Hobby

I think I need a hobby.  When I started this blog, I thought it might be the hobby I needed, but as I close out the first year of this “hobby,” I am starting to think it may be more of an unhealthy obsession.  I’ve had unhealthy obsessions before.  I’m not what most people would refer to as fanatical, but I’m pretty good at spotting damaging attachments.  I’ve spent a lot of time fostering my vices.  Men.  Booze.  Sex.  Cigarettes.  TV on DVD.  I’ve had my share all of it.  But the older I get, there are fewer men who are worth my time.  The wine doesn’t flow like water, as it once did.  Sex is a lot of investment for what, usually, turns out to be very minimal return.  I still smoke, but even that is starting to lose its appeal. I do have four seasons of Dexter left, but I just don’t feel compelled to stay up for the next 72 hours to finish it up. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I still really like men, I’m just better at filtering them now.  I still really like sex, I’m just not going to go out of my way for it anymore.  (One day I’ll tell you about the last man I had sex with.  It’ll all make sense then.)  I still love my wine and I’ll definitely watch the last four seasons of Dexter.  I just don’t need it all RIGHT NOW anymore.  But what I do need is a hobby.  Because this blog has become very unhealthy. 

Today, no less than ten things happened that I absolutely HAD to write about.  I kept thinking to myself “OMG!  I have to write that down!!”  I really didn’t have to write it down.  I just spilled coffee on my pants.  Then I thought “Ok.  Listen sister.”  Yes, I refer to myself as “sister” in my inner monologue.  Don’t judge me.  Anyway, I said to myself “Listen, sister.  Not everything needs to be documented.  Anyone who saw you today could see that you spilled coffee on your pants.”  That at I do it almost every day.  That’s when I began to think that I probably need a hobby, outside of my hobby. 

So, I thought about it.  When I got pregnant with Radley and I couldn’t shoot pool and throw darts all the time, I took up puzzles.  Awesome, right?  Stimulates the mind, keeps your hands busy.  I did four puzzles in five days.  That’s where it ended.  In hindsight, four puzzles in five days may have been a little excessive.  So, puzzles are out.  I keep seeing my friends doing these really incredible craft projects.  They knit and crochet and make sweaters and blankets and the most precious little baby bonnets.  I thought maybe I could do that.  You know, mind occupied hands busy.  That seemed like a really good option.  Until I remembered that I can’t even tie a knot in a string without fucking it up.  That being the case, maybe lots and lots of string and lots and lots of knots being tied together with very sharp, tiny hooks isn’t my calling either. 

Then, it hit me!  Cooking.  I’m good at that.  People like food.  I like feeding people.  There’s no way that won’t work.  Except I live by myself.  With a six year old.  He likes bananas and oreos.  And milk.  But that’s pretty much it.  So, while cooking is a perfect hobby for me, it just doesn’t make much sense, given the circumstances.  ANNNDDDD…that left me back at square one.  Excellent.  And the first thing I thought to myself is “maybe I should pour a glass of wine when I get home.”  See.  I still love wine.  But while I was caught between a place where I wanted to find something new and a place where I wanted to retreat to the familiar, I heard this song.  “He Went to Paris.”  Jimmy Buffett.  Circa late 1970’s-ish.  And I remembered listening to that song in college, and thinking “I’m gonna write a book one day.  And it’s going to be about real life and real people.” 

As a result of that song, and the inspiration, I spent a lot of late nights/early mornings at the Denny’s in Fairfax with an omelet and a spiral bound notebook.  Just writing down what I saw at the time.  What I had seen before.  And what I hoped I would see eventually.  Turns out, this has been my hobby for much longer than I thought. 

Writing may not help everyone, but it helps me.  And it’s a good hobby for me.  I realize that not everyone can relate to what I say.  That’s fine, because I don’t always relate to what others have to say, either.  But this outlet of mine has made me think about what I say and learn to respect what other people are saying.  Today, a friend walked into the clinic.  He looked at me, with a disenchanted grin on his face.  He wasn’t there to see me, he was there for something different.  But he looked at me and said “You finally wrote something I didn’t agree with.”  Criticism is always like a dagger in the heart.  But I’ve opened myself up in such a way, that I’m going to get it now.  I never thought this day would come.  I always just assumed that if people didn’t like what I had to say, they’d never talk to me again.  I’d never be the wiser.  I was Ok with that.  But when Tim said to me “when you talk about being stereotyped, you are stereotyping others.”  I didn’t get defensive.  I didn’t angry.  I listened to what he said.  And he said a lot of things.  Things I would never expect a conservative, A-type, to say.  I listened to all of it.  At the end he held out his arms, now be reminded, this guy is built like a brick shithouse.  His wing span is kind of like a condor, 26 feet wide and casts a giant shadow.  As he was holding his arms out, he pointed with his left, then with his right, and said “Politically, if you are over there, I’m over here.  You’re a fucking hippie and I’m way conservative.  But I get you.”  I looked at him and laughed.  I said “all kinds, right?”  We laughed some more. 

After that, I forgot about finding a new hobby.  A new hobby wouldn’t make this any more significant.  Where else can I get that kind of feedback? If, by the grace of God, I crocheted a blanket for your child, without killing or maiming someone, would you tell me it was the most hideous thing you’ve ever seen, even though it was?  If I cooked you a dinner that tasted like sour rubber, would you tell me you hated it?  My guess is no.  But when I write about some of my most passionate feelings, would you tell me that you don’t agree?  Yes.  You would.  And then, after you told me what I had to say sucked, we can talk about why we share differences of opinion.   And maybe, MAYBE, we could get better perspective about how other people think.  And why they do what they do.  This may not be sex or booze, but this is my vice.  This is what connects me to people I never thought I would ever be connected with.  This really is my inner peas.  

No Offense

*DISCLAIMER:  If you have a penis and you are reading this right now, this is clearly not directed at you.  If it were, you wouldn’t be reading this right now. Thank you and goodnight. 

I’ve been getting really offended by stupid shit lately.  I don’t know why.  Like stupid shit.  Shit that shouldn’t piss me off.  But it does.  Remember that tantrum I threw about the guy who sued his wife for their ugly children?  And then there was that article about how young people are so disinterested in sex that they check their text messages and social media instead of concentrating on getting off?  THAT PISSED ME OFF SO BAD!!!  I don’t know why.  It just did.  Then there was this.  This fucking “ecard.”  (Please see above.)  If for some reason you can’t see the image, I will give you a brief overview of what’s going on.  It a picture of two men standing together.  The text reads:  “Don’t try to understand women.  Women understand woman and that’s why they HATE each other.”   They hate each other.  That’s what it says.  AAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m real pissed about this.  Who wrote that?  And who thought it was philosophical enough to share with the internet?  WHO????  Clearly, it was a man.  Probably a man who doesn’t particularly care for strong women.  Or women in general, for that matter.  I can accept that.  I know that there are a lot of men who feed on drama as much as some of their female counterparts.  I know that there are men out there who like women who have no friends or confidence or support.  I also know that the men who like that kind of woman don’t actually like women.  Men like that just use women for the comforts they can provide.  Cooking.  Cleaning.  Sex.  And, sadly, those are the men who are always with a woman who is entirely too good for them.  So, now, I’m going to break this down for you.

In the event that you are one of those men, or even one of those women, who think that women “hate” each other, let me share a few insights to the female psyche for you:

1.)     Women do NOT hate each other.  This may be the most ridiculous statement ever.  Woman, real women, embrace each other.  We embrace our differences.  We cherish our similarities.  We may not always understand each other, but we don’t ever understand men, so there.  We don’t hate each other.  We’re really fucking busy and we don’t have time for all of that. 

2.)    Women take care of each other more than men take care of us.  Believe it or not, it’s true.  We first learn to take care of ourselves.  Then we learn to take care of those we are responsible for.  Then we take care of each other.  I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had a girlfriend come to my rescue.  If I need a shoulder, I know my girlfriends will take care of me.  If I need a day without Radley, I know my girlfriends will take him.  If I need an egg or a ride or a fucking hug, my girlfriends will take care of it.  We take care of each other. 

3.)    Women do, in fact, understand each other.  We do.  And we don’t hate each other because of it.  In fact, we love that nobody gets us but us.  When we feel fat, who do we ask first?  Another woman.  Because another woman will never tell you that you could stand to lose ten pounds.  A woman will bring you a pizza and éclairs and a Nicholas Sparks movie.  Yeah, we fucking get each other.  We get each other so much, that when we don’t fit in our favorite jeans anymore, your girlfriends pull your ass out of bed and make you run it off.  So, yeah.  Women do understand other women.  ALSO, we never buy each other lame jewelry.  When we buy each other jewelry, it’s not because we think that’s what our girlfriends want, it’s because it’s fucking awesome! 

   4  )    Women find strength in each other, not weakness.  Women talk.  Women feel.  Women nurture.  Women relate.  To each other.  It’s what we do.  When I feel the weakest, I don’t go cry to a man about needing to be taken care of.  I go to my girlfriends and tell them that I’m sad.  In return, they tell me that they understand and they offer their love and experience as comfort.  They do the same thing to me.  When my girlfriends have problems, they come to me, or maybe, I go to them.  I hold them and tell them how we can fix it.  Together.  That’s what women do.  That’s how women find strength in each other.  When women feel weak, they look to other women to get stronger. 

5.)    Women don’t hate men.  Women hate men who stereotype women.  For example, this.  Some man thought it was funny to pit women against other women.  Is that what you think of us?  You think that we HATE each other because YOU don’t understand us?  Or maybe it’s because some men can’t see women beyond tits and dishes.  I don’t know what the answer is.  I don’t know why some men think that women are so shallow and weak they can’t have any other feeling but hatred for each other. 

6.)    FINALLY.  WOMEN DO NOT HATE WOMEN!!!  We may not always like each other.  But men don’t always like other men either.  We all have fundamental differences that separate us, just as we have similarities that connect us.  But as you learn from experience, you can distance yourself from what you don’t particularly care for, and you can focus on what you do.  Women don’t hate other women.  And men who think that they do probably need to pay more attention to what women are actually doing. 

I know this all sounded pretty hostile and resentful.  And it should.  Because I’m pissed.  This is not a feminist statement.  This is just a statement.  Women are way more than a bunch of catty whores.  We’re not trying to put up walls; we are just trying to survive.  Also, I’m not saying that some women don’t behave poorly towards other women.  Usually, though, those women are assholes to everyone.  So, don’t judge my vagina because someone else with a vagina doesn’t respect herself, or those around her. 

-Inner Peas

2013: The year of the Epiphany

Three years ago, I spent Christmas curled up in my mom’s bed, doped up on Xanex.  I made it out to finish the Christmas shopping, and then prepared dinner.  Then I medicated myself so heavily, that I didn’t care about anything else.  NOTHING ELSE.  I didn’t care about the food or how it came out.  I didn’t care about the family when they came over.  I didn’t care about the dishes piling up in the sink.  I didn’t even care enough to take my son out to ride his new bike.  I just laid in bed, waiting for it all to be over.  If I hadn’t been high on sedatives, I might have cried.  If I could rub a thought or two together, I might have asked the universe for forgiveness.  If I had have cared about anything except not feeling, I might have been able to care about what was going on around me.  But I just didn’t care.  All I wanted was to be numb.

Admittedly, the last two Christmases haven’t been too much different.  I have been more cognizant and functional than I was that first Christmas.  But, I still just wanted it all to be over.  I just wanted to forget the year passed and ignore that the year to come was looming, and it was probably destined to be as bad as the couple of years that had just passed.  I know.  I’m a shining image of optimism.  But my life has undergone a lot of changes in the last three years.  Changes that were a departure from everything I had known my entire adult life.  And the holidays that were once celebrated and cherished, because tiring and tedious.  Even more, they became filled with trepidation.  The holidays scared me.  I didn’t want anything to do with them. 

This year was kind of shaping up to be the same way.  I was at the grocery store, a week before Thanksgiving, and the kind people at Safeway were already concerned with how my holiday shopping was coming along.  I pretty much had a meltdown in the deli.  I started hyperventilating.  I got real claustrophobic.  When I finally pulled my shit together, I left my cart in the middle of the aisle and left.  I left.  I got the fuck out of there.  Then I drove home.  And I didn’t leave for two days.  That’s when I realized how terrified I was of the holidays.  It wasn’t because of the people, the places or the pressure.  It was because of repetition.  If there’s one thing that I know about the holidays, it’s that it’s the time of year we are the most introspective.  It’s the time of year we think of what we did right and what we did wrong and what we didn’t do at all.  And nobody wants to think about that.  Nobody. 

But we do it anyway.  Because we are human.  We humans have been graced with a giant brain that we only use a fraction of, on most days.  Ask the average human to explain the theory of relativity or to quote the Gettysburg Address, and they’ll give you a haphazard attempt at both.  Talk about the global economy or local politics, and most of us can make one or two statements about something that may or may not be true in regards to either one.  But if you give us a night alone, with nothing more than a quiet room and our own thoughts, we use 100% of that brain to think about ourselves AND to over analyze what we are thinking.  I think that is just proof that we think more about what we feel than we think about what actually is.

When it comes to thinking, I’m the worst.  I don’t actually think about real things.  I don’t think about science or math or world peace.  Ok, sometimes I think about world peace, but then I get real overwhelmed, so I think about other things. I think about perceived things.  Things like thoughts and feelings and emotions.  That’s what I spend most of my time thinking about.  Things that have no definite answer.  Things that are subjective.  I think about things that I can speculate about until my head spins and I feel crazier than I have ever felt before and then, finally, my subconscious tells me “shut the fuck up.  This is too crazy, even for you.”  That’s what I think about.  That happens on a normal day.  But at the holidays, it’s even worse.  So, as you can imagine, this year at the holidays, I was terrified.  Fucking terrified.  But somehow, I let it all go.

Instead of lying, listless, in my bed, (or in someone else’s bed, for that matter), I went out and embraced it all. While I was out buying gifts for the people I love the most…While I was out shopping for Christmas dinner…While I was actually making Christmas dinner, I had an epiphany.  Not like the regular “this will change your life epiphany.”  It was a “moment of solace” epiphany.  I was standing in Ulta, with my mom and my six year old.  And my child and my crippled mother were behaving better than the seven adult/able bodied people in line in front of us.  Uh…wow.  My kid is six.  There were other six year olds (or similar) there.  They weren’t behaving.  My mom, easily, was the sickest person in the building.  Her peers weren’t behaving very well either.  If anyone should be tired and hostile in the marketplace, two nights before Christmas, it should have been them.  Instead I saw a handful of grown people who were stomping their feet because they had to wait in line and throwing fits over nail polish and lip gloss. 

When we all finally made it to the car, I couldn’t stop telling them both how proud I was of them.  Then I had to laugh.  They both looked at me like I was crazy, but I laughed anyway.  That scene in Ulta was what I had been dreading.  That was what had made me so anxious.  Assholes .  At Christmas.  People fighting over an $8 bottle of nail polish.  If you need to spend eight dollars on a bottle of nail polish, then fight away.  That’s not what’s important.  I don’t care if it’s platinum gold or gold gold.  That girl actually said that.  Is that what we have come to believe the holidays are about?  Either “platinum gold” or “gold gold”?  I don’t even know what that means.  I don’t even care what that means. 

Anyway, we picked up a pizza on the way home that night.  We ate our pizza, together, and laughed and as I watched them both doze off, I thought about how the holidays are a time of introspection.  I thought about how at this time of year, we either find success or failure in what we have had in the year that just passed.  And for the first time in many years, I see more good than bad.  And because I’m feeling really introspective, here’s a brief recap of my year:

The first vacation I’ve had in three years:

The greatest wedding of the year:

The best Sonoma County Sunset yet: 

The greatest picture of the year:

The best birthday ever:

The reminder of where I came from: 

The day I almost gave in to failure; the same day I started this blog:

The day I was reunited with destiny:

The day I saved my job (when I say “I” saved my job, I mean “we.”  I may have taken the test, but I could never have done it without my circle.):

The day I figured out the difference between “lame” and “creepy”:

The day I realized I had the toughest kid ever:

The first day we made a school lunch:

The day my baby lost his first tooth:

There was that time I was reminded what my smile looks like: 

And the day I met my long, lost sister:

Finally, the day I learned what success really means: 

This is what is important.

-Inner Peas

Merry Holidays

I just realized that this is probably going to be the last opportunity I have before Christmas to sit down and write.  And it’s probably the last time you will have before Christmas to even marginally care about what other people have to say.  So, I’m going to make this real quick.  This is my holiday statement.  This is my social diatribe.  This is what I’ve got on the season.  It’s not really profound or poignant.  Just a few words about love, gratitude and celebrations. 

I know a lot of people assume I’m a godless heathen because I don’t accept the word of Christ as law.  I know that there are some people out there who have a hard time understanding that, even though, I have read the Bible, I view it more as literature than a mandate.  I even understand that there are many people who can’t understand that the universe is the entity who I pray to.  I mean no offense when I talk about my spirituality.  And I certainly don’t mean to force my beliefs on others.  In fact, I’ve come to realize that you can’t argue spiritual beliefs.  They are individual.  They are private.  And, as mortal beings, we define our spirituality in ways that make us most comfortable.  By that, I mean, we believe in what will benefit us the most, in case of afterlife. 

With all of that said, I say to you this: Happy December.  We all believe in something different.  The holidays mean something different to each of us.  But, I don’t really think that our spiritual differences divide us.  I think that we divide us.  We all want the same things in December.  We all want to sit with the people we love.  We all want to laugh.  We all want to give.  We all want to love and be loved.  That’s what the holidays are about. 

Today, while I was in line at Toys ‘R Us, The person in front of me asked the girl that the registers “how are you today?”  And you would have thought that the world stopped turning in that little girl’s life.  She waited a couple of seconds, and then she said “I’m good.  Thank you for asking.”  Because nobody had asked her how she was doing all day.  She was surprised with the question.  What does that say about us and our spirituality?  What does that say for our connectedness?  It says nothing.  And, actually, it’s embarrassing.  That’s not what the spirit of the season is about. 

So, I offer you this thought:  today is the shortest day of the year.  It’s the longest night of the year.  It’s a day that pagans have celebrated and reflected on for as long as written history has been documented.  Today is only four days away from Christmas.  A day Christians celebrate as the birth of Christ.  This is a time we (all of us)  acknowledge life and charity and sacrifice.  Whatever your spiritual beliefs are, please remember to be good to each other.

Tomorrow, I will make the six hour round trip to pick up my mommy to bring her here for Christmas.  This year, my hippie sister has volunteered to make the tedious drive with me.  On Monday night, I will smoke a pork shoulder for my son and my mother.  On Tuesday, my mom will make snowman cookies with Radley to leave for Santa.  While they decorate cookies, I will drive to the market to pick up carrots for the reindeer.  On Christmas morning, I will watch my little boy open his gifts.  After that,  I will make him berry pancakes.  We will put together trains and eat and laugh.  Those are our traditions.  That is how we spend our holiday.  But those things are all about the holiday, they have nothing to do with spirituality.  Please don’t forget the difference between holiday celebrations and the spirit of the season.  Remember to be good to each other.  Remember to embrace what you have, while sharing what you have with others.  Remember to thank your God (or Goddess) for all that you have been given. 

Happy Solstice and Blessed Yule. 

-Inner Peas

Mind. Yer. Tone

Earlier tonight, my girlfriend Jess stopped by to drop off a gift.  The second time this week she’s been here to shower us with presents and merriment.  I don’t know why she does that.  She just does.  As a couple minutes turned into a couple of hours, she looked at the clock and said “Oh, I’m keeping you from your writing!”  She was not keeping me from anything.  She’s one of the most important people in my life, I assure you, I had all the time in the world for her.  I did admit to her, however, that I am exhausted and I have some demons to exercise.  It’s a mind frame that not many understand, but Jess does.  So, as I walked her to the car when she was leaving, she said “expel your demons.  I can’t wait to read about it.”  Even though those words warmed my heart, I looked at her and said “It’s probably going to  be ugly.”  I’ll read it anyway, she said.  Yes.  That’s what she said. 

But when I walked back inside, I was still kind of wondering what it was that I really have to say.  I tried to figure out what the demons were and how I was going to rid my soul of them.  Personally, this week has been wonderful.  My baby turned six.  He had an amazing birthday.  I’ve had a lot of time with people I love without condition.  I’ve seen many people I adore have many successes.  I even got offered cookies a couple of times this week.  Who does that?  Usually I give cookies.  I mean really, it was a good week.  Personally.  But I’m not really a “personally” kind of person.  I’m more of an introspective, communal, we’re all connected kind of person.  Aside from Christmas shopping, you’re kind of alone on that one.  And yes, that’s on my mind, too.  I should probably start that real soon. 

Anyway, after Jess left, I knew I was going to write something.  I was so outraged about so many things, that I didn’t know where to start.  So, I started to compose an email to my friend Tim.  Tim has all the answers.  He doesn’t want to have all the answers, he just does.  The first line of my email read:  “Sorry Tim.  I know its Friday night, but I need you to tell me how to not be offensive.  Or maybe how to not be offended.”  Then, all at once, I ceased correspondence.  I didn’t  hit send.  I didn’t even finish the email.  I went right to Microsoft Word, and started writing this.  Because, suddenly, I knew what it was that I had to say. 

Mind.  Your.  Tone.  Mind your fucking tone.  I say it all the time.  I say it to my kindergartner. I say it to patients, both young and old.  I say it my friends, when they feel a little too arrogant.  I say it to my cat when he screams at me for dinner before 5 o’clock.  Sometimes, I even say it to myself when I start feeling indignant towards others.  It’s policing your own behavior.  Or the behavior of others, for a common good.  It’s not political correctness.  It’s not sensitivity.  It’s MINDING YOUR TONE, when appropriate. 

I had a friend stop by my desk the other day and say “…you pull a lot of weight on this base.”  I don’t know if I necessarily agree with that or not.  I answer phones and forward health records.  But that fact that someone said that to me, immediately, made me think about the things I say and the way people perceive my words.  And I have a lot of words, therefore, a lot of things to think about.  As a result, this week, I tried really hard to focus my words on the things that are important to me.  My son.  His birthday.  The birthday cupcakes, that by the way, have been acclaimed by no less than two five year olds, as the “best cupcakes ever.”  Then I focused my words on the loss of a Coast Guard member, who happened to die the same day I celebrated my child’s birth.  It was a loss that only made me want to rejoice life even more. 

I know I went a lot of places tonight.  Because I’ve been a lot of places this week.  We all have to balance celebration with mourning.  We all have to figure out what’s a good fight and what s just a fight.  We all have to learn to police ourselves, because we never know who we are hurting with your words.   We all need to mind our tone.  For that matter, we need to mind our words, too. 

In that email to my dear friend that I was getting ready to hit ‘send” on, I said “I always feel like I’m just one blog post away losing my shit!  Please tell me how to make everyone happy.”   The reason I didn’t hit “send” on that email is because I didn’t want a response.   I don’t always want to hear the truth.  I  don’t  want to lose my shit because people disagree with me.  I’m good with conversation. I’m not so good at ignorance.   When I feel that things are important, I try to substantiate my feelings with documents or data.  If the off chance, I can’t make an argument based on fact, I try to relate to others, subjectively, with my feelings.   For example, this week, Radley turned six.  I told a story of his life.  Also, this week, we lost a hero, to due to injuries he sustained in the line of duty.  That’s a hard pill to swallow when you are busy shoving the pills down the throats of his peers. Then, on top of it all, we taught civics to a group of people who only hear what they want to hear.   I try really hard to not use this blog as a soapbox for social and political nonsense.

Just try to remember what’s important.  Try to remember where you came from.  I had a lot of white men tell me to mind my tone in my life.  I learned a lot about respect from them.  They told me a lot of times: Sit and eat.  Sit and be quiet.  Sit and act like a lady.  Mind your tone, young lady.  I’ve learned a lot from those guys.  I learned when I could talk and when I should bite tongue. As a result of all this conditioning,  I have learned that I have no problem crossing my legs, leaning forward and saying “you are wrong.”    

Again, I have a lot of words.  They aren’t always right.  And I have no problem admitting my wrongs.  But those white men weren’t wrong when they sad “mind your tone.”  I’ve always been real mouthy, and I’ve always needed someone to remind me that I need to think before I speak.  But still, in spite of my free spirit and my verbal vomit, I still understand what is acceptable to discuss and what should have been ignored.  Maybe I could put on a seminar for those white men now. 

-Inner Peas

Strong

Recently, over dinner, I asked a dear friend why when other people were having a bad day, he always showed up with a cup of coffee and encouraging words, but when I was having a bad day he busted my balls about it.  Like I was some sort of whipping boy for his sadistic inner child.  He looked at me and said “Because they aren’t as strong as you are.  They need support.  You need to get back to work.”  And we laughed.  Hahahahahaha.  Hilarious.  At the time, I was so flattered by that statement.  Yeah.  I’m strong!  I don’t need any support.  I got this!!!  All.  By.  My.  Self. 

As I was revealing in my independence and, perceived emotional strength, I started thinking about those words.  And the logic just didn’t really make that much sense.  Kind of like when your  boss needs something done, and they go to the same person over and over.  You know, the person who can be “trusted” to complete a task?  The reward for being trustworthy and efficient is more work.  Don’t misunderstand, it’s a privilege to be the trusted source of quality performance.  It’s nice to be the person people go to for answers and output.  Also, eventually, it get’s exhausting to be the only person you work with who get’s asked to stay late or asked to put out a fire you didn’t start.  Before too long, even the most promising employees become tired and feeble.

It’s kind of the same thing when people think you are “strong.”  If you can carry your own weight and stand up for yourself and still laugh about how you live your life, then you can handle anything.  So, they throw everything at you.  Aw, that’s so awesome that you’re independent; let me make you feel like shit because you are alone.  Well, that’s cute that you can defend yourself, I’m going to talk just enough shit to you to make me feel better about myself, and still revel in the fact that I have other people on my side.  Oh, you laugh at yourself, let me laugh at you, too.  That’ll make everyone feel better. 

Weeeeellll…It actually doesn’t make me feel better.  While I am honored to have people in my life who think I’m strong enough to be the butt of every joke, it get’s tiring after a while.  It’s all perspective.  The people who think I’m strong are the same people I feel the weakest around.  Those who think I’m weak, are the first asses I will eat for breakfast tomorrow. I always encourage conversation, especially conversation that I initiate.  But, before you judge me or you think it’s funny to make jokes about me, remember this:  I am only as strong as the leash that connects us.  If you think you need to manipulate me or chastise me or use me, I’m stronger than the tie that binds us.  I may be easily fooled, at first.  But mark my words, after a couple weeks, years, decades, or so, I’ll figure out your game.  And I will counter.  In a big way. 

People always like to throw in commentary about being strong.  Everyone wants to be inspirational.  Everyone wants to have an answer.  Everyone wants to tell you how to get strong.  How to be strong.  How to teach strong.  Well, that’s great.  Thank you for your fucking inspiration, but I’ve grown up with strong.  I’ve surrounded myself with strong.  I’ve even had the privilege to teach strong to other people.  And, believe me, when you are strong, you don’t EVER punish others for their strength.

-Inner Peas

Weird

I know I’ve touched on it before, maybe as recently as yesterday, but weird shit happens in my brain.  Then again, weird shit happens in my life, too.  That may be a cause and effect issue.  Or it just may be crazy.  Either way, my brain and my life are weird.  There’s all this thinking happening and all of this stuff going on.  I’m really easily overwhelmed.  I lose focus really easily.  Right now, for example.  What was I saying?  Oh yeah…Weird stuff.  So, this morning.  I spent this morning with my ex husband.  I spent it with a lot of other people, too.  Radley.  Friends.  Colleagues.  Strangers.  People.  Stuff.  Things.  I don’t really do any of that very well.  I’m kind of a hermit.  Ok, totally off subject again.  What was I talking about?

Oh, yeah.  I spent the morning with my ex husband.  I got up early.  I stopped at Starbucks.  Did you know that two mochas cost $10 now?  I didn't know that.  Anyway, moving forward, I drove to his house.  It’s the weekend, so Radley was there with him.  We got in the car and made an hour and a half long road trip to where we were going.  We only got lost twice.  That’s a pretty significant improvement from when we were married.  Back then, we’d take at least six wrong turns because we’d fight about the directions.  We don’t have to fight anymore.  We aren’t married now.  The two navigational detours came because I wasn’t paying attention to the GPS.  He didn’t even get mad at me.  He just laughed and said “are you sure we should be in Stockton?” We weren’t supposed to be in Stockton.  Anyway, we deal with our shit a lot better now that we aren’t married.  It’s weird. 

When we were married, just deciding to go to a movie or a party was a fucking nightmare.  Getting there was even worse.  After we finally decided to do something, we would have found 12 different things to fight about.  We’re not married anymore though.  So, this morning, when I pulled up to Mike’s house, 25 minutes late, he said nothing.  I went inside, gave Radley a cupcake, smoked a cigarette and got on the road.  Mike and I talked about a lot of things.  We talked about work and Christmas and the fucking wackos who keep coming out of the woodwork.  There are a lot, by the way.  As an aside, if you have a weird feeling about someone, go with your instinct.  Those people are  probably creepier than you could have ever imagined.   Truth. 

Anyway, back to the point at hand.  I spent the morning with my ex husband.  And some great friends.  At one point, I realized that I hadn’t introduced Mike to one of those friends, but they had already been talking like they went to kindergarten together, so I didn’t’ really think anything about it.  Then I thought “maybe this is weird?”  So, I said “Mel.  I guess I didn’t’ introduce you to Mike!  Awkward.”  And so I did a proper introduction after they had already been engaged in conversation.  She said “It’s fine.  I’ve already accepted him.”  Her husband looked at her and said “you don’t accept anybody.”  She said, “Well, Angela accepts him, so that’s good enough for me.”  We all laughed. 

I kept thinking about what she said, though.  I kept thinking about what she meant.  Turns out, I have no idea what she meant.  I just took her words for what they were:  honest and accepting.  And why wouldn’t she accept  him? He’s Radley’s dad.  We were at a function together.  All seemed right. 

Mel wasn’t the only person I introduced to Mike today though.  I realized that I introduced him the same way every time.  “This is Radley’s dad.”  I didn’t feel the need to say “Mike, meet such and such.  Such and such works with me.  I was married to Mike for 12 years and it just didn’t work out.”  Everyone knows that I’m divorced.  Everyone knows I have a child from that failed marriage.  There’s no  need to make everyone uncomfortable by saying “this is my ex husband.  Yes.  We are making a public appearance for the sake of our child.”  We don’t do that.  I see Mike twice a week.  It’s not all flowers and milkshakes.  We are raising a child together in two different homes.  That shit’s hard.  We don’t see eye to eye on everything.  That’ part of the reason we aren’t married anymore.  But now that we aren’t married, we don’t’ have to fight about what we don’t agree on.  We can talk about it and find a common ground.  And if we can’t, then we don’t have to sleep together anymore.  So, it’s easier to get over. 

Now, I’m not trying to say that running out on your partner will improve your life.  I AM NOT SAYING THAT.  Because, in reality, my life, Radley’s life, and Mike’s life would all be MUCH more comfortable and convenient if we all still lived under the same roof.  What I’m saying is that it’s amazing, that after three years, Mike and I can still go out and do things together for our son.  It’s just a benefit that we can still talk story about our lives. Event more, it’s pretty remarkable that our friends don’t have to choose sides.  Even better, we have amazing friends. 

…Next time, I’m going to introduce him as my baby daddy.  That’ll keep 'em speculating.

-Inner Peas

Focus

Sometimes, I have a hard time focusing.  My mind is in a perpetual state of keeping up or getting ahead.  It’s really hard to concentrate you are either two steps behind or two steps ahead.  All the time. This morning, I left the house seven minutes late, and I was convinced that I was going to be riddled with anxiety all day.  Then, after I dropped Radely off at school and had to have a ten minute discussion with the teacher about he’s attached himself to the bad apple.  By the time I got to work, I was almost twenty minutes late.  Excellent.  Then, I walked into the office to find four homemade cupcakes on my desk and a hug from one of my favorite people.  And I thought “I’m gonna be late everyday!!”  The next thing I knew there was a free cup of coffee in my hand and then I heard the funniest story ever and then I was yelling at a patient for not bringing his record, even though I ended up looking like an asshole because I had his record in my possession the whole time, and then there was coffee down the front of my blouse and then it was lunch.  At lunch, I said “uh…what the fuck just happened?” 

Then, I remembered I needed to pay the rent.  So, I drove downtown in a panic and walked into my landlords office and said “BONNIE!!!!  WHY DIDN”T YOU CALL ME???  MY RENT’S LATE!!!!!”  And she looked at me like I was a crazy person.  I was by that point.  She said “Uh…you’re paid through February.I just gave the numbers to the accountant yesterday”  Oh. Right.  Because I don’t pay rent like normal people do on the first.  I just cut you a check whenever the spirit moves me.  Alright.   So never mind then.  I’ll see you next year.  Then we talked about our kids.  Her children are my age.  Mine is the same age as some of her grandchildren.  We talked about the “dos” and “don’ts” of parenting and we laughed and I gave her a hug on my way out the door.  Back to work.  All is right.

Then, I got back to work.  There was work to be done.  So, I did that.  Then it was a half hour before quitting time, and I hadn’t done my time card.  Oh sweet Jesus.  I missed two days earlier this week.  I should probably figure out if I have enough PTO to cover that or if I’m just going to have to suck it up.  I logged on to the website to check my paystub.  The anxiety is building.  Oh god.  I missed two days last month when Radley was sick.  I’m probably in the hole and I’m going to have to suck up those two days for being sick.  Right at the holidays.  And before they are going to make me take two MORE days without pay during Christmas week.  At that point, I was pretty much curled up in a ball under my desk, afraid to look at how much money I was going to lose for being sick.  After I finished hyperventilating, I stood up and straightened myself out and checked how much leave I had.  (Just like the rent, I don’t check my pay stubs regularly.  I like everything to be a surprise.)  OMG!!!  I have enough to cover those two days!!!!  In fact, if I can keep this kid healthy, I may have enough to take a long weekend next year!!!!  I’m thinking either Ventura or Eugene.  You know, some place glamorous.  So, I started filling out my timesheet, so as to make sure my boss could go home on time, too.  My timecard is always the last.  She usually has to ask me 17 or 18 times before I finally put it on her desk. 

Anyway, feeling pretty good about getting out of that place on time, and pretty sure the boss lady will get home at a reasonable hour, too, I filled out my timesheet.  Or I thought I was.  Until I got a call about something that should have already been taken care of.  And the voice at the other end of the phone said “I was going to come up, but I thought it would be more convenient if you just brought it down.”  Uh…Who is that most convenient for?  Not me.  I just wanna get paid.  But sure as shit, I took it down.  Then, as soon as I got back, another phone call.  “I HAVE AN EMERGENCY!!!!”  Of course you do.  It’s ten minutes before I should be going home.  Needless to say, it was an “emergency” that not only WAS NOT an emergency, it could have been remedied with logical thought.  But what did I do?  I caved to the urgency and found the highest ranking person on this base to remedy it.  I did it with a lot of guilt, but also with the hope that I could finish my timesheet.  It worked.  I finished it.  The boss lady even walked out of her office, a few minutes before close of business, and said “is that YOUR timesheet on my desk???”  Yep.  Success.  I’m her favorite now. 

But before I had the time to bask in my victory, or my boss had the time to make the three steps back to her office, there was something else.  SOMETHING ELSE!!!!   Something so ridiculous it kept the whole room silent for several minutes.  That’s when inspiration hit met:  I was going to go home and write a profanity laced tirade about helplessness.  Of course, I realized pretty quickly that I’d already made that statement before.  Many times.  But I was still pissed.  AAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!  Pissed.  Fortunately, the seas parted and people started to disperse.  I started my end of day rituals.  I replied to the last remaining emails.  I cleaned up my desk.  And I got ready to log off.

Then, this guy walked into my office.  He’s kind of a big deal.  I forgot that I had made a shadow in his doorway earlier in the afternoon.  While he was busy with other things, I just walked away.  Anyway, this guy walked in and said “were you looking for me earlier?”  I knew he was as eager to get out of there as I was, so I tried to minimize what I needed to talk to him about.  We can talk about everything we need to on Monday.  Or Tuesday.  Or next month.  I mean, really.  If it were an emergency, I would have lit myself on fire and run into his office and made him listen to what I had to say.  But it wasn’t that important.  Still, even though it wasn’t important, we talked for another half hour.  I hugged him when we were done, and I smiled.  Then, I thought to myself:  “I know I was pissed about something.  I just can’t remember what it was.” 

Focus.  The morning I left the house, I was real anxious.  At lunch, I was terrified.  This afternoon, before I came home, I was real pissed.  I don’t even know why now.  All I know right now is that I am pretty fucking fortunate.  I don’t remember why I was anxious, angry or ambiguous.  My five year old woke up and the first thing he asked me is “what’s three plus seven?”  Then he asked me to peel his banana.  Then, I went to a job where people love me enough to bring cupcakes and tell me I’m beautiful, despite the dark circle under my eyes and my flawed complexion.  Before eight o’clock, I got to hug one of my best friends and tell her that I love her.  I had two new hello kitty pens on my desk.  There was a cup of coffee in my hand.  By the time I got back from lunch, I’d heard every detail about the new hobbit movie and a woman I respect related to me with parenting.  When I walked to my car after work, I smiled at the connection I’d made with a couple very important people in my life. 

Focus.

-Inner Peas 

Blonde

I colored my hair this morning.  I mean, I, personally, colored my own hair.  With dye out of a box.  That hasn’t happened since I was in high school.  It looks awful.  In my defense, I did by the most expensive home color treatment at Ulta.  But let’s be honest.  It’s still an in house dye job.  Those never turn out like you want.  Also, I’m not blond anymore.  I didn’t realize how much blond had become part of my identity, until I looked in the mirror and saw…well, something other than blonde.  I look mousey.  I look shy.  I look…well to be quite honest, cheap.  I look cheap. 

Now, just to be clear, I am not now, nor have I ever been a natural blonde.  In fact, blonde is a relatively new physical attribute for me.  About five years ago, I took a gamble when my stylist, and dear friend, said “maybe you should lighten up a little?” She may have been talking about my mood, but I took it as more as a suggestion for a style change.   So, I did.  Why not, right?  It was the dead of winter in Alaska.  If anyone needed to “lighten up,” it was me.  Then every six weeks to eight weeks after that, I found myself in Diana’s chair.  Foils in my hair, philosophizing about life and speculating about the small town scandals.   It seemed that the “style change” Diana had suggested, turned into a LIFEstyle change.  I went to the salon every other month.  I made new friends.  People responded differently to me.  The blond me was a hit.  My stock went up and my status increased.  Maybe they were right, maybe blondes do have more fun. 

Then I moved back to California.  I was terrified to look for a new Diana.  I eventually found a girl who I connected with and could make me look (and feel) better than I ever had before.   I always hugged Chrysta and whispered in her ear “no man can ever make me feel as good as you make me feel.”  Because when I stood up from Chrysta’s chair, I was a different person.  I was blonde. And beautiful.  And fulfilled.  Then, back in the spring, Chrysta skipped town and moved to Vegas with some hustler.  My heart was broken.  How could she just leave?  Why didn’t’ she call?  It was the worst breakup ever.  Not only had I lost the girl who did my hair, I lost my blonde.  In protest of Chrysta’s departure, and at the mercy of my checking account, I stopped getting my hair done.  No more salon.  No more therapy.  No more blonde.  Until today.  When, after many snide comments about how I wasn’t taking care of myself, I was finally forced to color my own hair.  With store bought solution.  Now that’s humbling.  Shallow, maybe.  But most definitely humbling. 

As I was doing my best to cover the unsightly grays and even out the color discrepancy between blond and auburn, I thought about how we have become overwhelmingly consumed with being what we are not.  In my case, it’s being blonde.  Five years ago, I wasn’t blonde and I didn’t know the difference.  But after I learned the difference, I dedicated a lot of myself, and my income, to making blonde part of my identity.  I’m pretty sure that I’m not the only person to ever work really hard at being something I’m not.  I know people.  I read books.  I visit social media every day.  I know that most of us are trying to be something we are not.  I can see, clearly, that many of us are trying to convince others that we are something different than what we are.  All the posts about being in love your soul mate.  All the praising your perfect children.  All the pictures of the perfect Christmas trees and family dinners.  All of the shit you want to believe about yourself, and more importantly, that you want others to believe about you.  In all fairness, I’m not saying that some people aren’t living a fucking fairytale.  Some are.  If you are one of those, good on you.  But if you are broadcasting your perfect existence to the masses, you are either bragging or your lying.  It’s that simple. 

I guess we all need to feel fulfilled.  I don’t judge anyone for needing attention.  I am what my friends affectionately refer to as an “attention whore.” If I weren’t, I wouldn’t share all of my most intimate thoughts on the internet.  So,  I don’t fault anyone for trying to be something they are not.  I do it every day.  The blonde hair.  The skirts.  The shoes.  The terrifyingly expensive makeup to conceal the red and the freckles and the blemishes.  The face I put on is not even close to being an accurate likeness of who I actually am.  In fact, I walked past my bedroom mirror just the other morning.  I saw something out of the corner of my eye that startled me.  It wasn’t pleasant.  In fact, it was horrifying.  Turned out, it was my reflection.  Hair all disheveled.  Mascara running down my cheek.  A GIANT zit glaring back at me.  Oh sweet baby Jesus.   After I recovered from the dismay of seeing my own reflection first thing in the morning, I had an epiphany “Maybe this is why you can’t keep a man in your bed more than one night.”  Then I thought about all the men who had made an appearance in my bed in recent memory, and suddenly I was grateful for the early morning revelation.  That image probably saved me from a miserable conformist and subservient future with a man who has a hard time spelling his own name.   

Sorry.  I lost focus for a minute.  But I think it’s actually all very relevant.  We ALL try to be something we are not.  We all want people to think we are doing better than we actually are.  To try to be more is human, to actually do more is really fucking hard.  Like being blonde, that was really easy.  I was always “the blonde at the…” that became part of my identity.  I had a girl who did my hair.  I called her “my girl.”  She knew me.  She knew my stories.  She made me pretty.  She made me ignore the early morning image of myself that I never wanted to see.  She changed the way other people treated me.  But now, Chrysta is gone.  She can’t work her chemical magic anymore.  I guess that’s OK since I can’t afford it, anyway.  But now that the façade is over, I have to reinvent myself.  Again.  I think this time I’m just going to be honest about who I am. 

-Inner Peas

What A Mess

I just read the most remarkable post on Facebook.  By someone I have never met.  You know how when you don’t adjust your privacy settings appropriately, and everyone in social medialand can see all of your most personal thoughts and emotions?  And you can see theirs?  Even if you’ve never met them before?  Scary right?  I guess it’s the risk we take living in the age of technology.  Anyway, I just saw the most honest words I’ve ever read.  This post said “What a fucking mess I’ve made of my life.”  Soak that in for a minute. 

Suddenly, I was overcome with compassion for a person I’ve never met.  Maybe because I’ve never met her, it’s easier for me to relate to.  I mean for all I know, she’s the most dramatic and manipulative bitch to ever walk the face of the planet.  But knowing nothing more than those words about her, I felt like I knew her, personally. 

Now, be honest.  Who among us hasn’t wallowed so deep in self pity that we haven’t made the exact same statement about our  own lives?  If you think you have not, you’re probably lying.  Every single human being to grace humanity with any sort of consciousness has made the same accusation toward themselves.  Again, if you have not, you are either lying or you’re a sociopath.  Either way, you won’t get this, so don’t waste your time.  But for the rest of us who do get it, I feel like we should applaud this young woman.  Because even though nobody wants to read about that shit on Facebook, we can relate to it.  And, to be honest, it’s kind of refreshing to see someone taking responsibility for their decisions. 

Hard as it may be to believe, I mutter those exact same words to myself almost every day.  That sort of introspection usually comes when something really insignificant happens.  Like when I forgot to put water in the coffee maker or I get a run in my last pair of hose.  Even though I’m pissed because I don’t have any coffee or because I’m going to have to look like a trailer park princess for the rest of the day with my torn stockings, that’s not why I blame myself.  I get pissed because I’m convinced that karma is making me pay for the questionable decisions of my past.  Those times that I really made a fucking mess of my life.  There are many.  We don’t have time, here or now, to recount them all, but if you know a publisher looking for a story about the proverbial train wreck, feel free to drop my name. 

Anyway, back to this post.  “What a fucking mess I’ve made of my life.”  It’s almost like I said it myself.  The words keep resonating in my thoughts.  Right now, I can’t tell you why I thought it was so important to talk about, other than its real.  We spend so much of our time consumed with thinking about how we can make ourselves better.  We spend so much of our being trying to understand why we are stuck in a rut.  Even more time trying to figure out how to get out of the rut.  We look for fault.  We try to place blame.  When it all comes down to brass tacks (that’s a phrase my mom uses a lot.  I never really understood it, but it seems appropriate here), we are the only people responsible for our fate.  Blaming others will get you nowhere.  Blaming your circumstances will get you even less.  Admitting your own role in what inhibits you is a positive and honest step forward.  We’ve all made a fucking mess before.  To be perfectly honest, I would much rather hear someone say “I’m a fucking train wreck, do yourself a favor and steer clear of me right now” than I would hear someone say “My life sucks because of everybody around me sucks.”  We all have shitty people around us sometimes, but we chose to stay around them for a reason.  Most likely, we are that reason. 

When your life becomes a fucking mess, you have two options.  You can either stay stagnant, and reel in it.  Or, you can take a moment to reflect, only a moment though, and then clean it up and do something different.  It’s your mess.  Do with it what you want. 

-Inner Peas

Cosmic Connection

Everybody you meet has a purpose in your life.  I am a firm believer in that.  Some fill a void, some provide inspiration, and some just serve as a warning.  But every person you encounter contributes to your being, your outlook, your direction.  Now, don’t get me wrong, some are only a fleeting presence, others  are more permanent.  And by permanent, I don’t mean stationary.  I mean cosmically present.  And yes, I’m getting ready to make some haphazardly hippie statement about how we are all connected.    Also, I’m going to talk about the universe and magic and emotion.  This is your warning.  If you aren’t up for all that, beat it.  My feelings won’t be hurt. 

So, anyway, people.  They find a way into your life for a reason.  When we think about people serving a purpose in our lives, we tend to think about the people who have made the biggest positive impact.  I do, anyway.  We all have those people who have been such an influential force, that we can’t help for but remember them.  For me, there are many.  With those people, there is no amount of time, no distance, no time zone that can keep us apart.  These are the people, with whom I am so spiritually connected, that I would wake from a dead sleep if they got a paper cut.  We all have those people.  Those people who know when you are sad or forlorn or lonely.  They also know when your heart is happy and your soul is right.  For the most part, I call these people my soul sisters.  Not all of them are sisters, some are brothers.  But you get the point.  These bitches are everywhere.  Down the street.  Across the country.  On a different continent.  When I feel, they feel.  When they smile, I smile.  I’m pretty fucking lucky to have this invisible web that connects my soul to them, and theirs to me. 

And let’s be honest, we all feel that connection with some people.  That’s not a hippie thing.  That’s not a spiritual thing.  That’s a human thing.  We all find people who we connect with because they make us feel better.  We attach ourselves to others who understand our journey.  We acknowledge the connections that offer light and support.  Those are the relationships we consider sacred.  But I’m starting to think that cosmic connection isn’t always with those who understand and support you.  I’m starting to wonder if we have a psychic link with those who don’t understand everything we feel, but still know when we need them.  Or maybe they know when we don’t need them, and that’s when they make an appearance.  It’s a darker, more ambiguous connection, but a connection all the same.  I think a lot about a passage from Liz Gilbert’s memoir Eat.  Pray.  Love.  When she is talking to Richard, the addict turned spiritualist.  Richard tells Liz, “People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants.  But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.  A true soul mate is probably the most important person you will ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake.  But to live with a soul mate forever?  Nah.  Too painful.  Soul mates come into your life just o reveal another layer of yourself to you.  Then they leave. “ 

So, I told you that story, to tell you this story.  The other day, I was getting ready to go out on a date.  Hold your applause; I’m still emotionally repressed.  It took a lot to commit to that date.  But I had to do it.  For a several reasons.  First, because I don’t want to get too used to curling up with my cat and Dexter on DVD every night.  There’re only eight seasons.  Eventually, I’m going to run out of entertainment.  Second, I made the mistake of telling my soul sisters, and they really weren’t onboard with my ideas of self sabotage.  I had no choice but to go out with a man who is entirely too good for me.  So, I had committed to it.  Then, the morning of this psychological double-dare, the phone rang.  Guess who.  I should have known.  This always happens.  Every time I need to go get ready for something else, the same call comes.  Every.  Single.  Time.  For the last three years.  Nothing particular to talk about.  Just to say “hello” and “how’s work?” and “the boy must be big now.”  My girlfriends always say “What the fuck?  Does he have you under surveillance?  How does he know???”  I know that he doesn’t.  They do, too.  As much as they hate him, they know that there is a reason that he’s always there.  They know that there is something in the universe that keeps us connected.  It’s the cosmic leash that one of us needs to chew through before either one of us can do anything else. 

Our soul sisters and brothers get us.  They are there to support and love us.  They can feel what we feel.  They know when we need them.  But a soul mate is different.  That’s the person who shows up when you don’t want them to be there.  They make an appearance for no other reason than to make you question your entire being.  They are the mirror, in the florescent lighting, that makes you examine all of your flaws, that makes you re-evaluate what your soul looks like.  As Richard from Texas told Liz in Eat.  Pray.  Love.   “A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life…”

Richard is right, living with a soul mate would not only be too painful, but it would be impossible.  I think it’s nice to know that you have them, though. 

-Inner Peas

Giving Thanks

Many, many, MANY years ago, when I was in college (don’t ask when, that’s none of your business), I was in a classroom on the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving weekend, eyeballing the clock, waiting for 1:30 to tick by so I could get the fuck out of there.  Traffic’s a bitch the day before Thanksgiving.  Also, there’s food to be ate and booze to be drank.  There’s no time for all of that fancy book learning the day before Thanksgiving.  One thirty came, and I put my notes in my backpack (that may be an indication of how long it’s been since college, I still wrote notes there),  Along with 30 of my classmates, I stood up and got ready to walk out the door.  That professor was still standing at the podium, though, clearly not ready to let us leave.  So, we all sat back down, one eyebrow raised, real indignant, hateful looks on our faces.  Dr. Boileau stood silent for a moment.  The discontent  grew with every tick of the second hand on the clock.  Finally, he said, “you all have somewhere to be right?”  Uh.  Clearly.  “So, what is it that you are excited for?  Seeing your friends, your family?  Eating more food than you should?  You all looking forward to going to the bar tonight when you get home?  You know that the night before Thanksgiving is the busiest bar night of the year, right?”  We may not have known that at the time, but we did know that the traffic on the beltway was only getting thicker with every question he asked.  We also knew that the longer we sat and played 20 questions, was postponing time until we could belly up to the bar with people we only got to see once a year. 

Now, let’s be clear, I really liked that guy.  I learned a lot of shit from him.  The world of academia applauded him for his contributions to social and interpersonal communication.  As all of his students did.  However, at 1:35, none of us cared to indulge him in reindeer games.  We just wanted to go.  A few people actually walked out.  But, mostly, we stayed out of respect  for the man and his position.  Finally, he said “so, tonight when you get home and you hug the people you haven’t seen in a long time, tomorrow when you sit at dinner with your families, Friday, when you stand in line at Kohl’s, to get all your holiday shopping done, and Sunday when you drive home, remember what’s important.”  Again.  Nothing.  We had nothing.  We really didn’t care.  Finally, Dr. Boileau said “Remember what the holiday is about.  It’s about giving thanks.  It’s about gratitude.  It’s about remembering why you are fortunate.”  More silence.  He said nothing else.  That took seven minutes.  The longest seven minutes of our lives.  Until we got on the beltway, and sat in all that traffic.  There was plenty of time to think about what he had said there.  As I cruised along at 3.5 MPH for 80 miles, I remember thinking “Ohhhh….this guy’s fucking good.” 

When I finally pulled into the driveway in Chesapeake, 8 hours after I had left Fairfax, normally a three hour drive, I had thought a lot about what he said.  More than I should have.  But I had an extra five hours to think about it.  I did all of the same things.  I walked in.  I hugged.  I laughed.  I went to the bar.  I stole the Peyton Manning DirecTV poster before I went home.  I mean what would a holiday be if I didn’t take home a bar memento?  (I have three Peyton Manning posters, BTW.)  Anyway, the next morning, I woke up and still couldn’t shake those words:  “…It’s about remembering why you are fortunate.”  I woke up early, before anyone else, and I went to the computer.  I composed an email to the people I was most grateful for.  There were eight.  And I told them all how much they meant to me and how they made my life better.  I felt really good about that email.  So, I made it a tradition. 

Every year at Thanksgiving, the first thing I did, was write an email to the people I was most grateful for.  The people who made me smile.  The people who gave me guidance.  The people who were always honest and helpful and inspirational.  The first year there were eight.  The next year there were eleven.  Every year, the number got bigger.  My first year back in California, there were 45.  I remember writing that email and thinking “maybe 45 is too many.”  Maybe the message looses meaning if you tell everyone you know that you are grateful for them.  I kept going, though.  And every year, there were more people I was grateful for.  Pretty awesome, right? 

Until this year, when I composed an email and I wrote down everyone I was going to sent it to.  More than 150.  Again, I thought “maybe that’s too much.”  Then I read the email and I wasn’t real comfortable with it.  It’s pretty much the same email every year.  Thank you for helping me.  Thank you for sharing yourselves with me.  Thank you for giving me perspective and direction.  Thank you for the last 15 years.  Thank you for the last five months.  Words.  Stuff.  Does it mean anything anymore?  So, I didn’t sent the email today.  Today, being the day before Thanksgiving.  The same day that I have sent the same email for more years than you will ever dare to ask me.  (it’s none of your business.) 

Again, I told you this story to tell you the next story.  Today, I was down in the warehouse.  I walked my old friend’s office.  It’s a big office.  We even joked about how big it was.  I’m gonna get him some better art work though.  It’s real sterile there.  But the office is big.  I walked in and I said “look at you and your big , fancy office.”  Embarrassed, he laughed and gave the stock response:  “well, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m a pretty big deal.”  Yep.  I’ve heard.  I smiled and sat down on his big couch, kicked my feet up and we just talked.  The last time we had talked was on Monday.  I was real pissed on Monday.  Anyone who saw me on Monday knew that I was fucking pissed.  After we got the pleasantries out of the way,  the first thing my friend asked was “are you feeling better?” 

Nope.  Well, maybe.  Kinda?  Then I laid it all out.  I told him the entire story of why I’ve been so angry.  I told him where my hostility stems from and everything I’ve done to make it all right with the universe.  Then I laughed and told him he should have closed the door before I walked in.  I laughed again.  He didn’t’ laugh.  He just said “why do you think that other people don’t want to hear your story?  Maybe you don’t always have to put on the ‘tough bitch’ show.”  EEEEGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!  I was so terrified of not being accepted, that all I could say was “I just don’t want to burn people out.” 

That’s the truth. I don’t want to burn people out.  I don’t want them to be so aggravated with my emotion that they never want to see me again.  I don’t want to be that girl who is always screaming about how life isn’t right.  Mart and I talked about a lot of other things.  We talked about children and jobs and the future.  I walked out of his office and he said “you need help taking the toner to the car?”  That’s what I was there for.  Toner.  And I yelled from the front door. “Pretty sure I’ve got it!’ And I smiled as I walked to the car.  That was fun. 

As I was driving back to from Mart’s  office, I thought about that email I was going to send today.  The email that has become tradition.  The tradition that Don Boileau originated, without even knowing he had.   I didn’t send the email.  It was too stock.  It was too generic to send to the people I love.  An email can’t say thank you for being genuine.  An email can’t say thank you for reminding me of where I need to be.  It won’t ever say thank you for making me laugh or holding me or listening to me.  Emails won’t ever say I’m sorry for cussing your existence because you recounted my inadequacies.  An email will NEVER say Thank you for making me better.  Or I love you for being you.  Or thank you for loving me.  Even though I’m a hateful bitch. 

Don Boileau made me think about what I’m grateful for.  And I’m grateful for a lot.  What are you grateful for? 

-Inner Peas