Category Archives: The Present

After-cation

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I just returned from an eight day vacation in Las Vegas and saying it was AWE-SOME really just doesn’t cut it. However, it is now official. Two days back at work and I am in the midst of a serious post-vacation funk. And let me tell you, the rumored funk is so very real and is near inevitable in the life of any vacationer.

All the fun I spent months planning for, saving for and laid awake with great night-before-Christmas anticipation for is… over. The photographic proof of my good time is now on my Facebook and the laundry is out of the suitcase, in the hamper, waiting to be done.

Mind you, this funk does not occur overnight. It is something that seeped into my conscience slowly and before I knew it I was completely mired in it. Yet it feels that all of a sudden I am knee-deep in the reality that I are not: A. Independently wealthy, or B. Free from that most horrid obscenity called Work… with a capital “W.”

When I first arrived home, a tired traveler comfortably surrounded by the familiar sights, scents and sounds of my belongings, I couldn’t help but experience that warm There’s No Place Like Home feeling of sleeping in my own bed. Oh, the bliss!.

Then next yesterday comes, I’m back at work and it is a flurry of activity. I am answering emails, returning calls with a well-rested glow that only a true getaway vacation and not a stay-cation can provide. I’m still in the chillaxin’ zone that comes from spending eight days swimming, partying and just being in Vegas baby. By the third recounting of the details of my grand fun I am progressively losing my voice through the chain-smoking hooker stage straight through to Macy Gray with laryngitis. By 9:15 am I have concocted the following sign:

Granted, work expects that I will be “at the top of your game” since I’m so well-rested, when in reality my head is still in the pool (or on the Vegas Strip, or at any of the various parties), minor gaffs are hopefully forgiven. Hey, it took a solid minute and a half to remember my log on password and you want a briefing on what?

Day two brings with it the mofo that is Reality (with a capital “R.”). The alarm sounds for the second time since I’ve been back and I remember that this was why I went on vacation in the first place – to escape that frackin’ alarm and the daily grind that follows it.

Day two is the same as the day one, only worse. The alarm clock goes off like a Star Trek red-alert reminding me that yesterday was not a fluke or a bad joke. I. AM. HOME. And it is only Thursday. I’ve already begun the self-flagellation of: “Where Was I Exactly One Week Ago?” Let me tell you, it is no where near as enjoyable in retrospect as “Where Will I Be In One Week” was a fortnight ago in anticipation.

Sigh…

I’m beginning to entertain flights of fancy about how I might achieve the life of a full-time vacationer. What if I just disappeared? Is it too late to get a degree in Recreation or Hospitality and Tourism Management? How much DO they pay those people who change sheets and fold towels into the awesome animal shapes, anyway? In the interim – I owe, I owe, so off to work I go.

They say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally Acceptance. They are not necessarily experienced in order. The bereaved might vacillate between the five for several weeks or months languishing for a time at one stage or another. So far I think I have experienced all of them and it has yet to be three days.

I know by Monday I will be resigned to my fate and will have quietly accepted my life just the way it is, but I do not like it. I can’t seem to stop playing the “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago Today?” game. Every time I look at the CSI:The Experience highlighters I purchased and brought to work to remind me what a great time I had there – I want to cry.

Is it wrong that I have not been back a solid three days and I am already plotting my next escape?

Random Acts — But Why?

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Several friends have asked why would I of all people would reach out to a total stranger as i did yesterday. I was the perfect person to reach to him.  Even I did not understand why until this morning when I read the following…

“Sometimes you really feel alone with your pain, like no one’s there to comfort you in just the way or ways you need.”
— Allyson (part of her comment on yesterday’s Random Acts post)

Dear Lord, how many of us have felt like this over our lifetimes?!

It took Allyson’s comment to bring back a memory…

The week I went back to work after my husband passed away, I was that man on the subway. No sound, no heaving shoulders, just tears I could not stop from streaming down my face for a few minutes.  Unlike the guy from yesterday, this was still winter, I had no sunglasses to hide behind. I couldn’t even pretend I was reading a book and something moved me to tears. I was just sitting there crying.

On a crowded New York City subway during rush hour all alone and no one said a word to me.

I accidentally caught the eye of a woman sitting across from me. She realized I saw her and she immediately looked away. Not just averted hers eyes, but turned her entire face to look elsewhere. I could not decide if she was embarrassed at having been caught looking at me or if she hoped she didn’t add to my embarrassment by being witness to it.

As I stated above, the whole thing was only for a few minutes. Three or four train stops at the most before I was as back under control as I could be given the situation. By the time I made it home, no one who had not seen it first hand was the wiser.  I put the whole thing behind me until now, this being the very first time I have ever spoken about it.

I had put it so far out of my mind, that even yesterday, it did not register as I responded to another crying soul on the subway; at least not consciously.  But obviously the soul remembers, even what the mind does not. I would like to think I still would have responded thusly to the guy yesterday regardless of the coincidence of our situations.

I responded to another that the Powers-That-Be arranged it so that I would be the one standing in front of him. Who knew they kick-started this moment years ago? Ah, karma, sometimes it’s not always a bitch.

Random Acts

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“Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knees
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please”
Eric Capton – Tears in Heaven

I’m on the train, going to work this morning.  It’s one of those rare days I’m standing because I gave up my single seat to a woman with a leg cast. To give the woman leg room (*ba-da-dum cymbal crash*), I moved to stand in front of some guy that was seated on the other side of the door from where I was. He’s an attractive Latino, goateed, around my age.  He had that physique of a male who used to be muscular but has gone soft over the years; fat over a solid core. He didn’t look thuggish, but definitely not someone you want to step up on.  Yeah, I was checking him out for a moment  – shoot me- I can only pretend to not see what’s dead in front of me, but for so long before my eyes get tired of staring hard left or right.  I was listening to my iPod (metal mode in full blast), and had pretty much dismissed him mentally.

Fully engaged in the I see you, but I really don’t non-dance that we subways riders not reading or sleeping do, it took a couple of stops before I happened to look down and realized his face was slightly shining.  Holy shit, I think he’s crying! He must have heard my thoughts as that was the exact moment he raised his head removing all doubt before lowering it more trying to hide that very fact. I looked to the woman sitting next to him, but I had already established that they did not know each other. What got me was in the microscopic amount of room allowable, she seemed to be trying to put as much space as possible between the guy and herself without negatively infringing upon the space of the woman on the other side of her.  I did not understand that withdrawal. It was obvious he would have preferred to be anywhere but there at that moment.  This was not the type of man who wanted to be caught on the verge of a breakdown while trapped around strangers on a NYC subway.  I didn’t even think about it, I simply reacted.  I got down on one knee reached out for his hands and held.   Obviously, he tried to pull his hands away, but I wouldn’t let go.

“Whatever it is, it will be okay…” I said quietly.  I have no idea what expression my face held, but when he looked at me, he stopped trying to pull away.  In fact, he gripped tighter as he tried to regain control of his emotions. “No, you need to let go now”.

When I kneeled, I accidentally pushed into a woman’s space behind me. Before I could say anything, I heard her mumble a nasty comment and push back, holding her ground as it were, but I ignored her.  I’m guessing she turned around at that point, accessed the situation and thought about it because I felt space open up around me.  He looked at me, opened his mouth to speak, but only a barely audible sob came out.

“Just let go…” I said a little more forcefully to him, and he did.  It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t manly, it was just raw and my hands took the brunt of the punishment as this man did everything short of bawl in his pain.

I don’t remember what train stop we were between when I initially reached out to him. I know I was there for a several stops, making people navigate around me as we were right by the door. The woman who initially attempted to distance herself now touched me on the shoulder and offered her seat.  Not letting go of his hands, she helped put my purse in my lap as I sat. I had presumed she was exiting at the next station, but she stood in front of us for a couple of stops before disembarking.  Other than to nod my thanks to her, I did not take my eyes from him as he cried. Someone else silently slipped a pack of tissues in my lap, because they just appeared, as I saw no one put them there, so thank you whoever you were.

Eventually, his shoulders stopped their subtle trembling and he reached for the tissues with one hand, still gripping mine with the other. It was another couple of stops before he was in enough control to pull out a pair of sunglasses and cover his eyes.

“Thank you” His voice was understandably raspy.
“You’re welcome.” I nodded finally withdrawing my hand, flexing my fingers.
“Did you miss you stop?” He sheepishly half-smiled at my finger flexing.
I looked up, realized where we were and grimaced, “Oh hellz yeah”.
“Then why?”
“Because you needed me.” I shrugged, it really was the only answer I had.

We both exited the train at the next station.  As I went for the stairs, I felt him grab my hand and squeeze lightly.“Don’t you even want to know why?” he asked when I turned.
“No.” I shook my head honestly. “That wasn’t needed to help. Like I said, “Whatever it is, it will be okay””
He gave his thanks again and let go.

I looked for him once I was on the other side and saw him sitting on a bench further down the platform. His posture now better suited to the image I initially had when I first stood in front of him.  With his sunglasses on covering the pain in his eyes, he was just another guy on the subway again.  My train pulled into the station and I boarded, finally on my way to work.

He didn’t need me anymore, I was free to go.

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”
Tennessee Williams – A Streetcar Named Desire

when all that’s raptured

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Some trust so hard in human fallacies
Only to mock and thrash against the rails.
Whose fault to follow those who cannot see?
Prophecies bold behind curtains and veils.
Can one but wonder what is there to be,
When all that’s raptured, becomes all that fails?
Even The Word states not when, only why
In God We Trust some say, but actions lie

========

Written for
One Stop Poetry
OSP - Ottava Rima
Form Mondays : Ottava Rima

Always Ready To Open

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Here is the only important thing I know about closets…

When you’re the one who has trapped yourself inside,
there are only two ways out…

Having the door ripped from the handle
exposing all which you’ve tried contain
whether it’s ready to be seen or not
by the world.

Or

By placing your hand on the handle
taking a deep breath and coming out
on your own terms, letting the world in
at your own pace

Because, whether you realize it or not,
the door is always ready to open
all you have to do is
handle it.

Mama x 3

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The woman I refer to as my mother did not give birth to me. The person who gave birth to me, though I spent a very short part of my life with her did not mother me; thus, when I say and think “mother” it is for the woman who tried to adapt me, as I adapted her (that’s not a typo).

My maternal grandmother died when my mother was six years old. As such she was raised by her father and five brothers. Four older and one younger. Six over protective men and one female in the semi-rural south. I imagine it was not fun. Still, my mother grew up to be petite, willowy with naturally long, easy to manage haired, prim and proper and a neat freak. Regrettably (for her), we were soon to figure out I was head and tails my paternal grandmother’s child. The little girl she chose to adapt was a tall, big-boned, thick, nappy-haired, rough and tumble tomboy. From the word go it was struggle.

I tried to be the good daughter, as most daughters, do.  Did we love each other – of course.  We had our good days, but by the time I was in my mid teens my house was at war. The essence of the problem between my father and I was one thing.  If you’ve read some of my poetry, some of the story is there. I’m not rehashing it here. The essence of problem between my mother and I was that she never understood why I wasn’t grateful to have a mother and simply be obedient and everything a mother would want because after all she hadn’t had one and if she had, that was the kind of daughter she would have been.  I never understood, even before I was old enough to put it into words, why she could never understand that “I” was not her. Regrettably, it took my mother becoming fatally ill before things would change between us. Systemic sclerosis is a slow, but inevitably fatal bitch at its best and my mother was struck with the worst kind that took her away in a few short years. It was only in those last the last few years of her life that we became friends. Before she became so ill that she spent most of her remaining days in ICU, it was the closest to having a true loving mother-daughter relationship we had come.

In the interim, I met the man who would become my late-husband and in turn met his extended family. Family that was chosen by heart, if not technically by blood, but cousins nonetheless. I met one set of cousins in particular led by the family matriarch. Trust me, there is no other word that suits her. Still, upon getting to know her and seeing her relationship with her children, and they with her, and the extended family from there, I finally knew what that could feel like. I won’t lie, a part of me was a little envious at first, but you can’t feel envy when pulled into that much love. I told her secrets I had not told my own mother and was there with my cousins of heart when she finally went Home. I was blessed to have her in my life if for nothing but finally having that gift of Mother.

When I was young, I used to ask about the woman who gave birth to me. The subject was quickly changed, or I was suddenly punished for something. I learned without being told, I was never allowed to ask questions about her as a child, but I knew she existed. I had memories of her. When I was old enough to know to ask without caring about potential penalty, the one person who would have told me (my –skipped a couple of generations twin– paternal grandmother), was no longer around.  By my early teens I had decided, if I knew she existed, she in turn, had to know I did. If she were dead, I would have been told such. That I never saw her again was either because she could not get to me or did not want to. The latter option made no sense to me as even before I had children, I could not imagine a scenario other that death in which I would not be a presence at least in their young lives, so it had to be the first option.  By then and I was simply too busy living my own life to give much thought on what happened to hers.  And now, if she was/is alive and wanted to find me, I am so removed from my roots, it is a moot point.

But every now and then around Mother’s Day, this year being one of them, I think of all three mothers:The one I never knew, the one I got to know almost too late and the one by knowing gave me a little understanding on the other two.

Happy Mother’s Day Ladies.

“Osama Bin Laden Is Dead”

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“Osama Bin Laden is dead”

“Osama Bin Laden is dead”

That was not a typo. For nearly ten years I and so many others have waited to hear those words. It bears repeating.

As an American, a native New Yorker, a person among millions who can recall exactly where they were when the original towers went down and a person currently working two blocks from where the sparkling glass walls that will comprise the towers of the new World Trade Center itself, I am near speechless at the sheer wonder of this.

I cannot begin to imagine the extent of the sense elation/vindication the 2,974 families of the initial victims of 9/11 and the countless soldiers in Afghanistan we’ve lost must feel at this moment.

Obama can have his glory as being the president that got Public Enemy No.1. The political pontiffs can continue to go back and forth on their reports; I understand Pakistani is already ensuring they get their fair credit for their part in this operation, there will be time for that. When Barack Obama was first running for President, the spell checkers kept correcting his last name to “Osama”. I find it a fantastic poetic justice that tonight as I typed Osama my auto-correct changes it to Obama.

Still, as happy as I am, and I won’t lie, I am damned happy he is dead, a part of me is apprehensive. This by no means indicates our brothers and sisters-at-arms will be coming home anytime soon. Even as I type this I am reminded the bomb threat in Times Square here in New York, by someone inspired by the words of Bin Laden will be a mere a year ago on May 4th. It is still very much our reality that not all of the world will be happy out this. I fully understand our war on terror is hardly over. Osama Bin Laden may have merely a figurehead for Al Qaeda at this time, but he was their figure and we’ve just made a martyr.

But for tonight and the coming days, here in the land of the free and the home of the brave, I have just these words:

Ding dong Osama’s dead!
Bin Laden’s dead!
Bin Laden’s dead!
Ding dong Osama Bin Laden’s dead!

NaPoWriMo — Day Is Done…

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Time is oh so fleeting
Shorter than a sheep’s bleating
Many days in the sun, can still feel like none
Whether the grays are yearned
Or eventually earned
It takes years, some of fright some of fun
And we pray some will smile
For what’s left of their while
As Taps draws their tears, when “Day is done”.

What The Obituary Missed…

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What the obituary missed…

    • I’m minding my business, get that funny feeling and just know someone is ogling me. I turn around and see this old man wriggling his bushy, more salt than pepper brows, with a grin so hilariously lecherous, Grouchy Marx would’ve been envious.

      I’ve just met Papa Nick.

    • “If you were twenty years older and I twenty years younger, I would put a hurting on you!” This (or some variation thereof) was his favorite saying regardless of the person’s age or the subject.  It’s truly amusing when applied to children playing Chutes and Ladders who have (yet again) managed to beat him soundly at the game.
    • There’s a sign on the front door as you leave that reads “Check purse for teeth”. Pretty women who did not heed this sign found out why as they often had to call someone to collect Papa Nick’s dentures. Or if still in the vicinity, immediately return to the house to give the sneaky curmudgeon back his choppers, which of course was his plan all along.
    • Never leave any thing M&M around him. He would eat it and feign innocence (even when removing a stray one from his beard).
    • If you blinked, you would lose at chess. If you smiled, you would lose at chess.  If you breathed, you would lose at chess. Let’s face it, you would just lose at chess, period. Yes, he was that good (or that bad ass depending on his mood…).
    • “You are a young vibrant woman who is miserable for no reason other than to just be miserable. You need some dick woman.”  This was directed at his youngest sister, she was sixty-six years of age at the time.
    • First hand stories (and sometimes demonstrations) of taking apart a rifle, why his brothers-at-arms were closer to him that his brother by blood, the proper way to pour wine and why the Charleston is still the best popular dance ever.
    • After a particularly silly verbal exchange with the quick-witted scoundrel:

      Me: Old man, don’t make me love you!
      Papa Nick: Make love to me? Twenty years and a hurting little girl, I’ll show you what love is.
      Me: In your dreams, geezer!
      Papa Nick: Ya wanna get me summa them little blue pills and find out, juvenile?

      That was a few months ago for his 93rd birthday, the last time I saw Papa Nick.

What was the truest part of the obituary? “…and a host of relatives and friends who will miss him greatly.”

Goodness knows, I already do…

Rest In Peace, Papa Nick.

Got MILF?

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Got Milf? by Sarah Maizes
Got MILF? by Sarah Maizes

Got Milf?: The Modern Mom’s Guide to Feeling Fabulous, Looking Great, and Rocking A Minivan.

According to the Amazon.com Product description:

YOU’RE EITHER A MILF OR YOU’RE A MILF-DUD. TAKE YOUR PICK. 

For thousands of years, women have been expected to hang up their “hotness” once they had kids. They disappeared behind their families and the dashboards of minivans…Until now! Whether sporting a cardigan and jeans, sweats or a business suit, today’s Mom is a shining example of confidence, poise, and age-defying beauty. Even as she juggles carpool, PTA, and the demands of the office, or shrieks, “GET IN THE TUB, NOOOWWW!”, she’s pretty darn hot.

Really? No, REALLY?!?!?

In all fairness, I do get the point Ms. Maizes is attempting to make. That a woman should not feel that she is somehow less attractive just because she became a mother. She’s still a beautiful woman (can’t you all but hear the regardless inserted there), and she should never lose sight of it. I get that. What annoys the hell out of me is her so subtle title choice to get her point across.

To be or not to be a MILF? Ain’t that a question!  Because, yes, if there is one descriptive above all others that I want my accomplishments to be expounded upon, it’s via the use one of the most objectifying adjectives for a female, straight out of internet porn.

I’m guessing referring to a female parent as a Mother I’d Like to Love is far too hard to change into an acronym and pronounce, but I digress.  American Pie brought the lovely phrase MILF (acronym for Mother I’d Like to Fuck for those who truly don’t know), to the mainstream lexicon, but the phrase, as well as mothers worthy of garnering sexual attraction have existed long before then. Stacy’s mom (80’s song reference), was definitely one. Mrs. Robinson (The Graduate) was one. Hell, if you go by the bible (and Cecil B. DeMille’s), depiction, so was Nefretiri. But I bet you wouldn’t have called any of them a MILF to their faces without immediately receiving a backhand to yours. Nowadays, a woman is not a decent mom if she does not wear her MILF t-shirt proudly. Oh wait, no decent MILF worth her cardigan would be caught dead wearing one.

And here’s the kicker… If you think about it, this book is aimed at mothers of children middle school age and younger. So, where does that place us mothers of college graduates? What about the mothers of very adult children? Are we suddenly relieved of the pressures of looking sex worthy once the kiddies are safely past adolescence? Wait, I think there is a term, what does it say above? Oh yeah… Milf-duds. Aaaah, don’t we feel so much better about our station in life now? I guess we can go back to using our brains to get by as we won’t have much of anything else going for us in the looks by then.

As if what the average mother needs -after her teenager has compared her to Satan for insisting that homework get done, as the middle-child brings in a very feral looking stray for pet potential, just as the little one swipes the cell phone and presses the end call button on her boss – is something telling her she also needs to look like a Hollywood starlet while doing it.

Take your PHDs down and put your FMPs on, it’s all about the hawtness baby.

/rant – sarcasm drip – major eye rolling