She Said WHAT?

(the following is as seen through the eyes of one of my clients...or so I imagine)

I am relatively new to Austin, and have been thru three hairstyists, in search of one that fits.  My boyfriend purchased a coupon deal for highlites and cut with Amy Evers.  I googled her and read her reviews.  It was actually a comfort to see a mix of reviews as I am wary when there is never anything negative written.  I mean come on, no one makes everyone happy.

I pulled up the quaint old house and did not realize just how big and rambling it was.  After wandering around a bit, I found my way downstairs where Amy has her station and sat waiting on the long church pew.

A church pew?  In a salon?

Sitting with me were a few elderly ladies, some in hair rollers, some taking their own rollers out waiting for their stylist, to whip out his magic comb and shape their tresses into works of art.

I had no idea ladies still got roller sets, and is that what Amy is going to do to me?  Just as I was about to rethink this entire adventure, the back door opens and in walks a woman wearing heels, fishnet stockings, a black dress, and an apron with pink cupcakes all over it.  She is carrying a tray of cupcakes as well.

As soon as she is in the room she very loudly says in a thick Southern accent, "Good mornin y'all!  Why I have been up all night baking my heart out to bring you cupcakes!"

Various hoots, laughs and hellos she greets everyone and makes her way over to me and says (not in an accent), "Hi I'm Amy, I'm sorry I am a few minutes late, I was running from Round Rock, come on over and let's talk."

We get down to business and discuss what I am hoping will get done.  Amy seems relaxed and ready to take on my thick head of hair.

While foiling my hair we talk.  This is not an easy task as the downstairs now is overflowing with little old ladies, they all know each other and they all talk very loudly.  Amy tells me that this is what it is like every Saturday morning.  Same crowd.  None of them are her client's but they all know her and ask her questions about her life.

She talks with the ladies and even makes one or two slighty risque jokes which has them all in fits of laughter.

Every time a new person walks in through the back door everyone turns to yell a greeting.  I can't tell if I am on the set of Cheers or Steel Magnolias.

Occassionally Amy leans down to whisper the details or gossipy parts about some of the clients that are in the room.  She also tells me that in the afternoon there is a shift change and the clientele is very different.

Just as I am finishing up her next clients walk in.  Two young women that appear to be deeply in love and happy.  Amy pauses with me to greet them both with hugs and smiles, and gestures for them to take a seat on the pew.

I am starting to think the pew is actually a bit of a confessional as I have heard many secrets, and even found myself divulging a few of my own.

After I have finished I sit and wait for my boyfriend to come retrieve me.  Amy takes one of the other women to her chair and they begin to talk.  I can not tell if these women are her friends or just clients as she refers to everyone as "One of my friends."

Part of me feels like she has become my friend in the brief two hours I spent there.  And even though she reassures me that if I make an appointment in the afternoon it wont be as chaotic, I am not sure I want to.

I want to be part of the Saturday crowd and sit on the pew with the ladies talking about cruise ships.

One woman said rather loudly (since she took her hearing aids out), "So my doctor told me..."

Amy immediately said, "If I had a dollar for every time I have heard that said on a Saturday morning!"

She threatens to turn her ipod to Frank Sinatra to get the women in curlers really going but keeps it on Billy Joel for me.

When her new clients come in she asks them what they want to hear and one said, "Eighties".  With a few clicks, we were back in the Eighties and I was wondering just how many songs she held on her ancient ipod.

My boyfriend eventually arrives, and part of me is sad to go. I kind of wanted to stay and talk more with everyone.   Amy stops with her client/friend and gives me a genuine hug.

I can't tell if her clients revovle around her, or she revolves around them.  But I can say for sure if I ever return I will be sure to make my appointment on Saturday morning.  I have to find out how the cruise went for Ethel, or see if Amy's friend liked what she did to her hair.

Maybe I could just come with some coffee and sit on the pew waiting for my time at the confessional.

I have an odd feeling I would be welcome, even if nothing was being done to my hair.

I am not sure if I have found "my" stylist, but I know I have found a story I will be telling.  I have found a place where little old ladies still get roller sets and sit and mingle without judgement of anyone who walks through those doors.

Maybe someday they will all stop and yell greetings to me a I come in the door, to the odd place where they may not remember my name, but "Darlin" fits just as well, and they will all move over to make room for me on the pew.

Have you Prepared a Monologue ?

After yesterday's blog I received a few phone calls.  One was from one of my exes and she simply and jokingly said, "OMG YOU ARE GAY?!"  We laughed.

One person sent me an email offering to help me change my mind.  He went on in great detail about how there are churches and programs out there that could help me find my way back to the "straight and narrow" (sic).

And one call that when I saw the name pop up on my caller ID I was already laughing.  I answered, and all she said was, "So I was your first love huh?"

Having been at work with a client processing, it was not the time or place to have any kind of serious conversation, so I laughed and said, "You are not supposed to throw my writing back at me!"

I changed the subject to talk about my current personal romantic life, and then inquired to hers.

Ultimately she wanted to go back to me admitting she was my first love.  I think she felt a modicum of guilt over it being a love not returned, or even recalled.

I tried to in a hurried manner assuage her fears that it was really not about her at all.  It was my story.  That she played a character and didn't know, she as never given my edit of the script. It is not her fault.  Someday when I have time, and the kids are not around, and I have cell service I may call her and tell her the whole story from my point of view.  But most likely I wont. As that play has ended with no curtain calls.

I know as an adult what it feels like to be confronted with that same thing.  I too was someone's first love, and I too did not return it, in the way that she deserved.  I feel badly about it, but I also acknowledge that I was a kid.

That does not stop the guilt.  I am guilty of being young at one time.  I am guilty of being selfish.  I am guilty of not really knowing how I felt, or knowing but not ready to accept it.

We have worked through it to some degree and are able to now maintain a wonderful and unique friendship.

If I loved someone and they did not know it, or ignored it, it is not their fault.  Nor is it mine.  It is just my story and not theirs.  

I have witnessed one of my children feel this same emotion.  A love from afar knowing it may never come to fruition.   I have seen the longing in her eyes and felt the heaviness in her heart as she comes to her own terms in dealing with it.  Some day she may write about her first love that was not returned.

As a parent it is not easy to witness, and being powerless over the situation does not help either.  I want to call the object of her affection and say, "Ummm excuse me, do you not see what is right in front of you?"


I was unable to see what had been given to me, and my first love was unable to see what I was offering her as well.

Again, I must emphasize we were all young.  Kids really.  Just figuring things out, and full of irrational hormones that drove most of our thinking.  There is no blame to be had on anyone's account.

What I have learned now, is to open my eyes and see what is being offered to me.  A new friend who has taken interest in my life.  A new love that is offering me all that she possibly can, even though I know ultimately it wont be enough for me.  My children offering me their confusion and questions.  Even a stranger I have never met asking for advice on something as simple as her hair.

Non of these I take for granted.  If they have chosen me to be part of their stories, than I will be a full participant for them.

If someone takes the time to ask me questions and include me I will do my best to find the answer.  If one of my children wants to talk I will listen. If someone offers me love, I will accept it with gratitude even if I may not be able to return it in the way they would like.

If I have been cast in someone's story I want to know.

I may sit here in my bed alone, in a house that is filled with ghosts of my past, but that does not mean I need to dwell among them.  I can not alter with integrity the actions of my youth, but I can make sure I am here in the present.

I will not steal the scene, if I am cast as just a walk on character that will be forgotten, then I will do that.

If my new friend has cast me as a bit player, than I am happy to even have been given the role.  If my first love chooses to become friends with me as I am now, then I will be there as a devout friend.

If my love interest is saying here is all I have to offer, I will accept graciously until it becomes not enough for either of us.

If all my children ask of me is to be here and sit with them while they tell tales of unrequited love, I will bite my Mama Bear tongue and open up my heart to ache along with them.

I do not want to take for granted anyone that comes in to my own story.  From every person something is gained.  From every client, stranger, lover, child there is a soliloquy worth hearing.

If you have been cast in someone's personal story take a moment to be present for them.  You may be an unnamed character or you may play the leading role.  If it is a role you can not accept, let the person know, so that they might be able to move on and make the proper rewrites.

Do you even know how many roles you play in someone else's personal story?

Did you willingly audition or just find yourself in a moment of time being there for another person in the way they need?

Once you have accepted the part, they in turn become part of your story, which results in a collaborative effort.

Take an active part in your story, but keep a keen eye for those that have put you in theirs.

As for the person offering to put me in their story and help me find the path of the straight and narrow, I respectfully decline.  I have been cast in that role before.

I will no longer be typecast.  Hand me the script, or let me know if this is improve, either way I am here.

Feels So Right, Can't Be Wrong...Those Happy Days

When I was twelve my mother became a photographer.  She went to school in the city every day (New York) and came home late in the evening.

She spent hours in her darkroom that was built by a friend of hers in our basement.  She gained success and was in a number of shows and press.  She had the "eye'.

When I was twelve I was suddenly in a house with two teenage brothers who did not care much for a pesky little sister.  I was left to my own devices, which on most days meant walking home after school and finding something to eat while I watched TV.

When I was twelve I gained weight and during the summer was shipped off to a fat farm for the summer.

When I was twelve my father died.

There are times when I look back and I can see my life in sections.  Before my father died, after my father died.

Before my husband died, after my husband died.

When I was twelve I started seeking out attention.  Particularly male attention, and naturally older male attention.

When I was twelve I became very uncertain of who I was because of the events in my life that I had no control of.

My brothers had their friends and lives as any teenager would.  My mother for the first time since becoming a mother had her own life and passion to follow.

I had Bugs Bunny, Little House on the Prairie, and Happy Days.

My neighbor at the time took me under her wing and I was allowed to follow her around like a puppy.  She  had long straight blond hair and she would let me brush it for hours.  In exchange I could sit with her and just be in awe of her.

When I was twelve I became confused.

Although my father was gay, I was not privy to this information until long after he died.  During a time of mental upheaval for me I was finally let in on the family "secret".  I was told of how he went to therapy to try and change.  How he married my mother and had children in hopes that would make him different than what he really was.

It was only in the last few years of his life that he was able to live in the way he wanted to and for the most part be himself.

All I heard when I found out my father was gay was how tragic it was.  Not because he was gay, but because he had to hide it, because he felt he needed to take years away from my Mother who had no idea.  How my mother believed he died of a broken and tired heart.

As I matured in age and sexuality I had both male and female lovers.  I chose to marry, not once but twice.  Both husbands I loved, one in a much different way than the other.

If ever asked about my sexuality I have always said, "I date a person, not a gender."  I am a loving person and capable of falling in love with the right person.

Some people who see me assume I am heterosexual because I have such a large family and have been married and speak of my husbands with fondness.

I have grieved the loss of my husband until I almost felt as though I had died along with him.  There were moments when I wished I did.

Knowing that he was going to die allowed us to have many conversations about what my life would look like after he was gone.  We joked around who I would end up settling down with, and without hesitation he said it would be a woman.

He got serious and said, "It's who you are.  You love me, but let's face it, I am damn near close to being a lesbian."  I had to agree as this was a man who loved women and did not at all understand men.

Not too long ago I stepped back and looked at the qualities I find appealing in men.  Then I looked at the women I have been with and for the most part, they all  have those qualities.

I sent my friend a text and said, "I do believe I am gay."  She pretty much responded with , "Duh I have known this about you for 30 years."  She went on to further elaborate that in my history I have been with men, but I have loved women.

Why did no one tell me this?

I was asked if my sexual identity defines who I am.  No, that alone does not define who I am.  I am a mother, a widow, sister, daughter, cousin, writer, photographer, hairstylist, friend, lover, dork, reader, and many other things.  Most people see me with a Diet Coke in hand, I could just as easily be defined by the one who smokes cigarettes and always drinks Diet Coke.


Does it matter how people see me?  Is it easier to put me in a box if I tell you I am gay?  Maybe.  But that is up to you and not me.

I know who I am.

I have a twelve year old daughter.  I am working in a career I love that is also taking time away from her.  Just like my mother I am finding my passion and I am happy.

Just like my father I am gay.

Now I need to open my eyes and make time for my daughter so that she knows that whatever path she goes down I am there to support her.

I will not die of a broken heart because I can not live the way I am supposed to live.  I will not deny who I am to make someone else feel more comfortable in their own skin.   I will continue to teach my children tolerance of all people.

I have never in my life felt the need to "come out" to anyone.  If I was dating a woman, I was dating a woman, if it was man, it was a man.

My children know who I am and who I have loved.  They know I loved their father in the truest sense.

My husband knew before I did what is really in my heart and yes genetics.  My friend knew before I did.

I wonder why it has taken me so long to know something I felt when I was twelve?

This comes as no surprise to many and yet somewhat of a surprise to myself.  In the journey to love myself as I am, I have had to really look at what that means, and yes put a few labels on me along the way.

I feel lighter in my body and spirit having said this to a few select people.  For the first time in a very long time, I feel honest.

And I would like to take a moment now to say that Joanie was way hotter than Chachi.

Let Me Get Your Number

Love.

Are there rules when it comes to love?  I actually do have a few rules for when it comes to saying "I love you."  They may be silly, they may not always hold true, but as a basic guideline for an emotion that possesses no set rules in its very nature, I have added a few.

If you are saying "I love you" for the first time, it wont count if it is said during or immediately after sex.
Never say it for the first time over a text message.
If you mean it, say it.  Do not cheapen it with abbreviations.  "I luv u"  or worse, "Luv ya!"

The love I am talking about is the romantic kind.  Not the love we have for our children, families, or friends.  I have friends that I love immensely.  I may not talk to them on a daily basis, or even monthly but the love remains, and it is uncomplicated and pure.

Romantic love is messy.  Not all messes are bad things.

When I was married the first time I loved my husband, but we mistook our love for more than it really was.  I have no regrets.  One of the reasons I wanted to leave that marriage was I felt I wasn't loved enough.  I wanted more.  I felt I deserved more.  I wanted to be the world to someone, so that when we were together nothing else mattered.

The precursor to love is the fun stuff.  The butterflies, the lingering phone calls of "no you hang up first", the songs dedicated to each other. (funny how during this stage every song has at least one lyric that is suitable.)

 This is the time where our personal hygiene is improved tenfold, and attention to detail is key.  We want to know everything about the other person.  Just to linger in their thoughts.  Discover our common interests and if you are a woman, start thinking things like, "Well I guess I could go to a _______ (football game, symphony, bowling match...whatever is something they like and you may  not.)

How a love begins is not a true representation of how a love will continue or how it may end.  Eventually you will leave the room when the game is on, you will opt to stay home with a good book and miss the symphony.  This does not mean you love the person any less.  It simply means you have found the space to still be you within the relationship.

I spoke with an old love of mine not too long ago.  I say she was a love of mine, as I was not her love.  She has found happiness and love again in her life with someone that was her first love.  She commented, "How lucky am I that I had the chance to spend almost 30 years with someone I loved deeply and now I get to finish out the rest of my life with my first love?"  Lucky indeed.

I smiled for her  though she could not see my smile.  I delighted with her, and I made a mental note that I would not be that fortunate as she was my first love, but did not know that.

I have become a master of  unrequited love.  I choose it.  I do not seek it out, but on some level I must be representing myself in such a way that all I attract are unavailable people.

I have fallen in love with women who at one time offered me their souls and I rejected them, only to 30 years later realize what I had missed.  It is easier for me to give my heart to someone when I know it will eventually be broken.

I am a sucker for tragedy.

Having said that, I have had the kind of love that so many people seek for and never find.  I have been loved in such a fierce way and able to return it.  I know what reciprocal love feels like, and how wonderful it is to lay in bed with someone laughing after years of being together.

If the rest of my life is filled with only half loves, and just the beginning part of butterflies and lingering phone calls, then so be it.  I can not complain.

Take my number, take my hand, take my heart, and know that if I say "I love you" I mean it.  In that moment, in that space I am yours.  Hold on to that because it may not last.  When you let go of my hand, lose my number, and fill that space with someone else, a part of me will still hold you dear.

Because I loved you.

Is it Really all in the Details?

One of my daughters showed me a picture that said something to the effect of "Remind me not to talk so much around someone who has a blog".  She commented that was the "story of her life."  I  laughed and asked if she had been blogged about and she said, "Well no, but YOU blog."

Oh yeah, I forgot about that.

I have had some interesting conversations regarding my writing in the last few weeks.  When someone compliments my writing, I try to be gracious and thank them.  If they have a particular question I try my best to answer it.  If they criticize I try to take it with a grain of salt, when really it feels  like salt in a wound.

I have had my words recited back to me as a result of some stupid thing I did.  Faced with my own wisdom not heeded my reaction is usually, "Did I write that?"

Intentionally I leave out names, dates, or other revealing pieces of information, not so much to protect myself, or even a person, but so that my point can get across, and someone not be hung up on a gossipy bit of information. 

Most of the time if I am writing about a certain person they know it.  Other times I am baffled that they do not know it was written about them. 

This leads me to wonder exactly how much information I am divulging when I write?  Should I include more?  Less?

When I began this blog (under its previous name) I stated clearly that you will not learn how to cook from it, or how to lose 40lbs in 3 days, it will not be picked up or made into a movie, or even God forbid a sequel.

I do not even tell many people that I write.  But if I am asked about my life I usually say that doing hair pays my bills, photography is my glass of wine and writing is my true passion.

Listening to someone describe my writing to another person I was amused.  She said, "No, it's really good."  This was in response to the doubtful look of the person who was just told I write.  "She is funny, and there is always a moral at the end."  The person did not seem impressed.


I have been accused of leaving open endings because I like the attention.  How wrong that statement was.  I like for people to take away from my words their own experiences.  I like to believe that every so often I make people think of something in a new way.

People are often times more curious about the details than about whatever lesson I learned (and may forget) that I am trying to convey.

Should I write a tell all?  Juicy details of this one woman's life?  It may turn in to fiction if I were to attempt that.

I have no delusions of self grandeur.  I consider myself to be a very average person that could easily get lost in a crowd.  Maybe that is why I literally try to avoid crowds. 


I do not ask much from life.  I want my children to be happy in their endeavors, I want enough money to pay my bills and take a vacation every so often, I want to right my wrongs, and love people to the best of my ability.  I have crossed off many items I once asked of life, some of them have been crossed off because I no longer desire them, some because they have been fulfilled, and others I just know will not be, no matter how many times I ask.

 A friend told me the other day that I am on the verge of a rather large step.  She said I have been standing still for far too long.  She knows me and I trust her  so implicitly that I believe her.  I did not ask her what she thinks this step will be.  I am certain she already knows, but like a mysterious soothsayer, I also know had I asked she would not have answered.

I have to take away from her words my own thoughts.  My own ideas of what is next.  It is the same with my writing.  The details are not important.  They may tantalize or seduce someone to keep reading, but ultimately the person reading will have to take away their own ideas.

Perhaps someday I will write a more detailed full story of my life and the experiences I have had and continue to have.  Perhaps I already do write one under a different heading and you have just not stumbled upon it yet.

Either way, there will always be room to question, there will always be details unknown.  There will always be that one moment that I choose to withhold and take out to relive on my own time.  Am I writing about you?  Maybe.  But I am not telling.

Does Your Dog Speak Latin?

It has been said that in every great culture there are warnings of allowing the ego to set in and the defenses to be dropped.

Caeser was warned, "Remember thou art but a man."

Damocles had a sword hanging over his head as to remind him that all his good fortune could be gone in an instant.

Last night I sat at home wondering with complete vanity what I am going to wear to a Gala tonight. First I took a long time trying to figure out how "gala" is pronounced in Texas.  I lived here most of my adult life and have neither attended one,nor heard the word pronounced.

A friend told me to try on a few options and send her the pictures.  Off to the closet to see what could possibly be suitable (and for a moment wishing I could just wear a suit), I took off my shirt to try the first outfit on.

My youngest daughter in my room made some sort of gagging sound and an elaborate showing of covering her eyes, lest my forty three year old body repulse her beyond all repair.

First dress on, and shoes I turn to look in the mirror. My daughter says, "Nice shoes mom, aren't those the ones you bought when you took that stripper exercise class?"

So no to the stripper shoes?

I take off the first option and almost lay it on the bed when I remember all dog and cat hair, I toss the dress safely in to my laundry basket ( the clean clothes one waiting to be folded.)

Second dress does not get much of a response, and by the third one I am discouraged and put back on my clothes that I only wear at home and to the quickie mart for coffee.

Back in my comfort zone I am secretly delighting about all fun things I am getting to do in my life. Fashion Shows, movie sets, photo shoots, winning awards, getting nominated, I am giddy with myself.

I continue to look through my rose colored glasses and focus on all the excitement. I successfully ignore the dishes in the clogged sink, the kids fighting, and the stack of papers I have yet to go through.

Just let me for a moment be fabulous.

In that mental moment of self adulation my sweet dog who has been curled up beside me awakens, looks at me and throws up all over me, my bed, my pillow, and the aforementioned comfortable yoga pants.

While getting up quickly I spill the morning's coffee all over the floor and stripper shoes which I did not earlier put away.

All illusions of glamor and self importance have been shot.  After my initial reaction and colorful expletives, I strip the bed, myself once again, and scramble for clean sheets. I kick all four legged animals out of my room and realize that in my haste I have thrown the dirty dog puke ridden sheets on the wrong laundry pile.Thus landing the offensive spew on all three clothing options for the gala.

My wallet does not permit a trip to Nordys for a new dress, and time constraints limit the dry cleaner.

I will have to sneak away to Goodwill at some point and cross my fingers.

So much for glamor.

If my dog spoke Latin instead of bile she would have been saying, "Respice post te, mortalem te esse memento."

I laughed at my folly, dodged the sword and was thankful for the reminder, even if it did mean I had to wait up for the sheets to finish washing and drying.

Yes I am mortal, flawed, and now have nothing to wear to the unpronounceable gala.

It all seems so supercilious now which will enable me to check my ego at the door and actually have a good time.

So much wisdom was gained in such a small amount of dog puke. Still, I may try to get her to speak Latin for future life lessons.

We all Live Such Elaborate Lives

When something good happens it is a natural reaction to want to share it with someone.  One would normally share it with the people closest to them that know them the best and have been following and interacting in their life.

You can imagine how strange it must be for me then, when hearing good news, that the people I chose to share it with first were not the people of blood relations, or the ones who have a long and shared history.

Yes, something big has happened in my little world.  Big to me. Important to me. Big enough to  make me scream when I saw the news and giggle uncontrollably for about ten minutes.  My first thought was, "Oh my God I have to call someone!"

So I did. My first call was to a woman who, although we have known each other for a very long time, we have just recently reconnected.  I chose her because she knows what is going on in that aspect of my life. She knows about my career. She is part of that side of me. I called her because I knew that even though we would not see each other face to face she would celebrate with me. And she did,.

Next I told one of my children, because she happened to be nearby when I received the news.  My second call was to my boss, my good news effects her as well and I owe her deep gratitude.

After that I did not call anyone.

I sent out text messages.  The first one being to a woman I just actually met in person for the first time over the weekend, but we have been speaking for a while now.  She also knows this aspect of my life.  She knows my career and I know hers.  That was how we originally bonded. Over careers. Through talking we found more important deeper common interests. We both love scary movies and hate watching sports on TV. When we finally did meet in person she hugged me and said, "The best friend I never met!"

My own "best friends" still were not informed.  Distance has separated us, history keeps us together. But no, they do not know the details of my life. This goes for some of my family as well, and even one or two of my children.

My children are exempt because they are just that, my children. They are focused on themselves, as it should be.

The more success I gain here in Austin, the more I realize how very far apart I am from the people I should be the closest to.

The more success I gain here, the more alone I actually feel.

I wanted to come home to a lover who would hug me, kiss me, push me against a wall and show me the excitement I was feeling. Share that moment with me and intensify it.

Three women in my life were the three I thought of first. One who at this moment is the closest to me, one I just recently met, and one who I once loved deeply, but now we are distant.

I have become independent in so many ways in the last eight years.  I have learned to be my own shoulder to cry on, I have mastered the art of a pity party for one, I have learned to solve problems. I have owned up to my mistakes and faults, I have raised five amazing children.

I am proud of all that.

What I have not learned is to quietly accept my successes and not have the desire to share them with someone.

At the end of the night, my small little accomplishment was lost in my big bed as I drifted off to sleep alone.

When will I get used to that and be happy?

Play the Game or Dance?

Whether I am forced, or go willingly outside of my comfort zone I find it difficult to be a part of the activity and not just the observer.

It is my guess that I have always been more of the observant type than the one who can lose herself in the moment.  This does not mean I stand in a corner and simply watch. Or that I am up on the bleachers and not part of the game.

It just means that part of my brain is always watching, always asking questions, always curious.

This weekend I went out with a group of new friends.  I was reluctant to go, as always because I am comfortable at home. 

Having vacillated long enough to arrive late my friends found me quickly and embraced me into their group, and we went out on the deck to sit and talk.  People joined the table and I was immediately amused.  There was a woman who had one or five too many and was pretty much spilling her life story.  I love people who give up the details so easily and all I need to do is listen.  What made this woman interesting to me was not the fact that I can not remember her name but know she has not talked to one of her sisters in five years.  It was not the fact that she has enough dogs to almost qualify as a hoarder.  It was not the fact that I now know which dog (and which of her sisters) that she loves best.  It was not even the ironic fact that she was a therapist and drunkenly handed out her card along with her life history to anyone who walked by. 

The most interesting part to me was; she was roughly my age, and going out for her is most obviously a regular part of her week routine.  I have no problem or judgement with that.  I just tried to put myself in her shoes (preferably her sober pair).

I am not saying she should have been home in an apron making homemade doggie treats for her "babies". I am not even saying that she should have possibly stopped one or three drinks ago.  She may have wanted to not give out her business card so liberally while inebriated given her line of work.

She made a comment to me that I have never heard before in my life.  She said, "You have the best facial expressions, I could just watch you watching everyone else all night long."  So maybe she was not too far off as she was able to call me out on that.

I talked with a young girl who was fun, flirty, and made me laugh.  My friend commented on how young she is remarking that she is just twenty-five and a baby.  I made a mental comparison to myself at twenty-five.  I was the mother of two small children, living in Washington DC. Between nursing a baby, taking care of a two year old, and all the things a young mother would do, I realized I did not go to one club during that time.

I was older than this girl at twenty-five than she is.  I have always been older.  I do believe that comes with being an observer.

I was older at twelve than my own twelve year old.

I have been told that I live in my head too much and not in my body.  I have been given the advice that I need to play more and lose myself.  So far I have discovered that there are only two ways I lose myself.  Dancing, and love.

Love.  Not sex as it is easy to mentally disengage and take in what is actually happening (which yes I admit sort of kills it.)

The love of my children.  I can watch them talk with their friends, or to each other and get lost in the moment of loving these little creatures that I call mine.

Romantic love is harder for me as I tend to resist it.  I believe in it, I want it, I just resist it.  To have someone come in to my life and make me lose myself in their words, or in their silence is such a rare and wonderful gift.  Often  times I need to close my eyes to remain present in that moment and not pull away to be the observer.

I got a text message from my friend after leaving the club.  She said her girlfriend just told her she loved her for the first time.  I could read her excitement and was touched that I was the first person she wanted to share that with.

I know how it feels to want to hear those words spoken.  To hear them said in a way that the only possible reaction is to melt into them.  I know what it feels like to sit there in the space of just having them said to you.  I know the scary and exciting feeling of saying them back.

I may be up in the bleachers and not on the field completely engaged in the game, but a lot goes on in the bleachers if you open you look around.  Conversations are being had.  Women are talking about their dogs and sisters, a twenty-five year old is being exactly where she should be at her age.  Introductions and plans are being made.

If you are lucky you may look under the bleachers and see a couple sitting in the moment of just having revealed their love for each other. The girl looking at her  love with wide eyes her head being held sweetly by her loves hands, the words spoken, and the sweet anticipation of a kiss.

That is a moment to be lost in.  That is the most important dance.  Life is not a game to be played. Rather it is a dance to be danced.  Sometimes you dance alone, sometimes with a partner, sometimes you lead, others you follow. No matter when you dance you are in the moment.

The most important dance I will ever engage in is the dance of love.

Has Anyone Seen My Glasses? I Need to Check My Perception

I have one of the coolest birthdays ever.  Not only is it at the perfect time of year but I share it with some extremely amazing people.

Yesterday felt like my birthday though I am still over a month away from the actual date. I had a great day at work that was fun, entertaining, and challenging (I would like to see just anyone incorporate a toilet paper roll in a model's hair and make it look good..)

I arrived home and was greeted by a package.  How fun to get something in the mail.  Beyond that, how wonderful to know someone was thinking of me, and what items might bring a smile to my face.

  Perception and the ability to believe it is everything.  If I want to see myself as fabulous and believe it, I can do that.  I may eventually be put on medications for that, but I can choose to believe what I want,.

Our perceptions can also get us in to trouble should we choose to latch on to the wrong thoughts. I can take a false perception and present it as truth.  Not to lie or deceive but because I so want it to be the truth.  At that point I need to take out my perception glasses and have a big old "Aha Moment" and retract my misrepresentations.  So much easier to believe what I want to believe.

Two days ago I stepped on the scale, just to torture it for being in my way.  I looked down and was utterly shocked.  I had lost THIRTY pounds.  Oh my God!  I stared and looked at the number and was so happy.  It was hard to believe that I could lose thirty pounds by not doing anything physical and imbibe in whatever crossed my path.
Upon the realization that my clothes fit me no differently  I picked up the scale to examine it.There in one of the corners was a piece of dog food.  Small enough to miss, large enough to fool me. Annoyed I put the offensive object back on the ground,without the dog food and demanded a recount.
There was the number I have been used to seeing.

I almost believed that the scale went into the kitchen and got a piece of dog food, wedged it under itself just so it could mock me.  Or maybe the poor thing is tired at being kicked and hearing  my anathema raged upon it, and for once it just wanted words of praise.

It was time to put the scale away and out of sight.  Which also means it is time to stop judging my self worth by the numbers it reflects, and look for other perceptions.

I have not figured out how a piece of dog food made its way from my kitchen to my bathroom.  This I will leave as one of the great mysteries of life. 

I am missing my high school reunion because the date of a fashion where I am the featured makeup artist and hairstylist had been moved.  If you had told me that twenty five years ago I may put my arms akimbo and said, "Why else would I not be able to attend?"  So confident in my youth, of my beauty,  power and potential.

No longer having the reunion as a date to set such lofty goals,I now have my birthday looming.

I do not want to have to believe what I perceive to be the truth, I want the truth to be what others believe.  To do that I will have to be vigilant about putting forth the truth.

The strength and power and beauty will come from presenting myself as I am.  With flaws, mistakes, achievements, failures, great hair, talented in my career, failure at money handling.

  For my birthday I would like to throw a party with all the famous people born on the same day.  I would of course have to rent out more spot lights as there is not enough for all of us to share.

Richard Pryor, Candace Bushnell, Woody Allen, Sarah Silverman, and my personal favorite; Bette Midler.

It is obvious  I was born to be talented, neurotic, funny, entertaining, and  possibly Jewish.

Some of those qualities I already posses, I'll let you guess which ones.

Until next time..Mazel!