Iheartsantogoldsonglightsout

Darlin, don't have to worry, I'm not your type.

Mama

So, it's not September, her birthday month, nevertheless it is a day for my Mama. For me too, I suppose. A day set aside for many of us to reflect upon Motherly love. Some of my friends have lost their moms; to cancer, to circumstances of estrangement and bordered lines of longitude and latitude. I consider myself so lucky, very. My Mom has been here to set standards and examples for me as a woman, an artist, a creative resource, a teacher, an advocate, a writer, a wife and yes, quite profoundly, as a mother.

Married at 25, a young Pamela didn't rush into having children right away. Half of her 9 year wait was fostered by my Dad, a guy who was a bit scared of babies and fatherhood perhaps. Nevertheless, after having his first, my sister, he often tossed around the idea of a family of 10. Not for this career girl, my mom is delighted by myself and my sister, respectively. My point, however, is that she was a woman not pressured by society's need for her to embark upon her duties of procreation, ASAP. I think the reason she and my dad are still together and still make each other laugh, can be traced to the fact that they got to grow up together, to be in a relationship for a decade prior to learning how their newborn circumstances would inevitably shift their lives' dynamic. Another reason I respect my mom is that she knows how to take care of herself, and yes, others too. Growing up, we always knew that after she got home from work, it was her turn, time allotted to soak in the bath tub and take phone calls from her girlfriends. (A thought that still drives me crazy today: safety hazard much? She still does this, and it makes me crazy thinking that she's shaving her legs while holding a cordless phone in the other!) . . . but aside from the cautionary element to this tale, I must say, that after her solo time, she was refreshed and ready to do parental chores and to give her family the attention they required. Like making sure me and my sis had a glass of milk with dinner and some green bell pepper slices with our spaghetti. Like making sure lunches were made, and homework was done . . . and hearing about our little kid days.

My mom left yesterday to head home with my dad. I was sad to see them go, am sad she's not here, just reading and relaxing in my small home today. It's a bit overwhelming when visitors call, parents especially, and we can't necessarily slow down enough to really soak them up. I love going home for this reason, there aren't tours or time we feel needs to be filled with something, some activity, some . . . event. And don't get me wrong, our events were great; Legion of Honor to see the Annie Lebovitz exhibit, dinner at a favorite carnivorous friendly Hayes Valley beer hall. One thing that did remind me of our time as mother and daughter at home are the articles and clippings from brochures, magazines and newspapers that she collects for me. One stapled cluster includes: "10 Commandments For Total Happiness,"8 sex and love things men are right about," (Pamela, wow?!) and "Ever feel like you're drowning in debt?" I must say, I cannot wait to finish cleaning my apartment and then read each of these gems from my Mama.

So, here's to Moms. To their love, their craziness, their unique ways of caring for us, be it from afar, in the present, or memories from the past. I can only imagine what motherhood will feel like . . . it's such a natural but thoroughly strange idea to me. To give birth, to adopt, to inherit, to gain or acquire children however they might find us, I can't fathom how intense the relationship will be. Caring for a child who depends fully on what we can provide them. I ponder the idea of how we are responsible for their well being, and yet still must focus on our own. Kudos Mom, what a balance you've struck! I hope you will give me lessons if I'm ever so lucky to effect a son's or daughter's life the way you've helped me shape mine.

xoxox

missing persons

I miss you. Tonight my parents came to town. We ate dinner and talked and reminisced and they did everything in their power to avoid your name or my current heart ache. They did this because they love me and wish for my pain to end; or to at least be responsible for relieving my mind of its constant thoughts of you. Nevertheless, I brought up your name. How could I refrain? Discussing my life with them necessitates your name and our excursions and time shared. It was so hard for them to attempt changing the subject or not making a big deal of you, and my now very real loss of your presence. Either way, I miss you. I think they miss you too. Just a week shy of meeting a man they thought had stolen my heart and a man they thought they could trust being its keeper. So sad, for me, and yes, for them. They never want me to rush into anything, but truth be told, they hope for my happiness, and indeed pray for some grand babies. I wanted to write to you tonight, right now. It's taking much of my energy not to send you a quick line questioning your mental state. If you want to know mine, it's indecipherable, mottled, tragic and free. All, like me. I'll see you at work tomorrow, but Friday I will be with them, viewing photographs that you'd be so much better off narrating. They planned to meet you, fall in love with the one I love, and now, like me, my sweet parents are bruised and a little bit shattered at the illusion of you. How will they ever believe all the wonderful things I told them about you, while my face frowns? Sighs abound. Nevertheless, my Guardian Gemini horoscope could not have been more accurate. It reminded me that my heart is hurt, and told me to instead focus my energies on the folks who love me most; my folks. And with those fresh Wednesday words swirling in my head, I can depart to my dreams, and hopefully not revisit the paranoia induced nightmares that plagued my Monday night's rest. Good night mister Taylor, love ya, mean it . . . for now.

you say tomato . . .

This Sunday was April 27th, exactly 8 months since he first called me. And who'd have guessed that our relationship would be so prompt and aware of lunar calendars, but never fully aware of each other? My heart hurts. We have not talked since Sunday really, just passing glances down populated, working hallways. I want to hear his voice, and want him to miss mine. Nevertheless, I'll wait. There was no specific closure for either of us. He, masked by sunglasses, holding potted plants in arms too occupied to embrace my shrinking frame; curbside and so alone, it was only a "thanks for chatting" that ended our daisy tearing conversation. We visited the nursery that day. I bought a Wondering Jew plant to hang outside my kitchen window, such a beautiful color palette of sage and violet leaves now hang and need sunlight, demand water and crave attention. I am not Jewish, but feel the wanderer nonetheless. I will plant tomatoes and basil and hope that they flourish in my roof top's sunlight. A bag of potting soil, to be shared with him, sits heated and odoriferous in the backseat of my car. I will soon have to deliver my unused portion. The passing of the dirt. What metaphors, eh? The collective purchasing of plants to be nurtured, given new beginnings, seedlings that crave and require devotion . . . and then dirt. The literal unloading of our dirt onto each other, to be utilized for the purpose of nurturing simpler forms of essential life. Hmmm. It's sad and so very true, this relationship's demise. But how, I really wonder, that after 8 months without seeing a flower, a blossom or any fruit and receiving adequate care, did I ever think this plant, this man, would be fruit bearing? Winters are hard, weather is tainted by a warming of the globe and yet I still thought that he might change, and that I might be the sunlight to help him grow. Not so. My girlfriend told me just yesterday that I am but a girl standing, waiting and hungry beneath an apple tree hoping for a sweet, orange fleshed mango to drop. Alas, no mangoes, no apples either, just a tree with roots hidden down deep beneath the surface, protected by soil that might dirty my hands too much; grit forever stuck in my nail's beds. I hope that he can uproot himself, honestly. Because the saddest part of this scenario, my reality, is that I love a person who is focused on healing his own wounds - raking, tilling and excavating his earth - and yet can't allow himself the opportunity to flourish, fully. Without water we cannot survive, nor plants nor various arboreal types. And now it is time for me to tend to my own little garden, and hopefully watch it grow, threatened all the while by city air, unpredictable heat waves and water shortages. Maybe someday he'll come over for a caprese salad, an assemblage of roof ripened tomatoes and backyard basil, homegrown by yours truly. Or maybe, quite possibly and almost certainly, not.

roar

I took a much needed Mental Health day from work yesterday. I ran errands and took care of some grown-up chores. I also made a visit to my local Kinko's, where a most delightful, Brooklyn bred man named Phil helped me with my little project. My Etsy shop is on hold for a bit while I figure out the date of my next photo shoot. In the meantime, however, I have selected some garments that will fare far better for sale in real, touch the fabric and test the zipper, life. These select pieces just wouldn't work on Etsy, due to odd, super teeny vintage sizing and slight fabrication snafus. Hence street shop!

My dear friend Mike owns my favorite coffee shop. He has been so generous in the past to allow little sidewalk sales to happen just in front of the store. This coming Saturday will be no exception. It also happens to be Faye's Video and Espresso's Birthday! So, I'm going to assist in crowding the concrete and hopefully contribute to peopling the store by extension. I have my garment rack and plan to have a stellar, visually intriguing merchandise set up. So yesterday, at Kinko's with Phil's energetic and sarcastic Brooklyn style assistance, I made tags for the clothes. This time I won't just end up giving everything away . . . I will make a profit. Sure, I'll welcome some bartering, but the price tag is just that: the price tag period. Don't I sound mean? Or maybe just firm? Or maybe like a business tycoon? Either way, I'm excited about my sidewalk business, so much so, that I've coined a name for this impromptu shop of mine. Ready? It's "Lion Tamer Vintage." What do you think? I'm using the above photo of yours truly as the card/price tag. Phil thought that mountain lion was my family pet. Apparently there aren't lots of mountain lions roaming the streets of Brooklyn, New York. On the back will be contact info for Lion Tamer Vintage as well as my Etsy address. Nothing like a little project to get my mind off of the other projects that are currently on hold, in limbo or simply unfinished. And by projects I mean bills, diets, and relationships. I haven't heard from the man I not so secretly admire today. I wonder if he'll call, and wonder if I'd answer. I wonder if I'll get to say my piece or if he'll beat me to it. If he'll be the one to say "I need time," or "things have changed," or "I can't do this." And if he doesn't say anything, what then do I? Taming lions is no joke. Wish me luck.

S.O.S

What I am to you, is not what you mean to me . . .

These are lyrics, but really, they could be my words. I wish they didn't ring so true, but sadly, they tell truths, many, many. Tonight I met up with a friend for a beer. I tried to think it was just friends having a carbonated elixer, but after the man I visited became my patient and I his therapist, I realized that we misread each other. He pined about how badly he wants a girlfriend, someone to punctuate the Saturdays and Sundays of his rigidly scheduled weeks. He knew I had a dinner date, but not with whom. And after feeling good to have been mildly sought after by him yet again, I felt bad for knowingly departing to see the boy I've been spending all of my weekends with. I headed to his home where he made dinner for us. He played guitar for an audience of one, albeit in a posture that acknowledged the wall as his audience rather than my shrinking self. It was late, but we both missed each other and retreated to his familiar, dimly lit room. Talking nose to nose and then not at all, in words unspoken, we found solace in the comfort and ease and excitement of our two faces. And then it became "later than we thought it was." I interpreted these words as a signal to depart sooner than later. Unsettled, I mentioned my interpretation of the false invitation to go. Frustrated and feeling misunderstood, my sweet special friend felt aggravated by my tangling of his words. Why, I wonder, is it, that communication gets in the way of communication? I gathered my things, including my scarf and under utilized dinner ingredients, said goodnight and bid my fair, yet weighted adieu. Tonight, right now, I feel so very sad, so thoroughly confused and yet somehow empowered. Do I need now to make my move? To force him to realize that I could potentially cease being around at late hours, or even at all? Do we break our hearts in premature attempts to save the beating vessel, or do we wait and hope and pray that time will tell, will heal and maybe even surprise us with delights of love? I do not know. And I wish I did. I am at a loss. Imagining my days without him hurts my heart. It makes my already sore, pilates stressed muscles ache more. The notion of his presence no longer being a part of my reality, offers me little comfort, but instead dread. So, tonight, hoping that soon I will tell you of great sacrifice on his part and triumphant overriding of emotion and reason, I will instead ask of your advice, your thoughts and your strength to get through whatever it is this night represents. Life is short, love should be simple. That's the good stuff. The early eve man reminded me of just that; that companionship mends wounds and makes for time well spent. I only wish that my current flame knew that someone else was not just seeking my companionship and humor and wit and familiarity, but that he also knew that people who love us are the best cure for myriad ailments. I want to be his prescription for success. I guess, however, that I better start taking my vitamins first.

MexiCAN't Wait!

Tonight I am off to Mexico with a girl who I'm guessing is my sister from a different mister, we were separated at birth I'm quite sure. Who else finishes each other's sentences without such strong genetic ties? Who else can translate a simple stare into complete experiences, detailed dilemmas and insightful inside jokes that other people just "don't get?" Hmmm. I must question my mom more about this sibling scenario. Either way, we're out of this city for a few days, to catch up on, even redefine R&R. Rest and Relaxation and Rejuvenation and sure some Rock n' Roll thrown in for good measure, we two need this break from our day to days so very much. Will you miss us? We'll miss you, and say salud! to you and yours while we sip a tasty margarita or two.

Sometimes vacations offer timely shifts in scenery, breaks from routines and the occasional moment for reflection. I hope to reflect, reevaluate and really wrangle my self and my senses on this trip. When I come back, I hope to have had my presence missed, but more so, I hope to have found myself to be more present, with myself. Here's to leaving it all behind and then coming back to find . . .

Adios