Sticking to the Point

What I did this weekend by Kiki

I arrive in Bear Mountain, NY early. A change in plans due to weather,

I pick Nina and HPD up Friday morning before work. Depositing them at home, I'm back hours later, someone small in tow, and we hang until M gets home.

As is our way, we have shopping to do, so Nina, HPD and I take off Friday evening for the mall. Planning to meet in one hour, we split ditch HPD and head off to Nordstrom. Nina and I are good at shopping together, something I don't take for granted. Normally I prefer to shop alone, (Nina's probably saying, of course she does), but we have similar shopping styles. Somewhat determined and focused, without a lot of lingering or waffling.

After working for a few hours Saturday morning, we take an afternoon train into Manhattan. I have a haircut appointment and we have plans later that evening for dinner. Leaving HPD on a corner, we head off for the East Village and a couple hours HPD-free.

We stop for a photo,

make-up,

and then we tried to meet-up with HPD, who allegedly had "cell phone issues" and was unavailable for almost 2 hours. Here's Neen annoyed, trying yet again to reach HPD on the phone.

We managed to entertain ourselves with coffee and a trip to the bookstore, eventually locating him in one of two bars M recommended.

Dinner reservations at 6pm turned into three rounds of margaritas with a little food. One might say, I drank my dinner. 

Drunk dialing began in earnest, as did bad decision-making, when I decided I too needed a nightcap.

It's a little fuzzy from the time we left the bar I have no idea where that bar actually is to us sitting on the train, but that's when my troubles began.

A happy drunk, I quickly realized I was in trouble.

"I need to get off the train. Right. Now."

"You'll be fine, Kiki"

"No, we need to take a car, I can't be on this train."

I have no recollection of how Nina convinced me to stay on the train, but we do.

At some point I began to feel hot and claustrophobic and decided the only solution was to remove my long-sleeved t-shirt. In my seat. There was a lot of shimming and I heard threads breaking as I removed a tight shirt, from the neck down.

Happy again, I decide we need photos, the last three photos my camera takes. In repose with a color issue, my camera is packed and ready to be sent to Nikon, in hopes that she can be fixed.

This photo is totally staged, although the level of intoxication is not. Just look at Nina's gaze drunken haze.

As you can see, the focus becomes unstable, so that the last photo, the best one, is a hand-shaking blur. That's HPD in the background. This picture sums it all up.

The rest of the evening quickly deteriorated. I began an earnest search for the train toilet so I can vomit, mumbling down the aisle that I'd reached a low-point as the only passenger on the train wearing a tank top in 40 degree weather. There are repeated visits to the skankiest bathroom imaginable, vomiting on the train tracks and also, at home.

The most remarkable thing about the whole evening? Waking up Sunday morning hang-over free. Really? How is that even possible?

The end.

The last 4 days...

A weekend of late nights and roller derby, combined with pushing my body, it's no surprise that I ended up sick.

In complete denial, with a fever and raw throat, I went here,

and it was worth it. The venue was surprisingly fantastic. I'd heard about Webster Hall for years; first as a dance club past its prime, and then as a concert hall. Walking up the stairs, I thought how great it would be to have the opportunity, camera in hand, to be inside the hall during the day, capturing its turn of the century atmosphere.

I really enjoyed Kate Nash's show. She's effervescent and cheeky and a multi-talented musician. I loved that most of her songs, especially my favorite, were played at a faster tempo; it made the show less predictable. And I love that she closed with her first big hit, Foundations. I don't know what she played for encore, by that time I was delirious and aching, I needed home.

I ended up as you know, sickie sickerton, blessed by two friends that tag teamed my girl in a day she described as, 'the best day of my life' allowing me to spend the day like this,

watching a lot of television. I watched this and this, my regularly scheduled programming. I also watched a lot of this channel. Once there was nothing else to watch, I'm ashamed to admit, I became hooked on this.

More of the same on Friday,

I watched this and this (should I admit to this after admitting to liking the Kardashians?) and finally, I caught up on this.

Remarkably, I woke up on Saturday morning feeling like myself. I had a light day at work, received the best kind of mail love, (JC, you're the best),

and I took photos of my girl.

I was in love with my z-pack.

Perhaps I jumped the gun. Tonight my throat is so sore and raw, I'm so disappointed. I'm canceling all plans for tomorrow,  in hopes that this is temporary and I am indeed, on the mend.

Even though I've convinced myself I have strep, I'll know for certain on Monday. Until then. 

The ghost

The ghost was one of the chuppah holders at our wedding; one half of a couple that were our closest, couple friends.  M met T.M. and N at the symphony years before we'd started dating, a mutual friend introducing them.

The first time we all met was a sticky summer day; our destination Lollapalooza out on Randall's Island. 10 hours in the hot sun allows for a lot of time to get to know one another and we quickly began to spend time regularly with them, always as a couple.

T.M. was and probably still is, demonstrative; the hugger and kisser of both men and women. He was also an avid listener, always asking questions and really tuning in to what you were saying. And he was complimentary; always a kind word offered, always encouraging.

I don't even remember the first time I started feeling uncomfortable when T.M. and I would talk. We were always with his wife and the mister in the room or at the very least, within ear shot.

A comment. A remark. Here and there, words that made me uncomfortable, were slipped into seemingly innocent conversations. I'd mention it to M and he always defended T.M., believing he didn't mean to be anything but complimentary, because he was that touchy-feely kind of guy.

And, they were close friends.

Having been around the block, and back, I know when a man is making comments he shouldn't be. I've had a life time of 'comments' professionally, (a story for another time), and personally, and I think there's a huge karmic lesson in all of that that is being missed by me. Seriously.

Lest you think I might have been reading into what was being said, I'll share a couple of particularly awkward moments:

"you're going to be on the beach in italy, are you going to be topless? i never get to see anyone good topless, too bad we're not going."

So was this one, whispered across the dinner table with M sitting right by my side:

"you're an incredibly sexy pregnant woman"

um, ew.

I'm so lame in moments like this. I come up with the best comebacks after the fact. Instead I stand or sit in place, letting the crickets chirp while I try to get myself out of the hole.

Usually, I'd pretend as though I hadn't just heard what he said and I'd change the subject.

I know I should have said something, but the workings of his compliments were subtle and fucked with my head. What if I was just reading into his very metro-sexual way of talking to the ladies? Some men have the M.O. of 'sensitive, complimentary, listening guy'... It would have been a suck-ass situation to call a friend out like that and then be wrong, so I didn't.

I always felt a strain with N, like she knew her husband was saying things he shouldn't, and that I should have been standing up for myself, when I wasn't.

When we moved to Brooklyn we didn't see T.M. and N as much. Our lives didn't intersect once we moved across the river; the effort too great to be spontaneous.

Every summer, Brooklyn has a great movies series, a classic film shown outside under the stars. One such evening, N decided to come to Brooklyn on a whim.

On the walk over to the venue, she shared that she'd left T.M., divorce was imminent.  She began a long story of T.M.'s alter-ego; a narcissist with a mission to seduce N's friends and any woman he crossed paths with. Apparently, T.M. had been dropping innuendos and whispered compliments all around town, finally finding a taker in a good friend of N's, finding out all the sordid details through gossip.

Vindication! Except I felt dirty afterwards. I did a lot of wondering about my own actions; what was it that gave him the idea that I might be interested? As I said before, this wasn't unfamiliar territory for me.  I felt  guilty and responsible.

You can imagine my reticence to engage in conversation, let alone the first conversation since the last time we'd seen one another,  (the night of the sexy pregnant woman comment), when we ran into one another a few weeks ago.

A ghost from the past, reinvented.  A new wife and name (he dropped the T), a new life.  With enough of the narcissist intact, to reminisce about the past, while I cringed.

Home Again

It's always bittersweet to say goodbye to my Dad and H, even knowing we'll see them soon for Thanksgiving. There's nothing I hate more than goodbye.

Our last day in L.A. was also the hottest of the week; the beach would be the obvious activity of choice. Instead we drove downtown to the Museum of Natural History, miles from the ocean, heat index 105. Walking through the marble halls, I reminisced about my elementary school years and the annual field trip to this very museum, bored out of my skull shuffling past the same motley dioramas and dinosaur bones.

in case you can't tell, that would be a decapitated zebra head next to the lion cub. WTF?!?!?

The Pavillion of Wings was my favorite exhibition, miss A was not impressed.

Have you ever seen butterflies doing it? Me either! Instead of respecting their privacy I snapped away, certain the upside-down, acrobatic butterfly was the female, we know how men can be.

Rambling #2

I've been in a rambling, all-over the place, sort of place lately. Not scattered, (actually I'm quite focused), just all over the place.

Having no kitchen was definitely inconvenient and the house was dirtier than usual, but the basement took one for the team. Once the porta-johnny was removed, the basement toilet was taken over by the workers and let me tell you, men can be P.I.G  pigs' in the bathroom. Dust and dirt everywhere, the basement was transformed from a semi-finished playroom into short-term storage for the kitchen and dining room, eventually morphing into the crap receptacle you see pictured below.

Organizing the basement is on the list, (see homefront, #7), and I had a huge sense of accomplishment once the clean-up was complete.

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Speaking of items from the list, I am crossing off another line item, stop using splenda, (body, #10). Similar to the misplaced butter over at Hulaseventy, I can't find the box containing 600 little packaged chemicals. It's not in the basement and it's not on the pantry shelves. Perhaps in the big basement clean-up, I threw the new box of Splenda into the garbage.

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If you didn't already know, I'm a big fan of Howard Stern.* It's the reason we have Sirius radio and the reason I haven't minded the 20 minute ride home after I drop my girl at camp. It gives me the chance to listen and laugh, no matter how juvenille. As I was listening the other morning, this young tennis stud was the guest talking about an older woman he was interested in. And the guys were dogging the kid, telling him he couldn't possibly be interested in a 40-something broad, that younger is better. The dude kept saying, 'but she's hot for her age'. For her age.

Lately I seem to stumble across that qualifier everywhere I look. Maybe because I'm now that age, I'm sensitive. More magazine this month has fashion for real women, not girls and I bristle at the headline. Because dude, I consider myself a girl more than a woman. Woman is the word used to describe someone else, a middle-aged woman, not this 42 year old girl trapped in a body that age.

I can see my age starting to show on my face and body. To the average Joe, I'm slim and fit. If I walked into the Stern show dropping drawer, they wouldn't say I'm slim or fit. I'd hear recoiled horrror and sucking in gasps over my wonky bits and then some endearing advice on how to shape up, clean up my diet and finally, get some work. They might even kick down some cash towards my charity case.

This isn't everyday life, I know this. And I'm not here to throw myself under the bus or garner compliments on how I look. I love where my head is and I feel good in my body despite the desire to lose a few and firm up. I feel slightly betrayed by my body's need to be treated more carefully. That food and drink affect me and disrupt my sleep. That I need to exercise more and eat less to maintain my figure because my metabolism is slowing down. But I can live with all this and like myself, despite being of that age.

I'm curious. How are middle-aged labels working for you? Do you bristle when you find yourself called ma'am? Do you think of yourself as the age you are or are you 'younger' or 'older' in your minds eye?

*I qualify this whole section by saying of course I consider the source, but still.

Rambling

After reading the article Paris Parfait posted, try saying that three times really fast, I found myself gazing at the two SARK books on my shelves and it was that moment when I admitted to myself that I was done with Walking In This World. Seriously, what a relief.

Hearing of SARK throughout the blogsphere, I quickly purchased this book at work when it came in. It was around the time I began this project, so I put SARK back on the shelf where she waited until I was ready to admit I wasn't 'walking' anymore. Recently I found this book on title trader and I'm looking forward to some joy-filled, playful self-help.

Do you know title trader? It's like visiting a garage sale in your own home. I've traded crap collecting dust in the basement and I take someone else's crap. It's fantastic.

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I've had sciatica for the past 2 weeks on my right side, severe enough to keep me off skates and out of practice, in hopes of mending. I need to get back exercising. It's the one constant I can do for myself to keep the repetitive, negative, brain drain chatter at bay.

It's going to be a lazy weekend. I'm going to the city on Saturday, don't i have the life of riley with all my alone time, and I want to take my girl to the pool on Sunday. It seems like I blinked and suddenly, August was here. I feel the need to go to the pool as much as possible, plan daytrips to the beach and capture this summer before it slips by.

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Last weekend in Chicago, Madame Palm said I'd get two sums of money. I'd forgotten about it until a refund check arrived in the mail yesterday, a nice unexpected sum. Perhaps Madame Palm really does see things, I wish I could remember all she prophesied.

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Remember these lights?

Today they were switched to these lights and I'm pleased, very pleased.

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I've been experimenting with my new camera, trying to figure out how it works. Um, learning curve much? I'm barely past the on switch. An easy subject for practice is our butterfly bush, the only thing of beauty in our over-grown with weeds small dirt mound backyard. My butterflies are warm and welcoming. They allow me a close proximity, patiently posing as I snap away.