Even Later~

So I lied again. [Comfortable, yet edgy].

I don't smoke. What am I doing now? Smoking a Marlboro Ultra Light 100. I've had a pack stashed in my purse since Saturday afternoon (shortly after hellish visit with "therapist".) You know things must be bad when he tells you your hours up, then asks if you're o.k. <------------- awkward pause ----------------> reprhrases and asks if you're "all right". Things inched horizontally from there.

So I'm sneaking a fake-smoke, and feeling like I'm 15 (again). A few minutes ago I washed my face with magic age-defying facewash. As I was running my fingers over my face I glanced at my pony-tailed head and had a quick hair-color debate with myself. (I'm getting my hair done tomorrow. This is the same girl that recommended the therapist. Should be an interesting chat.) Solid ash brown? Dark ash brown with bold blonde chunks? Dark ash brown with tasteful caramel highlights? Good grief, exactly how old must one be before they stop getting zits? How could I have zits and clever little laugh-lines?

Look, I've had half a bottle of Malbec, I was told I was cute, and I had some witty intellectual conversation. My mind is allowed to wander. (I just have to keep Houses of the Holy turned down low, and keep a window cracked for the smoke.)

I'm happier than I was earlier. I've learned how to ride the emotional roller-coaster. My Dad called me from the parking lot of Tom Thumb. This is a good sign. I got an e-mail from another dear friend back home this afternoon. I made some damn good chicken and rice.

It's gotten chilly here [again], so I have to lounge in pink-and-purple striped socks, paisley p.j. bottoms, and golf t-shirt + hoodie. My relationship continues. I don't think smoking is going to help balance anything. I'm going to bed now. ;-)

~~~

Later~

So I lied. Something more tomorrow.

~~

Something. Later.

chillin'

It's one of those days.

I absolutely love listening to "In The Waiting Line" when I'm feeling wonky. (Really, all of Zero 7's stuff is pretty fantastic. "Simple Things" is a wonderful c.d.)

no news is good news (burying my head toes in the sand)

Even later~

I've loved Ickle for quite some time. I really liked this one. Yikes. Now I've got this song firmly stuck in my head. G'night.

Later~

Wow. What a shitastic, craptacular visit with the tax man.

~~

Today is fantabulous. I'm back on track with diet and exercise (funny how quickly those types of things can get ignored.) I'm armed with nothing more dangerous than a bit of self-confidence and a clingy purple blouse. I'm going to get a coke and have lunch on the beach - yes, indeed (please don't hit me), but for now I'm:

Listening: Led Zeppelin and Frankie and Elvis and Oasis etcetera (loudly)
Shopping: Either ~ Or (I'm leaning a little more towards the "either"...) and plenty of this
Planning: Surprise (Huzzah, fo shizzle!!)

Later - the tax man (oww), and a trip to the bank to deposit many tens of dollars.

huh?

I think I'm a fairly clever person, but sometimes the simplest things baffle me. I was just surfing MSN's Women Central (a.k.a. "wasting time"), and clicked on the banner ad for Vigel (merely out of curiosity, mind you.) Again, my mere curiosity had me clicking that "free trial" button. Part of the free trial is the "gift" of a full subscription to Maxim magazine. WTF would I want (not that *I* would want to get a free trial of Vigel, mind you) with a subscription for Maxim?? Wouldn't it make more sense to give me a subscription for something like Cosmo?

take two

a little later~

Here's the quick skinny. Previous post wasn't all that bad, just a little too personal, and not really what I want to say. Here's much better blander stuff to ponder:

I bought a pair of khaki capri pants and some red leather mary-janes. Lovely, and v. un-slutty.

I planted some gerbera daisies, geraniums, rosemary, and sage yesterday. I had dirt under my fingernails, but since I didn't have to get ready to present any Oscars this year it really didn't matter. (Speaking of Oscars, I have a huge woman-crush on Julianne Moore. She looked lovely just because she smiled, and didn't appear to take herself too seriously. If I were a man I wouldn't want someone like Calista Flockhart. She looked pained, pissed, and hungry.)

I've discovered Yoplait Whips. It's yogurt, it's whipped, and it's yummy. (Yep, I like yogurt. I also like grapefruit juice.)

Yeah - well, o.k. This might not be the mother of all cheese sandwich posts, but it's right up there. (Truth-be-told, I'm just tired of being gloomy. I can't handle the news, and I really don't want to discuss the war.)

~~

I just did a bit of self-editing (which I normally don't do, but since I can, I did.) Something better later.

happy spring

Last night I was doing a little grocery shopping, and decided I needed to head down the shampoo aisle. Directly across from the hair-styling products were the female grooming products. I glanced to the left and noticed a new product - Nair for Men. I picked up the bottle, did a quick sniff test (yep, wretched smelling as usual), and started reading. The bottle says for use on "arms, chest, back, stomach, legs, and ankles". Do men (other than members of a swim team) really want smooth legs? Now I'm beginning to think about this stuff way too much. Hrm. It doesn't say anything about a man's "boxer" area, but you know there are guys who'll use this instead of their razors so they can get in touch with their inner-porn-star.

As I'm standing there holding this big-ass bottle of Nair for Men, lost in a Homer Simpson-esque train of thought, an extremely handsome man has to ask me to "please move my buggy so he can go around me". We smile at each other, I put back the male grooming cream, and move on to the beer section. I think this product is just one more sign that men are just as concerned with their outward appearances as women. Speaking of, I've got an appointment to get my hair re-striped. I've got other things to take care of, as well. Yeah.

It's been gloomy all week - overcast and rainy. I'm beginning to feel down, and really need some sunshine. At least it's warm - the high today will be in the mid-70's. I think I'll go rent some movies tonight.

in vino veritas, baby

Actual photo of bottles of wine sitting in the dining room as I type.
 
I've made it to Day Three of "No Booze Week". (Did you get the memo?) We're going to war in five-ish hours. It's as good an excuse as any, I say.*

*Well, that and the fact that I was seranaded with this song when I got out of the shower this morning. O.K. - maybe I started the tune, but the peanut gallery sure was quick to chime in. For the record, I don't have that much back, but I do have it goin' on like a turbo 'Vette. Word.
;-)

fuck

Now I'm getting scared. I really, really don't want to think about this shit, but I also don't think I can continue to cover my ears and hum and make it all go away. We only live two miles from Oceana Naval Air Station (which is eerily silent today. For the past few weeks you couldn't even think with all the fly-boys buzzing the house coming and going from maneuvers. Today - nothing.) Norfolk is the home of the largest Naval Base in the world. I *know* these spots are supposed to be secure, but I also can't help feeling like I'm living in the middle of a bull's-eye.

I think what bothers me the most is this feeling of helplessness. I have a personality that thrives on feeling safe, being secure, and feeling like I'm in control of at least something. I wish I was capable of relying more on my faith - I know I don't control anything - that my fate is in much larger hands than mine. All these instructions for being prepared only make me more frightened. I just have these incredibly mixed feelings about all of this. I love my country, and all of the reasons I love my country are probably the basis for all of my fears. I've always felt secure here. Safe. In control. I took these things for granted until the unthinkable happened in N.Y.C./D.C./PA. Shortly afterwards my personal life drama distracted my focus from my [common] everyday life as a citizen, and all of the millions of people that share my citizenship. I got sucked back into taking my liberties for granted. Now that that's threatened I'm terribly confused about who to blame, and what exactly is the right thing to do. In my gut things don't feel right. I'm skitterish, and I feel queasy. I feel like I'm just waiting for the other boot to drop.

Sorry. I know this post feels ugly, and not at all what I want to say, I just feel the need to dump it somewhere, and I'm saving the best of me for meatspace instead of cyberspace. Later I'll make some cookies, listen to tunes, and, hopefully, rock the casbah.

song of the day #1
song of the day #2 (it makes me weep)

stretching

My name is Kelly. Kelly starts with a K (btw - what is "itty-gritty"??) Kelly is an Irish name. Kelly is also a shade of green. My eyes are green. Green is the official color of St. Patrick's Day. These are all justifiable causes for celebration.

O.K.

The R&R Hall of Fame Induction ceremonies were pretty darn good. I would have chosen me to do the schmoozy-intro-thingy for Elvis Costello & The Attractions, but they had Elton John do it instead. I really wasn't too pleased with him. I did think their choice of performing Deep Dark Truthful Mirror was genius, and Peace, Love yadda yadda was topical and cool. This morning I'm finding myself v. intrigued with the fact Elvis is dating Diana Krall. (If you took all of the Elvis/Diana c.d.'s out of my collection you'd have a pretty impressive pile.) This sets up a variety of fantasy scenarios for me. I've always imagined sharing a bottle of wine with Elvis. We'd sit and chat about brilliant things. We'd both be wearing our glasses and we'd be all shades of geeky-cool. Now I can imagine the happy couple phoning me up and inviting me over to their place. We'd sit around the piano singing Sinatra tunes, and we'd stay up too late talking about various types of musical genres. Diana would sing "Cry Me A River", and I'd sigh. I would listen intently with with my face propped up on the palm of my hand. Oh sure - she's blonde, and has mad piano skills, and can sing, but Elvis would find himself smitten with me because I'm prettier/smarter/and-oh-so-witty. He'd whip out his guitar and write me a song right on the spot. Diana would get a little sore, but I'd assure her that my heart was already occupied. Elvis would go on to win the song/record-of-the-year Grammy's for his tune "Kelly's Green Irish Eyes Made Me Fall Madly In Love, But She Ripped My Heart Out (Gently), And Left Me Tortured (But In A Good "Artistic" Way)". He'd weep while accepting his awards, and say something like "When it gets down to the itty-gritty, that woman stole my hearts lunch money".

Later~

That's it. I'm officially frightened now*, even though I might fake indifference, and I might seem a little cavalier (at times). Hrmm. It might be a good idea to go and top off the gas tank before the prices go through the roof.

*Can Diplomacy sue the the U.S. and it's allies for divorce on grounds of abandonment? I'm guessing it's a little too late to phone a counselor...

"his savage tongue made pop venomous"

I'll be watching this well-deserving class of inductees a little later tonight. Cheers.

perfect hollywood moments and other reasons to smile

This morning I was driving East as the sun broke through the clouds over the ocean. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy come over me as I listened to this song. I turned the music up so loud that I could feel it thump-thumping in my chest. Tears of joy slowly slid down my cheeks, and for the first time in a long time I didn't feel the need to wipe them away.

I finally understand there's never going to be an adequate answer to all the why's or how's or what if's. Time to shake the dust off, and time to stop thinking so damn much.

In other news....

There's more than one way to get into the Baseball Hall of Fame, and it's really great to see that Bob Uecker will be given the Frick Award in Cooperstown on July 27th. "Mr. Baseball" was inducted in the Radio Hall of Fame two years ago. Proof that nice guys do get the recognition they deserve.

And~

Last night I had the perfect bath. Steaming hot. I shaved my legs. Read a magazine. Sipped a pint of "the cream of Manchester". Oddly enough there weren't any phone calls from CNN.

but wait, there's more~

Can anyone hold on to their popcorn prior to the opening credits? No. It's physically impossible.

lastly~

Oil for their manly torsos!

oh, oh, wait - just one more thing!~

Here's a bit of what I've been listening to today. Have a nice weekend.

little triggers

Last night I had a dream I was in Italy. It was in the Italian Riviera (I think), and I was walking back to the place I was staying. I'd just been to the market, and I was carrying a brown shopping bag with loaves of bread poking out. I was wearing a cream-colored belted sweater that hit me mid-thigh. The sweater was covering cream-colored one-piece swimsuit. I was also wearing a pair of red leather ballet slippers, Holly Golightly shades, and cheap plastic beaded bracelets. (I love bracelets. Probably because I think I've got nice wrists. Small and dainty.) Out of the blue a man smacked my bottom. I shouted "don't touch me"!, and rounded a corner. I went down some stairs, saw the people I was a staying with (an elderly couple that I didn't know), hugged them, and started talking about dinner plans. Then I woke up, looked at the clock (2:34 a.m.), and went back to sleep.

I've got no clue what the dream meant, but when I was lying in bed this morning I thought about the six weeks I traveled through [mainly] France with friends the summer I was seventeen. We stayed in Nice for five days. The natives there speak French with a distinct Italian accent, and pronounce the name of the city "Neees-UH" instead of "Neeese". One day we decided to take the train to Monte Carlo for a little sightseeing, then made our way across the Italian border to San Remo. We went to a cafe for a late lunch, and ordered spaghetti. We didn't know that Italians considered this only a side dish - kind of like ordering only mashed potatoes in America - and the waiter told us we were odd. After lunch we went to the flea market and bought knock-off Louis Vuitton purses. We were back on the train to Nice by sunset. We freshened up back at the hotel, and met up with our French teacher, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend's friend, Alain. Our teacher was only 22, and Alain was 21. I could tell he fancied me, and he asked if I wanted to go to Eze with him the next day. (This is where they grow many of the flowers that are used in perfumes.) I agreed, but only if two of my friends could tag along. I will never forget that drive - me, in the front seat of his teeny-tiny French car - windows down, driving madly through curving mountain roads. I must have been white-knuckling it because he would occasionally place his hand on top of mine and smile, and say things like "my driving makes you nervous, no"? I'd glance back at my friends, and they'd wink and smile. Once we stopped they took off, leaving the two of us alone. He made me speak only French with him, even though he spoke perfect English. We toured a parfumerie, and took a walk through the village, but nothing more shocking than hand-holding went on. He bought me a small bottle of lavender oil, and he drove us back to our hotel. The next day we went to Cannes and laid in the sun for hours. We ate croque-monsieurs and fruit-filled crepes that we bought from a vendor on the beach. We stopped at Antibes on our way back and visited the Picasso Museum. The next day we said adieu, and our group boarded the train to Nimes.

This was a long time ago. No stress, no worries, and I was still fresh - innocent - and extremely naive. It's nice to revisit such ancient memories, and recall those times the world was mine to conquer.

enigmatic

Every idea therefore in a sense is true, and
is true of reality. The question with every idea is how far and in what sense
is it true. The question is always whether, qualifying reality in one sense,
the idea qualifies reality in another sense also. For, true in one world, an
idea may be false in another world...

Francis H. Bradley
--Essays on Truth and Reality

There are a lot of people I've only known in the periphery. I suppose I could technically count them as a friend, but I certainly don't know them in the same context as my [quote/unquote] close friends. One of the things I've always enjoyed about reading Jeremy is that the spit and bravado revealed in his words never quite synchronized with his live-and-in-person character. I can relate. Now I'm sure some of the people that really know him well might snicker, but the few times I've met him in social settings he seemed shy, soft-spoken, and tender-hearted. Sometimes there's an uncomfortable recognition in his words, and I like that.

peter's the new frank*

Wow. I listened to this great story on NPR Saturday morning and made a mental note to look this guy up. (Really great story - a must listen.) Whoa-nelly. Peter Cincotti. It does a heart good knowing there are talented v. young men out there who love the standards. A new Frank, perhaps. I will definitely have to put this c.d. on my wish list.

*Maybe not quite the new Frank, but at least a breath of fresh air.

more bits and pieces

The weekend was good, all things considered.

D. and I found ourselves sitting on the therapists' couch chatting about some of the intimate details of our relationship Saturday afternoon. (Still a pretty surreal experience for someone who used to think only flakes/losers/weirdos/etc. went to counseling.) This time we focused mainly on me, and we began to explore some rather uncomfortable feelings and what possibly triggered all this "stuff". (My mother? Nah. My boyfriend from 9th grade that dumped me because I wouldn't sleep with him? Hmmm. Perhaps it was the second, or the third, or fourth boyfriend... I stubbornly held onto my virginity until my 19th birthday, deeming it "the sacred gift of me", worthy only to the most deserving suitor, blah blah blah. Whoa. Lightbulb moment. Methinks we are stumbling onto something, doc.) After our second session with the new guy I can now see myself getting all Tony Sopranoed-up about it. I love it, and that's all I'll say about that for now, which is probably more than enough.

The weather couldn't have been any more perfect. I washed my car, pulled weeds, and acquired a sunburned nose. It's shorts weather again, and for the first time in a long time I really don't give a damn whether my knees are too square, my mother made me a little too "veiny", or my thighs have a bump or two*. It's shorts weather! I also did a lot of cooking this weekend - risotto/shrimp/salads - and I've been noodling around with the idea of going back to school to get a degree in Culinary Arts. I would love to earn money doing something I truly enjoy. This is still in the mulling-over stage.

D. and I watched Six Feet Under last night, and we both thought it was a good episode. (Sidenote: I am really digging the "wake" feature via the HBO link. Cool.) The Claire/Phil plotline was uncomfortable for me - it's difficult to see a character lower their personal standards just to go to bed with someone. When he told her "of course I fuck other women", and he asked her if she wanted to go upstairs I heard myself talking to telly screen - "noooo - don't do it!", and before her scripted reply I answered for her - "yes, o.k..." This set up an unfortunate mini-real-life-uncomfortable moment when mine and D.'s eyes locked and he gave me a painful, inquisitive look. I could hear him thinking "why/how?" This is, of course, a question that has no answer.

This morning, while flipping though the channels, I saw a commercial for this, and I'm looking forward to watching with great excitement. A none too shabby lineup, indeed. What I wouldn't give to be there tonight. (Sigh.) I've got the perfect shoes...

*Aw, hell - the only thing I've really never liked are my "boy knees" - not cute and dainty enough. I won't complain about the rest.

scent

I'm a scent-junkie. I've always loved the way things smell. New cars, leather, soap, ripe peaches, baby lotion, flowers, grass, bacon frying, coffee, and-on-and-on. (Of course, these are some of the more pleasant things, unlike - oh - let's say - "wet dog", or "burning hair".) Every morning I shower in whatever flavor from Bath & Body Works happens to strike my fancy. This is followed by some B&BW lotion, maybe a little perfume, and my deodorant. I rarely stink.

If you like perfumes/colognes, you can get a custom scent created here just by taking their fragrance journey. Personally, I'd be happy just getting the purse-sizes of their "perfect vanilla" and "perfect veil".

In other non-stinky/pretty news I've recently: a) shaved my legs (hurrah), b) been carded while purchasing a bottle of wine by a cute check-out boy (young) named Ryan (who also happened to have a pierced eyebrow, and made me grin from ear-to-ear when he said "I'm going to have to see some I.D." (hurrah again), and c) discovered Jessica has a lovely new site (hurrah hurrah hurrah!)

Good grief - what a gorgeous day. Too bad all I want to do is curl up in ball and take a nap. Grrr. I need to shave my legs, and I'm craving in dire need of a Red Bull.

Heard a bit of disturbing news earlier. Looks like Ed may be on NBC's cancellation list at the end of the season. Owww. Say it ain't so. Please - no - no - noooooo... (At least it's on tonight. Yum.) Geez - I only like a handful of things that are out there. (Sidenote: I was a little disappointed with the season opener of Six Feet Under, but ~ it's still one of the best things on the telly at the moment. At least there's still Homer, et al...)

listening: Tony Bennett

In honor of Mardi Gras and devilishly bad cramps I'm sipping a Heineken and cooking some creamy chicken and vegetables. I'm pretty good in the kitchen. I'm even better when I've got a little background music. (Sidenote: I don't know how/why the sign-on screen for my "station" picked the pics of those artists. Every time I sign on there's that fairly awful picture of Donald Fagen scowling and looking all angst-ridden...) Have I mentioned I'm happy? I am. (That's not just the Heineken talking.)

spring fever

If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant. If we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.
Anne Bradstreet

There are six pots of various shapes and sizes sitting on a round table in the sunroom of our house. Terra Cotta, ceramic, plastic - painted, plain, round, square, rectangular. If you look at the contents without knowing what lies inside you'd probably dismiss them quickly. "Looks like dirt. Plain and simple." (yawn....) I happen to be in on the secret, though. There's basil - oregano - chives - cilantro - parsley - dill. There's three different varieties of cherry tomatoes. I've been watering my dirt, and this morning I was able to make out the first teensy bit of green poking up towards the sun. I see happiness there.

Not long ago those pots were empty. I was too busy trying not to be what I thought the world-at-large considered dull. Meaningless. Geeky. I wanted excitement, sparkle, and amusement in my life. I wanted to stir things up, I wanted attention. I wanted things that were right there in my own backyard all along. I cared too damn much about impressing the unimpressive, and slowly lost touch with what real happiness was.

Today I can feel that familiar stir in my belly, and it's not the hyperactive butterflies I'd gotten hooked on. It's more like a warm, comfortable glow. In a couple of months I'll be pinching off some dill to toss in a marinade for chicken. I'll ask Dennis to start the coals on the grill, and we'll sit outside and feel the warm sun on our faces. It's that hope of life that makes me smile today. So many things died these past few winters - pieces of our hearts, my pride, his trust, my trust - self-esteem - and on... I'm holding on to the small miracles that reveal themselves everyday. Happiness lives here now.

One of the things I've realized is that a person's standards can only be as high as the ones they set for themselves. If "life" isn't knocking you off of your feet, then you've probably been on your backside far too long. Just yesterday I was reaching into my jacket pocket for a long-forgotten tissue - wiping bitter tears that were forming in the corner of my eyes. I was driving and listening to the most depressing of songs. I was feeling that familiar sensation of being dragged down lower and lower, but I became angry instead of sad. I gave myself a little smack to the forehead, hit the eject button on the c.d. player, and sat up in my seat. I balled up the tissue and put it back in my pocket, took a deep breath, and sipped my water.

I'm standing now.

a bit later ~

As a woman bravely facing her youth [rapidly] passing her by, I find myself intrigued by the fact that these post-forty beauties are examples of what I'd love to be when I grow up. Mrowrrnn.

tipsy, yes

We met the new quote-un-quote-shrink today. I like him. He's hip in a Harrison-Ford-tries-to-hang-on-to-his-youth-by-his toenails sort of way. At least he's action-oriented.

My dinner party tonight was so great that actual people feared the greatness of it. (They were so afraid they didn't want to leave until now.) Lots of top-secret political discussions were held here, and I actually managed to stay completely undignified the entire evening. (Note to self: I'm going shopping tomorrow around noon. Be sharp.)

Marvin Gaye has been replaced by Marshall Crenshaw, which isn't such a bad thing.

And ~ my lips rock. They really rock.