Pancakes and a Secret Handshake (Blog #665)

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It’s ten at night, and I have a headache. A few hours ago I took a nap hoping it would go away, but it didn’t. Instead, it got worse. I hate that–and the fact that whenever I don’t feel well I scare the shit out of myself imagining what could be wrong. Once I had a boyfriend who gave me a diagnostic health book that always gave the worst case scenario as the answer to any given problem. Like, oh, your stomach’s upset? It’s cancer. Or, your foot hurts? It’s gangrene. And whereas I thought the gift was cute, I threw it away after we broke up. First, I didn’t need the reminder. Second, no hypochondriac with a headache should ever allow themselves daily access to such a book.

Or the internet.

This afternoon I saw my friend Bekah, who cuts my hair. (I went for a trim.) When we talked about my recent knee surgery, Bekah said that she’s had three–on the same knee–then added, “Welcome to the club of I Can’t Believe This Is My Fucking Life.” Is that great or what? I told her it would be my quote of the day. But seriously, I’m glad to know there’s a club. I’ve always wanted to be in one. With any luck, next I’ll find out we have regularly scheduled pancake breakfasts (in the afternoon, of course) or maybe even a secret handshake.

Pancakes and a secret handshake would be the best!

I don’t know what to blog about today. Getting my hair cut was my “big thing” for the day, other than going to two health food stores in search of non-ultra-pasteurized milk. And whereas the first one said they didn’t have it but could special order it, or I could be one of those people and get raw milk from a local farm (“Their number is on that bulletin board,” the lady said, “but you’ll have to bring my own container”), the second one did. Thank God, after my experience at the first store, I was really starting to worry that I’d have to turn my life upside down to get a half-gallon of non-ultra-pasteurized milk. Instead, I just had to turn my wallet upside down. It cost $6.39!

That’s nearly $13.00 a gallon.

This super expensive magic milk, which as I understand it is simply–milk, is for a fermenting project one of my friends is helping me with tomorrow. We’re going to make our own kefir. Well, we’re going to make my own kefir, since my friend already has theirs. That’s apparently the deal, in order to make your own, you first have to be given a starter kit from someone else who already has one (or buy it on the internet). Anyway, I’ll know more about the whole process tomorrow. Also, if you have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, kefir is a fermented dairy product similar to yogurt except it’s runnier. That is, you can drink it. I’m interested in it because it’s supposed to be high in probiotics, and everyone who’s paranoid about their health is into probiotics. Granted, you can buy it at the grocery store (and I often do), but supposedly making your own is cheaper, even after you pay all that money for milk that obviously comes from cows with golden udders.

Now it’s eleven, and I’d like to end this so I can go to the gym and do physical therapy. Recently I started a stretching routine (that a friend told me about and is on public television) in addition to physical therapy, so I’m spending a good part of my day counting repetitions. Thankfully, as a dance instructor, I have no problem with this. At least until I get to eight. Anyway, I’m doing both the stretching routine and the kefir thing tomorrow because I’m hoping they’ll help me, the stretching with my headaches, the kefir with my stomach. And whereas I’ve been doing the stretching for two whole days (!) and my head still hurts, I’m telling myself that some things take time. (That’s a joke–everything takes time.) But really, so often I want to ditch good habits when I don’t see immediate results rather than stick with them and be patient.

Maybe you’ve felt this way before.

Personally, I’ve felt like giving up more times that I can count. I think, I’ve exhausted every option, and nothing is working. But then–eventually–I remember the universe is large and no, I haven’t exhausted every option. And because there’s something in me that refuses to give up, I take a deep breath and try again. Surely something will work. There’s that verse in the Bible about the person who had their prayer answered simply because they were so damn persistent, because they didn’t quit asking. The squeaky wheel gets God’s grease or whatever. Anyway, maybe you can’t believe this is your fucking life, but I think there’s hope for whatever it is you’re going through, so keep trying. And even if nothing works, I definitely know a club you can join.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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It takes forty years in the desert for seas to part.

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Each of Us Brave (Blog #314)

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It’s eight in the evening, and I’m at a local coffee shop. There’s a fire burning in the fireplace just a few feet away, and I feel like a marshmallow melting into a cup of hot chocolate. Granted, I could get up and move. Everyone else has left the room. But I spend so much of the winter freezing that I’m trying to enjoy sitting here on this leather chair in a pool of my own sweat. Gotta soak up the heat while you can! I mean, short of getting the flu, it could be months before I feel this warm again.

Flu, flu, go away.

I spent this afternoon with my friend Bekah. She’s a hairstylist, and we met a few years ago after I’d dyed my hair blonde then back to brown. The first time I sat in her chair, she said, “Hi, I’m Bekah. What the hell did you do to yourself?” We’ve gotten along famously ever since. Anyway, this morning she called and asked if I could help her install a new ceiling fan in her salon, and I said, “I’d be glad to–the one you have now is hideous.” (Our relationship is clearly built on honesty.)

Y’all, we installed the fan, but it wasn’t pretty. I know what I’m doing–really–but I’ve never been able to install a ceiling fan correctly on the first try. Each one is a little different in terms of mounting, wiring, and assemblage. Plus, I don’t always read directions word for every damn word. Anyway, we got the entire thing up–bulbs in and everything–and the fan worked but the lights didn’t. “Shit,” I said, “I guess that blue wire we ignored really was important.” Down came the entire ceiling fan, one light bulb and blade at a time. And there the blue wire was, just waiting for another wire to connect with. (Join the club, buddy.) Thirty minutes later, we were officially in business. Everything worked!

At some point Bekah and I started comparing childhoods, connecting over our respective challenges, times we had to go back and start again. As the conversation continued, so did the work. You know how one thing leads to another. First we hung the old (hideous) fan in one of the other rooms, since the (equally hideous) fan in there was broken, then I started rewiring an antique barber pole lamp back in Bekah’s salon. Suddenly Bekah said, “Be right back. Gotta take a kid to dance.” The next thing I knew, I was up in the salon all by myself. Well, Bekah’s dog Charlie was there with me, but he wasn’t much help. “Just stick around,” Bekah had said as she walked out the door. “I’ll cut your hair when I get back.” So that’s what I did. First I fixed the lamp, then I worked on a writing project until Bekah returned and cut my hair.

I took the above picture while I was waiting on her, so it’ll have to be tomorrow before you can see the new do. #suspense

During my haircut, Bekah pointed out a couple gray hairs in my widow’s peak. That felt good. She also pointed out several oddly long hairs growing out of my ears. You know the type–strays. I like to think of them as well-intentioned gentlemen who simply got lost on their way to my scalp. Like they took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. I imagine them thinking, Oh my gosh, how did I end up HERE? Bekah said, “Growing old sucks. One day everything is tight, and the next day everything is jiggly.” I said, “Seriously. Age requires so much vigilance. Just keeping my nose hairs under control is a full-time occupation.”

Thank god for professional help.

Now the coffee shop is about to close. Today hasn’t gone anything like I thought it would. I’d imagined myself resting at home, maybe reading a book. But I wouldn’t trade it. Earlier I talked to a woman I met through swing dancing. It was her story I was writing while Bekah was gone. She told me that when her husband left her and her daughters a few years ago, she said, “Okay, we’re on our own now. Let’s look at this like an adventure.” Later, when she and one of her daughters decided to try swing dancing, she said, “We’re going to do something brave.” I can’t tell you how much I love this story. I think it’s the perfect way to grow older. May we see each day as an adventure, and each of us brave for being honest with each other, trying new things, and being willing to start over when a ceiling fan, or even an entire life, doesn’t work the first time.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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As taught in the story of the phoenix, a new life doesn't come without the old one first being burned away.

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my inner control freak (blog #6)

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Attention: Today’s blog was brought to you in part by Corona. (Alcohol: Helping control freaks let go and inspiring writers since Hemingway. Please drink responsibly.)

It’s eight in the evening, this is blog number six, and all day I’ve been sure that I have nothing left to write about. Like not just for this post, but ever. I’ve spent all day thinking about topics to discuss, and none of them seem interesting or right, so I’m convinced all my good ideas are dried up, inspiration is done talking to me, and I should just resign myself to watching soap operas with my parents for the rest of my natural-born life.

My therapist would probably call this type of thinking an abundance issue, like, everyone else has all the good ideas and there aren’t enough good ideas left for me (scarcity). My homosexual friends would probably just call me a drama queen. (We may be getting warmer.) I, on the other hand, am pretty sure I’m a control freak. (Take as much time as you need to get over that shocking revelation.)

Earlier today, I went for a walk around the neighborhood, reconnected with one of my favorite people, and got a much-needed haircut from my dear friend Bekah. (The above photo was taken post-haircut–Doesn’t it look great?–and that’s Bekah’s dog, Charlie. And for those of you who are prone to make assumptions about gender identification, Charlie is a girl.) After the haircut, Bekah and her husband and I visited, and they shared stories about their teenagers that not only made me laugh, but also made me thank Jesus I’m not a parent.

On the surface, the day was great. But as a general rule, I always run a low level of anxiety about something, and today that something was whether or not I’d be able to come up with a good topic for tonight’s blog. Had you been able to listen to my thoughts, you would have heard something like–There’s a mailbox with a pineapple on it–I could write about pineapples—No wait–What about squirrels?–Or clouds?–Ideas are like clouds–I heard that once in a meditation class–Maybe I could blog about my haircut–Has my therapist ever said anything insightful about my hair?

After eight hours of this bullshit, I decided to go out for Mexican food and beer. (I guess that guy who lives in my head and talks so much likes beer, or it at least makes him tired, since he’s quieter now.) At dinner, I started thinking about Bekah and her husband and what happened right before we parted our good company. Bekah said, “Where are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “I don’t know,” and then Bekah said, “Okay, but really. What are we going to eat?” and her husband said, “We do this every day. She can’t stand not having a plan.”

Well, I can relate to Bekah. That’s exactly how I feel about my blog posts every day–What am I going to write about?–What’s going to happen next?–Okay, but really–What am I going to write about?

My Aunt Terri has been in a book club, ironically named the No-Name Book Club, for as long as I can remember. She told me several months ago about one of her friends in the club who, anytime she starts a new book, reads the last paragraph first.

If this woman’s behavior makes you mad (like it does me), I’ll give you a moment to calm yourself down. (You might consider drinking a beer. I’ve heard that helps.)

Personally, I believe reading the last paragraph first is the same thing as cheating. Like, it drives me crazy when I watch movies or detective shows with my dad because he’s constantly trying to guess the ending, like–Do you think it was the guy with the limp?–I bet she sleeps with him and then steals all his money–The owner probably started the fire for insurance money.

More cheating.

What I realized at dinner was that when it comes to books and movies, it’s easy for me to think, Just let the author tell their story–Trust them–Sometimes it’s fun to be surprised. But when it comes to writing, and especially when it comes to when I’m going to move out of my parents’ and get on with my life, I’m a lot more like my dad and that lady in the book club than I care to admit. I can’t stand not knowing. Just like Bekah, I can’t stand not having a plan.

As a kid, I remember being a neat freak, which is probably just a control freak in a bow tie. It’s like everything had to be in its proper place. Well, it must have been pretty bad because one time I was at a friend’s house and I started cleaning his room for him, focusing mostly on a cabinet that had a giant glass jug full of coins, except my friend had carelessly thrown a bunch of coins all over the floor, so I picked them up and put them in the jar. I can still see the pennies. They seemed happier, shinier, where they belonged.

My friend wasn’t so impressed. He called his mom in from the other room, like, Mom, can you believe this? Marcus is a fanatic. (Fanatic. That was the word he used.) I had to look it up later, but I knew it wasn’t a compliment. (How a seven-year-old manages to have a stellar vocabulary and a sloppy room, I’ll never understand.)

Looking back, I know the control freak in me is related to our house burning down when I was four. And I’m sure it didn’t help that Mom was sick. It’s like, live through a few surprises and you can quickly figure out they’re not all fun, so you end up taking control where you can get it. But whereas it makes sense to me why my personality developed the way it did, I have to say, sometimes it can be really exhausting always having to put my pennies in a jar, always having to know what’s coming next, always trying to figure out the end of my story. I’m sure it’s the way Charlie feels about people always assuming she’s a boy–it gets old.

I’m hoping this blog will be a way for me to relax a little. It seems that ideas to write about inevitably show up in their own time, and I’m usually pleasantly surprised. I know that lately I’ve been looking at my life as if it’s not in order. I’ve been thinking that I need to take control and make something happen. But really, life doesn’t need my help. It’s bigger than that. And I don’t know if someone else is writing the story of my life, but if they are, I can only imagine that they would appreciate my letting go a little bit and trusting them because, obviously, we’re not to the end of the book yet. What’s more, I see now that pennies are probably happier not stuck in a jar. No, things that shine do better when they’re scattered about. Sure, they’re vulnerable out there, not knowing where they’re going to end up, but at least their destination hasn’t already been decided and all things are still possible.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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For all of the things life takes away, it gives so much more in return. Whether we realize it or not, there’s always grace available.

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