Getting lots of "wrong number" calls lately. Call me paranoid, but since I have a New Jersey area code, and the calls are all from the local area – not New Jersey – I’m going to have to go ahead and figure that either my number is on a bathroom wall somewhere or I’ve got a would-be stalker.
I’ve had a couple of stalkers in my time, and I guess I’m just lucky not to instill too much crazed passion in men because my stalkers all turned out to be harmless. The one time I mentioned to my mother that someone, who turned out to be a married neighbor, left a note on my car declaring his love for me, she got really nervous, so I don’t bring those things up to her anymore.
Got another wrong number on my home line, which does have a local area code, but this call was from Riverside, California. Now, my home number is always the one old friends call when they're trying to reconnect. It’s the one listed on Yahoo’s People Search. So, I scrolled through my mental Rolodex to try to remember who I know in Riverside. Surprisingly, I know several people in that area. Very surprisingly as I've never done more than driven through Riverside.
I immediately weed out Mr. Carrie’s grandfather because while he did have kind of a big crush on me, I don’t think he’d remember my full name. Yahoo does have its limitations, and I'm almost certain that typing in “Carrie’s friend Paige” would come up with zero hits. While I’m at it, I go ahead and eliminate Mr. Carrie’s entire family, because I can’t imagine anyone would want to reconnect or would need closure after the suicide attempt. And I still maintain I had nothing to do with that. Which leaves just a couple of people, one of whom is an old boyfriend I haven’t talked to in about five years and who has a birthday coming up.
That seems about right.
This is why I don’t do Facebook or mySpace. Why bother? They find you anyway. Besides, I kind of like it when they go through the trouble of tracking you down in some search engine to get your number. You can’t make it too easy. Gotta weed out the riff-raff…
All joking aside and for the record, I am always open to reconnect with old friends I’ve lost touch with. I’m just one of those people you can call after a couple of years, and it’s like no time has passed between us. I don’t hold on too tight to those who are close to me, because, frankly, I don’t want to be held too tight, either.
We’ve all heard that “if you love something set it free…” saying. Well, when I was eight I actually got a t-shirt from one of those kiosks at the mall hot ironed with that saying and the picture of a dove on it, and I wore it to death. I live that saying. Everyone I care about is free to fly away and come back again.
And because from time-to-time they let me fly away, too, I think I actually love them more.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Pet Land and Faraway Places
Dog’s Cat is throwing up all over my house. I’m not sure if she’s mad at me for going away again, has the world largest hairball, or is just sick. If she keeps this up, I’m going to have the most expensive dry cleaning bill ever.
Caught up with Carrie last night. She’s not faring much better in pet land, either. The new addition to her household is projectile pooping all over her house.
I think this is just one of those things you accept when you live with animals. There will be times that your house will smell.
Dog and I went for a run this morning. It’s so beautiful out today. The sky is without a cloud. I love Florida in April. All the Snowbirds have left to go back to Canada, so the traffic has died down. It’s not unbearably hot yet. The rainy season hasn’t begun, so you can get through the afternoon without torrential downpours. The bugs haven’t come to visit yet, so everyone’s outdoors and smiling. It’s perfect.
After getting home from Orlando on Thursday afternoon, I unpacked, did three loads of laundry and went straight to bed for ten hours. The best part of going away for me is coming home. I love my bed. I love my little home. I’m happy in my routine. The next time I leave will be to take a day trip to see my mom.
My mom’s moving back to Vermont this summer. My parents bought some land down the road from our old farm and are building a family home there in which to spend their retirement. It’s funny but ever since they sold the old place there, they’ve been aching to go back. They sold it to travel the world, and they’ve had a nice run of it. But once Vermont gets in your bones, it’s very hard to forget. I only spent a year there, and I still get the urge to visit about once a year. It’s absolutely beautiful.
My father took a contract to work in Tel Aviv for a year, so it’s up to Mom to organize the builders and the move. It may seem a little unorthodox, but my parents have a fairly ideal situation in my eyes. She lives in the States and flies to see him a couple of times a year. He flies home a couple of times a year. They adore each other and are looking forward to growing old together.
They laugh a lot.
I know my mom wants to settle down and start the “together” part sooner than later, but she’s smart enough to let him go do what he needs to do for now. There’s still time enough to spend together. There’s still time enough to share coffee over breakfast on the front porch. In the meantime, there’s life to be lived, adventures to be had. And I have to say, theirs is a happier marriage than many I’ve been privileged to witness. Time and distance can’t truly separate people who love each other and are committed to one another.
If Dog’s Cat doesn’t stop throwing up, though, I think she may be moving to Vermont with my mom to live in the barn. There are some thing’s love just can’t overcome…
Caught up with Carrie last night. She’s not faring much better in pet land, either. The new addition to her household is projectile pooping all over her house.
I think this is just one of those things you accept when you live with animals. There will be times that your house will smell.
Dog and I went for a run this morning. It’s so beautiful out today. The sky is without a cloud. I love Florida in April. All the Snowbirds have left to go back to Canada, so the traffic has died down. It’s not unbearably hot yet. The rainy season hasn’t begun, so you can get through the afternoon without torrential downpours. The bugs haven’t come to visit yet, so everyone’s outdoors and smiling. It’s perfect.
After getting home from Orlando on Thursday afternoon, I unpacked, did three loads of laundry and went straight to bed for ten hours. The best part of going away for me is coming home. I love my bed. I love my little home. I’m happy in my routine. The next time I leave will be to take a day trip to see my mom.
My mom’s moving back to Vermont this summer. My parents bought some land down the road from our old farm and are building a family home there in which to spend their retirement. It’s funny but ever since they sold the old place there, they’ve been aching to go back. They sold it to travel the world, and they’ve had a nice run of it. But once Vermont gets in your bones, it’s very hard to forget. I only spent a year there, and I still get the urge to visit about once a year. It’s absolutely beautiful.
My father took a contract to work in Tel Aviv for a year, so it’s up to Mom to organize the builders and the move. It may seem a little unorthodox, but my parents have a fairly ideal situation in my eyes. She lives in the States and flies to see him a couple of times a year. He flies home a couple of times a year. They adore each other and are looking forward to growing old together.
They laugh a lot.
I know my mom wants to settle down and start the “together” part sooner than later, but she’s smart enough to let him go do what he needs to do for now. There’s still time enough to spend together. There’s still time enough to share coffee over breakfast on the front porch. In the meantime, there’s life to be lived, adventures to be had. And I have to say, theirs is a happier marriage than many I’ve been privileged to witness. Time and distance can’t truly separate people who love each other and are committed to one another.
If Dog’s Cat doesn’t stop throwing up, though, I think she may be moving to Vermont with my mom to live in the barn. There are some thing’s love just can’t overcome…
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Classes and Interns and Puppies,.. Oh My!
I missed the deadline to apply for summer admission to the Masters program at University of South Florida.
To be completely honest, I wasn’t going to start this summer. I wanted to take a break from classes, and I was still shopping around. But I saw that I’m done with this writing class I’m taking in three weeks, and the idea of not having papers to write or a place I’m required to spend an hour or two a few times a week for the first time in forever threw me in a tailspin.
So I decided to apply to the program closest to me at USF. I checked their deadline for the program. Missed it by six weeks. I sent the following email:
Dear Ms. Person in Control of My Future:
Just wondered how hard and fast these application deadlines are. I got a bit sidetracked, but I was hoping to begin classes this summer. Just one to start - in Summer Session C.
Is it possible for me to attend XXX 5020 as a non-degree seeking student while I'm waiting for formal admission to the program in the Fall?
Sincerely,
Future Student Who Readily Admits to Frequent Periods of Indecision and Apathy
Keep your fingers crossed…
Email Buddy Eric is gone for five weeks. He’s out in California for training. Ugh! What am I going to do while I’m at work for the next month? Who am I going to email to tell when someone does something stupid or crazy? Do you ever watch The Office? I am the Pam to his Jim,.. and vice versa. Without the sexual tension, of course.
His son is interning for me right now. When Email Buddy Eric left, I told his boy that he’s got to be my bitch while his dad is gone. He just said, “I can do that, Ms. Lacey.”
EBE’s not completely underground, though. We’ve resorted to texting and phone calls while he’s roaming the hills of Northern California. This is how you know when someone has become one of your closest friends, isn’t it? Even when they go away, they’re still with you.
Carrie’s gotten a new dog. She’s a mastiff. Now the size that puppy is going to get would throw off some would-be owners. They’d be afraid of owning a dog that would end up owning the house, drooling all over the rug and couch. Greeting every person who comes near the house with a deep bark and a toy in its mouth. Expecting food, water, and walks on demand. Wait. That’s my dog. My couch that's covered in drool…
No. I expect that Carrie’s new puppy is going through a rigorous training program even as I type this. Carrie’s a no-bullshit kind of gal. That dog doesn’t have a chance of running her house no matter how big it gets. It’s one of the things I love best about Carrie. She has strength of character. She decides and moves forward.
Granted, Carrie moves forward in three-inch heels, but she can totally pull that off, too. ;o)
To be completely honest, I wasn’t going to start this summer. I wanted to take a break from classes, and I was still shopping around. But I saw that I’m done with this writing class I’m taking in three weeks, and the idea of not having papers to write or a place I’m required to spend an hour or two a few times a week for the first time in forever threw me in a tailspin.
So I decided to apply to the program closest to me at USF. I checked their deadline for the program. Missed it by six weeks. I sent the following email:
Dear Ms. Person in Control of My Future:
Just wondered how hard and fast these application deadlines are. I got a bit sidetracked, but I was hoping to begin classes this summer. Just one to start - in Summer Session C.
Is it possible for me to attend XXX 5020 as a non-degree seeking student while I'm waiting for formal admission to the program in the Fall?
Sincerely,
Future Student Who Readily Admits to Frequent Periods of Indecision and Apathy
Keep your fingers crossed…
Email Buddy Eric is gone for five weeks. He’s out in California for training. Ugh! What am I going to do while I’m at work for the next month? Who am I going to email to tell when someone does something stupid or crazy? Do you ever watch The Office? I am the Pam to his Jim,.. and vice versa. Without the sexual tension, of course.
His son is interning for me right now. When Email Buddy Eric left, I told his boy that he’s got to be my bitch while his dad is gone. He just said, “I can do that, Ms. Lacey.”
EBE’s not completely underground, though. We’ve resorted to texting and phone calls while he’s roaming the hills of Northern California. This is how you know when someone has become one of your closest friends, isn’t it? Even when they go away, they’re still with you.
Carrie’s gotten a new dog. She’s a mastiff. Now the size that puppy is going to get would throw off some would-be owners. They’d be afraid of owning a dog that would end up owning the house, drooling all over the rug and couch. Greeting every person who comes near the house with a deep bark and a toy in its mouth. Expecting food, water, and walks on demand. Wait. That’s my dog. My couch that's covered in drool…
No. I expect that Carrie’s new puppy is going through a rigorous training program even as I type this. Carrie’s a no-bullshit kind of gal. That dog doesn’t have a chance of running her house no matter how big it gets. It’s one of the things I love best about Carrie. She has strength of character. She decides and moves forward.
Granted, Carrie moves forward in three-inch heels, but she can totally pull that off, too. ;o)
Sunday, April 12, 2009
How Soon is Now?
Dog started going crazy at about 8:30 yesterday morning. Lily was at my door, and he loves Lily. It’s pathological how much he loves Lily. She just laughs, but I swear she totally digs the way he’s so into her. She gives him rubs and calls him “Velvet Head.” He pants and talks and leans into her until he works his way to a lying down position at her feet. I am forgotten or ignored for the duration of her visits with us.
Here is a picture of little Velvet Head...
He's usually this blurry in real life, too.
Anyway, Lily was all wound up. She had gotten in from a business trip to Austin the night before and gotten up before the sun to go co-host her first guest spot on a radio show. We sat out back on the deck and chatted for a few minutes to catch up. Then we downloaded the radio show from the station’s website and listened to the show while I made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Dog only got peanut butter on his. Lily’s really good on the radio. She sounds so cool and together on the radio. Not that I would expect anything less. She’s really good at everything.
Putzed around all day yesterday. I’m restless and feel an urgency to clean and organize and put my life in order. It feels like it’s in disarray, but I can’t pinpoint the thing that’s wrong, the hair that’s out of place, the fly in the ointment. So I’m moving from project-to-project, issue-to-issue, trying to snap into place the piece of the puzzle that will leave me with a sense of contentment. I've finished with all the edge pieces, though, and I've lost the box top that shows me what the picture is supposed to look like when all the pieces are finally in place.
Called and left a message for my sister. Talked with my mom on the phone. Got a package from Carrie. A gift. That’s just like her to stop what she’s doing on her honeymoon to buy me a gift and overnight it to me. I’m never that thoughtful. I sent her a text to thank her. I have such great friends!
My sister called last night when I was getting in the bath, and we caught up while I shaved my legs. She’s doing really good and is coming down for Boy’s graduation next month.
These are the comments most frequently used when discussing Boy these days:
“Can you believe he’s all grown up?”
“He’s got so much confidence.”
“Where did the time go?”
“You did such a great job with him.”
My responses go something like:
“No.”
“Really?”
“We blinked.”
“Boy raised himself. I just supervised so no one would get hurt.”
I’m far too laid back to have been an effective parent. I was too young. I was alone. I spend time with children now and think, I’m finally ready to be a parent. I’d be good at it now.
Boy and I grew up together. And it worked out. We’re fine. We made it through. But there were some times there that I wondered if either of us would make it out alive. And I feel guilty that I was less a mom than I was a co-conspirator. Now, we’re roommates. Someday we’ll be best friends. And I’m okay with that. I’m good at being a friend.
Here is a picture of little Velvet Head...
He's usually this blurry in real life, too.
Anyway, Lily was all wound up. She had gotten in from a business trip to Austin the night before and gotten up before the sun to go co-host her first guest spot on a radio show. We sat out back on the deck and chatted for a few minutes to catch up. Then we downloaded the radio show from the station’s website and listened to the show while I made us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Dog only got peanut butter on his. Lily’s really good on the radio. She sounds so cool and together on the radio. Not that I would expect anything less. She’s really good at everything.
Putzed around all day yesterday. I’m restless and feel an urgency to clean and organize and put my life in order. It feels like it’s in disarray, but I can’t pinpoint the thing that’s wrong, the hair that’s out of place, the fly in the ointment. So I’m moving from project-to-project, issue-to-issue, trying to snap into place the piece of the puzzle that will leave me with a sense of contentment. I've finished with all the edge pieces, though, and I've lost the box top that shows me what the picture is supposed to look like when all the pieces are finally in place.
Called and left a message for my sister. Talked with my mom on the phone. Got a package from Carrie. A gift. That’s just like her to stop what she’s doing on her honeymoon to buy me a gift and overnight it to me. I’m never that thoughtful. I sent her a text to thank her. I have such great friends!
My sister called last night when I was getting in the bath, and we caught up while I shaved my legs. She’s doing really good and is coming down for Boy’s graduation next month.
These are the comments most frequently used when discussing Boy these days:
“Can you believe he’s all grown up?”
“He’s got so much confidence.”
“Where did the time go?”
“You did such a great job with him.”
My responses go something like:
“No.”
“Really?”
“We blinked.”
“Boy raised himself. I just supervised so no one would get hurt.”
I’m far too laid back to have been an effective parent. I was too young. I was alone. I spend time with children now and think, I’m finally ready to be a parent. I’d be good at it now.
Boy and I grew up together. And it worked out. We’re fine. We made it through. But there were some times there that I wondered if either of us would make it out alive. And I feel guilty that I was less a mom than I was a co-conspirator. Now, we’re roommates. Someday we’ll be best friends. And I’m okay with that. I’m good at being a friend.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Why I'll Never Write for a Living...
Oh my gosh. What a busy week! On top of everything else I had going on, I realized I finally had to turn in the rewrite of my short blog story early because I’ll be in Orlando for a conference the week it's supposed to be presented to the class. So I picked up this monster of a document, reread all the comments, and condensed it into 13 pages. Talk about tedious. It took me five drafts, two nights and twelve solid hours to get down about 4500 words that I’m content with. That’s three hundred and seventy-five words an hour. I think I’ll keep my day job.
Blogging is so much easier for me than writing fiction. When I’m writing a story, I get obsessive. I write, read, edit, over and over again. I don’t eat. I’ve actually lost all my vacation weight plus two pounds. I don’t clean. I resent Dog when he’s barking to go for a walk because it feels as though I only walked him the hour before. In reality, though, it’s been four hours, and I get it. I do. I’m just in a zone.
I finally made myself stop writing at midnight on Thursday to eat a piece of cheese toast because I’d gotten drunk on the two beers I’d had on an empty stomach. When I fell asleep, the bed was spinning and I woke up with more changes in mind and a slight headache. I wanted to write, but I went to work instead. I got through the day without reading the copy I’d printed out and tucked into my purse more than twice.
We all took off early on Friday for Good Friday and the holiday weekend. I came home and wrote. Boy wandered in and out, asking for money, directions, food. He’s used to this, though. My phone rang. I ignored it. I wrote some more.
I took mercy on Dog, and while we walked, I sent a text a friend driving down from North Carolina for a visit. "R U there yet?" I sent a text to Josh out in Oregon, just home from a business trip to Idaho. “R U still roaming?” I got back to my house and read People Magazine.
I got a text back from my friend, who’s stuck in traffic in North Florida. I got a text back from Josh. He’s going to Mass with his daughter. I text him that I’d just do my Rosary before I went bed. He texts me back, “You are such a good girl.” Yes, well a good girl would feed her dog and child without resenting the interruption. A good girl would make it to Mass on Good Friday.
I called my friend, Lynn, in New Jersey. We ended up talking for an hour. I miss her.
I started writing again. Write, read, edit, write. I finished at midnight again, but I wasn’t drunk this time. I managed to get out the Our Father and three Hail Mary’s before I drifted off to sleep.
I have an aunt who writes, too. She’s my editor. The poor woman will get halfway through one draft when I’m already emailing her draft two. Then three. Then four. It must drive her nuts. But she just sighs and rereads the words she’s read before. She makes new edits. She emails the edits to me. She writes that she still loves me, and finally, she writes to tell me when I need to stop. And so, finally, I do.
Blogging is so much easier for me than writing fiction. When I’m writing a story, I get obsessive. I write, read, edit, over and over again. I don’t eat. I’ve actually lost all my vacation weight plus two pounds. I don’t clean. I resent Dog when he’s barking to go for a walk because it feels as though I only walked him the hour before. In reality, though, it’s been four hours, and I get it. I do. I’m just in a zone.
I finally made myself stop writing at midnight on Thursday to eat a piece of cheese toast because I’d gotten drunk on the two beers I’d had on an empty stomach. When I fell asleep, the bed was spinning and I woke up with more changes in mind and a slight headache. I wanted to write, but I went to work instead. I got through the day without reading the copy I’d printed out and tucked into my purse more than twice.
We all took off early on Friday for Good Friday and the holiday weekend. I came home and wrote. Boy wandered in and out, asking for money, directions, food. He’s used to this, though. My phone rang. I ignored it. I wrote some more.
I took mercy on Dog, and while we walked, I sent a text a friend driving down from North Carolina for a visit. "R U there yet?" I sent a text to Josh out in Oregon, just home from a business trip to Idaho. “R U still roaming?” I got back to my house and read People Magazine.
I got a text back from my friend, who’s stuck in traffic in North Florida. I got a text back from Josh. He’s going to Mass with his daughter. I text him that I’d just do my Rosary before I went bed. He texts me back, “You are such a good girl.” Yes, well a good girl would feed her dog and child without resenting the interruption. A good girl would make it to Mass on Good Friday.
I called my friend, Lynn, in New Jersey. We ended up talking for an hour. I miss her.
I started writing again. Write, read, edit, write. I finished at midnight again, but I wasn’t drunk this time. I managed to get out the Our Father and three Hail Mary’s before I drifted off to sleep.
I have an aunt who writes, too. She’s my editor. The poor woman will get halfway through one draft when I’m already emailing her draft two. Then three. Then four. It must drive her nuts. But she just sighs and rereads the words she’s read before. She makes new edits. She emails the edits to me. She writes that she still loves me, and finally, she writes to tell me when I need to stop. And so, finally, I do.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Cue the Swans
The bride was beautiful. The weather was gorgeous. The setting was spectacular.
Carrie and Mr. Carrie chose this farm in North Carolina on which to be married. The property itself was a plantation in the 1760’s. And the same family that owned it then owns it now.
The girls got to use the big house to get ready in. The house is completely cool – a little warren of tucked away staircases and American history. I ran some of the wedding guests over to give then a quick tour during the reception.
Whoever did the renovations on the house did a great job. I’ve lived in a house built in the 1790’s. No way did the main house have some of these features to start with, but they managed to seamlessly blend five bathrooms into a house that originally had zero.
We did our hair thing and the dressing thing and the picture thing. I ran down to boss around the florist and DJ and property manager and pretty much anyone else who looked like they should be getting the party going. Bossing people is my one of my favorite things to do, and I’m actually getting pretty good at it, too.
When the ceremony went down, the bride and groom stood at the gazebo overlooking a lake. The sun was shining and everything went off without a hitch. As they said their vows, two swans came gliding by on the lake behind them. I’m telling you, it was perfect.
We had so much fun at the reception. Open bar, tons of food, all these people who just plain ol’ liked each other. You couldn’t have asked for a better party. The groom's eighty-three year-old grandfather had a huge crush on me, so after three days of his not-so-subtle flirting and under the watchful eyes of his sixty-year-old wife, I pulled him out on the dance floor during AC-DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.
When we went out on the veranda to cool off, Grandpa asked me if I would come visit him in California. I told him I’d just been out there but might make it out again next year and would he still be around? He lifted up his arm to make a muscle and asked, “What do you think?”
So, I played along and felt his muscle. I told him, “I think next time I see you, I’ll need to get some tickets for the gun show.”
Mr. Carrie’s dad later pulled me aside and told me that I made Grandpa's night. Isn’t that sweet? So I danced with him again later when Shout came on, and during the slow song that came on after, I asked him if he just has a crush on me because I reminded him of a girl he knew earlier in life. He told me, “No, I never had a girl that looked as good as you.” Which was sweet but completely false. This guy has money out the wazoo and a bigger charmer you’ve never met.
At the end of the night, the bride and groom sailed off in his Infiniti to head back to their place to have a quiet wedding night alone. The unofficial Best Man and I packed up Carrie’s car so they wouldn’t have to come back to pack up the decorations and knick knacks she wanted to keep.
Okay, now are you ready? Because you’re not gonna believe this shit.
Carrie had invited my sister, Julia, her husband, and the Boy to the wedding as well. Julia had picked up Boy from the airport Friday, so they had a nice little visit before coming to wedding on Saturday. Don’t ask me how I managed to get a sister and a best friend from different parts of the country to move within an hour of each other when I live 700 miles away. I’m just lucky like that.
So, we had just pulled into the driveway of my sister’s house in Raleigh when my phone rings. It’s Carrie. It’s eleven o’clock on her wedding night, and her house is full of people. Mr. Carrie’s family, the California crew with a nary a boundary between the eight of them, have all come back to her house to continue their visit with the favorite son.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, and his brother and that hoochie mama are locked in my bathroom. Paige, I think they’re having sex in my bathroom.”
“Have you two even had sex yet?”
“Yeah, in the bathroom as the cars started pulling into the driveway.”
“Good. Okay, where are you now?”
“I’m in my bedroom. I told them I was going to bed. Isn't that usually a sign it's time to leave? When the bride has locked herself in the bedroom.”
“I would think so. What’s Mr. Carrie doing?”
“He doesn’t know what to do, so he’s just out there with them. And, Paige, there’s some family drama going on. Did you say something to his dad or granddad?”
“Um, no. Why?”
“Because Dad’s wife and Granddad’s wife are both angry about something to do with you. And Dad’s wife is back at the hotel passed out drunk, and your name is getting tossed around like salad out there.”
I think for a minute. “Well, you know Dad did call me over to their table at the end of the night to tell me in front of the rest of the table that he had a wonderful family or some such nonsense. I told him that was great. I thought he was just drunk.”
“I don’t know what it was.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t do something to cause this.”
“No, I’m sure you were fine. They’re just crazy. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She called back at midnight to tell me she’d left her bedroom long enough to confront Dad about whatever the women’s issue was with me to be told I was being used as an excuse to start a fight. Figures.
I got a call again from Carrie at one o’clock in the morning. They finally left, but it was to rush Dad’s wife to the hospital. Back at the hotel, she’d taken all of the tranquilizers she’s been given to help her get on the plane – she’s got a real phobia about flying. And apparently some other issues, too. They’ve pumped her stomach, and, physically, she’s fine now.
As my brother-in-law told me this morning when he came downstairs and I filled him in, "It wouldn’t be a wedding without drama."
Well, drama, sure. Crazy? No.
I’m soooo not going to anymore weddings for a while...
Carrie and Mr. Carrie chose this farm in North Carolina on which to be married. The property itself was a plantation in the 1760’s. And the same family that owned it then owns it now.
The girls got to use the big house to get ready in. The house is completely cool – a little warren of tucked away staircases and American history. I ran some of the wedding guests over to give then a quick tour during the reception.
Whoever did the renovations on the house did a great job. I’ve lived in a house built in the 1790’s. No way did the main house have some of these features to start with, but they managed to seamlessly blend five bathrooms into a house that originally had zero.
We did our hair thing and the dressing thing and the picture thing. I ran down to boss around the florist and DJ and property manager and pretty much anyone else who looked like they should be getting the party going. Bossing people is my one of my favorite things to do, and I’m actually getting pretty good at it, too.
When the ceremony went down, the bride and groom stood at the gazebo overlooking a lake. The sun was shining and everything went off without a hitch. As they said their vows, two swans came gliding by on the lake behind them. I’m telling you, it was perfect.
We had so much fun at the reception. Open bar, tons of food, all these people who just plain ol’ liked each other. You couldn’t have asked for a better party. The groom's eighty-three year-old grandfather had a huge crush on me, so after three days of his not-so-subtle flirting and under the watchful eyes of his sixty-year-old wife, I pulled him out on the dance floor during AC-DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.
When we went out on the veranda to cool off, Grandpa asked me if I would come visit him in California. I told him I’d just been out there but might make it out again next year and would he still be around? He lifted up his arm to make a muscle and asked, “What do you think?”
So, I played along and felt his muscle. I told him, “I think next time I see you, I’ll need to get some tickets for the gun show.”
Mr. Carrie’s dad later pulled me aside and told me that I made Grandpa's night. Isn’t that sweet? So I danced with him again later when Shout came on, and during the slow song that came on after, I asked him if he just has a crush on me because I reminded him of a girl he knew earlier in life. He told me, “No, I never had a girl that looked as good as you.” Which was sweet but completely false. This guy has money out the wazoo and a bigger charmer you’ve never met.
At the end of the night, the bride and groom sailed off in his Infiniti to head back to their place to have a quiet wedding night alone. The unofficial Best Man and I packed up Carrie’s car so they wouldn’t have to come back to pack up the decorations and knick knacks she wanted to keep.
Okay, now are you ready? Because you’re not gonna believe this shit.
Carrie had invited my sister, Julia, her husband, and the Boy to the wedding as well. Julia had picked up Boy from the airport Friday, so they had a nice little visit before coming to wedding on Saturday. Don’t ask me how I managed to get a sister and a best friend from different parts of the country to move within an hour of each other when I live 700 miles away. I’m just lucky like that.
So, we had just pulled into the driveway of my sister’s house in Raleigh when my phone rings. It’s Carrie. It’s eleven o’clock on her wedding night, and her house is full of people. Mr. Carrie’s family, the California crew with a nary a boundary between the eight of them, have all come back to her house to continue their visit with the favorite son.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, and his brother and that hoochie mama are locked in my bathroom. Paige, I think they’re having sex in my bathroom.”
“Have you two even had sex yet?”
“Yeah, in the bathroom as the cars started pulling into the driveway.”
“Good. Okay, where are you now?”
“I’m in my bedroom. I told them I was going to bed. Isn't that usually a sign it's time to leave? When the bride has locked herself in the bedroom.”
“I would think so. What’s Mr. Carrie doing?”
“He doesn’t know what to do, so he’s just out there with them. And, Paige, there’s some family drama going on. Did you say something to his dad or granddad?”
“Um, no. Why?”
“Because Dad’s wife and Granddad’s wife are both angry about something to do with you. And Dad’s wife is back at the hotel passed out drunk, and your name is getting tossed around like salad out there.”
I think for a minute. “Well, you know Dad did call me over to their table at the end of the night to tell me in front of the rest of the table that he had a wonderful family or some such nonsense. I told him that was great. I thought he was just drunk.”
“I don’t know what it was.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t do something to cause this.”
“No, I’m sure you were fine. They’re just crazy. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She called back at midnight to tell me she’d left her bedroom long enough to confront Dad about whatever the women’s issue was with me to be told I was being used as an excuse to start a fight. Figures.
I got a call again from Carrie at one o’clock in the morning. They finally left, but it was to rush Dad’s wife to the hospital. Back at the hotel, she’d taken all of the tranquilizers she’s been given to help her get on the plane – she’s got a real phobia about flying. And apparently some other issues, too. They’ve pumped her stomach, and, physically, she’s fine now.
As my brother-in-law told me this morning when he came downstairs and I filled him in, "It wouldn’t be a wedding without drama."
Well, drama, sure. Crazy? No.
I’m soooo not going to anymore weddings for a while...
Saturday, April 4, 2009
East Meets West
The Parent’s Dinner last night turned into a Family Dinner. Carrie and the future Mr. Carrie were great sports about the lengthening list of dinner guests in the midst of their excitement and utter exhaustion from having a house full of people for days. They just pulled out more food and spread out the Ahi by making extra side dishes. Mr. Carrie is a great cook!
Dinner was great and not as big a challenge as you’d expect despite it being Lent. Even with Carrie’s family being devout Catholics and Mr. Carrie’s family being,.. well, just lapsed, I guess,.. it all came off like clockwork.
It was so much fun watching these two families interact. Carrie’s family all came in from North Jersey. Mr. Carrie’s family was in from Riverside, California and, I heard this a lot last night so it’s got to mean something, Orange County.
Having lived on both coasts I’m a little in the middle myself, so I kind of dug both cultural perspectives. But, when Mr. Carrie’s step-grandmother made a comment about how Jenny McCarthy had found a cure for autism, I heard Carrie’s mother ask who was Jenny McCarthy and Carrie explaining that she was an ex-Playboy Bunny, I had to look over from where I was sitting on the couch with Carrie's brother and his fiancée to see if Carrie’s mother’s head would spin off her neck and explode. Too funny.
Both these families are made up of wonderful, interesting, intelligent people... They’re just a little different, is all.
Lots to do today. We went out to the wedding site, this beautiful old plantation. It’s gorgeous. Carrie, her friend, Jenny, and I put together all the centerpieces and set up the tables. Then, Carrie and I ran out to Michael’s to pick up some finishing touches before heading over to another Mexican place for a late lunch. I swear I’ve eaten more food in the last three days than I have in a year. I’m definitely going to have a hard time squeezing into my dress today. Well, I might get into it if I don’t mind holding my breath for four hours…
Carrie and I had a long talk about how to handle that overwhelming feeling you get sometimes when you just can’t figure out what to do first or next. And she told me she prayed.
Maybe it’s my own Catholic upbringing or maybe it’s just nostalgia for that feeling I always had as a child that I could always rely on someone or something bigger than me fixing everything that was wrong – from scraped knees to bruised hearts – but that made sense to me. The praying, I mean. The guilt I feel over not having visited my own church for almost a year? That's definitely the Catholic thing.
And by the time we’d pulled into the parking lot of the Dollar Store where we bought the girliest matching flip flops for $3 a piece, I’d come to the decision that I was ready to do some of that myself. Not that I have a lot of problems. I'm blessed in many ways. But you really don’t want to reconnect only when you need something fixed, right? You’ve got to ease into a relationship before you unpack your baggage.
I try to keep religion out of my public life, but I guess it can be hard to hold on to faith when you don’t embrace it. And sometimes the only thing you can do when you don’t know what to do next is just let it go and hand your problems over to a higher power. It’s not so much about giving up or failing to take responsibility as it is acknowledging that you can’t do it all yourself. None of us have all the answers.
And whether you believe in Buddha, God, Zarathustra, or nothing at all, sometimes the smartest thing you can do is just to let go of the idea that you do.
Dinner was great and not as big a challenge as you’d expect despite it being Lent. Even with Carrie’s family being devout Catholics and Mr. Carrie’s family being,.. well, just lapsed, I guess,.. it all came off like clockwork.
It was so much fun watching these two families interact. Carrie’s family all came in from North Jersey. Mr. Carrie’s family was in from Riverside, California and, I heard this a lot last night so it’s got to mean something, Orange County.
Having lived on both coasts I’m a little in the middle myself, so I kind of dug both cultural perspectives. But, when Mr. Carrie’s step-grandmother made a comment about how Jenny McCarthy had found a cure for autism, I heard Carrie’s mother ask who was Jenny McCarthy and Carrie explaining that she was an ex-Playboy Bunny, I had to look over from where I was sitting on the couch with Carrie's brother and his fiancée to see if Carrie’s mother’s head would spin off her neck and explode. Too funny.
Both these families are made up of wonderful, interesting, intelligent people... They’re just a little different, is all.
Lots to do today. We went out to the wedding site, this beautiful old plantation. It’s gorgeous. Carrie, her friend, Jenny, and I put together all the centerpieces and set up the tables. Then, Carrie and I ran out to Michael’s to pick up some finishing touches before heading over to another Mexican place for a late lunch. I swear I’ve eaten more food in the last three days than I have in a year. I’m definitely going to have a hard time squeezing into my dress today. Well, I might get into it if I don’t mind holding my breath for four hours…
Carrie and I had a long talk about how to handle that overwhelming feeling you get sometimes when you just can’t figure out what to do first or next. And she told me she prayed.
Maybe it’s my own Catholic upbringing or maybe it’s just nostalgia for that feeling I always had as a child that I could always rely on someone or something bigger than me fixing everything that was wrong – from scraped knees to bruised hearts – but that made sense to me. The praying, I mean. The guilt I feel over not having visited my own church for almost a year? That's definitely the Catholic thing.
And by the time we’d pulled into the parking lot of the Dollar Store where we bought the girliest matching flip flops for $3 a piece, I’d come to the decision that I was ready to do some of that myself. Not that I have a lot of problems. I'm blessed in many ways. But you really don’t want to reconnect only when you need something fixed, right? You’ve got to ease into a relationship before you unpack your baggage.
I try to keep religion out of my public life, but I guess it can be hard to hold on to faith when you don’t embrace it. And sometimes the only thing you can do when you don’t know what to do next is just let it go and hand your problems over to a higher power. It’s not so much about giving up or failing to take responsibility as it is acknowledging that you can’t do it all yourself. None of us have all the answers.
And whether you believe in Buddha, God, Zarathustra, or nothing at all, sometimes the smartest thing you can do is just to let go of the idea that you do.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Cars Out Front
Before she left to pick me up from the airport on Wednesday, Carrie’s fiancé told her he was having the workers come in that day to install the new glass for their shower. She was so excited and I got to see why last night as I lay in their big garden tub with bubbles up to my nose. It looks awesome.
With her fiancé out having dinner with his parents, we left the door to the bathroom open, and Carrie and I chatted about the next day’s schedule. Then I turned on the jets, closed my eyes and let the bubbles get higher, while she caught up on phone calls out in the kitchen
After we got Little Carrie to bed early last night, Big Carrie and I did our nails, watched CSI, and talked. At some point during the commercials around the half-hour mark in the show, I turned my head to the side to rest my eyes while I lay on the couch, and the next thing I knew, Carrie was waking me up to tell me to move upstairs. So I did.
Even after moving upstairs, I was up again at eleven and midnight. People have been coming in from out of town all night. And even though they didn’t wake me, I knew there were people milling about downstairs, which always makes me restless and wonder what kind of fun I’m missing.
Little Carrie crawled into bed with me this morning at six fifteen. We laid there for a minute while I tried to go back to sleep, her tiny body molded to mine. Then my eyes snapped open, “Does your mother know you’re up here?”
Her sleepy little voice came back, “No. I looked in her bed, but she wasn’t there.”
Taking a shower, I thought. “Let’s go down to your bed, and we’ll sleep there.” I can only imagine what Carrie would have thought coming out of the shower to find her daughter’s bed empty.
We curled up around each other in her little pink bed in her pink bedroom for a few minutes, but when I opened up one eye to peek at her, I found both of her blue eyes watching me. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
So we went out to the kitchen and I pulled out a pan and some eggs, cheese, bread, and butter. Once we got that out, I felt the coffee carafe. Warm. “I love your mother,” I told her and poured coffee in the big giant yellow cup that I’ve made mine while I’m visiting.
Little Carrie and I made a cheese omelet, the way my grandmother taught me – crepe-thin and with the egg cooked on both sides before you put in cheese. Then we shared a piece of toast with the raspberry, peach, and champagne preserves that I found in the refrigerator door.
Once we got the little one off to school, Carrie and I headed over to the tanning salon, bought cokes, and sat in the lounge with the clerk who’s folding towels while we waited for our turn in the stand-up. When it’s my turn, I covered my face with the towels they provide and did squats while I was standing in the metal closet to distract myself and make the eight minutes I spent giving myself wrinkles go by faster.
While I was waiting for Carrie to finish, I asked the clerk if I could take a picture of their Elvis wall. Yes, an entire wall devoted to the King.
Then Carrie and I stopped at this little dive that’s only open for breakfast and always has cars in the parking lot. That’s always a good gauge of how good a place is, isn’t it? Lots of cars parked out front.
Carrie and I got cheese biscuits to go and headed back to her place to get the car loaded up so we can head out to the plantation to set up for tomorrow…
As we’re driving home, I tell her, “I don’t want to go home.”
She takes her eyes off the road, looks at me, and says. “Then stay.”
And I know she means it, but we both know I can’t.
When we get back to her house, there are lots of cars out front.
With her fiancé out having dinner with his parents, we left the door to the bathroom open, and Carrie and I chatted about the next day’s schedule. Then I turned on the jets, closed my eyes and let the bubbles get higher, while she caught up on phone calls out in the kitchen
After we got Little Carrie to bed early last night, Big Carrie and I did our nails, watched CSI, and talked. At some point during the commercials around the half-hour mark in the show, I turned my head to the side to rest my eyes while I lay on the couch, and the next thing I knew, Carrie was waking me up to tell me to move upstairs. So I did.
Even after moving upstairs, I was up again at eleven and midnight. People have been coming in from out of town all night. And even though they didn’t wake me, I knew there were people milling about downstairs, which always makes me restless and wonder what kind of fun I’m missing.
Little Carrie crawled into bed with me this morning at six fifteen. We laid there for a minute while I tried to go back to sleep, her tiny body molded to mine. Then my eyes snapped open, “Does your mother know you’re up here?”
Her sleepy little voice came back, “No. I looked in her bed, but she wasn’t there.”
Taking a shower, I thought. “Let’s go down to your bed, and we’ll sleep there.” I can only imagine what Carrie would have thought coming out of the shower to find her daughter’s bed empty.
We curled up around each other in her little pink bed in her pink bedroom for a few minutes, but when I opened up one eye to peek at her, I found both of her blue eyes watching me. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
So we went out to the kitchen and I pulled out a pan and some eggs, cheese, bread, and butter. Once we got that out, I felt the coffee carafe. Warm. “I love your mother,” I told her and poured coffee in the big giant yellow cup that I’ve made mine while I’m visiting.
Little Carrie and I made a cheese omelet, the way my grandmother taught me – crepe-thin and with the egg cooked on both sides before you put in cheese. Then we shared a piece of toast with the raspberry, peach, and champagne preserves that I found in the refrigerator door.
Once we got the little one off to school, Carrie and I headed over to the tanning salon, bought cokes, and sat in the lounge with the clerk who’s folding towels while we waited for our turn in the stand-up. When it’s my turn, I covered my face with the towels they provide and did squats while I was standing in the metal closet to distract myself and make the eight minutes I spent giving myself wrinkles go by faster.
While I was waiting for Carrie to finish, I asked the clerk if I could take a picture of their Elvis wall. Yes, an entire wall devoted to the King.
Then Carrie and I stopped at this little dive that’s only open for breakfast and always has cars in the parking lot. That’s always a good gauge of how good a place is, isn’t it? Lots of cars parked out front.
Carrie and I got cheese biscuits to go and headed back to her place to get the car loaded up so we can head out to the plantation to set up for tomorrow…
As we’re driving home, I tell her, “I don’t want to go home.”
She takes her eyes off the road, looks at me, and says. “Then stay.”
And I know she means it, but we both know I can’t.
When we get back to her house, there are lots of cars out front.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
You Get What You Get
Got into the Raleigh-Durham Airport fifteen minutes early and slightly buzzed from a very bumpy flight and the attentions of a male flight attendant who must’ve thought I looked real cute, because I got some first class treatment way back in aisle 18 along with a complimentary and very strong cranberry and vodka.
“You should probably just go ahead and down that,” were his directions to me as he pressed the drink in my hand with a wink. So I just shrugged and followed his directions. They are in charge up there...
While I was bumping along on the plane I read this collection of short stories by A. M. Homes that I need to write a review for called, The Safety of Objects. The first short story in the collection is called “Adults Alone.” I think it has in it just about the funniest line I’ve read: “Porno is not a gift.”
Even you have to admit that it probably wasn’t just the vodka that made me laugh so hard when I read it….
I got a new best friend yesterday. And I’m her Number One Best Friend out of four. I come right before her doll and two friends from school, one of which is a boy she has a crush on and who likes her back now that she let him have her lollipop.
She’s five and is my other best friend’s little blonde doppelganger, although for the six hours before her eight-thirty bedtime today, she was more my Mini-Me than anyone else’s.
We sat next to each other for dinner at this awesome Mexican place, where she let me try some of her cheese dip because "friends share." We looked at hamsters and cats before picking out some new fish together at the pet store. We did homework together. We read together in her room while Carrie and her fiancé entertained his parents, just in from California for the big wedding on Saturday. After we read, Little Carrie went to have a popsicle on the deck but kept coming in to check on “Miss Paige” while I was resting my eyes on the bed in the playroom. I opened my eyes again to her whispering, loudly, “I want Miss Paige to read to me while I’m taking my bath. She’s so beautiful.” Awwww.
So, I did. Then I dried her off, we giggled together about her wrinkled fingers and toes, and we combed her hair and said her prayers. And, by golly, there was a little Carolina-accented “And God Bless Miss Paige,” in there, too.
I’m blessed.
Over dinner, my new best friend shared some of her wisdom with me. It stemmed from a dilemma she’d recently encountered in the lunchroom. She didn’t get enough ketchup on her plate for her French fries. When she brought this shortfall to the attention of the management - the lunchroom monitor, Miss Karen - she was told, “You get what you get.”
So, now this is Little Carrie’s answer to everything. Literally. I love it.
And isn’t that the truth? You don’t have a bit of choice sometimes, in what happens around you, what comes your way. But you do get to choose what you do with it.
She’s a wise girl, my new best friend.
And I think I got pretty good.
“You should probably just go ahead and down that,” were his directions to me as he pressed the drink in my hand with a wink. So I just shrugged and followed his directions. They are in charge up there...
While I was bumping along on the plane I read this collection of short stories by A. M. Homes that I need to write a review for called, The Safety of Objects. The first short story in the collection is called “Adults Alone.” I think it has in it just about the funniest line I’ve read: “Porno is not a gift.”
Even you have to admit that it probably wasn’t just the vodka that made me laugh so hard when I read it….
I got a new best friend yesterday. And I’m her Number One Best Friend out of four. I come right before her doll and two friends from school, one of which is a boy she has a crush on and who likes her back now that she let him have her lollipop.
She’s five and is my other best friend’s little blonde doppelganger, although for the six hours before her eight-thirty bedtime today, she was more my Mini-Me than anyone else’s.
We sat next to each other for dinner at this awesome Mexican place, where she let me try some of her cheese dip because "friends share." We looked at hamsters and cats before picking out some new fish together at the pet store. We did homework together. We read together in her room while Carrie and her fiancé entertained his parents, just in from California for the big wedding on Saturday. After we read, Little Carrie went to have a popsicle on the deck but kept coming in to check on “Miss Paige” while I was resting my eyes on the bed in the playroom. I opened my eyes again to her whispering, loudly, “I want Miss Paige to read to me while I’m taking my bath. She’s so beautiful.” Awwww.
So, I did. Then I dried her off, we giggled together about her wrinkled fingers and toes, and we combed her hair and said her prayers. And, by golly, there was a little Carolina-accented “And God Bless Miss Paige,” in there, too.
I’m blessed.
Over dinner, my new best friend shared some of her wisdom with me. It stemmed from a dilemma she’d recently encountered in the lunchroom. She didn’t get enough ketchup on her plate for her French fries. When she brought this shortfall to the attention of the management - the lunchroom monitor, Miss Karen - she was told, “You get what you get.”
So, now this is Little Carrie’s answer to everything. Literally. I love it.
And isn’t that the truth? You don’t have a bit of choice sometimes, in what happens around you, what comes your way. But you do get to choose what you do with it.
She’s a wise girl, my new best friend.
And I think I got pretty good.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Push
For the last month or so, I’ve been waking up at five in the morning, and it’s really starting to irritate me. I wake up, look at the clock, my brain starts going, and then, I spend the next hour or so trying to fall back to sleep. I’ve still got a lot to do this morning before I leave for North Carolina, so it worked out today. But are you feeling my pain?
When I was a little girl, I loved the water. You couldn’t get me out of the pool. I started young. I’m still reminded of the time when I was two years old and just jumped in the pool and right onto my head. My mother jumped in right after to pull me out, so tragedy averted. Still, I was definitely a water baby.
When I was eight, Sadie and I spent the summer staying with my grandparents. The long, hot days were split up between visits to the library, walks down to the McCrory's next to the Publix down the street and the little bakery where Sadie and I would buy cupcakes or cookies with the fifty cents our grandmother gave us every morning. And, of course, afternoons were spent in the pool.
Along with my eyes, I inherited my love of the water from my grandmother. I remember my grandmother showing me her medals from when she was a competitive swimmer in New York in the late thirties and forties. I’ll have to ask her to pull those out for me and tell me her stories again next time I see her, which will be in a couple of weeks when we go over to Melbourne to celebrate her eighty-sixth birthday.
My grandmother is such a sweet lady. There’s an innocence about her, even after raising six children and losing a husband. She’s tough, though, too. And she's very competitive. You don’t want to sit down with her for a game of Yahtzee without knowing that about her up front. She may not be allowed to watch PG movies, but I’ve heard her cuss like a sailor when it comes to playing games. The lady does not like to lose. And, she doesn’t let it happen very often.
Last night I went to see my friends at Solace Salon and Spa. For such a tiny place, it was hopping for a Tuesday night. While he was doing my hair, Ivan and I got into this whole big discussion about game playing. He’s back into it with his ex, and they’re playing that version of Come-Here-Go-Away that’s always so popular in these situations.
Now, unlike my grandmother, I’m not a gambler. I do have all the board games. I’m fairly obsessed with Poker now, thanks to a close friend. And when I talk with my neighbor from when I lived up in Jersey we'll still reminisce about our Gin-Rum-Vodka-and-Cranberry nights. But I’ve never thought of myself as competitive. I just don’t like playing games. Not of any sort. I don’t like playing because, honestly, I really just don’t like to lose. So I don't let it happen very often.
But,.. When Ivan started telling me about his situation, I was surprised and saddened to realize that the chaos and emotional game playing that I’ve always claimed to avoid,.. Well, I’ve been engaging in a little bit of that, too. Worse, I was unaware that I was even doing it. I’ve been completely oblivious and without any real strategy other than to win. And that’s just sloppy. My grandmother would not approve.
The one thing I’ve learned, though, when it comes to playing games, whether it’s the kinds you play at the dining room table or the kinds you play in love, it that there’s a time to push and there’s a time to fold. And you’ve got to choose that moment carefully. You’ve got to read your opponent. You’ve got to know your cards. You’ve got to know the stakes and be willing to risk losing. And you really should at least know which game you're playing.
I didn’t. But now I do.
When I was a little girl, I loved the water. You couldn’t get me out of the pool. I started young. I’m still reminded of the time when I was two years old and just jumped in the pool and right onto my head. My mother jumped in right after to pull me out, so tragedy averted. Still, I was definitely a water baby.
When I was eight, Sadie and I spent the summer staying with my grandparents. The long, hot days were split up between visits to the library, walks down to the McCrory's next to the Publix down the street and the little bakery where Sadie and I would buy cupcakes or cookies with the fifty cents our grandmother gave us every morning. And, of course, afternoons were spent in the pool.
Along with my eyes, I inherited my love of the water from my grandmother. I remember my grandmother showing me her medals from when she was a competitive swimmer in New York in the late thirties and forties. I’ll have to ask her to pull those out for me and tell me her stories again next time I see her, which will be in a couple of weeks when we go over to Melbourne to celebrate her eighty-sixth birthday.
My grandmother is such a sweet lady. There’s an innocence about her, even after raising six children and losing a husband. She’s tough, though, too. And she's very competitive. You don’t want to sit down with her for a game of Yahtzee without knowing that about her up front. She may not be allowed to watch PG movies, but I’ve heard her cuss like a sailor when it comes to playing games. The lady does not like to lose. And, she doesn’t let it happen very often.
Last night I went to see my friends at Solace Salon and Spa. For such a tiny place, it was hopping for a Tuesday night. While he was doing my hair, Ivan and I got into this whole big discussion about game playing. He’s back into it with his ex, and they’re playing that version of Come-Here-Go-Away that’s always so popular in these situations.
Now, unlike my grandmother, I’m not a gambler. I do have all the board games. I’m fairly obsessed with Poker now, thanks to a close friend. And when I talk with my neighbor from when I lived up in Jersey we'll still reminisce about our Gin-Rum-Vodka-and-Cranberry nights. But I’ve never thought of myself as competitive. I just don’t like playing games. Not of any sort. I don’t like playing because, honestly, I really just don’t like to lose. So I don't let it happen very often.
But,.. When Ivan started telling me about his situation, I was surprised and saddened to realize that the chaos and emotional game playing that I’ve always claimed to avoid,.. Well, I’ve been engaging in a little bit of that, too. Worse, I was unaware that I was even doing it. I’ve been completely oblivious and without any real strategy other than to win. And that’s just sloppy. My grandmother would not approve.
The one thing I’ve learned, though, when it comes to playing games, whether it’s the kinds you play at the dining room table or the kinds you play in love, it that there’s a time to push and there’s a time to fold. And you’ve got to choose that moment carefully. You’ve got to read your opponent. You’ve got to know your cards. You’ve got to know the stakes and be willing to risk losing. And you really should at least know which game you're playing.
I didn’t. But now I do.
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