falseaffection

It's an Addiction

2008-01-03T10:42:00.000-05:00

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Conner's response to my obsession with the video game Guitar Hero:

"So, THIS is why there's a Parental Control setting."

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Conversations with a 9-Year-Old

2007-11-27T12:30:00.000-05:00

Conner: WHY do you keep listening to this same CD over and over again?

Me: Because I love it. It's the new album from my all-time favorite group. Do you remember their name?

Conner: Oh yeah, Arrowhead

Me: That's it. We're moving back to California. Go pack before the Chiefs take over my brain, too. And I want a written apology to Thom Yorke.

---------------------------------

My significant other wishes not to be named in this blog. In my opinion, that leaves the options for nicknames wide open. I was considering "Mr. Dimples" or "SexyBack". To keep it simple (and save my relationship) I'll just refer to him as, um, Tom.

Conner was helping me make breakfast on Sunday morning. He broke eggs into the pan and contemplated the flames on the gas burners,

Mom, you know how Tom is really tall?

Yes...

Well, his butt is about as high as the stove, right?

Uh huh...

Conner's face became very serious. I stopped stirring to give him my full attention.

I was thinking, if he just happened to walk by these flames and then farted- he could blow up the whole house.

Son, don't be ridiculous. He would probably only take out the kitchen.

The Suitor

2007-08-02T16:00:00.000-04:00

Last February while I was away for work, I received an early morning phone call from my son's father.

"Carly, I need your help. Conner wants to wear a suit to school."

I asked to speak to the the little fashionisto.

"What's the problem?"

"I want to wear my suit- the black one- and Dad won't let me!"

"You'll be uncomfortable, why do you want to get dressed up for school?"

"Mo-om, it's Valentine's Day!"

Of course. What was I thinking? In fact, I was just getting ready to slip on my cutest black cocktail dress and head into the office.

Back on the phone with his father, we tried to work things out.

"Look, it's not so bad. He could be insisting on sandals with socks. Or the worst- skinny jeans."

Not convincing enough. I tried a different approach.

"You know Jen?"

"Yeah."

"Her son has a Justin Timberlake tour shirt and really likes nail polish."

That did it, Conner wore the suit.

I was worried about the situation for different reasons. I have vivid memories of being ridiculed as a kid. The worst was in 4th grade. After a long winter, it was finally warm enough to wear shorts. I put on my favorite outfit from the previous summer- a hot pink one-piece zip up jumper. It was terrycloth. Oh yeah, I was that cool. In the cafeteria, a girl named Cathy announced to the entire lunch table,

"If Carly got walked up on stage, I'd bet everybody would clap."

At first I was flattered- maybe the kids really did like me if they would clap for me and all. But the boys were laughing in the wrong way. I was confused. It wasn't until my mom came home from work and practically fainted that I understood my day of exhibitionism.

But I knew my kid was no fool. He was a big second grader, fully aware of the social risks brought on by nonconformity. Who was I to impose my own self-conscious issues on him?

I was proud of him for being bold!

For expressing himself as an individual!

For thumbing his nose at the social norm!

Until I got a phone call an hour later. Con's dad could barely get the words out.

"He asked if I could drive him to school."

OK, so he wanted to avoid the bus kids- understandable.

"He asked if I could drive him to school because he wanted to stop by the grocery story on the way in....

To buy roses and chocolates for his teacher."

Flowers, candy, and a suit.

We both lost it.

"Well, she is totally smokin'."

"Can you please not say that about the educator of our child?"

"With exposed cleavage like that- she's just begging for it."

And you wondered where Conner got it.

Here's a video of Conner + Suit in Times Square.

It's like I don't even know you anymore.

2007-07-30T19:34:00.000-04:00

So, you want to know where I've been? Why I put the blog away for close to 2 years?

Here's a quick breakdown of the time we've been apart:

After a near-marriage, I left California to take a position in Pennsylvania. On the way east I dropped all my worldly possessions in Kansas City, Missouri where I will settle once my work project is complete. Three weeks to go and counting.

I brought back all of my old posts, and I'm working on reviving the habit of writing every day. The 5 or so entries below this are new. Please say hello if you're re-joining this old blog after the hiatus.

Menage e Trois

2007-07-23T10:37:00.000-04:00

I break into song.

I just do. It's beyond my control. Many moments can't be properly experienced without musical accompaniment.

But some people take this to an extreme.

A couple of years ago I met up with Then-Boyfriend (TB) for a few days in Paris. I spent the nights alone with him, and the occasional meal as just the two of us- but the rest of the time, the time spent in museums and strolling along cobblestone streets and touring churches and navigating the metro, it was definitely a threesome:

Me, my boyfriend, and his iPod.

Everywhere we went, two plastic strands connected TB's ears to his back pocket. Should I want to comment on our surroundings or suggest an alternate route, I had to yank his arm to get attention. Often times, he would hold up one finger to politely signal- Please dear, can you just wait until the Ben Kweller butterfly song is over?

At a park near the Sacre Coeur, TB pulled me onto his lap. We sat on the hilltop, the entire city of Paris spread out before us. The Eiffel Tower was outlined against a blurred horizon.

"I love you so much," TB whispered, grinning up at me.

I leaned in to kiss him.

"Wait, wait, hold on- this is a great song!"

He pulled back and pressed the right half of his headphones to my ear.

It was...

Are you ready for this?

Tori.

Amos.

That's right, I was cockblocked by Tori Amos.

It was then that I started wondering about those white cords...

How strong are the wires?

How far can they wrap around a vegetarian's neck?

We spent our last night in a Monmartre hotel bed. TB was laying with his head against my bare stomach, tracing patterns into the palm of my hand.

He said, "This trip was so much fun. I feel like it solidifies things between us, and I have a really great feeling about where we are headed."

I looked down at his sweet face, ran my fingers through his hair, thinking-

My God. Despite everything, I love this man.

He kissed each of my fingers in turn,

"Hey, Carly- will you do me a favor?"

"Of course." I was thinking- my heart is so full, whatever you want, whatever you say, you're everything to me.

"Check to see if my iPod is charged."

Stuck

2007-07-17T14:20:00.000-04:00

What to write about, what to write about...

On my way to work, I had this idea-

Evidence That Conner Has Lived In Missouri For One Year

1. He wants to dip everything in ranch dressing. EVERYTHING. The kid would pour it over his breakfast cereal if I let him.

2. Last night he said, "I like Cool Whip better than whupped cream." In case you missed it, that's whupped cream. And now, in a sentence: "I done whupped his hide good." I can't even bring myself to comment on the Cool Whip factor.

That's all I have. How can I create an entire post out of a two-item list?

Then, My 19-year-old Assistant Showed Me Her Boobs!

Thrilling title, right? Come on, you totally want to read it. But trust me- all implied promise would be lost if I detailed the rash and allergic reaction scare. Scratch that, even though I hate to pass on the opportunity to type "boob" multiple times.

Since words are failing me right now, I'll leave you with the cutest picture. ever. in the world. (For future reference, all photos of Con are the cutest. ever. in the world.)

You're not considered an official Missouri resident until you've taken on the mechanical bull. See proof of our relocation below.

One More Thing

When I picked up Conner from camp he informed me that,

"There's this kid in my group- he doesn't know what confetti is, and he thinks a sombrero is a chicken, and that the drinking fountain recyclates."

Recyclates. Folks, you heard it here first.

Want to hear about our weekend, eh?

2007-07-16T09:16:00.000-04:00

A conversation with my son:

Hey Conner, would you like to go to Niagra Falls?

You know, Mom... it's the most romantic place in Canada!

Do you even know what that means?

No. Can I get a t-shirt?

(Dear Canada,
Congratulations on your marketing success in the 8-year-old male demographic. Yes, we purchased souvenirs- but not the rainbow beaded moccasins. Really, what is up with that?
At your advertising whim,
U.S. Mom )

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A conversation with my man:

Me: Why can't I talk to you? Why do basic conversations have to be so difficult?!

Him: Did you ever consider the possiblility that you take yourself too serious?

Me: ly! SeriousLY!

Him: .................

Me: So, I see your point.

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Should you ever find yourself working with a bunch of men- construction/engineering-type men who could potentially influence the threshold of acceptable expletives in your daily vocabulary- do not, I repeat, DO NOT make a deal with your child that involves monetary compensation per slip. Especially if you drive to Canada.

The original rules stated that "ass" and "damn" do not count. Because the first could be referencing a donkey and I let Conner tell the following joke:

What did the fish say when it ran into a wall?
Dam.

Fair is fair.

For all the rest, I pay a $1 fine. I tried to argue my case this weekend: Emotional Duress.

Me: How can I be held responsible for my reactions when people do annoying and aggravating things like brake for no reason?

Con: Sigh. It is more important to follow what you believe in when something hard is going on, Mom.

Me: What did I tell you about re-issuing lectures? Do what I say, not what I do. How many times do we need to go over this?!

Con: Pay up.

Me: Shit.

Getting On

2007-07-12T07:59:00.000-04:00

The first time I met Deb I watched her line up shots while singing a country song about tequila and getting naked. She was out with her son's girlfriend, and it was karaoke night at The Lodge. Picture wood paneling. Everywhere. Even the bathrooms.

She sat next to me at the table.

"OK, tell me the truth. Is this shirt is too revealing?"

I looked. What else could I do? Soft and slightly creped, her breasts pushed out of the edges of a black bra. Self tanner had accumulated like a streak of mud in the crease of cleavage.

"It's not too much- you look great."

I handed her a napkin and whispered something about bronzer. She just laughed and wiped openly at her chest, holding up the stained white square when she was done.

"You know my husband, right?" Deb leaned into me for emphasis, close enough to verify that she had in fact been shooting vodka, not tequila. The cleavage in question pressed against my arm. "He left. He went to his 30 year highschool reunion in Ohio."

I did not know her husband, I only vaguely knew her son's girlfriend who had since relocated to a seat at the bar. What was this? Scenes from The Graduate were playing in my head. And ohmygod- why did I comment on her boobs?

Then Deb's voice caught, half sob half gasp. She reached for my hand.

"He found her on the internet, on our computer. The one in the living room. Right in the middle of my living room."

I sat in The Lodge, under racks of antlers and animal heads, holding hands with a complete stranger. But I was too relieved that she wasn't a lesbian cougar to feel appropriately awkward.

"They were sweethearts as kids, she was his first love- but he went away to college and she married somebody in the Navy. They lost touch. For 30 years. Through the reunion he found her on the internet. I should've known when he said he didn't want me to go with him, I mean, I look good. You'd think he'd want to show me off! Right? I wasn't even suspicious. Why wasn't I suspicious? Then he called and said he's not coming home. He said he never loved me, not like he loves Diane." She choked on the name. Tears lined up behind her mascara, but didn't fall.

She visibly pulled herself together and shook her hair back.

"I know what you're thinking."

I was thinking that she must feel worthless and disposable. I was thinking about being unexpectedly single after 20 years of marriage- imagining dating instead of family dinners, holidays alone.

"I know what you're thinking," she repeated, "But he's not coming back."

Deb stood up before adjusting her bra and said,

"Momma always told me- put on lipstick, suck in your stomach, and get on with things."

Pulling a compact out of her purse, she did just that. And since "getting on with things" meant another round of shots, I joined her at the bar.

I'm back.

2007-07-11T13:32:00.000-04:00

The missionaries came to our house.

Turns out that Christ's recruiters are a little on the hot side. Of course, that's not the reason why I invited them in. That's not the reason because, before I could properly consider the options my kid pushed open the door:

"Come on in! Let me tell you about the year I spent in CHRISTIAN SCHOOL!"

There are some things you should know.

Based on my hour experience I can tell you many important facts about Mormons. First of all, they have very earnest smiles and very straight teeth. You may get a little distracted from the hotness by the short sleeve shirt + tie combo, but only temporarily. They will eat all your brownies- the ones you were saving to accompany a particularly rich Shiraz. Don't offer them Shiraz, they don't think this is funny. It may also give your child the opportunity to insert:

"Yeah, my mom drinks alcohol all the time. I mean, she has so many bottles. A whole stack of them. They're everywhere- huh Mom?"

"Um, Conner... are you referring to my wine collection?"

He just looks at them sideways like- yeah, we all know the truth- let's just play along like she's not one step away from rehab.

We sat together in the front room and talked about Joseph Smith. It's easy to joke about polygamy and magical underwear, but I saw two young men teaching and sharing their beliefs with an openness that was- dare I say it- touching.

Although I won't be converting anytime soon, the next time I explain myself to somebody with dissimilar views I'll consider a different approach. (Read, I won't throw empty beer cans at my father's head until he concedes that God really does love gay people too!)

Still

2006-01-11T16:01:00.000-05:00

I've moved a lot in the past 5 years, yet the practice makes perfect theory doesn't seem to apply in this category. In fact, I'm particularly bad at it. V walked in on me packing up the bathroom-

What are you doing?

Obviously I'm packing...

Carly, dumping a drawer into a box is not exactly packing.

In every apartment and house I've occupied the right side of my closet shelf has always been reserved for two cardboard boxes. One is covered in the purple marker scrawl of a 13-year-old.

EXTREMELY IMPORTANT!!!!!!

DO NOT THROW AWAY!!! EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(What is it about the teenage affinity for exclamation points? Using them now embarrasses me- like I might as well be writing in fat bubble letters or spelling my name C-a-r-l-circle-dotted-i.)

The other box is a slightly more grownup version of the same concept- a photo archive quality craft box from my old stay-at-home-mom addiction to Michael's.

I rarely open either one. The lids come off for random additions: Conner's report cards, the nameplate from my first office, newspaper clippings- obvious memorabilia- but I never sift through. Unlike other memories, these will fully appreciate in future years.

But it's a new year; and for once in my life, for the first time in my life, I want to feel organized. So I sorted and stacked, arranged and labeled the contents.

You can read three lines of this blog and know I'm sentimental, but this process was strictly housekeeping. I did keep a few items aside to share with V including, among other things, a photo of 2-year-old Con in a tuxedo and pictures of me with a boyshort haircut. That night I told him the corresponding stories, we laughed, and I put everything back into the boxes and onto the shelf.

It was then that I got sentimental.

I realized that there is room here in our new home for the spaces in my life before this. Before him. He doesn't feel pushed aside by the momentum of past people and experiences- he holds on with me for a while until I tidy up again.

I don't have to hide what was or pretend that it is all over and done with. I can even say the unsayable-

I really miss him.

I know.

I still love him.

Of course you do.

Somehow these conversations tie strings around the otherwise uncontainable.

When he teaches me that love isn't for putting away, when he shows me that there is room to gather it up and account for all the good you can get out of life- in the then as well as the now- it makes me look forward to the yet to come.

happy halloween

2005-11-01T00:27:00.000-05:00

From Darth Vader and Cleopatra

food for thought

2005-10-28T18:48:00.001-04:00

weight watcher meetings are terrifying.

too many of my nightmares feature soft puddled housewives giving testimonies about deciding whether to "eat to live or live to eat".

there's something about the hand holding, crying, and bringing in tubs of margarine to represent the 10-pounds-lost mark that makes me want to tattoo my jean size onto my forehead and run around shouting:

That's not me!!!
I'm a size 4!!!
That's not me!!!

but it is me. and that's exactly why i'm this desperate.

i've never been fat. a stranger has never stood next to my scale once a week or charted my waist and hip measurements on a graph. i've never endured stares, comments, or the worst- laughter. and nobody has ever said,

"but you have such a pretty face!"

i have no problem sliding into restaurant booths. my pants don't wear thin between my thighs. the student-sized desks don't scare me out attending parent/teacher conferences, and i can shop anywhere i please.

just because these things haven't happened to me doesn't mean i don't know what all of this feels like.

i know so well. it has been my life, too.

when i was a kid i really didn't notice that my mother was obese. it sounds difficult to believe- but she was just mom, and i never knew anything different.

(kind of like when conner doesn't notice the cool differential between me and all the other not-so-hip parents, but that's another story.)

most of my awareness came from her reaction to her weight. although my mom was stoic to the outside world, at home she didn't hold back on broadcasting the hardships of life as a 300-pound young woman. i was right there with her- hating the skinny "work girls" rooting for roseanne barr, and trying to stand between my mom and her life as much as i possibly could.

we did sit-ups together. i still know the richard simmons workout sound track by heart. i went to the meetings, tasted the pre-packaged plastic food, and shuffled deal-a-meal cards. food was simultaneously the enemy and the highest reward. weigh-in day was marked by the subsequent free for all meal at Furr's Cafeteria. hostess ding dong's, m&m's, and turtles were our religious relics of choice.

the most confusing part was my other mother's role in the food game. she gave positive encouragement if it was a dieting month, or she drove to the far side of the city to pick up movie theater Goobers if it wasn't. both parts were played with equal enthusiasm. occassionally my mother's struggle would come up in conversation, and she always always- even until the very end- said the same thing:

"i don't eat any more than other people."

and mom 2 would take the delusion one step further by adding,

"if anything she eats less"

then everybody would shake their heads in bewilderment. because of this i didn't know that other people would never think of eating like we did, and the worst part is that i took responsibility for her problem. i knew (how could i not, she told us all of the time) that her weight had three direct causes: 1.carly 2.julia 3.frank.

three pregnancies had ruined her metabolism- with no children, she would still be thin. as a teenager i decided quickly that i would never have kids and i would never trust food. i turned my back on it for a while, consuming a handful of cheerios and diet soda for days on end. i gave that up when i started blacking out during dance practice- but my mother never noticed, or at least she never said anything. it took years and the help of a health-conscious husband to teach me about metabolism and nutrition. today, i am healthy and curvy- but i have one issue that persists.

i can't stand it when people pig out in front of me. my stomach turns, my entire body fills with disgust, and i usually have to leave the room. i had a boyfriend who poured ranch dressing over his french fries and could eat most of a pizza. my ex-roommate would take handfuls of dorritos straight from the bag, go through ice cream cartons in 2 days, and soak fresh fish in olive oil. these things irrationally bother me, but i know that i will never be able to live with somebody who doesn't share my same disregard for food.

my mother is no longer immense. she still eats exactly the same as always, but gastric bypass surgery keeps her at a tidy size 10. it makes me happy to see her doing things like riding a bike, walking to the coffee shop, interacting in public with her head held high. all were impossible before.

but even though the piles of flesh have disappeared, the fat woman is still there. she raises her voice if i am tempted to order pasta, she holds the mirror when i twist to check for cellulite-

and she reminds me every day to look for somebody's heart before i see anything else.

sunday's best

2005-10-24T10:36:00.000-04:00

i called for conner with the evidence in my palm.

son. you cannot fill your pockets with rocks and then put your pants in the laundry- it tears up the washing machine.

but MOM, look at it! i think it has gold in it, and if you hold it up to the light you can see an orange stripe. didn't i pick a good one?

even in plain sight of the pile of gravel on the dryer, i couldn't argue.

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at a family reunion of sorts, i met his 20-year-old mentally handicapped cousin for the first time. we sat alone on a picnic bench and had the following conversation:

i like you. you're pretty.

thanks, i like you, too. you're probably the coolest person here.

she giggled- yeah.

i miss my dad. he has a friend named carrie. sad.

i miss my dad, too. it is sad to be away from dads. i put my arm around her shoulders in a sideways hug.

i love you.

i love you, too.

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sunday is always my favorite day.

why i don't watch tv

2005-10-21T17:18:00.000-04:00

you're going to have to trust me on this- i don't usually look for relationship advice on the montel williams show; but after a rare lazy morning, i made a pot of coffee and turned on the tv. montel was interviewing some famous (but unfamiliar to me)husband and wife about successful hollywood marriages.

he directed his very original question toward the too-hot-to-be-real masculine half of the couple.

"what does it take to really commit, and what's the secret to remaining committed?"

this is when i stopped drooling and started listening. i was ready to be enlightened, anxious to jot down the recipe.

the mangod kind of chuckled and said to his wife, not the camera: "i didn't get married for the sake of getting married, i waited until i found the right person." then the audience oohed and aahed as they kissed sweetly, and i quietly vomited into the couch.

if there is one thing life in my 20's has taught me- and believe me, i am not a fast learner- it's that finding the 'right person' just flat out isn't enough.

and that's sad.

i overcame the urge to throw my bagel at the television and flipped the channel to mtv's making the band.

p. diddy... now there's a man i can relate to.

Conner's Ark

2005-09-06T15:19:00.000-04:00

this last week i've been reading newspapers and watching television with my eyes half-closed.

i want to see, and i don't want to see.
i want to know, i don't want to know.

behind it all is my son's voice with questions about arks.

a donation to the red cross did little to assuage my frustration with our government and the christian school that programmed a kindergarten class to associate god with human punishment.

two days after september 11th, conner turned three. it was then that i began teaching him, and reminding myself, about religion. instead of sending him to sunday school to color in the outline of jesus, i began weekly lessons. i would strap his car seat into the front (a modern-day sin, i know) and drive the streets of albuquerque looking for god.

where is god, conner?

even at that age he had been conditioned to look up.

god is easy to see in the infinite blues of new mexico's sky. the sun shone through nob hill trees, and we saw god in the spotted shadows cast upon sidewalks. he wanted to look for god at the duck pond of my university. in line at the grocery store he asked-

does god like white bread?

when the people around us laughed and smiled at him, we found god again.

he threw entire pieces into the water, scaring more than feeding the ducks. the park was filled with god that day: parents playing with their children, people holding hands, an old woman surrounded by pigeons. don schrader's loin cloth was a little more difficult to explain, but love was everywhere. we wrote it all down on a list kept folded in his tiny pocket.

four years have passed. now, thanks to nine months of private school, my son sees god in the waters flooding new orleans.

i want to shake his teachers for presenting bible stories as absolute truth with no context at all. he was taught that the bible is the word of god, and if you don't believe in the bible- you don't believe in god.

god help me.

over and over again i say that god is not punishing these people, but my words are met with skeptical looks and a growing collection of lego boats.

like before, i point out rescue workers, community drives, websites helping people find each other.

baby, this is god.

but in the confusion of explaining metaphor and larger meaning, i am also hoping to convince myself. when bad things happen it gives us the opportunity to love better, act out the morals we profess, and- as claudia says- to hold hands.

should that be explanation enough?

more than this town

2005-08-29T14:52:00.001-04:00

i ran off to LA this weekend.

on friday i joined my friend for his nephew's 11th birthday party at a beach just south of the city. we both live in yucca valley, and over the last year we've gotten to know each other amid the dust and decay that is this town- but he is one in my handful of 'not from here' friends. when meeting a fellow desert foreigner, initial conversations always circle around the lives we once lived in civilization. stories of concerts, careers, and communities all say the same the same thing: i am not just this, i have been more.

i am more than this town.

my friend and i have chosen to cultivate different outlooks on the time we must spend here. he hates it, claims the location changes his personality, strips him of the ability to feel happy or even content. every weekend he escapes to friends and family in san diego, LA, anywhere not here.

my perspective has evolved over the last 6 months from a similar place of claustrophobic entrapment to an appreciation of simple life in a breathtaking (if remote) landscape with potential for relationships impossible in an urban setting.

the cashier at the grocery store has a daughter in my son's class. she says hello with hugs.

i have at least three acquaintances or friends at the coffee shop at any given moment.

i see my neighbors at pappy and harriet's on monday nights.

the gas station guy knows my name and will shake his head and announce to whoever is near- or just to himself- that my car gets 52 miles per gallon. imagine that.
fifty-two.

i like feeling connected to this town.

but i'll devour LA with the ferocity of a half-starved jenny craiger at sizzler.

the first time my friend and i traveled together he led me around san diego like an enthusiastic tour guide. it went from- "this is where i used to live, work, surf" to-
there! see it?!

"that's the petsmart where i bought aquarium supplies!"

seeing him in his city revealed the actual settings for his antic-filled stories, but i already knew he was smart and worldly.

and more than this town.

this weekend was different. i saw him as a brother, an uncle, a son. he organized sand football with the kids, spiked drinks with his dad, put his arms all the way around his sister before kissing her, followed his mom with eyes that mirrored her physical pain.

i knew he was more than this town, but i didn't realize how much more.

i am always at a loss for words when a family welcomes me into their unique combination of love and tension and familiarity. i've never known grandparents, cousins, aunts; and it is quite a gift to be embraced for a while in the fold of something so strong. i'm not always the best at explaining myself, but when i told him "thank you for this weekend" that is what i meant.

back in yucca valley, this morning vibrated with first day of school nervous energy. after the outfit, mohawk, and backpack were arranged- my son stepped into his first day of first grade. chain wallet and all.

at the coffee shop i relayed all the details to the owner as she made my non-fat extra-foam cappuccino. i took my place on the front patio, greeted another regular who polices the flies with a rolled up sports section and irritated grunts, then settled in with a notebook. my neighbor just drove by and honked. her kid rolled down the window to wave at me.

i've been to bigger places, done bigger things. the context of my life reaches well beyond the yucca valley city limits sign (where somebody once spray painted 'where dreams go to die'). but at this moment, for exactly now, here feels like home.

and i don't need to be more than this town.

La Taqueria

2005-08-28T03:27:00.000-04:00

you don't know me.

yes i do.

i dramatically clamped my eyes closed.

ok, what color are my eyes?

in the darkened pause before he spoke i listened to the musical hum of spanish punctuated with scrapes and squeals of children climbing over and under tables and chairs.

hazel. brown in the center fading into bright green with gold flecks and an outside ring of pure charcoal gray.

i opened my eyes. i heard nothing.

he smiled, almost shy, and quickly covered his own eyes.

ok... what color is my hair?

and for full seconds the sound of our laughter overtook the red, green, and white mexican flag of a room.

keeping peter

2005-08-21T14:27:00.000-04:00

This is Peter's dress.

as in he bought it for me on a startling sunny seattle saturday, not in the cross-dressing boyfriend kind of way. although i'm sure he would have tried it on if i asked him to.

he was make-me-laugh-until-i-pee funny.
i wrote 'was'- past tense- but i'm sure he still is, i just can't validate that for myself right now. we parted ways a long time ago, and until last thursday i've hidden this dress behind my winter coats and hanging linens. i have several peter mementos that i'd rather avoid but am unable throw away or donate to the thrift store. i prefer to tuck them into corners, books, shelves, drawers- so i can stumble upon chance encounters with the past while searching for rubber bands or a retired sketch pad.

for a long time i carried around a mental inventory of images from our relationship. like one of those overstuffed plastic wallet albums people used before camera phones, i would pull it out, flip to the appropriate picture, and hold it up in comparison to the current situation.

see, i'd want to say to my beau of the moment, this is how you kiss my eyes if i'm still sleeping when you leave for work.

i would turn a few tiny pages and point-

look, this is how we walk to the grocery store and throw half a dozen eggs at each other in the alley on the way home.

and here, look here, that's how you hold on to me when you hate your day and your words get stuck and writing feels like crying.

i stopped doing that.

i used to travel for my job, and once i returned from a week-long trip to find fresh flowers on the kitchen counter. a pastel notecard was propped against the vase. it read:

30 Reasons Why I Love You.

i put down my bags and looked around the room- corners of pink and green peeked out from behind picture frames, cushions, books. i gathered the 10 or so obvious cards with the same excitement and anticipation that ruled childhood easter mornings. the rest proved more difficult to find- some were folded inside out of season shoes, taped in the vegetable crisper, slipped into my pillow case.

for months, even after we were over and he was gone, i would open cabinets and boxes to discover peter's words there waiting for me.

last fall, after a difficult day at a new gallery, i was sitting cross-legged in front of my bedroom library searching for a certain book of poetry. the page number long memorized, i opened it to my favorite poem. a flash of blue dropped into my lap.

Because no one has ever made me feel so special.

and that made 30.

i untied the ribbon around the other 29 and spread them out on the carpet. i'd just moved to california. i had no friends. but suddenly i was surrounded by a love and friendship that may have been finished, but was real nonetheless.

peter loved me well, and i will keep that with me for as long as i can. i'll wear his dress and sing his songs. i'll tell stories of haircuts, yellow vans, and maker's mark. and i'll hide his poems and pictures in random places so that, every now and then, the warmth of remembering will pause my life.

A Month From Seven

2005-08-16T11:30:00.000-04:00

monday night is singer/song writer night at pappy and harriet's, a saloon in pioneer town, california that sits at one end of an old western movie set turned tourist destination. it's a cool place. true local hicks and hip city folk playing cowboy sit together at picnic tables and sip sierra nevada or amstel light from mason jars. my friend mary was playing her guitar so conner and i drove up. i parked my vw new beetle between a land rover, a 500 series black mercedes, and a 3-foot tumble weed in the washed out dirt parking lot.

my son will tell you he is "a month from 7". given the opportunity, he outlines in great detail his opinion on any number of subjects- but recent favorites are the benefits of a chain wallet, the skate park, wishing for his own ipod, and private school fashion restrictions. he wants a mohawk. yesterday he double checked that his shorts weren't 'knee-showers' and cried real tears when we left the house in a hurry: "Mom, I'm not punk rock without my wrist bands!"

you think i'm kidding.

i'm not.

a few days ago i was emailing a friend when conner poked his head into my office-

"tell him that i have a loose tooth and i weigh 60 pounds."

then he was off again to work on his lego city, build a bike ramp, and boss around the dog.

my kid is big. he held my hand as we walked into pappy and harriet's but dropped it fast when a group of older boys approached. i used to buckle him into a high chair, now he reads the menu by himself. he announced to my table of friends that although the guitar is pretty cool, he is going to be a drummer like his uncle frank.

except with a mohawk.

the next band brought dancers onto the floor. i thought of the days i used to hold baby conner on my hip and spin in circles around the kitchen with the music turned up too loud. when the song ended he always demanded "again, again!"

i had to try.

hey conner, want to dance with me?

no thanks, mom.

come on, it'll be fun.

no.

i did a quick mental inventory of my purse and pockets for possible bribes. no candy, no toys- but i did have several gold dollar coins thanks to change from an automated toll booth. i took them out of my pocket and counted them slowly, hoping to entice his interest.

i have six dollars here, i'll give you four if you dance.

slight hesitation- ok, i'll do it for six.

victory!

i picked him up before he could change his mind. not an easy feat. his 60 pounds is exactly half of my own weight, and his red converse high tops hang past my knees when i hold him- but i did it. the song was a twangy country ballad and i danced us around the floor. his hair smelled like little boy sweat- which has to be the best scent i've ever known. he rested his chin on my shoulder, and i thought- this is the last time. pay attention, remember this, take it in. this is the last.

i twirled around and dipped him upsidedown. he giggled with that gleeful abandon impossible for most grown up people- which has to be the best sound i've ever heard. holding him close when the song ended, i tried to squeeze this memory into both of us. he hugged my neck then squirmed free. i wanted to demand "again, again!"

ok, mom. where's my money.

i dropped the coins into his hand. he pocketed all but one, exchanged it for quarters from the bartender, and jogged back to the pool table with a confidence and maturity beyond his almost-seven years. then he looked back and smiled at me- which has to be the best sight i've ever seen.

a little bit of grace

2005-08-16T10:12:00.000-04:00

i wasn't sure if i could love again.

not after Elizabeth.

sounds melodramatic, but i couldn't be more serious. she had golden hair, honey eyes, and a smile that stopped people in the street. after that one great relationship gone wrong, every subsequent attempt just hasn't fit.

believe me i've tried to replace her. after all, 15 years have passed since she moved away.

there was Miles: big and black with a slight tendency toward destruction.

then Emily: curly wildchild hair, endearingly clumsy, anxiety-ridden.

and finally Charles: protective but controlling- he insisted on marking his territory at every opportunity.

after all this failure, i think i've found my match. her name is Grace. it was love at first sight, really. despite the cliche circumstances of our introduction (a damsel in distress situation where i played the role of heroine savior) there is a connection between us that inspires montage-style daydreams including, but not limited to: running through fields of flowers, cuddling on the couch during a thunderstorm, driving twisty desert roads with the top down.

perhaps i'm rushing into things. after all, it has only been two weeks. but sometimes you just know.

and who am i to question love?

literary confessions

2005-08-09T15:47:00.000-04:00

as a child, i learned quickly to keep my problems to myself.

our family didn't have the healthiest ways of dealing with stress, so i became a master of creating as little disruption as possible. a true master. school became my reprieve from balancing things at home.

in 5th grade i went to a summer biology research program at a local university. we dissected frogs and half-cats, experimented on plants, created small explosions, and froze any imaginable item with dry ice (my contribution- a barbie doll). this science camp changed everything- not because i'd waited my entire life to spend 5 hours a day in a chemistry lab while other kids played at the pool (although i had)- but because i learned how to use a library.

not just any library. this was a private school's four-story, entire-floor-of-science, computer catalogued collection of literature. we researched every aspect of our projects, and it was the first time i began to understand how very little i knew and that everything i would ever do had already been done, in one way or another, by somebody before me.

at home that night, i brought this new bit of information to the dinner table. my parents responded as follows:

mom1: "well, you know, as a female you have the chance to be the first WOMAN to do a lot of things because our gender has been repressed throughout civilization and there is a lot of catching up to do and so many women think that they can't have a career and a family i mean in my lifetime in my very lifetime abortion was legalized and women fought and won rights in the workplace and do you think my guidance counselor suggested math or science ha(insert 5 more minutes of random feminist monologue with suburban-based examples.)

my little brother distracted her- probably by making a mashed potato facial mask or pretending to stab our sister with a ketchup-covered fork- tactics that he still employs to this very day if dinner conversation goes dry.

after the appropriate amount of time had passed in order to not appear contradictory, i received a second response from my second mother. (i was raised by lesbians in case you didn't know.)

mom2: "carly, every single day people create new medicines, new cures, new procedures. in college, you will learn in one chapter of a text book what other people spent their entire lives figuring out. studying is so important because if we take all the information discovered before us and cram it into our heads, then each unique brain can rearrange it and make something completely new. that's how science is creative. that's why you have to be educated."

that summer books became god, and reading was prayer.

from then on, if i needed comforting i would close my eyes and visualize the library with row after row of books waiting to share the answers i needed. no matter how difficult my situation, somebody else had not only experienced the same or worse-they had written about it. suddenly, my life felt much less lonely.

my siblings love to recount how i spent entire weekends locked in my bedroom, face hovering 5 inches over a book. they will laugh and talk about how i hated other kids and avoided any type of play or fun. i chose to step out of a life that wasn't so easy and retreat into a world of words.

nobody really noticed- my family teased me, and there were a few phone calls and report card comments from teachers complaining about sneaky reading during class time- but nothing more. my withdrawal was chalked up to personality issues. mom1 will tell you i'm rather cold and detached, like my father. mom2 prefers not to consider it at all- she built her own retreat of microscopes and medicine a long time ago.

this blog helps me to interrupt a well-practiced tendency to take whatever happens in life and run to the bookshelf for answers and support. it is good for me to share what's in my head with actual people, even if the environment is virtual. thanks to all of you who take the time to read what i write here- from albuquerque to new york, and even the yucca valleyians. and you florida people too, of course. thanks.

today's revelation: i'm like an 18-year-old boy

2005-08-04T16:54:00.000-04:00

this afternoon, a friend randomly pointed out over iced coffee that i am like an 18-year-old boy.

possible similarities flashed through my imagination: back acne? catcher in the rye fixation? shaggy hair? laundry aversion? disregard for authority? i started to explain that this heat isn't the best thing for my skin while casually sniffing my shirt for signs of doublewear, but it turns out we were referring to sex.

or sex drive at least.

"you really should learn more about your body, i could recommend some books..."

first of all- i'm not out of touch with my body. second, i think i'm relatively knowledgeable about physiology in general. and third- what the hell?

my friend went on to explain that since i am approaching the apex of my fertility span, my hormones will be on parade now more than ever before. and apparently this means good news: multiple orgasms!

i shifted from slightly defensive to generally uncomfortable. i don't want to know this about my body, and i really would rather it was not brought up in casual conversation at a cafe. listen, well-intending friend, i have been working for a very long time to believe that i can be just fine with or without a sex life that exists outside of my own imagination. and because i have spent the significant portion of the last few years on the without side of things, convincing myself of this is hard work. a part-time job really. it is a reality i would like to maintain, and discussing out of control hormonal influx is not going to help me.

and then: "honestly, it is as if you body physically NEEDS sex."

i made a silent wish for my coffee to turn into a martini.

"you should be so excited, this is the sexual prime of your entire life!"

so, i'm missing it. my prime is going to pass me by. countless other almost-30 women are out there orgasming exponentially, and i'm here typing out an official complaint.

quick, somebody point out a bigger better picture or offer up some sort of cliche advice about fish in the sea or all in due time or a watched pot never boils or something.

just, please, no more 'your body, yourself' kind of information. i'm much better off without it.

happy lists, shoe cruising, and commentary

2005-08-01T15:50:00.000-04:00

after 28 years, i've figured out a few ways to cheer myself up in those oh-so-rare times when i feel a little down or stressed. i keep this list close for easy reference, and i remind my rachael to remind me of it in case i ever need reminding.
here it is (in no particular order):

1. Dancing
2. Connect Four
3. Barnes and Noble's magazine section
4. Tim Burton
5. Nighttime Hiking
6. Dunhill Blues
7. My Sister's Website
8. The Dance Machine (dancedancedance revolution 4th mix)
9. Drawing with Conner
10. Calling Frank
11. Bonnie Tyler
12. Pomegranate Martinis

yesterday i drove to LA for the final night of camp hollywood- a weekend swing dance workshop and competition. i have been dancing for several years now, but not with the commitment that inspires full retro costume, pin curls, or saddle shoes. last spring i did, however, invest in a pair of leather-soled basic ballroom heels. there is an element of the dancing community i was unaware of before this purchase, and i am now convinced that the $80 i spent in footwear has paid off more than five times that amount in dance lessons.

i call it shoe cruising. this is how it works:

a song ends and the dancers walk off the floor in search of a fresh partner. women generally outnumber the men, so us skirts stand around the perimeter and either wait to be asked or snag our own lead. the guys who have taken the time and spent the money to hone their dancing skills will casually walk along the edge- scanning the smorgasbord of female opportunity before choosing a partner for the next song. in regular bars and nightclubs men also scope out the room, ensure they are aware of all their options before setting sights on one, and then make a move. (a significant reason why i hate the bar scene.) club guys scan for general physical attractiveness, maybe a particular body type or hair color, they'll even check out the girl's friends to assess potential second choice availability.

not swing boys. their eyes travel directly from faces to feet. yes, feet.

shoes say if a girl can keep up, they market your rep and show off your skills without ever stepping out onto the floor. if you paid $200 for 1940's-style black and white pumps, you'd better be able to shake it.

since investing in my rather modest pair, i've learned more and danced more than ever before because my partners changed and they taught me. you'd think it is a better and more dignified selection process- choosing a girl based on foot fashion rather than, say, cleavage- but there's no pressure being approached in a bar. on the dance floor i have to live up to what my shoes are saying about me.

and occasionally they talk smack.

it's probably not the healthiest thing to be intimidated by your own shoes, but it is funny.

yesterday, i checked a couple of items on my life is good list mentioned a few paragraphs back. it was a great sunday.

....and now- a shameless plea for comments from all you lurkers who read regularly but never speak out....

what's on your happy list?

bioluminescence

2005-07-30T06:05:00.000-04:00

i went to the pageant of the masters last night in laguna beach. take the link and read about it- the entire concept is something i haven't fully formed an opinion about yet, but i'm sure i'll be posting more later this week.

after the show, i strolled through the juried artist exhibition. i've heard that of all our senses, smell is the most powerful memory trigger. personally, i find this to be true. opening a fresh box of crayons transports me back to mrs. garrison's kindergarten classroom, i can smell leather and it is suddenly 1991 and i'm borrowing my first boyfriend's bomber jacket, and i can't even talk about lemongrass tea. but in laguna, the sight of a canvas grabbed me unexpectedly and kept me rooted in a memory for longer than i'd like to admit.

it was a horizontal painting of nighttime waves glowing green as they crested.

i remembered the kind of thick darkness where the night reaches down with clouds to lay heavily upon the earth. he carried my shoes and teased me about the out-turned toes of my foot prints in the sand. thumb and forefinger encircled my wrist. tiny wrists, with bird bones he said.

the ocean spoke constantly with an insistent tone that edged out less important conversation so we whispered against the rush of water and felt safe that secrets could be carried out with tide's retreat.

he told me about the first time his father really hit him, what it was like to drop out of school, how it felt to finally finish, what family means and the strength it requires. with an absence of nostalgia uncommon for my kind, i shared stories never before spoken.

he pointed, and i turned to see a neon green wave break into black. it happened again, and we speculated about reflection or jelly fish- even toxic waste from san onofre. and then we stopped and watched in awe. it was surreal.

"it's like you, it's like this, it's like us" he whispered into my throat "it's magic." and after three more than magic words his kiss moved me with a rhythm and intensity not unlike the language of the waves. i believed.

the artist in laguna captured our glowing waves with oil paint and varnish. Reminiscing had pulled me behind the group, and i heard my name called through the crowd. a white placard mounted to the right of the canvas caught my attention. swiping a pen from the watercolor still life booth, i copied the text onto the cover of my program:

The red tide is a naturally occurring, higher-than-normal-concentration of phytoplankton. When red tide algae reproduce in dense concentrations, they are visible as discolored patches, often reddish in color. At night these "blooms" become a blue-green glow near the surface when the water is agitated by waves. This living neon green gleam is known as bioluminescence.

there is no magic, only opportunity to choose to be seduced by pretty glowing lies.

i folded the scientific explanation into my pocket, happy in the since-acquired knowledge that the real version of such things is more beautiful and breathtaking than any mysterious allure.

Dear Little Sister

2005-07-22T03:29:00.000-04:00

i know i tell you all the time that i'm proud of you, but there are some things i need to say in order to make sure you know exactly what i mean by that.

remember when you would watch me getting ready in the morning for the exciting world of junior high? you thought i was the coolest with curling irons and lip gloss. i thought you were annoying. remember when you would swipe my books and read them at night or on the school bus so i wouldn't know? you thought i was interesting, i thought you were nosy. now the tables have turned, and i look into your life through web pages and calling cards and wish i could steal something away just to claim part of you back for myself.

i often think of how your korean students must see you- the way you wear the energy of life wrapped around you like a bright red feather boa. i hear these stories of adventure and excitement and hurt, and i don't get to be your sister for those moments anymore- i get to watch and cheer and listen, but i miss that part of me meant only for you.

and now i hear the lacey edges of love decorating your voice from thousands of miles away. no matter how brave you play it, i know it wasn't an entirely easy process for you to decide to come out. i'm so happy that you found her, ju. you've always been exactly who you are, and i look to that quality in you when my own begins to slip.

remember that time in high school when i found a beer in your underwear drawer and i threatened everything from parental involvement to flat out violence unless you promised you wouldn't drink? i've always wanted to protect you, but in a way that was filled with admiration and even envy for the wild side of your spirit. i'm not like that, but i get to taste how to live that way just by being next to you. you've taught me so much.

it has been a year since you left. i cried when we said good-bye, but not really. the tears were carly-style: restrained, practical, steady. now that i know what 12 months without you is like, the sadness is more jagged; but my respect and pride and excitement for you swells up to fill the void. i hate that i can't take care of you anymore, but i see you thriving and i allow a small part of me to believe that i was a part of the beauty i see.

you are so beautiful.

i love you elf ear.

lying about dying and other parental mishaps

2005-07-20T15:49:00.000-04:00

my son conner returned yesterday from a 6-week summer vacation with his grandparents in new mexico and missouri. there are no words for how i missed him, it was the longest we had ever been apart.

i was in the bathroom applying eyeliner (it is disturbing how ingrained this ritual must be if i bother with makeup before going to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in the sole theater of yucca valley, california- but that's a topic for a different day) when conner began banging wildly on the closed door.
"MOM!"- this in his loudest whisper voice- usually reserved for church, crucial movie scenes, and asking about peculiar strangers in public- which is twice as loud as normal yet breathy and hissed to show he at least knows he should be quiet.

"MOM- THERE'S A RABBIT!"

this is not exactly news where i live. the rabbits outnumber the humans here 3:1. they anxiously line the roads at night, eyes flashing like gold coins in the headlights, to play their adrenaline junkie suicide games with passing motorists. most people don't mind and drive straight through at the posted speed limit- with all of the coyotes and crows a furry body will disappear by morning. i haven't noticed my neighbors recklessly braking and swerving into joshua trees lately, but then again- they don't have a earnest (and deafening) six-year-old shrieking, "PLEASE MOM DON'T KILL HIM!!" from the back seat.
i opened the door.

"Why are you whispering?"

"I DON'T WANT TO SCARE IT AWAY"

at this point i was physically dragged outside while he explained in the same humorously hushed voice that a baby bunny wanted to be his pet. the tiny rabbit was standing utterly still in the middle of our front patio. it didn't balk at conner's approach, but he knew better than to touch wild animals. (at one point i must have told him stories of maggots or lice or infectious disease, but i can't exactly remember.) we had been through a similar situation in the spring. it went something like this:

conner finds a 3 or 4 week old rabbit/
he immediately names it Fiver/
i pick it up in a towel to save it from the coyotes or the well-proven suicidal tendencies of its kind./
conner refers to it as a 'member of the family' as in: "you can't make a member of the family sleep outside!"/
he feeds it condensed milk from an eye dropper./
conner goes to bed, reluctantly, without fiver./
the rabbit dies two hours later./
i properly dispose of the body (3 blue walmart plastic bags and the outdoor trash bin.)/
conner wakes up in the morning./
i improvise a very elaborate lie about fiver recovering miraculously at night (we had just learned about nocturnal animals) scratching at the door to get out so that he could return to his family./
conner cries./
apparently, the rabbit is still a member of our family./
we drink orange juice outside until we spot a similar-enough young bunny running along with his brothers and sisters./
conner says, "it's ok that he left. he just really missed his dad."/

my heart caved in a little.

an offhand remark for some kindergarteners, but not this one. i looked over casually to see if he wanted to elaborate, but in true little boy fashion he had moved on to flipping rocks on a scorpion search. i thought about the year he spent away from his father and the brave face he presented despite the absence. i remembered the pictures tucked under his pillow, the overheard tall tales of my-dad-is-better-than-your-dad with the neighbor girl, the nonchalant phone conversations followed by sleepless tearful nights. i wanted to scoop him up and promise that he and fiver and everybody else would never have to miss their fathers again and the world from now on would be a happy place where parents kiss their kids every morning and nobody says goodnight on instant messenger. instead, i sat quietly, grateful for one small moment that validated the most difficult decision of my life: moving to this dusty dehydrated nowhere town so that con could have his dad.

the newest rabbit began a slow retreat just as conner was christening it fiver II. it was obviously afflicted with something serious, and i held my breath hoping my son wouldn't notice. surprisingly, conner gave a too-cool shrug and walked back inside.

"he must of just been on vacation"
"he must HAVE just been on vacation," i corrected and then laughed at myself for questioning grammar over the bunny's summer abroad.

and then i did scoop him up and scattered as many kisses as a mom can on a squirming growing giggling meansmorethananything boy.

this is how i said good-bye

2005-07-19T17:34:00.000-04:00

the balcony was shaded by dense palm trees and other tropical looking foliage. i leaned out as far as my courage would allow to see a 60-year-old man rocking a speedo turn his face into the misters before carrying pink frozen drinks to other poolside bakers. 120 degrees in palm springs, california. me in a fancy pants resort gripping wrought iron railing, remembering teenage fantasies of jumping over and off and down. laughed at those long-ago thoughts and opened my cell phone instead of indulging.

I dialed:

This is ****!

remember how i said i'd never call when i was sad?

-Uhm, sure.

well, this is the exception.

OK, what's up?

I just needed to hear your voice. Needed to know you'd be there if i called you. that's enough. thanks.

-Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. There's my voice. Glad I could help

Me laughing.

-Want to know what I'm up to? Flying out to two job interviews- one in Baltimore, one in Wisconsin.

Me freezing.

-I'm not sure how interested I am yet, but...

Me choking.

-maybe something will be... Carly?

Me crying with no sound- hand pressed hard against my mouth to hold sadness in and back and down.

-Hey, are you there?

Yeah, so Baltimore huh? Sounds exciting let me know how it goes.

-Are you ok?

You know, I just thought. It's just that. I.
(pause to reign in my voice)
Our last hope- my last hope- was for you to take a job here in L.A. That's all. That's it. I'm... you know.

-I know.

Good luck, I have to run. Thanks for picking up.

I found myself on the ground with no memory of sitting down.

so this is how i said good-bye: from the third floor balcony of a $300 a night hotel room; the table above me set with croissants, strawberries, champagne, and a crystal carafe of orange juice.

i grabbed the railing again to pull myself standing. switched off the cell phone, looked once more out over the pool. the glass door slid open behind me and air conditioning mixed with something tori amos exhaled against my exposed back.

i took a breath, turned, and smiled.