I'm Too Easy To Roll Over

There's a great Ani D lyric that goes:

you think i stand so firm
you think i sit so high on my trusty steed
let me tell you
i'm usually face down on the ground
whenever there's a stampede
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
i'm too easy to roll over
i'm too easy to wreck
i just write about what i should have done
i just sing
what i wish i could say ( i'm no heroine / living in clip )

Today, i realized just how easy i am to bulldoze over. And it's not an easy feeling to sit with. Did i give up the fight because i realized it was petty? Did i give it up because i felt that it could somehow, someway compromise our friendship? Or did i do it simply because it was easier than confronting the situation. . . again?

There is a thin line between door mat and "wow, i've got balls!" and i tend to want to tread the line that makes me just a sensible, feeling human rather than either of the above. it's a hard line to dance around and most of the time i think i trip on over to doormat more so than "i've got balls." i have never been the kind of person that likes to fight. or argue. or talk with gritted teeth for that matter. . .

Here's the situation: friend & bridesmaid picked out shoes that don't really match the dress or the formal attire that is her dress. After long debates with friends and bridesmaids, they convinced me that I should bring it up, maybe gently ask if she would buy new shoes that would match the dress better.

So after three days of pumping myself up for the conversation i finally left a message: "umm, hi. Sorry i didn't get in touch with you this weekend. it was pretty busy, but hope you had a good one. So i'm calling because um i was thinking that i would like you to get some new shoes for the wedding that match the dress better. I think it would look better for uh pictures and um C got her shoes @ bridal elegance and uh they weren't that expensive and they just dye them to match. Really simple. Just give me a call back. Ok, thanks."

the whole time during that two minute diatribe i'm thinking "wow, i got balls" but i was about to be showed up in the ball department by two that were much much bigger.

return phone call: "hi. . . . about the shoes. i really don't have time, money or a desire to get shoes that i'll never wear again." She then proceeds to say that if pictures are going to be a problem she can just take the shoes off for them.

huh. cause bare toes poking out from underneath the hem of your dress looks better than those shoes?

So i called her back and had an awkward conversation in which i apologized for having a "bridezilla" moment and said i may be mean but i would NEVER ask for her to take her shoes off for pictures. . . geesh. give me some credit as the sensible, feeling human being that i am.

So now i wonder should i have put up more of a fight. Offered to pay for them? Insisted? Or did i do the right thing by dropping it and saying that's fine, i understand. Money is tight for everyone. Time is of the essence too.

Truth is i wasn't a bridezilla. I asked as gently as i could after giving the situation much thought and contemplation. but i still fear that that was how i came off: angry, insistent & unfriendly. It seems the few times that i do cross that line into "wow, i got balls!" i am rebuked and it throws me back into doormat. Not because i am so hurt by the others responses but because i feel like such a bad human being when it's all said and done.

BedMate

Tonight Matisse & I are going to try a brand new experiment.
He's going to sleep in the hallway and i'm going to sleep alone in my king size bed.
It's going to be awesome.

This Must Be What It's Like

Yeah, of course. now that the deadline has passed response cards are just flooding in. figures. we would not accomplish anything in this world if it weren't for the last minute. me included:
i called the marriott on Friday and talked to one of the receptionist "i think i need to cancel my block of rooms because my understanding is that if i don't use them all then we will be charged for them."
"well, ma'am i don't know the specifics of your contract you probably worked it out with mark. ."
"yes, yes, that's right. i did."
"well, i'll leave a message for him that you would like to cancel the remaining rooms."
"thanks."

In an ideal world i would have asked to speak to Mark or sent Mark an e-mail via the brand new, ultra cool internet that allows me to "talk" to people without actually talking. OR this is even better, i would have pulled the contract out of my wedding planner and actually read the fine print. . .

Regardless, i would have followed up like the responsible adult i am. . . . supposed to be.

Enter Tuesday afternoon with my legs thrown over the back of the couch watching a Netflix of Will & Grace trying to push the nagging feeling that i really should check on that hotel contract because i can explain a lot of different credit card charges to N but how in the world would i explain 8 rooms with tax?! So after letting my lean cuisine digest for a little bit i finally walked the 3 steps over to the wedding planner, pulled open the tab with the contracts and found said contract in less than 30 seconds.

After reading the fine print and realizing that the deadline had passed and that cancellations needed to be received in writing i realized i was shit up a river and finally needed to actually communicate with my contact at Marriott. So i used the new technology to send the e-mail and got a response within a matter of minutes that answered all my questions.

AND I PROCRASTINATED FOR ALL THAT? For exactly 5 minutes out of my 24 hour day?

This could have ended badly, but it didn't.

But i learned that my very own organizational skills deemed necessary by this wedding really does pay off.

So THIS is what it's like to be organized? It actually does take less time to accomplish tasks and it doesn't come with the inevitable stomach ache.

Nice.

Nite Out

i remember why i don't go out now. i hate running into people i knew way back when and having to suffer through awkward conversations that you can barely hear over the throbbing techno music:

R: "Logan, Sara Barber?!" Stops & points at us and we both stand on the sidelines of the dance floor. Me dressed in a sweater/sweatshirt combo, jeans & heals looking oh so 25 and not 18. I look at the stranger for the longest time not placing her, assuming she must be an old acquaintance of Sara's but she really doesn't seem to be making the connection either. I stare longer
R: "I can't believe you don't know who i am?! I know who you are?!" Somewhere in my brain connections are starting to be made, but when i finally shout out a name
"Oh my God, Faith!" it's the wrong one but i don't think she heard me over the music so i'm safe once i truly recognize who she is.
R: "Do you still fucking hate me?" HuH?! This girl that i knew and was friends with 6, 7, 8 years ago would never look like this and would really NEVER drop the F word in the first sentence. What college and life experience does to people. . . .

So we proceed to make small talk. I ask if she's still writing. She asks what i'm up to and proceeds to congratulate me on getting married. Sara says she a social worker. We sip from our straws & look around because we don't know what else to talk about and the thought of trying to hold an interesting conversation over the music seems like a chore.

A guy walks up to R, steps in close and whispers into her ear. She giggles & brushes sweaty strands of hair away from her face. She explains:
"I was just dancing with random guys out on the floor, you know how it is."
I knew how it was in circa 2003 when i still did this - get obliterated on shots of tequila and then attempt to find myself in the music that reverberated through the floor, in the arms of some complete stranger that i could only see through tequila eyes & a pumping strobe light that intensified the "high" even more.

4 years and one engagement later i find myself more happy sipping wine with dinner, exercising 2x a day and falling into my boyfriends arms night after night exchanging familiar stories or events from the day rather than superficial stories over shots. I don't know how it is anymore, but i did once upon a time so i smile & nod my head in agreement.

Andrea, Sara & I all leave before the bar before it closes (which would have been heresy 4 years ago) and strode along the downtown street arm & arm. Andrea asked if i really hated R? Back then, yes. Now, No. Andrea laughs and says at least i'm honest. I think about how everything has changed and how all those years offered me a fresh perspective on what's important. We continue walking in a silence for a bit until A pipes up again "To be perfectly honest, i thought the bar scene stopped when i stopped." we all laugh in agreement. we are adults, now. with jobs to work on saturday nights, early monday mornings and the belief that sundays are way too precious to spend hungover.

For N

I thought you may like this.
Matisse @ 8 months
& 76 whopping
pounds.



*click on image to enlarge. it looks a lot better that way :)

Weather Update

Brrr. . .

Stress

I forsee an impending break down.

R.S.V.P.

I got the response card from my only aunt on my dad's side.
decline with regret.
nothing else.
no "i hope you have a happy day." "our thoughts will be with you." "best wishes."
just
a check mark.


ouch.

That Which Inspires

I have things that need to be written. a wedding program. letters. thank you notes. journal entries laying out my life - right now - at this moment - as to not forget in the future. I have the pressure of an impending deadline. I have the pressure of knowing there are expectations. Awareness that the words i write down on a single sheet of paper will be recorded for a life time: whether it's preserved in memory or in a yellowing envelope in someone's dresser drawer. In years time they will pull it out of its wrinkled envelope, sit down in their favorite lounge chair and recount the words and the time in their life when they were spoken, written, read.

And that pressure makes me stop short. makes the pencil halt. makes my mind go blank. makes me believe, even just momentarily, that i can't do it. that i don't measure up. that it will never, no matter how hard i try, be as good as i would like it to be. The fear that won't be able to convey all that i want to and the words will fail me. . .

The absolute fear that i will not, god forbid, MEASURE UP.

Keep writing, they say. Put it all out there. Write now. Revise later. It will work itself out.
I hope so.

Inspiration is no longer flowing from my pores. No longer oozing from mind to hand. No longer rushing through tiny blue veins under the skin. So i turn elsewhere. To music. To the color palette that is now emerging outside. To cloudy days and cool temperatures. To the smell of hazelnut coffee. To a well written poem. To the symphony of spoons that plays out every time i cook dinner. To a well written lyric. Or a beat that makes me tap my fingers against the steering wheel. Linens from the dryer. A gusty wind. A rainy day. A paw up against my skin in the middle of the night. the love story that continually emerges with every conversation. the understanding that i need him. he needs me. and we would not be able to create a whole without one another.

finding true happiness for the first time in 25 years. and believing that it could last 25 more.

i closed my eyes momentarily. writing this opened them back up.

inspiration abounds.

and now, so does words.

Update

WRITER'S BLOCK.

Pure Hell

YouTube has allowed us to document bad service first hand. And the companies providing the poor service are outraged that some of us are taking matters into our own hand - publishing their customer service horror stories online. This one was featured tonight on ABC News.And i thought my flight was bad. . . .

GIVE

Because when fantastic ideas are presented along with the chance to do give and do good (and are endorsed by Oprah) its necessary to humanity to showcase them.

We do have the power to change other peoples lives.

This is brilliant.