Me Smile Today

My back yard smelled like Santa Fe this morning, thanks to pine smoke from the chimney and the fresh coffee in my cup. It took me on a cold, bright vacation to the fall of what seems like a hundred years ago. The smells whisper to me of promise, of joy in the midst of uncertainty. Of presence in the midst of hoping. Of a story I will some day tell. I wanted to sop it up like honey with a bit of warm tortilla, crunchy with cinnamon and sugar and yielding soft in its interior.

My true love sent me notes today. Sent me such silliness in the midst of business, strictly business. He popped up there on my screen and said hello, I love you in a thousand different ways that made me laugh. He reminded me what's good, what's right, what's true. He told me things that only I would understand. He was a tangible presence there, like a hug from far away. He made me wonder why I thought anyone else ever mattered.

My muse visited me today. In spite of his being a wee bit battered of late, he came to say hello. Yes, my muse is male. No he isn't real. He's just visits me from time to time and brings me treats of words. Phrases and ideas that tumble around and fall out through a pen that moves so smoothly, uninterrupted. I thanked him for his time and explained I'd love to stay and chat forever, but there was this laundry to be done, food to be made, people to tend. He said it was all right, he'd just hang out in the back of my mind a while. He kept me company while I worked.

These little people in my life with their speeches and their declarations, their moods and their mischief. I looked at them through new eyes today. The eyes that say that's good, that's right, that's how it should be. They whirled themselves green on the playground; fell tumbling, laughing to a heap of suddenly longer, leaner arms and legs. Arm in arm they skipped away to find the next adventure. They have their secret language, the language of being born of the same womb in different times. The language of eyes that match each other's and barely distinguishable laughs. Their world is two halves of a whole, a yin and a yang and a hop, skip, pounce, giggle. My eyes said that's good, that's right, that's how it should be.

Photo courtesy of morguefile.com

There are things you'll never know. The things that make me cry. The things that light up the inside of my head like too many fluorescent bulbs and make me cringe and cower. The things that hurt and annoy and break. The things that seek to destroy. The things that bring me to my knees. There are things you'll never know because they aren't worth knowing.

These things that make me smile, though; I collect them like stones and carry them in my pockets. Their weight is ballast. Their clam insistence holds me to center when balance is precarious. These stones shelter me when the outside is scratching to get in - whining, niggling, insisting upon itself. These warm stones that fill up the pockets of my thoughts: the scents, the sun, the soul mate, the source, the smallness of hands and feet with great big souls. These are the things that made me smile today.

Toxic Waste

photo courtesy of www.morguefile.com

I live in a house with two small children and neither of them whine as much as some of the adults in my life.
This landfill does not accept toxic emotional waste. We spend a great deal of time worrying about our carbon footprint, our environmental impact. We would never even consider just dropping our trash on the ground, much less flinging it at someone else. Is it possible that we could pay even half as much attention to the toxic emotional waste we hurl about? That stuff has a serious environmental impact, too.

Submission

That's a dirty word in American society, isn't it? I am independent. I am not submissive. I know my own mind and no one can tell me what to do. Right? Except for when we're not independent. Except for when we do what we're told. Except for when we frequently submit our wills to any number of things and people around us. It's how we stay on the road when we're driving, it's how we keep our jobs, it's how we stay in relationships, it's how we live.

If we didn't submit to the utilities services and pay our bills when they demand that we do, we would be without electricity or water or garbage removal (with the possible exception of Mark on his mountain.) If we didn't submit to our bosses and show up every day or when we're scheduled and do the job that is required of us, we would quickly be without a job. If we didn't occasionally submit to our loved ones, we would become bores and chores and probably find ourselves without said loved ones eventually.

I spent this afternoon watching eleven preschoolers, tired and cranky from a busy day at school and all hopped up on sugar, whine and grab and run and ignore their parents. There are any number of torturous hells I would have preferred to endure. There are any number of really fun things I could have been doing. I could have been taking a nap. But, I submitted. Because a little boy with brown eyes painstakingly made thirteen rocket ships out of Lifesavers and Hershey kisses and paper to give to these little miscreants and his teachers. Because my needs are important, but sometimes it is necessary to set them aside to watch little grubby hands carefully deliver love notes into decorated paper bags. So I find the joy in watching him navigate the bedlam that is a preschool party. I swallow the urge to tell someone else's kid to blow their nose. I, once again, sit on my hands so they do not reach out and pet a mom's fur coat. I smile and make appalling small talk and wipe the frosting out of my hair. I submit to this out of love, out of necessity, and in the service of something greater than my own comfort.

We all submit in one way or another. It is another kind of submission that occupies my thoughts tonight, though. It's the same word for a different kind of act, but it carries some of the same ideas. I have a submission. The big envelope with the scary words: "Attn: Editor" in the address. I have dutifully counted my words, checked, double checked, quintuple checked all of the necessary information I must include. I have edited and cut and pasted and read, re-read, re-re-read and edited again. There are any number of ways to torture myself. There are any number of really fun things I could be doing. I could certainly be taking a nap. But now I submit. Because the time for doing other things has passed. Because I have run out of excuses. There are any number of things I could be doing. But instead, I submit. And in this, like in all the other ways I submit in my life, I submit this out of love, out of necessity and in the service of something greater than my own comfort.

And now I will take a nap.

Cupid's Misfires

I got two bouquets of flowers for Boss's Day this year, I also get them sometimes because it's a Tuesday or because I'm really tired, or because he felt like it. I buy chocolate whenever it's on sale. The Chief Lou and I have "Date Night" every night after the monkeys go to sleep - where usually we eat the sale chocolate and watch DVDs or read together or something incredibly romantic like that. Valentine's Day in our house is centered mostly on the manufacture of tiny handmade cards for classmates and surprising the monkeys with balloons and treats on the morning of February 14th.

I have a rather dim view of holidays intent on promoting the sale of greeting cards and demoting anyone who doesn't have anyone to give them said greeting cards. Love, like everything else, should be celebrated daily in myriad ways that do not involve mass consumption of disposable goods. Although mass consumption of chocolate is a good idea almost any time. Except right before dinner. Unless you know dinner might be especially nasty.

I'm not ungrateful, Cupid has been good to me. We've reached an understanding. Or rather, I have. It took a good many misfires for me to realize what was up. I had a whole post written on this topic, but it was long-winded and sounded self-pitying (which I'm not. Well, I'm long-winded occasionally, but not self-pitying. Especially not in regards to silly holidays.) I read somewhere that aspiring writers can make some freelance money in the greeting card industry, so instead, I decided to try my hand at that. Here are some Valentine's cards I could have written over the years. Perhaps I can send them off to Hallmark and make a few bucks.

I am so glad you asked her to the Valentine's dance instead of me...

Your hands were clammy and you always smelled vaguely of fish. 

***

After all these years, I saw your profile on Facebook and I just wanted to say...

Who's ugly now, Mullet Man?!

Happy Valentine's Day!

***

Valentine's Day always reminds me of you...

I'm sorry I left like that without a word. 

I was young and scared and weak and I didn't know what else to do.

***

Oh, Valentine! You know me so well...

I always wanted to find you passed out and covered in whipped cream in my bed.

The teddy bear was especially thoughtful, too.

***

On this Valentine's Day, all I ask of you...

Is that you not speak. 

I am only dating you for your motorcycle.

***

Nothing is more romantic, my Valentine...

Than a "fancy" dinner at the Olive Garden where you flirt with the server and leave a lousy tip.

***

When I said I loved you...

I was really drunk and thinking of someone else.

Happy Valentine's Day.

***

When we first met...

I wish you had told me that 

you were really into dudes.

Happy Valentine's Day.

***

Happy Valentine's Day, my true love...

like the coffee grinder I gave you on our first Valentine's Day together,

we are still going strong after a lot of 

years of hard work.

***

Perhaps I should stick to my day job. 

Hand Over Your Keys

Various experts in such things will tell you that there are Keys To A Happy Marriage. Like it's something you drive.

Two of these Keys are:
 1. You and your spouse should share common interests.
 2. Your relationship should be occasionally fresh and exciting.

***Oddly, none of these expert "keys" include lengthy discussions about who did what with the keys the last time they drove the car and who was late to something because after an exhaustive search for the keys, found them in the refrigerator. But I digress.*** 


So it is only fitting that we should have been in the car this evening when we expertly exhibited these two particularly profound Keys To A Happy Marriage. Just keeping the love alive out here on the Periphery.

Tangled Lou: [General nattering about newly discovered knowledge of the possible existence of wild mountain hamsters]
Chief Lou: [Turning up the radio] Shh for a second.
TL: Did you just...? Oh, you did not just shush me so you could turn up Phil Collins.
Phil Collins: [Singing.] Su-su-ssssudio. I just sail away. Ohhhhhhh! Su-su-su-sudio. (Or some such nasal-ing about.)
CL: Oh wait! Is this Phil Collins?
TL: Uh, yeah.
CL & TL: [Insert brief discussion of the lameness of Phil Collins even though TL used to actually own No Jacket Required and thought it was rock music, but that can hardly be held against her because she was very young and grew up in rural Vermont and China for crying out loud and what was the deal with Genesis? And a very little more about wild mountain hamsters.]
TL: [Triumphantly.] Whatever. You're the one who turned up Phil Collins.
PC: [Still singing. Too loudly, still through his nose.]
CL: [Spluttering a bit.] But... I... I didn't....
TL: No. Did you, or did you not, just shush me and then turn up Phil Collins?
CL: Yes, I did but...
TL: Tut tut tut tut. I rest my case.
CL: No. I did but, I thought it was Gloria Estefan.
TL: !!!!!!!
PC: [No longer singing. Probably because he's hurt and confused.]

So, come on. Shake your body, baby. Can you do that conga? I know you can't control yourself any longer.

I Fell In Love Today

I tripped out of flannel sheets into the chilly morning and I fell in love. A pile of blankets on the living room floor, two small heads poking out, little eyes focused, little lips moving silently, hair and breath that spoke of early rising - quietly cuddled with each a book, patiently awaiting the day.

I fell in love today with the street. Unseasonably clear and wide open skies - the kind I forget exist when the clouds always crowd the edges - a yawn of trees, sparkling sentinels in the uncharacteristic morning sun. They waved their arms in alarm at me and pointed to the west. And there she was: stony, stark, crested with white just the palest shade lighter than the icy sky - the mountain. An opulent dowager presiding over the city.

I fell in love today with a pile of wood. Maple, cherry, alder. Just a few sticks of cedar for kindling. I fell in love with my arms and legs and back again as I hauled and stacked and hauled some more. These bundles of potential energy in my arms, promising their hard and seasoned warmth in this, the most uncertain of our seasons.


I fell in love today with a little boy. His dimpled chin and crooked grin. He winks and does the pointed finger thumbs up at me. "Is there room to stand up there?" he asks of the mountains and barely waits to hear before he's off - climbing mountains in his mind. There is, doubtless, heavy machinery and technical jargon involved. He catches me watching him think. He winks at me and I melt. In everything he's casual. "I feel kind of chokey and I have a headache today," he says calmly while he plays with my hair, "Do you think it would be all right if I didn't go to school today? I think I need to rest." So rest we did. I lost myself in those dark, dark eyes and cocky grin and forgot the question.


I fell in love with a tall tale today. My proud little girl declares "Mine was the tallest!" Indeed it was. Well over six feet tall, this tale was. A tale spun by a precious Bird of a hero, Violet. She uses her new-found super power to save her village, but she undertakes the task of the saving before she even knows her ability. This tale that says so much about its author. I swoon over her dialogue, expression, her metaphors. I swoon over her own super-power, that great big heart that bulges through everything she does. She shows more gums than teeth when she gives me her proudest grin. Hers is the tallest tale.

I fell in love with myself today. I walked into the kitchen to get my vitamins, I ate some jelly beans and forgot. I told the firewood guy I was waiting for him to leave so I could roll naked in the beautiful wood. I spoke with nerves and without filter as I often do when confronted with talk that is small. He laughed and said "Look out for splinters!" and drove his truck away quickly. I spent an hour doing something that should take a minute. I wandered the paths in my head and found myself standing in strange places wondering why I had opened the fridge. I giggled with monkeys and exasperated them and then scolded them and told them to clean up the mess. I contradicted, I forgot, I drank too much coffee and spent too much time staring into space, imagining what I will wear when I'm famous. My pants fall down, my socks don't match, I am a grouch. I love it all.

I fell in love with a man today. He works alongside me every day. His work is away from here, mine is always here, but he's there. He phones to tell me ridiculous things. He comes straight home from work and stacks wood with me, shooing me away to take a break. He reads my words and glows. He knows me, with my pants and my socks and my wandering open fridge and he laughs. He hugs me. He hugs them. He knows withheld affection personally and will never withhold. He bathes and he tucks and he reads and he prays and he kisses good night. And then we speak of things that grownups do when children have gone to bed: the 9th Circuit Court of Appeals, the merits of maple wood, sauerkraut and Ricky Gervais. He sets my hair on fire. He calls me by my true name that no one else knows.

I fell in love today. I fell in love with the horizon, the mess on my living room floor, the dirty socks beside my bed, the chaos of a smile, the silence of a telephone call, the projects left unfinished by my chair, the books I have yet to read, the words I have yet to write. I fell in love with possibility, with endurance, with compassion, with awkwardness and grief. I fell in love today. I fell in love with today.

Remember that time we got married?

Photo courtesy
 walkermetalsmiths.com

August 17 - 20, 1997 - Took an impromptu road trip with some people I had just met to a place I had never been. Returned home. Realized it wasn't home.

Sometime late August, 1997 - Parents returned from Kazakhstan. Announced they were moving to Houston, Texas. Asked me to go with them. Resounding no.

Labor Day Weekend, 1997 - Packed my stuff and cat, Chicken. Left promising career as waitress at steak house, beloved 1979 BMW 325i, and not-so-beloved-ex-boyfriend-who-had-trouble-accepting-the-ex-part behind. Moved to Houston, Texas.

Sometime in early September, 1997 - Cat, Chicken, received snake bite on front paw. Late-night visit to veterinary emergency clinic. Reconsidered this God-forsaken place I'd moved to.

Sometime later that week, 1997 - Received envelope from Not-so-beloved-ex containing only a check from  sale of beloved 1979 BMW 325i and three photos of new Jeep Wrangler. Name misspelled on envelope. Decided Texas wasn't so bad after all.

Late September, 1997 - Took job, despite parents' protestations, at Barnes and Noble. Lost self in alphabetizing and ladies who lunch. Charming co-worker, rumored to be heart breaker, introduced himself at shift change: "You're the new girl, right?" Walked away.

Later September, 1997 - Charming co-worker / Rumored heart breaker invited me to cigar bar after work to play pool. I neither drink, nor smoke cigars, nor play pool. Went anyway.

Still September, 1997 - Discovered over coffee that charming heart breaker was not ladies man, after all. Rumors spread by psycho hose beast co-worker feeling rejected. Also discovered charming co-worker was extremely intelligent and awkward with women.

Early October, 1997 - Different co-worker with teeth like shovels invited me to see downtown Houston. Spent day avoiding breathtakingly clumsy advances and wondering what Charming co-worker was up to.

Later same evening, 1997 - Teased mercilessly by Charming co-worker for how I'd spent my day.

Wee hours of next morning, 1997 - Charming co-worker made up for teasing with coffee at all-night Denny's. Laughed like I hadn't done in months. Alarm bells went off.

Mid-October, 1997 - Invited Charming co-worker to They Might Be Giants show with sister and boyfriend. Borrowed money from sister's boyfriend to pay our cover. Made Charming co-worker drop me in grocery store parking lot near my house so he wouldn't see where I lived.

October 24, 1997 - My 23rd birthday. Charming co-worker showed up at work on day off to bring cup of coffee and  Fiona Apple CD. Feigned surprise that it was my birthday. Smooth.

October 25 - November 16, 1997 - Expended much effort casually bumping into Charming co-worker. Sometimes shared lunch break, later discovered was organized by Assistant Manager who saw more than we did.

November 17, 1997 - Went to Austin on day off to see more interesting parts of Texas. Incidentally, to be vetted by college friends. Fainted in Quackenbush's on 6th. Muffins looked extremely vivid in display case. Came around with face on Formica table. There was no real good explanation for this nonsense.

Wee hours, November 18, 1997 - Got back from Austin at 4 AM. Despite my being lame fainting girl on date, kissed me in the car. "I Can See Clearly Now" on radio.

November 19, 1997 - Felt like idiot for fainting incident. Decided to be casual about kiss. He refused to accept either state of mind. Mercilessly teased and made cryptic announcements on loudspeaker at work concerning muffins. Took me out after work. Kissed me again.

Later that week, 1997 - Decided we were dating. Purchased copy of 147 Fun Things to do in Houston.

Thanksgiving weekend, 1997 - Called on Thanksgiving to say hi. Mentioned that his aunt made White Castle Dressing for the turkey. Failed to mention he was going to college friend's lake house for remainder of  weekend. Spent 3 days post-turkey driving aimlessly, fuming, writing lots of bad, bad, angry poetry. Came to senses and decided only logical course of action: break up.

Within an hour of his returning, Thanksgiving weekend, 1997 - Went out for coffee. Script of preemptive heart break preempted by him. Disclosed he was falling madly in love with me. Could leave if I thought he was crazy. Explained I was crazy too, then.

Early December, 1997 - Begged him to locate, and then take me to, The Hobbit Hole Restaurant as described  in 147 Fun Things to do in Houston. I ordered the Gandalf - a 3-inch thick guacamole and egg salad sandwich. Spent remainder of evening surreptitiously farting.

Christmas, 1997 - First Christmas I had ever escaped to spend it with someone outside family of origin. Gave me a blown glass fountain pen with ink to dip it in. Gave him a book about cigars and a crappy mix tape. Decided I was completely insane and never wanted to be without him. Began planning my exit.

New Years Eve, 1997/1998 - Further endeared himself  by attending extremely lame NYE party thrown by  my mom. Wore a silly hat.

Early January, 1998 - Wavered on exit strategy. Tried instead to talk around subject at Denny's. Uttered garbled nonsense: "I worry about the longevity of our relationship". Drunk vomited an astonishing amount of alcohol and pancakes all over the table next to us. Discussion tabled (no pun intended) until further notice.

Later in early January, 1998 - Registered for classes at a frightening state university an hour and a half away. Drove me to registration. Bawled on the way home [me, not him]. Didn't want to leave. He said "Or we could get married." I said "OK". He got out, put gas in car, got back in. Said "Did you just say OK?"

January 10, 1998 - Celebrated his birthday. Attended special performance of  Houston Symphony and Choir: Beethoven's 9th, Ode to Joy. They played that just for us.

Later that week in January, 1998 - Worked different shifts. He showed up waving catalog of Celtic knot jewelry I liked. Given to him by my dad. Conspiracy complete.

Sometime in January, 1998 - Told his mom he was going to marry me. Screamed: "Is she pregnant?!" Proceeded to cry, hug, and lend him money for ring.

February, 1998 - Stood in bathroom getting ready for work. Soft knocking followed by a single rose and small blue box extended around corner of bathroom door.
"I have something for you."
"OK, let me put some pants on."

July 3, 1998 - Married. Fajita bar at reception. Spent remainder of evening surreptitiously farting.

July 4, 1998 - Whole country celebrated in our honor with fireworks, barbecues.

Sometime last month, 2011 - Mom, on phone to me: "Sometimes you just meet someone and they smell like home."



**Written in response to Weekly Writing Prompt from Mama Kat's Pretty Much World Famous Writer's Workshop: "Married? Tell us the story of how the question was popped." I sort of followed directions. Check out Mama Kat at http://www.mamakatslosinit.com/. **