I had turned off comment moderation because really, why make it harder for people to comment on your blog?  In the following month, I’ve remembered why I turned it on in the first place.  Apparently this blog is popular enough to be hit every freaking day with numerous spammy comments, translated badly from some language into English.  So, after I publish this entry, comment moderation is being turned back on and I’m going to spend the next 30 minutes of my scintillating Friday night deleting all the weirdo comments I’ve gotten.  Sorry, people who genuinely want to comment.  I promise to be quick in my moderations. 

I’ve been struggling with the post for a while.  I know I have a hard post to write when I actually have to outline, dammit.  Outlines are the bane of my existence.  Doing one way back when for NaNoWriMo nearly killed me.  How I managed a degree in Creative Writing without ever embracing the outline I do not know, but this might be why my writing lives a tangential existence and goes where it wants.  I merely follow it, trying to keep up with the flow. 

This post IS about a person, and I’ll get into that (according to my outline, in the next paragraph).  It’s also, however, a post about my own insecurities and sadness regarding my station in life and where my own creative genius ended up.  It’s also about how nothing is ever good enough for me, and plenty of people, who truly have one gift or another. 

Having spent many years running in an “artistic” crowd, I’ve met plenty of talented people.  Musicians, writers, artists, poets, photographers.  This is to say that I’ve met plenty of talented creatives, but in my short 40 years, I’ve only met one or two truly brilliant people.  When I first met Paul, he was older, drove a convertible missing most of the floorboards, and had a coveted job at an “alternative”* clothing store.  He was also the stand-out art student of that year, and probably the previous 10 and the following 20.  What made him different was that he was gifted and brilliant and all those things, but he wasn’t interested in acting tortured.  He was funny as hell and even today I can remember how his laughter would sneak out of him when he least expected it and we would all start laughing just because he was.  He was the quintessential cool kid, and since he no longer is, I can say that he was overweight but no one seemed to notice.  I have no idea how we met, but it was probably because I was working on the school newspaper and he was probably doing something hilarious and artsy for it.  I could also be wrong, but he asked me out on a date.  The date was to go listen to some jazz band or other.  JAZZ.  I was 15.  (Being 15 meant I wasn’t allowed to go, but I managed to convince my parents to let me do something else with him, and that escapes memory as well.)

I don’t remember how long we dated but it was never serious.  We stayed friends.  I am fairly certain there was some douchebaggery surrounding us deciding not to date any longer (read:  Paul decided, I accepted ungraciously).  But it was high school.  This is how things went.  Then I got a boyfriend - my first real one - and Paul went off to Rhode Island School of Design.  I ended up in Kalamazoo, Michigan for my freshman year of college.  Paul was exploring Boston and Providence and meeting other brilliant (and mostly crazy) people.  I was going crazy all on my own in KaZoo.  Somehow I scraped up enough money to buy a train ticket to Boston.  I spent a few days roaming around Providence, not fitting in (see, even at my most “alternative”, I wasn’t alternative enough to fit in with real artists), meeting his friends and roommates, drinking excessive amounts of caffeine and feeling like I was about to come unglued.  I totally and completely didn’t get the sculpture major thing. I could appreciate the beauty of what he, and his friends, were creating, but I went to Rhode Island expected to see bronzed labradors or sculpted marble. I wasn’t aware of any other kind of sculpture.  When I realized my mistake, I was horribly embarrassed but too insecure to be able to laugh about it. 

I fell in love with Paul that weekend.  He fell out of love with me when he realized that my written voice - on all those pieces of paper, long before email, was really the best part about me.  Or that at least was what my memory tells me.  I first learned to hate my written self from Paul, because he always loved me more on paper than he did in the flesh.  It happened a number of times. Keith had an easier time loving my words and a much harder time loving the demanding, ever-present physical form of my body.  Doug loved me for my grammar and my intellect, and spent weeks editing the good stuff out of my Hopwood entry.  By the time he finished editing me, I no longer had a story that resembled the original.  I also no longer resembled myself, but that’s another blog post entirely, and one I probably won’t waste blog space writing. 

There was drama that following summer, or maybe it was the previous.  We “dated” again, albeit briefly, and I was dumped (again) unceremoniously when he failed to show at an agreed-upon time and stopped taking my phone calls.  He apologized later.  I’m fairly certain whoever she was that took up the rest of my summer with Paul was much taller, much prettier, and definitely understood that sculpture majors don’t really sculpt. 

After Paul, I swore off artists.  And I really meant it. I even avoided dating the writers in my creative writing circuit.  I found them either incredibly dull and self-serving, or flat-out crazy like the artists but with cheaper drugs and less finesse. 

In 1999, Paul found me again somehow.  He got my phone number and he called me.  He was in California and doing something cool, as he always was, living with someone (tall, beautiful, and nearly as brilliant as he was, I’m sure), happily working on random things.  I was engaged, or about to be engaged.  Frankly, I was still over the artists.  Paul was fascinating and he could tell a great story, but I wanted friends who cared enough about me to ask questions.  I felt just as I had years prior - a sounding board for other people, a blank white wall in which to throw paint or words against, a flat piece of glass reflecting a beautiful vision of what they wanted to see.  Frankly, I was annoyed.  Frankly, I just didn’t want to hear about his fabulous life, his beautiful work, his amazing girlfriend, or the fantastic climate of California.  I was in humid Virginia, about to get married, working in a job I hated, and living in a 1 bedroom apartment.  I wasn’t writing at all.  And all he wanted to know about me was whether or not I’d continued.  I hated admitting that after college and thousands of pages of fiction, I was burned out and could barely read a book, let alone think about writing one.

He called a few times.  I never responded.  I was wrapped up in my new life, buying a house, getting fired, wedding preparations, moving, the important things:  like which veil to choose.  I got married.  I loved my life for a few years. Most of the time, especially after having kids, I didn’t even mourn the loss of my “craft” anymore.  I didn’t have time to think about it.  Any free time I had, I wanted sleep more than anything else. 

It was, and is, no surprise to me or anyone who knew Paul “way back when” that he accomplished more than he thought he would.  He always assumed he’d fail or self-destruct and he nearly got his way, but the rest of us watching him knew without a doubt that he’d do something amazing.  He ended up working in film, which also didn’t surprise me as we used to spend breaks and hunks of summer vacations filming everything and everyone with a clunky video camera that weighed at least 20 pounds.  It was the 80’s. When he found me this last time, I was almost blase about his life - I never expected less.  I don’t buy movies on DVD unless they are really special.  Ironically, I owned one of the movies he worked on.  When watching it for the first time, I was struck by the titles and how they were used throughout the movie.  It was darkly funny.  It was my favorite part of the movie, aside from the subplot of twinkie hunting.  Maybe all these years later I related so much to the feel of those titles because they were so very much Paul.  It didn’t surprise me either that he was responsible for them. 

He doesn’t mince words.  His life sounds different from mine - very different.  It’s all very exciting and full of weird stories, neurotic people, demanding directors, exciting locations (except when he had to go film something in Michigan).  But it also sounds incredibly lonely.  If I worked a schedule like that, what with all my bipolar and sleep issues, I’d be kur-razy.  It would be one of the most unhealthy professions I could find myself in.  I also find that when surrounded by other entirely too intense and passionate people, I get entirely too intense as well. 

It doesn’t mean I’m not sad, in a weird way.  As I said, I’m not surprised that he is where he is.  I never expected anything less.  What I am surprised about is my own life.  I don’t mean this in a negative way because my life is pretty awesome.  Here come the standard phrases justifying my awesome life, but I really do mean them:  awesome kids, a flatulent dog, a kind boyfriend, a decent ex-husband, my grasp on the english language, my businesses, my running, etc etc etc.  But looking back to a night of greasy food consumed in a diner near Providence, I did not envision my life looking like this.  I am disappointed that I spent so much of my 20’s floundering and wasting energy on relationships that didn’t deserve any part of me when I could have been writing.  This all begs the question to be answered:  if I was so talented, then why did I not do what I wanted to do? 

It’s possible we all think we’re way more talented than we actually are.  Paul always thought he was less talented.  The minute he finished something, his public admiration would begin but it was too late.  He was already ripping it apart, displeased with the end results, ready to throw it away and start again. I still know people who kept the shopping bags he used to doodle on when he worked at Irreverence because they were so different and so funny.  He is probably dying with shame over that sentence, but it’s true.  This is why I’ve spent years hating everything I’ve created, or thinking it could have been so much better.  In my case, it probably could have been.  In his case, he’s used his chronic disappointment in his ability to drive him forward, to get better and better, even if it’s cost him personally.  I didn’t have that kind of drive or passion within me, which is why I am satisfied with my 8 year old blog and my unedited novel, mouldering untouched on my c: drive. 

Talking to him recently has been good for me.  It’s made me reassess my feelings about my own dedication to the thing that I’m “best” at.  And maybe it’s time to stop assuming I suck at passion, and give it a shot again.  A real shot.  In the meantime, I’m holding all of the celebrity gossip hostage in the hopes he’ll give me a writing grant in exchange for my silence.  I’m also still trying to answer the question:  Can you be brilliant and still have a normal life?  I’d sure like to find out. 

*alternative and Traverse City: oxymoron.  At least in 1987. 

I’ve said it before, but sometimes I feel like the biggest mistake I ever made was not having an anonymous blog.  On the other hand, I always read anon-blogs as fiction, and part of my big chest-pounding on this blog is that it is real, even if it’s only my version of reality. 

There are two huge issues in my life right now that are off-limits to the blogging world, three if you count the intricacies of my impending divorce.  I can write about the general feelings or the good/bad days, but getting into specifics crosses the line I’ve put down for myself and eventually for my children. 

I’m reading Perfection by Julie Metz right now.  Although her situation is very different than mine, her feelings are similar to my own struggle(s).  But I can’t help wondering, as I plow through the pages, how will her daughter feel about this? She’ll be a teenager now, with a famous author as a mom, the intense, sordid details of her deceased father published for the world to read.  Her father can easily be categorized as a bastard because he was a cheater, and a liar.  He’s also more than that.  Her mother, sometimes neurotic, mostly spot-on with her feelings and her reactions - it’s all there too, including her first sexual encounters after the death of her husband.  I just can’t imagine Lily and Arden reading that about me until, well, never - or at least until I was dead and didn’t have to look them in their beautiful eyes. 

The blog is bad enough.  We’re going on a year now of a lot of sadness, introspection, criticism (mostly self-induced, I admit), failed friendships and relationships.  It’s hard for me to read, but I am compelled to keep writing.  I’ve also been compelled to start writing letters again, stored privately on my laptop, not sent.  Some of them are to myself.  Many of them are to other people: those who have “wronged” me, those I’ve wronged, the friends I’ve neglected over the past 12 months who no longer have patience for me, the friends who have stayed with me through lots of dark times and bad phone calls, who handed me tissues and told me I had snot on my chin.  One of the most difficult and draining relationships I’ve had has received a ton of letters that only my computer has read.  I rarely can bring myself to read them once they are written.  Eventually I can have a bonfire burning party and dance around the flames.  Instead of burning my bra, or censored books, I’ll be burning up all those words and tears and joy and maybe then I can move beyond the anchors holding me down and back. 

Between my therapist and my life coach, I’m mentally healthier - and more aware - than I’ve ever been in my life.  As I notch the days under my belt, each morning marks another small success.  I made it.  Each time I am able to love my kids, or cuddle them in the mornings when they smell of sleep and salt, it’s a victory.  Each time I allow myself a few minutes to cry or express the complete and total exhaustion I feel mentally, I’m winning the war.  So many moments curled on my bed in fetal position or stretched out on the floor of the screened porch while I ache and feel hopeless end up adding to the anthill of strength I’m home-growing with organic intensity.  I used to doubt I was going to survive this, but I’ve got no doubts about any of that.  I have no doubts regarding the decisions I’ve made, or the ugly path I’ve walked to get to this day, this point in the long process.  I have no doubts that I’ll emerge better, more content, more lovable: a better friend, a better girlfriend, a better partner, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dance partner, designated driver, confidante, wingman.  Wingwoman. 

I had a major epiphany last night, out of the blue.  I was brushing my teeth and wham.  Suddenly the confusion in my head cleared.  I realized that I’ve been punishing myself for wronging my husband, destroying his life, dragging my kids through this chaos - into the land of camel crickets and shared bedrooms and non-manicured lawns.  I took on a couple of people - messed up in their own private ways, their sole purpose in my life to punish me for what I’ve done to others.  I allowed them to make me feel worse about myself, to control me, to put up with crap I never would have in my previous lives (let’s not count college, shall we?).  Even these people have served their purpose, but I’m done with that lesson now and it’s time to cut and run. 

The second piece of the epiphany was that in one case, I realized the relationship was so very similar to a past one where I had no control over anything. I acquiesced, I bent.  I pushed my needs so far into my chest I no longer realized I had them, except for a lingering sense that something was terribly off.  At a time when I am supposed to be expanding - doing the things I’ve wanted/needed to do over the past decade plus but haven’t, for so many reasons - I was retracting, narrowing my world, narrowing my expectations, giving up. 

The third piece was that I have no control over others, but I can allow them to control me.  For so long I’ve placed my own needs secondary to everyone else.  It is the epitome of selfishness to say that I truly want to focus on me for a while?  Healing myself, being a better mom - not only for the kids, but for me?  I don’t want to settle - for anything.  If that means many more days and nights of fetal positioning, rocking, and snot on my chin, I think I can survive it.  I’m hopeful.  All signs, says the Magic 8 Ball, point to ‘yes’. 

In the meantime:  this day is “bad”.  This day is hard.  I am tired of hard and bad days; I am tired of writing about them.  I am tired of being tired, exhausted really. I am tired of killing bugs and cleaning carpets.  I’m tired of drilling, hanging things, trying to make this home feel like home.  There are piles of laundry in 3 rooms.  I feel like doing nothing about them.  I feel like sleeping.  Instead of that, I will have lunch with a friend who puts up with me and has as of yet not deleted me from her life because I am so tapped out.  I will stick to my hard decisions even though they completely and entirely suck right now. I will also run 3 miles this afternoon in sweltering heat, and I will not pass out or vomit - at least not publicly. 

Later, I’ll make dinner for the kids and myself and we will sit at my cleared dining room table in a darkened room that still doesn’t quite feel like mine yet, and we will talk about Puffles, Club Penguin and summer camp.  I will do laundry, work, add inventory to my site.  Later I will get into my bed, still my favorite space in the universe, and I will stretch out because it’s all my space and there is no one to demand anything from me, including pillows or leg room.  It will be an odd mixture of terrifying aloneness and blissful solitude.  The house will make weird sounds; Thora will growl or sometimes bark.  She will end up, against my wishes, at the foot of the bed.  She is the only thing I will allow to share my comforter.  In the morning she will lick my face and I will awake, victorious that another day is behind me and a new one is in front of me. 

Hi! Look up there.  At the address bar.  It’s my new domain.  For various reasons it was time to switch the domain away from my married name.  When I originally started the blog, it was here merely to inform the members of my far-flung family about the girls, the dog, house projects, and other boring topics.  Over time, it has evolved into something entirely different - to the point where a lot of my family members are scared to read it.  I am only half-joking about that part.

I’m in the throes of finding a new identity for myself, one that isn’t defined by the legality of wife, or housewife, or even just the word “mother”.  We are all much more than our labels, but I’d rather my blog be labeled something that has nothing to do with my soon to be “past” life. 

If you’ve got RSS feeds set up for the old domain name, please update them to:  http://www.homesliceva.com/index.php/site/rss_2.0/

Enjoy!

I’ve written about my friend before.  Soon I’ll even be able to name her because circumstances are a-changin’ for her, and she will no longer be anonymous!  I can’t wait. 

I was told to get ready in 30 minutes, and I really wasn’t told what was up, other than it was a “posh” event.  I have no “posh” clothes. I’ve been a mom for 7 years living in the suburbs.  Posh isn’t in my vocabulary.  She suggested some clothing, then said sternly, “Do NOT wear any pair of jeans you own.  Seriously. I am not kidding.”  She’s a fashion snob.  Apparently my jeans are not tight enough.  I showed up showered and in something that could pass for acceptable if not posh, and a ridiculous pair of shoes I would spend the rest of the evening regretting. 

We headed immediately to the Berkeley Hotel and caught the tail-end of Jason Tesauro (Barboursville Vineyards) talking about food, using sabres to open champagne, and pretending to be a valet in order to “borrow” an unsuspecting guest’s beautiful convertible Volvo.  Appetizers consisted of things hard to pronounce.  Words like “mango mignette” do not appear on the Chili’s Kids Menu.  I’m sure Whine Me will talk in depth about the food, but I committed to tasting everything and anything last night.

My favorite part of the pre-game was the Brut.  Good god, I don’t normally love sparkling wine unless it’s mixed with peach puree or a lot of orange juice, but this one?  I wanted to bathe in it, then take it home and marry it.  I don’t drink much but I managed to inhale two glasses of it while attempting to take pictures.  Jason astounded us all by teaching us what sabering a bottle of sparkling wine means.  It’s exactly as it sounds.  Take one man in a southern hat and orange cuff links.  Add one saber with a tassle plus one bottle of Brut.  Place aforementioned hat half a block away, and cut the top off the bottle with the saber.  Goal:  land cork into hat.  Jason missed, but not by much. 

Notice in the second picture that the top of the bottle is completely gone.  Color me giggly and impressed. 

Also, note to guys everywhere.  If you want to be considered the sexiest man alive, learn a lot about wine, be funny, and drop words like “perspicacious” and “unctuous” into your dialogue.  Jason is taken, unfortunately for Richmond women, but men everywhere would be getting a lot more action if they talked about wine using lover’s language:  voluptuous.  sensual.  complex.  rich.  limp.  Yes, he actually said limp. 

After the appetizer portion, we wandered into the dining room.  My friend has raved about the Berkeley’s chef - and she rarely raves about anything unless she is very, very impressed. 

It was a five-course wine dinner, so every course was paired perfectly with a Barboursville wine.  Again, I’m going to let Whine Me Dine Me delve into the specifics because frankly, I know only slightly more about food than I do wine (read:  nothing!).  I just know what tastes good to me and my unrefined palate. 

First course:  spiced seared scallops with an avocado mousse.  I love any kind of scallop and this was no exception.  I spent a lot of time trying to take pictures without a flash but in dark, romantic lighting, so forgive the end result. 

I even liked the wine - it was delicious and paired perfectly.  Of course it was. 

Jason entertained us as well:

The guests were fabulous, friendly, smart, and funny.  I love meeting new people - so the conversation was on par with the food and wine. 

I mowed through the scallops with less than desirable decorum, and waited for the second course.  Chespeake Bay Crab Cakes in a roasted corn sauce.  I’m old-fashioned (and boring) but these crab cakes were so delicious on their own, the corn sauce just distracted me.  By the way, Chef Ty uses no filler - I think we were told a salmon mousse held them together. Whatever it was, I ate it all. 

Between the courses, Jason would introduce the next wine and teach us about it, how it was made, what the differences are, what makes Barboursville special.  I’ve heard sommeliers speak before, but Jason was the best I’ve heard because he makes it funny.  Whenever I think about wine education, I picture some Donald Sutherland-like character droning in a British or French accent about bouquet and legs and grapes.  Instead, Jason moved around the room switching accents depending on the wine (though at one point, he sounded exactly like Borat instead of an Italian).  I actually retained some of what he said - even after the 4th or 5th glass of wine. 

Course 3 was interesting.  I have never seen a live quail, let alone a roasted one.  I was a bit shocked when it came out to me looking like this:

I started giggling.  My quail looked exactly like it was a miniature chicken, lounging on a hammock of arugula, wings back, legs crossed. It was just chilling out there, waiting for me to pick its tiny bones apart and suck them dry.  (by the way, I’m sure the chef would love my food descriptions, and this is why it’s both a blessing and a curse letting a non-foodie into your restaurant to describe your delicacies as a lounging chicken)

I ate the quail.  All of it.  Not sure I’d ever order it again - I kept waiting for mine to stand up and start dancing - but it was an interesting experience.

Lamb next.  Yeah, I can totally do lamb.  And I did.

Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that the 5th course was my favorite.  A wonderful dessert wine paired with delicious cheese and local honey (the creamed honey was my hands-down favorite - so thick it would give peanut butter a run for its money).  The blue cheese dipped in clover honey can also come home and marry me and the Brut.  Food polygamy for the win!

My personal thanks go to Ken Wall, the catering manager, Tom Yeaman who now made me want to move to Nicaragua with my children, and the general manager from the Omni (Pete) sitting to my right.  Big massive thanks to Whine Me Dine for me bringing a food ludite as her guest, and of course to Jason Tesauro who let someone technically described as a mom blogger take pictures and write about his evening. 

(moving on . . . )

After, we headed over the Juleps to say a final farewell to Jason.  Some of the other wine dinnerites were there as well.  Juleps was celebrating earth day with organic cocktails.  Personally, I’ll take non-organic any day, but I was a good sport and tried something with 100% organic girl scouts in it.  I don’t know - it was something called a Double Thin Mint Cookie or something. It tasted more girl scout than cookie, but thankfully Jeff Green was there to drink the rest of my swill.  Nothing goes to waste in that group of people - if it has alcohol in it.

I finally met - in person - the infamous Nathan Hughes (@rvabusiness).  Chad Brown and Cameron Parker showed up and began buying everyone drinks.  We determined it was time to leave the relatively tame and elegant atmosphere of Juleps for what could possibly be the loudest bar in Richmond - Cha Cha’s.  I was told it was right around the corner.  Remember the shoes?  Cha Cha’s is NOT right around the corner when wearing 3” heels.  NOTHING is right around the corner. 

More drinks.  I watched everyone dance, including one particularly drunk man standing on a table until forcibly removed from the bar.  I’m surprised he didn’t split his head open.  I also witnessed the Richmond Police moving people out of the bars at 2 am.  It was like watching drunk cattle weave from one side of the street to the other.  I was the only sober one there - because my friend was getting her car so I wouldn’t have to walk “right around the corner” to get it with her.  It was a case-study in young, dumb, and full of . . . hormones.  The police officer kept shouting at me, “What are you waiting for?  Move on!”  The third time I said, “I’m waiting on a ride, sir!” he finally got the point and stopped harassing me.  A drunk vision of a sorority girl shouted at him, “Dude, can you tase me?”  He actually made eye contact and said, “If I was carrying one right now, your wish would be my command.”  I nearly peed myself laughing. 

I am without kids for the next few days, so I ended up sleeping at Whine Me’s beautiful new house.  I pretended it was mine for a moment, stole a book from her shelf, and finally slept around 3 AM.  She recently had an encounter with what she called a “rottweiler spider” (i.e., a spider so huge and ugly she said she could hear it barking at her), so I carefully checked under my bed and every wall before turning out the lights. 

All in all:  a fabulous evening with amazing people.  I am not worthy, people.  Truly.