Archive for Redhead Rants
Wouldn’t You…a #best09 post
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Where you wouldn't expect it...
On the corner of 13th and Speer, a leftward glance showed a lone balcony strung with multicolored lights, defiant yet joyous and bright with hope. Or maybe it was just electricity. In buildings like these, hope leaves for the coast and the landlord takes his checks right from the city. Utilities are included and washer/dryers a luxury. I have no doubt that inside, I’d find carpet of the “nothing special beige” tone, white appliances and a tub that drains slower than congested sinuses. The Christmas tree, however…
it would be real. Plastic ones are spendy.
This is the house where Wouldn’ts rule the season.
Beginning on the balcony with the lights you wouldn’t expect to see and stretching inward to a tree that wouldn’t fit in the elevator and had to be carried up the stairs. The ornaments wouldn’t match and Pottery Barn wouldn’t approve. The star wouldn’t be what you would expect – maybe an array of tiny drink umbrellas like the four-year-old Isabel used at last night’s Redheaded holiday eve. Some of the lights work while the others wouldn’t, but the tree is mostly aglow and that’s good enough.
This holiday, wouldn’t it be better to sit in front of a friends than a tree? To exchange expressions of love and laughter that last beyond a manufacturer’s warranty? To find that place where hope should have hit the last plane for Tahiti yet stuck around like a half-buzzed bargoer, running on faith for a last-minute hookup before last call?
It’s said that hope floats, but I think it really does so much more. It elevates, perseveres and lifts you more than any prayer. It’s the audacity to believe in the fairy tale and surround yourself with possibility. On the corner of 13th and Speer, I saw a better year than mine during 2009 strung-up in multicolored lights, and I’ve no room for complaint. I saw smiles from people I’ll never know reflected in ornaments I’ll never see as they eat food I’ll never taste and sing carols to which I don’t know the words. And this Christmas, wouldn’t it be great if there were a corner of 13th and Speer wherever you live that you could drive by at nightfall and see hope up-close?
It’s the best. And it’s not under any tree.
Almost Eve
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Stop staring at my elbows...
7:52am, Tuesday – December 8, 2009.
I simply refused to go to the gym this morning. I opted instead for a quick trip to pour some food into the cat dishes, pee and then a fast slipper-laden shuffle back to my blanket cave. And my thoughts.
Have you ever been kept awake at night by simply Me, Myself and I? Those three bitches in my life – this is where I vent them. They’re not really for anyone else’s consumption and aside from the issue-specific emails that circle between myself and less than a handful of girlfriends, I don’t really share. It’s easier to make people laugh (at life, at me) than it is to let them see.
So I lay inside my blanket cave and play Othello with the three bitches at 4:30am.
In two days, I’ll be 37. If I had a boyfriend or husband, I’d issue the missive that he could officially trade me in for two 18’s with some room to spare. My beneath-the-blanket thoughts this morning brought to light that I’m sitting on the almost eve of:
- 37 years of being a pain in my parents’ collective ass
- 30 years since my family moved to Houston, smuggling me onto a plane covered with concealer since I had the chicken pox and they couldn’t delay the flight
- 14 years since I married for the first time
- 10 since I married for the second (stop bracing for it – there hasn’t been a third)
- 10 since I moved to Japan
- 8.5 since I returned to the States
- 7 since I moved to L.A.
- 4 since I moved to Las Vegas (FML)
- 3.5 since I officially opened RedheadWriting LLC
- 3 since I started ice climbing
- 2 since I climbed Mt. Rainier
- 1.2 since I climbed Kilimanjaro
- 1 since I moved to Denver
- and less than 6 weeks since I discovered track cycling and told my crack dealer he’s gonna need to find something stronger to compete.
I sat this past weekend at Cali’s birthday dinner, helping a new friend ring in her 27 years among her dearest friends. What I’ve done to be included in such a group…cheese and crackers. Slap me and call me Sally. Whatever it is, I’m grateful. But I sat across the table from two couples so obviously in love, I left dinner with not only a full belly, but full heart and a greater sense of possibility than with which I came.
I sit here on the almost eve of 37 and think: I should really treat my Wants better. When did I come to settle and feel I didn’t deserve more? In my heart, my house, my mind…I have all that I Need. The Want side of things, well, has been lacking. Sometimes people cross your path and give you a glimpse of why you’ve been holding out for more in the Want department.
I thank Terry and Kia, Gwen and Joel, a Caligater and Miss Glasscock for all contributing to that glimpse. Terry and Kia, celebrating news of their first child on the way (the future Cabeen likely being the warmest attendee at the dinner on such a brisk night), Joel and Gwen’s glances, kisses and hand holdings that perhaps they thought went unnoticed (but for which I had a seat front and center), Miss Glasscock’s well-timed quips and story of friendship with The Caligater borne on no less than contact lenses and a bus ride. Cali – a fresh 27-years-old – basking in smiles and squeeeees after assembling a most eclectic group whose conversations went nowhere politically correct.
Sitting at that birthday table, while not mine, was an incredible gift for my impending 37th year. Needs – they change with less frequency. I think I’ve done a pretty good job of lining those up in the past four of my 37 years. The Wants, though…those refine with time. It’s really lovely to not have to speak and simply observe others having received what they Want. It’s certainly helped me refine my own list. A lovely gift on this almost eve.
And the image above – very Biblical, no? But I am almost Eve. A creation in progress, shaped by thought, action, inspiration and hope. And I’m pretty sure that, while half of you are looking at the elbows, the other half get it when I say I’m enjoying being almost Eve. I never really Want to get there completely, all the way to Eve. Do you?
Between Fuzzy and Soggy
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Cry, cry, cry
Fuzzy.
What the hell?
And soggy. Jesus Christ, what is SOGGY?
I grabbed my iPhone to see what time it was. 4:04am. Fuck my life.
The “fuzzy” turned out to be the sofa and the “soggy” turned out to be a drool-soaked throw pillow. I’d fallen asleep on the couch. And hell fire, I was out of it.
Saturday night was “date night” with myself. This generally translates into Erika + animals + Netflix = Awesome. Nothing I picked up in high school algebra, but a solid equation nonetheless. This past week, I dropped Marley & Me into the DVD player.
HUGE fucking mistake. Colossal.
I’d apparently cried myself to sleep.
Yes, I’m a girl. I cry. I cry at sappy movies. I cry when I laugh too hard. I’m famous for my laughter-induced bawling. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not a sobber, just add stiff breeze. I guess that Saturday night, I just needed to cry.
It’s not pretty. No one’s sexy when they wander into the bathroom and have a gander at their swollen, pinkish mug after they’ve let the tears roll. But I’ll argue that it’s essential.
Perhaps I’d fallen asleep on the sofa to avoid the bedroom. Maybe I hadn’t cried in awhile and needed the release. Whatever the hell brought me round to waking up amidst “fuzzy” and “soggy” on Sunday morning – it was essential.
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I just don’t know what I need. My head’s so far up my ass with the here and now that my needs elude me. I think the Universe is only willing to play along with our bullshit for so long until it issues you a shake-the-baby moment. Need finally ferrets its way out from underneath and then – cry havoc, let slip the dogs of war.
And you’re waking up between fuzzy and soggy.
Funny, though. I didn’t feel bad as the iPhone struck 4:04am. I felt lighter. Buoyant.
Bouncy-bouncy-bouncy-bouncy, fun-fun-fun-fun-fun.
Sunday was brilliant. Monday was even better. It kinda makes me want to cry again. With every tear shed, fifteen pounds of bullshit washed away from my soul. It just reminds me that we don’t really acknowledge how much we’re carrying around until we shed it. It’s the stuff of which yard sales and overweight baggage fees are made. You don’t really need it but you’re hell bent on keeping every ounce with you.
I say – just cry. Catharsis comes in many ways, but off all the options, crying is cheap and effective.
And the sofa’s pretty comfy.
