Thunderstorms

This afternoon the weather was building for about three hours--it just kept getting darker and darker. I started to hear the thunder in small rumbles at first, then the wind picked up and out of nowhere it got really loud.

It was a huge thunderstorm—at least to me. I could see big bolts of lightning touching the water, sometimes for several seconds, then the thunder would crack and it seemed like the sky was splitting open right overhead.

The rain started suddenly—I’m guessing we got a couple of inches in the two hours it lasted. With all the water hitting the windows I couldn’t even see out to watch it after awhile. I hunkered down inside with my dog and hoped the power wouldn’t go out.

I texted Kevin that the dog didn’t like thunderstorms…He accused me of being the scared one...

The storm finally rolled through and it stopped raining, but it stayed so cloudy there was almost no sunset when I finally got out on the beach to walk. There was just one thick red streak in the midst of the super-dark, gray sky.

Beautiful, but a bit ominous...it wasn't quite over.

And now, in the middle of the night, I was just half-woken up by flashes of lightning and the rest of the way by another text from Kevin. An hour behind, he’s in New Mexico this week getting the heads-up on the new job and checking out the new house.

I lay in bed trying to go back to sleep but the weather wouldn’t let me…at least I think it was the weather. The flashes outside are constant, like natural paparazzi cameras trying to get pictures of something out over the Gulf.

What is it that is demanding all this attention, creating all this energy?

I’m up for a snack and hopefully a little peace of mind after I write a little and the storms settle down--Maybe I need to get some stuff off my chest before I can get back to sleep....

The truth is thunderstorms do scare me. I love them when I can sit somewhere safe and watch the show with someone, but when alone I just want to turn inward and I find myself wishing they would get quieter and calm down, that I didn’t have to feel the unsteadiness in the atmosphere.

I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them…they are just so loud and dominating, requiring all my attention. There’s nothing to do but hold steady and wait for them to subside, wait for the feelings to subside.

Is there something they are trying to tell me?

Thriller

I remember, when I was in high school, sitting in the living room watching a TV special called "Motown 25." We only had one channel, so there was either something to watch on NBC or there was nothing to watch.

The Motown special was certainly something to watch that night. I was sitting in the gold velour chair with my feet up, homework spread on my lap when Michael Jackson came on stage. He was wearing that black suit, white socks and, of course, the glove.

He had me from the first notes of "Billy Jean" and from the second he threw his hat into the audience.

He was the coolest thing I had ever seen.

Michael Jackson had been around my whole life. I remember watching the "Jackson Five" on Saturday mornings from the time I was a teeny kid, but this was a whole new Michael Jackson. I certainly had never seen dancing like that.

It was my "Ed Sullivan" moment...you know, the one everyone from my parents generation has--when Elvis shook his hips on TV for the first time.

They have that...we have that first moonwalk.

The music from Thriller was everywhere--I thought anyone who had the tape was cool.

When I watch those black and white clips of Elvis I'm pretty sure I don't get it--the impact it must've had. Neither do my "nieces" when we tell them how cool Michael was. They only know the weird stuff, and they can't see what an influence he had on their Usher and Justin Timberlake.

So I'm just enjoying the replaying of all his music on radio and TV, and skipping all the tabloid-type coverage of whatever caused his death. It's just sad and a little startling, he and Farrah--both huge in my youth--dying on the same day.

The lesson seems to be that we might get to be incredibly special and beautiful for a time in our life, if we're lucky, then we'll probably go a little crazy and die too early. We're all too human to stay in the beautiful phase.

Well, his troubles here are over at least. I'm suspecting his music will re-surge and be around forever. I've got the BET MJ marathon on today--all the old videos.

And, I know what's going on my iPod next.

Sugar Sand

So we made it to the beach.

It’s even better than I remembered.

We’ve lived on this beach a couple of times before…once when we were first married for six months, and once in 2003 for eight weeks.

Now the Air Force doesn’t mean for it to be such a great break, but we’ll take it…or I will. Kevin will actually have to do a lot of studying and flying, but for me, Air Force life doesn’t really get any better than a few weeks in Mexico Beach, Florida.

Yesterday we drove through flat kudzu-covered forest for 3-4 hours before we finally saw the Gulf of Mexico. I caught a huge lift when I saw it. I looked at the temperature on the car and saw it was still in the 90s, and I knew there was still crazy humidity, but I was hoping for some better air. The second we got out of the car and I caught that gulf breeze, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and my spirits went even higher. Ahh.…

Five weeks from now I’ll worry about driving across the heat of Texas and making a life in New Mexico. For now, for the next six weeks I’ll either be on the beach or gazing at it from my third-story deck, thank you very much.

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This small beach town we always come to is about an hour east of what Florida claims is the world’s “most beautiful beaches,” sugar sand and all that. (I’m a Californian, so I’m not going there…) They are very crowded (especially during spring break), and there’s lots of clubs and that horrible, standard, East Coast-style putt-putt-golf beach strip.

There’s none of that here, except for the sugar sand. Even if we didn’t need to be by the Air Force base I’d pass on those popular beaches to spend my time in this small, slow, sleepy, town where the beach is not crowded with hot bods or lined with hot clubs.

It’s a difficult place to get to, but still somewhat unspoiled (I am happy to see), even in high season.

So, for the next six weeks—except when we have dinner obligations—I will not miss a sunset over the Gulf.


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We’re about 40 yards east of the Central Time line. And, as always when we come here, I’m never sure which way the local businesses are going to go. All the locals know how it works, they were explaining it to me this morning at the coffee shop. The biggest town in is CST, but local folks get irritated following that if they don’t work there--Why should they have to? To the east, is the second-biggest town and it’s definitely EST. Mexico Beach is mostly CST, but not all of it, nor are all little places in between. Businesses will either post it on the door, or you’re just supposed to know.

The locals call EST “fast time” and CST “slow time.” We stick with CST since Kevin has to show up at the base every day, we can’t afford to get confused…but I’ll have to give it a thought if I’m going to be anywhere but on the beach.

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We’re partially incommunicado. We have sketchy cell coverage at best, and no internet unless we go sap it off the one big hotel in town. I got that heads-up at the local coffee shop this morning…It was a great tip. There are covered picnic tables near the hotel, so I’m outside watching the waves, feeling the breeze, and checking email. Very enjoyable.

I have nothing on the schedule but running and walking this beach, watching the sunsets, taking a few daily swims and trying to do a little reading and writing every day. Also, we’ll see a few friends.

I could not be happier.

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I stuck my feet in the water last night and went for a swim this morning. Because of where I was raised, I’m always shocked when the water isn’t freezing cold…I automatically brace for it every time. The Gulf is at a great mild temperature right now, and very clear.

I get a little skittish in this water though, they have creatures here I’m not accustomed to…stingrays, jellyfish, horseshoe crabs and, oh yeah, sharks that like warm, shallow water. Yikes.

You’re supposed to shuffle your feet to scare off the rays…they say they’ll only sting if you step directly on one. I’m shuffling all right…the sting is supposed to be bad.

I remember when I took Kevin, who is from Florida, swimming with me in California for the first time. He couldn’t believe how cold the water was, and that we were out there right near otters and seals not thinking a thing about it. He was a little freaked out by them popping up nearby to check us out.

(This is from a man who grew up water skiing in lakes that had alligators in them….)

My pro-California argument was, and is, that you don’t really hear of many seal or otter related deaths and the likelihood of losing your life to a shark goes down drastically in water under 80 degrees. And, I’m not even thinking (well, trying not to), of the occasional alligator that makes its way into the Gulf. Double yikes.

It’s all what you’re accustomed to.

I’m using the “Big Ocean” theory, (also known as denial) where gators and sharks are concerned.

What are the chances?

Until Justice Rolls Down Like Waters...

The civil rights memorial is beautiful.

It’s small and simple, but you get such feeling from it.

It makes you think about what had to happen there in the South, in our country, to get the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence to mean what they actually say.

It took unspeakable courage, wrenching pain, the loss of many lives, and an incredible stick-to-itiveness. I realize I have no concept.

It’s a calm little respite there on the hot sidewalk of downtown Montgomery, just a couple blocks from the big, beautiful, marble-white buildings of the establishment.

The symbolism is huge.

It's really a fountain, there’s water flowing on both parts of the memorial…the wall with the quote by Dr. King and the circular table that documents the big moments of the civil rights struggle—the date of each one carved in stone. But the drops of water falling off of it reminded me of all the small moments it must have taken, of every person who wasn’t heralded like Rosa Parks, who maybe wasn’t the “first” to do anything, but still did it. There were thousands that didn’t get on the buses during the boycott, but walked miles instead. Every drop of water is representing the courageous, un-guaranteed act of every person who said…like Ms. Parks, "Not today. Not anymore.”

I knew the MLK words came from the “I Have a Dream” speech at the Lincoln Memorial, but I couldn't remember in what context he used the Biblical quote, and I couldn’t remember the last time I watched the whole speech. I Googled it, found it online and watched the whole thing. Tears came to my eyes, it was so inspiring.

Freedom. It’s the highest thing. It's the greatest gift, the greatest right, the greatest privilege. It may be the one thing worth whatever it costs to attain.

http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/mlkihaveadream.htm

Southern Comfort

I know why they call it soul food.

I’d heard from friends and read online about an old house in downtown Montgomery where they served some really good, homemade, southern food. I stopped by there twice and they were closed, and it didn’t look too promising…a rundown two-story house where the sign, apparently always said open, even when they weren’t, which was often.

I decided I didn’t need the experience or the calories, but some friends who had lived there said it was a must, I absolutely had to hit it.

So the day before we left I decided to make an event of it. I’d go to “Martha’s Place,” then go to the Montgomery Fine Arts Museum, the last thing on my to-do list.

Well, I walked into the old house and before I knew it, I had a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens, black-eyed peas, lima beans (!), cornbread and a couple of other things I wasn't sure about…oh yeah…and southern sweet tea. (I always say “unsweetened” when I rarely order tea, but I thought I’d go huge and stay authentic.)

So to the question, "Lemonade or Sweet Tea?" (those were the only choices) I said, “Sweet Tea please,” before I changed my mind. No dressing on the side, no “leave off the butter,” no boneless or skinless anything. Full-up…Full on.

It was absolutely the best…the exact thing I needed. I sat there and let the Southern lady care for me, call me “baby,” ask me if I needed anymore chicken, and tell me dessert WAS included—-it wasn’t an option. There was no perky little 20-something blonde with the “Did you leave room for dessert?” That's easy to decline.

The comfort of it all was too intoxicating…there was no question about dessert…if you go to Martha’s Place, you are so getting dessert.

On my day, the choices were…lemon meringue pie, bread pudding or red velvet cake. I went for the red velvet…how often do you get that choice?

It was SO bright red…not pink…RED. And the frosting was white. It was really good, although I could only take a couple bites because I DID have a second piece of fried chicken--more on that later. The cake wasn’t sweet at all…almost unsweetened, but the frosting was crazy sweet, good combination.

So I sat in that little old house built in the early 1800s sweating like crazy and loving it for over an hour. AC? I’m not sure…if so, it wasn’t able to hang with the 99 degree temps, but it would have almost seemed inappropriate. What did seem appropriate was a nap on the front porch, which, I probably could have done. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have batted an eye.

I was comforted by the southern food, the southern care, and that incredible sweet tea. I was up to my second knuckles in grease eating that fried chicken, I couldn’t put it down. Now I typically eat a piece of fried chicken maybe once a decade…but I couldn’t stop myself here. I ate all the skin, all the dark meat and went for seconds.

Actually this is an unusual decade--I just remembered I did have a small piece of fried chicken a year ago when we drove through Amish country at one of those Pennsylvania Dutch home-cookin’ places...

Sorry but those Yankees shouldn’t even be allowed to call it the same thing. That fried chicken, I could take or leave, and actually regretted even trying it…This Southern-comfort-on-a-plate (yes, and a heart-attack also), I couldn’t get enough of. I left wishing I could fit in a few more bites.

I finally rolled my sweaty self out of there and back into my car wishing I had let the sweet southern lady refill that sweet tea one more time for the road (what’s another 400 calories?). I set out for the Fine Arts Museum. It was just across town, but by the time I got there I was fighting off a serious food-induced coma. Combine that with the heat and I had to whisk through that museum and get myself back to our room for an afternoon nap.

It was the perfect way to finish my Alabama time. Of course yesterday, just before driving out of the state, I did get one more large glass of Southern Sweet Tea. A girl can’t afford to drink that on a regular basis, but I needed one more taste of the real thing.

Sweet Home Alabama

I don’t even know where to start….

I keep saying to myself, “Who lives here?” Then I look at who lives here, and I feel like I don’t know these people, and I say again, “Who lives here?”

I’ve been trying spend my ten days here like I always do when the Air Force puts us in random places…I get to know the place, I go exploring, see the sights and do the things I do, but in this new place.

I always say I could live anywhere…but here, that belief is being tested.

Well, to start with, I went looking for a place to run with my dog. I found a park called—and I’m not joking-- “Cooters Pond.” It’s not a pond, it’s a lake, and when I ran down to it to let my dog cool her paws, I saw about 15 American made pickups with boat trailers in the parking lot and lots of good ol’ boys pulling their boats out of the water after early morning fishing.

What a scene…

Men (there were no women), all of whom were 40-plus pounds overweight, were wearing either NO SHIRT or the Alabama standard t-shirt-with-sleeves-torn-off, shorts and--get this--CROCS. They were being very serious about the way they handled their boats and trucks…all of them shined to a high degree.

Now I’m sure Crocs are entirely practical for boating, but really, should anyone over the age of six really be wearing them? Really? And why is it that people latch onto the worst fashion that comes along, hang onto it for 15-plus years, and let all the good stuff just float down the river?

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There seems to be two competing major radio stations. Of course they play only country music. They talk each other down constantly, but play exactly the same songs. There are other stations, most of them country, some specializing in 90s country, or classic country...you get the picture. And as for the title of this post, I've heard that song, either the classic or the Kid Rock version at least 10 times since I got here.

I've also listened to a little talk radio, and local TV. There's definitely, a bit of racist dialogue you would absolutely not hear anywhere else…it's kind of scary.

When visiting the civil rights memorial I can so feel the contrast of its small footprint next to the big, powerful, white buildings of the Alabama government a couple of blocks away. It's very strange…almost eerie, like race is the elephant in the room no one talks about.

Black churches and white churches are in sight of one another, each worshiping God their own way.

It’s so easy to imagine the bus boycott and the marches taking place here.

We came through here in 1990 and drove the 1965 Selma to Montgomery march route. I am thinking of doing it again, I want to get the feel of how much things have changed. Then I felt everyone in Selma knew we were there to look at their bridge where the beatings took place and to gawk at their backwardness. I want to know if the town has a different feel now, if it has healed...or if maybe my perspective has changed.

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The weather has been unbelievably sweltering…the air is thick and hot, and running takes all I have, even at 8am. I get Okinawa flashbacks with the Cicadas singing in the trees, and I find myself wondering if a California girl like me is equipped to deal with such conditions…And with all the bites I’m getting, I wonder if someone like me should even have to wonder what a “chigger” is...

However, the biggest problem for me in Alabama, is that every day I have to go on a search for good food.

On the first day, for lunch, I went to a Mexican grill hoping for my skinny, Baja/Chipotle-like rice bowl. What I got was rice that had been tossed with butter I think….WHY?

On the second night we tried for Asian…our standard healthy “go-to.” I told the Chinese man we were concerned about the amount of oil, and asked three times that the chicken not be fried. What we got was not Chinese food, but an Alabama-ized version of Chinese food. There was a heavy, almost gravy-like sauce on our supposedly stir-fried chicken.

Of course there was.

My foodie friends in DC advised I just go for the fried catfish..."It's what they know how to do," they said. "Worry about the calories when you get to Florida." Well, I'm over most chain restaurants and I do love to try local cuisine when I'm visiting a place, but I can’t quite do the catfish.

I have, however, gone for the BBQ.

Where I was raised barbecue is a verb…it’s the way you grill out and cook your steak. Here, it’s a noun. It's a slow-cooked, put on a sandwich with coleslaw noun. They do it pretty well actually, and I’ve embraced it twice. If I could only leave the fries it really wouldn't be that bad, should they have a whole-wheat bun. But, of course, I can't and they don't….

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I was super-jazzed when I saw online there was a Thai restaurant not too far away. I thought surely, like most Thai restaurants, it would be run by a Thai family and have a menu full of veggie dishes. I went on a mission to find it that took some serious work, ending with me stopping at an Irish pub to ask directions.

The Alabamans who owned the pub absolutely charmed me. They took a lot of time to tell me where the restaurant was, so I asked about their establishment.

“Do you guys have live music?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Tonight or tomorrow night?”
“DJ this weekend, but you’ll like it…it’s not your younger crowd, it’s all classic and 80s music,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re thinking that’s what I’ll like?” I countered.

There was only a smile, and no comment from the Alabama man who was raised NOT to talk about a woman’s age….

I found the Thai restaurant and took my husband there for dinner Friday night. The menu was only partially Alabama-ized…we were fairly happy. The place was not owned by a Thai family, but by an Alabama lady who sat and chatted with us awhile. (I have to say, I almost already have friends here…would only take a week or two, they are so friendly…) She said she loved her military customers, we are so much more “cultured” than some of the “bumpkins” she gets in there asking whether or not they serve “dog.”

Wow...In DC, military people are considered the bottom of the “culture” totem pole, I learned (painfully), from my work at the wine bar. Here, we are freakin’ cream of the crop?

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We decided to hit the Irish pub after dinner…since alcohol wasn’t available at the restaurant. (It’s hard to decipher the liquor laws in these states...)

Now I’ve actually been to a few Irish Pubs in a few countries. They are kind of a little western oasis in places like Hong Kong, Bangkok or even Paris. You always know exactly what you’ll get: Irish stout on tap, a bar menu of food like stew, shepherd’s pie and fries, probably some live music, and an American and European crowd.

Not in Alabama.

In Alabama, “Irish Pub” is apparently just another word for “Redneck Bar.” There was no Irish beer on tap, the menu had no Irish items on it (but included “fried crab claws”), and, as warned, there was only a DJ for music.

It wasn't quite what I was hoping for, but I have to admit, I quickly got pretty comfortable there and sang out-loud to almost every song. The DJ was mixing country, classic rock and '80s music, showing videos to many of the '80s tunes from our high school years I wasn't then allowed to watch.

We were having a great time.

Kevin knew I wanted to dance, so limped out onto the floor with me for a few songs…that is until I bumped that bad knee….OUCH. We decided to leave and he stepped into the restroom.

A half-toothless old guy pushing at least 60, possibly 70, wearing a t-shirt with the requisite no-sleeves, a ball cap and white Reebok tennis shoes came up to me and asked if I wanted to—and I’m not kidding--“Shake a leg.”

I replied that I simply could not because, regretfully, we were leaving. He said he was crushed because he had surveyed the bar and I was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in the bar. He added that he was an ex-Marine, and he knew women….an expert no less.

Did I mention that he had only half of his God-given teeth??

And I'm not going to describe the size of the other women...

When I told Kevin on the way to the car, he was slightly bugged that the guy waited until he was in the bathroom to talk to me, and added that if he wasn’t crippled he’d have had to throw down. He also said he noticed I was getting a lot of play across the bar from a ‘roided-up guy with a receding hairline and another guy wearing--at 10pm--TWO pairs of sunglasses…one on the visor (who, besides golfers, wear visors these days?), and one on the neck of his sleeveless t-shirt.

I was, apparently, the bell of the ball.

When I got back to the hotel I called my friend who lived here for a year, and relayed my impressions of the Sweet Home state. She said I need to get the hell over to the new side of town where all the fancy shopping is, stay in one of the new “master-planned” neighborhoods, and hang out with all the “normal” people.

I asked her why the hell I would want to do that? I can do that in any city in the US, and, not only that, I would miss out on observing all this true, local culture. Besides…there’s no way I’m getting the compliments over there I’m getting on this side of town….

When I first got here I was second-guessing my plan. Why didn’t I stay in DC 10 days longer, let Kevin come down here on his own, then meet him at our beach house in Florida on Wednesday?

Now, the truth is, I’m kind of getting used to my days of working out (twice on some days to counter the calories), hitting the pool and observing and exploring the true South.

I suppose I actually could live here...for awhile.

So far my favorite part is the obvious head-nod I get from all the males over 14--It's no compliment to me, just the way they're taught to respect women I think. It’s not quite as awesome as that hat-tip you get in Texas or Wyoming, but it’s very close, and awfully nice.

Actually everyone in Alabama has been, if nothing else, awfully nice.

"I've always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Blanche DuBois

It just doesn't stop...it's unbelievable.

Since the missionaries visited on the worst day possible, an unbelievable amount of things have gone horribly wrong.

I'm not even going to mention the dozens of small frustrations than have accompanied this move (lost wallet, lost watch, rooms reserved for the wrong night), I'm only going to mention the biggies....

Actually, let me just cut to the chase and go right to the grand finale....

This morning in a random South Carolina town, after an early morning jog with my dog, there was a knock on the hotel room door. When I opened it an unfamiliar man uncomfortably asked:

"Are you Kristine?"
"Yes."
"Your husband has been hit by a car on his bicycle..."

Well...he, in his friendly, Southern, Christian way, didn't want to lead me astray about what condition my man was in, but confirmed, at least, that Kevin had told him my name, so was somewhat coherent. I jumped in the man's car and soon saw in the distance fire trucks, ambulances and police cars holding up traffic.

Apparently a car to bicycle accident is big news on a Sunday morning in Carolina...not many other disasters going on since most folks are in church. My heart sank when I saw my man with his shirt cut off strapped to a back board with a neck brace.

He seemed pretty unfazed, telling me how okay he was, and instructing me to get a picture of the car that had hit him. It was like he had a black eye from a nasty fight but was saying, "You should see the other guy..."

Well, I didn't look then, distracted by the pool of blood on the pavement and the grimaces he was making, but the car did, in fact, look worse than he did. And the old man who had been driving, well he looked absolutely beat up and very distraught. In truth my husband didn't get hit by a car, he did the hitting, traveling at about 40 mph. The car is practically totaled.

Even laying strapped to the board he seemed to think he had come out on top. Of course this was before hospital personnel spent 30 minutes gingerly picking windshield glass from his back...and before the shock and adrenaline wore off. I'm not sure he'd agree with that assessment now....

So I soon found myself riding in a firetruck, clamping a destroyed bicycle to our car then wandering around a strange town trying to find the hospital where the ambulance had taken my man, not sure what condition he was in. There are times when you feel lonely, and then there are times when you are lonely....

Fortunately for me we were in the heart of the southern Bible belt. There were more bystanders doing their Christian duty than you could shake a stick at, we were blanketed with helpfulness. I for one, was happy to have the friendly assistance, although I cringed slightly when a hospital worker wanted to pray with my husband...not sure what words would come out of his mouth at that point. However, in his broken state he totally let her do it, and we all said a collective "amen" at the end.

For me it was more a sigh of relief because we knew we were lucky--or blessed--however you want to say it. He did come out on top. No one comes out of a crash with a totaled car, buckled bike frame, cracked helmet but not one broken bone or internal injury. Oh there's plenty of external injuries...I'm wincing every time I look at them, but they'll all heal with time...and, to quote one of my husbands mantras:

"Wounds heal...Chicks dig scars...Glory is forever"

Well, we had to get where we were going, and I figured there was no time like the present--Kevin in a comfortable, fairly happy, drugged condition--I'm pretty sure tomorrow he'll feel worse. I made it my mission to drive straight through the rest of the way to Montgomery, Alabama. It was not without incident, but we made it and are finally settled in.

The whole way we were inundated with friends calling and texting...offering to fly out or fly us wherever we needed to go...What could they do to help? It was nice to feel everyone rally.

I've just been told by a doc friend that I should wake up every two hours and check on him and have been implored by two other friends to get him the hell back to a hospital for observation. They're worried he may start going down like Natasha Richardson--"He was fine and then he suddenly dropped dead..."

So I have that to sleep on...

Hopefully I can get a quick 911 call out should things go south...or maybe I'll just yell for help--after all we're still in the Bible belt, presumably helpful Southern Christians are everywhere.

Thank God.

Losing It

I called in an order to Subway to buy sandwiches for the movers.

"Can't you just come in?" the lady said, unhelpfully. No, I could not, I said, and asked her if she wanted me to go elsewhere.

"That's up to you," she said. Of course I didn't want to go elsewhere, they are the closest, so I sucked it up and made her take my phone order.

I called to cancel our internet service. The Verizon man canceled it that second without asking WHEN I wanted it canceled...which would be Friday. "Well you didn't say that," he said. He didn't ask. Isn't it his job to ask? And everyone knows that once the cancel order goes in there's no taking it back....I got transferred to India and back three times trying to get it back on...40 minutes later I gave up.

I let some stuff get packed that shouldn't have gotten packed.

I can't seem to communicate with my husband without a misunderstanding...he finally said, "Are you feeling really stressed about this move?" I tell him no, it's very possible that he, the Subway lady and the Verizon people are all giving me a hard time...It's not me.

Then there was the jackass driver who wouldn't go even though he got the the four-way stop before me, and the other one who was holding up traffic while cruising for a parking spot...oh wait...that was me.

Later, while sitting outside in denial about the four men of color who were breaking their backs to move my stuff, two young twenty-something men (not of color) in short-sleeved, white shirts and ties came walking up--Of course they did.

They sat with me in the shade and played with my dog while I told them I was de-toxing from religion. I suggested maybe they could relate...but they couldn't really, they were so cool and comfortable with their "truths," even on a hot day like today.

One of them asked me how we find truth--I told them we have to battle for it. They asked me what our purpose was on earth and I said to become ourselves--they agreed. Apparently that philosophy fits in some tiny way with the "pre-earth" lives we all had....Wow.

They suggested the "Holy Ghost" would lead me to truth, and I wouldn't be frustrated forever, not knowing the answers.

"God I hope so," I said.

This day needs to end.

Thoughts From A House Full of Boxes....

Funny how I spent all this time and effort making a good life here, and now I can't wait to just get the hell out of this town.

I've either gotten really good at moving, or I'm getting really bad at it....

This time I've felt that I've been exactly on schedule, mentally and emotionally. I thought it was going to be hard to leave, but I turned the corner on that when I saw my Air Force friends, quit my job early and went to NYC. Life is bigger than Old Town, and I've got other places to go.

So, let's wrap it up, don't belabor the goodbyes, let's all just move on.

On the other hand, that's a bad sign...that's not like me at all. Maybe I'm not dealing with it all, not realizing what it took to live well here, not thinking about the relationships I worked at developing...maybe I'll get all wrenched about it when we drive away...yes, chances are I'm kidding myself.

Damn, I wish it was easy.

Most relationships are fleeting, maybe I don't need to put so much into all these lives I build...but I can't help it. I do, then they end, and I am there in the car, on my way to a different place, trying to make sense of what just happened, trying to hang onto the good and let loose of the rest.

Life is hard, then I move. I start over, it gets hard, I make the best of it, then I move.

Or, maybe it's really cheating that I get to kind of start over all the time...most people have to deal with the same people their whole lives. I get a new batch every now and then, and I get to present myself without history.

Either way, we all have to do it...deal with life that is. There's no quitting....

Baggage

So the movers came yesterday and packed everything up. The idea is they pack one day, then come the next day with a big truck to pick it all up. I'm waiting for them to show up now.

We're supposed to have everything that we don't want packed set aside, then make sure they get every single other thing in a box.

It's never a clean process...they always miss something, then we miss it too, and then we're toting some damn family heirloom around with us in the car because we can't throw it out....

So when we get in the car Friday--eight weeks from when we make a new home--it will be just the man, me, the dog, everything we need (I hope), and, I guarantee, some old dysfunctional item that keeps getting in the way.

We'll just have to work around it.

Too Much Wine

I hate this feeling....

Last night, with my Pilates people, I was warm, funny, skinny, the best teacher ever and I had great posture.

Today, in the daylight of truth, I am clammy, grouchy, puffy, horrible and hunched over.

That's how it goes.

And tonight, there's another big finale event...

I hate these going-aways...

At least in the morning I do.

This I Believe

I believe it is all about me.

The fire, the spirit, the heart, the soul within me—whatever you want to call it—my true mysterious self…that unadulterated “me” is where all the power, all the love, all the beauty, all the greatness, and all the life I’ll ever find lies.

I believe that “me” is allowed by God, if not created by him, to be something great in this life—itself.

It’s all about becoming. The way to life, love and God is through developing and following my heart, soul and spirit down the pathway to whom I really can become. I have to know myself, my entire “me,” and acknowledged and develop every part so it balances with the others and becomes whole.

That is the challenge, the meaning, the purpose in life…to become who I truly am. The pain of life means something because it shoves me toward becoming “me,” and in being fully “me” I access creativity, live life and feel love, freedom and passion. People with great personality and great achievements have, either naturally or through work, let more of their “me” out.

So far, I’ve only caught a glimpse of it, but if I continue to become “me” I believe I will find life worth aspiring to.

I’m getting the payoff in small doses now, with the tiny truths I find daily and with the otherworldly moments I experience--for the sunsets, the belly laughs, the art and beauty that take my breath away, they are evidence of the better life.

But I believe it will pay off even more. The more I develop and throw my weight behind becoming, (and get help with the parts I’m stuck on), the “me” will be the payoff because she will be able to really live life--feel it all, see it all, hear it all and love it all. She will be better able to commune with and love others, maybe even the other that is God himself....

What if I’m right? What if, contrary to what I learned in 30-plus years of Christianity, it really is all about me? What if instead of holding to a bunch of guidelines to keep myself in check, it’s really about becoming, well…just me, and letting more of myself out?

It works the opposite of what they told me.

I am the thing. I am it. If I am God’s creation, greatness lies within me. Why wouldn’t I then be beautiful, powerful and creative with potential for a full, unique and interesting life? Why wouldn’t I even expect it?

That’s the deal. That’s the way it works. That’s what I believe and what keeps me from grasping shallow things that feel like life…might pass for life for a lot of people…but don’t fool me for long…

No, that ain’t life…not my life, not the one I’m here for...no way.

Mine, in spite of what anyone else thinks, is in becoming me.

It's going to be great.