Tag Archives: wishes

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?

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.

Let The Morning Find Me…

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HAPPY 2012!
With the brand new year upon us, may this be one resolution we all can keep.

Let the morning find me…

…languishing
from a sleep that was enough to feel well-rested, but not lethargic, energized, but not anxious

Let the morning find me…

…knowing
even if the best possible sometimes fails, that the person I find in the mirror has done the best possible.

Let the morning find me…

…living
and not just merely surviving, but joyously thriving, even in the midst of the crazies.

Let the morning find me…

…enticed
to start this day even if the most strenuous thing I have planned to do is vegetate.

Let the morning find me…

…satiated
in that toe curling, back arching, arms and fingers extending to their maximum reach full body stretch way, regardless if there’s someone beside me.

Let the morning find me…

…smiling
that Cheshire cat, absolutely no reason what so ever, but I just can’t seem to stop smile.

Let the morning find me…

…loving

me.

–== == == == == ==–
Submitted to
Jingle Poetry At The Gooseberry Garden — Week 20
Fairytales, My First Time, Hope, and New Year’s Resolutions

But when…?

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I have now attended a funeral for the third weekend in a row.

Third weekend. IN A ROW.

This new year is only 22 days old and so far I am not liking 2011 at all.

I walked out during the third or fourth person speaking on today’s dearly departed to go to the bathroom. I had my coat with me and instead of going back into the service I put it on and walked out the door. And kept walking;  I just wanted to go home. I was dressed very warm and could only really feel the cold on my face. It wasn’t a deal breaker and i really needed to clear my head so I decided to walk towards home until I became too cold and/or too tired.

That alone should have been a warning bell, but I was in no state to hear it.

As I’m walking I’m going through a tsunami of emotions.   I cycle in and out of insomnia, going two-three days without sleeping, then coming home and being out cold before 8pm and not rising until my alarm goes off at 5am.  These near weekly snow storms and work related issues have added to the stress. I bury one friend for infinity last week; then in a completely unexpected turn of events a former friendship I had emotionally buried suddenly finds itself resurrected this week, which brings in a whole new set of emotional turmoil as we awkwardly work out trying to find our way back to some state of what was.  Add in I went out, got completely wasted and had to go to work the next day with my head all over the emotional scale. And yesterday, I learn another friend has made the decision to move to another state and will be doing so relatively soon. I’ve put up a fantastic front, but I see this past week especially is taking its toll.

I was  five blocks from “home” when the warning bell I did not hear earlier went into full on Star Trek red alert klaxon mode. I was heading towards the wrong home. I was heading towards the home I lived in when I was still married. It is in the exact opposite direction of where I live now and had been walking out in this freezing ass weather for a good thirty minutes before I noticed. What the fuck? The enormity of it comes crushing down on me and suddenly I am freezing and exhausted. I hop in a cab and go home.

So here I am. In my warm bed, partially on my lap top typing this, partially gazing at what’s left of the sunlight bouncing off the snow-covered rooftops,  trying to defrost from more than the weather that’s left me feeling cold.  As I sit here, I realize, with all the emotional turmoil I’ve gone through, I’ve yet to cry.  Yes, I’ve shed tears. But I have yet to have that long hard, crawl into a fetal position, full-out, deep ugly soul cleansing bawl. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks hugging people, holding people, reaching out to people giving them encouragement, letting them know they’re going to be okay.  Yes, I could go and have been to my friends where I find succor and loving support.  But me being me, keep moving on. I’m moving on so well in fact, I head towards the wrong home. Why?  Because it was the last place where I was loved.

That no questions asked (because they already know or have a good idea), loved. That pull you into their arms, holding you tight loved. That not letting you go until it’s as out as it can be loved. That maybe it takes a few minutes, maybe it takes an hour, maybe it takes until you fall asleep exhausted loved. That’s what I need. However, only the Powers-That-Be can say when I’ll known such once more.

I know that breakdown is coming, but when? I pray that the tipping point does not occur in the middle of the work week, because that would be just craptacular to fall apart at work.

In the interim, I write and I wait…

Sigh…

Don’t They Know…

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I am hanging out with two friends this past Saturday, riding around Long Island.  It is mid to late afternoon when we are finally on our way home. Being near winter solstice, the days are short and it is already becoming dark.  Looking around, I inquire about the general demographic of the neighborhood.  When I express some surprise of the overall makeup of the area I am asked why.  I wave my hand around at the quiet peaceful pre-sunset street and ask  if either of my two companions notice anything  wrong, which of course they do not. We’re looking down a street with at least twenty homes of spacious lawns, tress hedges with in easy sight and not one house was decorated for Christmas.

Not. One. House.

Even I, who has been in a holiday funk these past couple of years, put up a tree and decorated my living room for the holidays a week ago. There we were driving through a semi-affluent neighborhood, that by my friends accounting had a decent enough Christian/Protestant influence and yet we could not see any indication that we were in the midst of the “most wonderful time of the year”.    It took three blocks of riding before we saw one house decorated for the holidays. We could actually count the homes as we rode around before we hit the highway.  Considering  it was exactly on week before Christmas, it was a pathetic showing.  Sun completely set as we’re coming off the highway into Harlem was only slightly more festive as we looked up at the various tenements windows all lit and sparkling.  It hit home further when we turned on the radio and it turned out the DJ was taking calls from listeners asking if they felt Christmas was less festive now than in years past.

Being raised with Christian and Jewish neighbors all of my pre-teens life, by December 15th all buildings were ablaze with festive lights and colors. Every block was a mini Las Vegas for a couple of weeks each year in December.  You could count the homes that did not have decorations instead of the other way around. It is something that has steadily decreased over the years and I sorely miss it. Several callers to the radio DJ expressed similar sentiments.  It was part comforting and part disconcerting to know I wasn’t the only one feeling this.

In my head, I could understand if I was living in a more culturally mixed neighborhood than what existed in my youth, but I‘m not. I don’t know if it’s the depressing economy or a subtle (and disappointing) downturn in society in general that has befallen the holidays over time, but I don’t like it. As I looked out my window earlier this evening and again found myself incredibly disappointed by the near dearth of festive lighting, I found my self desperately wanting to ask …

…Don’t they know it’s Christmas?

This Is My December…

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“And I’d give it all away,
Just to have somewhere to go to,
Give it all away,
To have someone to come home to”

My December – Linkin Park

Oh, December in the Raivenne household was always a hoot.  The normally wannabe sophisticate, über-urban, gal-about-town, known and be-loathed all over, transforms into this insane “OhMyGAWDCanYouBeliveIt’sAlmostChristmas!” beast.  The weekend after Thanksgiving I (and begrudgingly the boys) would start dragging the decorations out and begin the annual tradition of transforming the abode into holiday splendor.

When we were living in an apartment, it was all confined to just the living room. However, once we had a HOUSE, oh good Lord!  I spared my family from decorating the bedrooms upstairs, but man did I didn’t vomit the holidays every where else! Each year, I moved the TV because the tree just HAD to be close to the window in order to be seen from the street.  The front porch and steps had their own garlands and lights. If you stood on the porch you could see all the little buildings and figures that graced the inside windowsill. The dining room had the Kwanza set. The kitchen and powder room would get holiday colored towels and mini decorations. Yeah, my family thought I lost my damned mind each and every year. And as curmudgeonly as all three males in the house would behave at the start of the process, at least the boys would catch some of my Christmasfluenza and get into the decorating spirit.

The hubby always stayed the Scrooge of the house; right down to his “Bah Humbug” black and white Santa hat, but deep down he enjoyed my shenanigans just as much.  One December I was depressed and refused to decorate. I think he thought if he waited me out I would pop into it, how could I not? When it was December 20th and no one iota of holiday décor was up, he got it. Mr. OhComeOnNotAllThisShitAgain? Was the one who got the boys and dragged decorations out that year. Yes, HUBBY went and got the decorations – that is how much he knew this was important to me and what a serious funk I was in to not be doing so. He was that desperate to do anything, even decorate for Christmas, to help me out of it.  The guys started to decorate the tree, but were doing such a horrible job of it the Virgo in me kicked in. Still, since my heart was not in it, which was the worst tree I have ever put up, to date.

I had not felt that bad again until the first Christmas after I became a widow. Still, I put up the holiday decorations that first year without him (or the boys, now men on their own, to help me) it was a lovely tree. Christmas 2007 was the last time I all out decorated and put up a tree. I moved in 2008 and all of my holiday stuff, including most of my spirit, is away in storage.  Something simple on my front door is about all I have been able to muster doing these past years for decorating.

I’m almost done with filling out this year’s Christmas cards (and man is my wrist tired!).  I am thinking about what to put on my door for this year, but that’s all. Still. It is only December 2nd and who knows? After a near three-year hiatus, maybe the Christmasfluenza bug will strike me again; I really do not know. Nevertheless, for right now, this very moment, the above verse from Linkin Park is my holiday song.

This is my December.