I have never liked going to the grocery store. I just don't like food that much. People are weird or even creepy at the grocery store- especially the store we go to regularly these past 7 years.
I don't like making dinner. Or rather I don't like making dinner while the kids fight, while we all slip into the afternoon crazies resulting from low blood sugar and knowing there is a good chance some of it will be thrown on the floor. If you have kids, you know the scene.
I caught a sinus cold last Friday- the 25th of July- while preparing to go camping. We had done the grocery shopping for the trip and I busted my tail prepping food that we could heat and eat in the great outdoors. I paid the price and was a miserable wretch most of the weekend.
Of course returning to our casa on Sunday with Mama sick meant things did not progress as they would have on a regular weekend. We would have at least made a grocery list and made a plan for the week. I realized on Monday at some point that we would likely be running out of some staples by the middle or end of the week- but I did not feel like going tot he grocery. So in my thick-headed state (stubbornness on top of sinus pressure) I wondered what it would look like to avoid the grocery store. How long could we last?
I don't recall if my daughter asked for something that we ran out of before or after I announced to the family over dinner one night that I was not going to the grocery. And stating, I think it would be fun to see how empty we could make the pantry. I mean, it isn't like we don't have any food. (Nice, double negative, I know).
It was kind of a joke in my own head. A fun challenge. We have tons of cucumbers and zucchini and a whole slew of odd ingredients- dry beans, tahini, semolina flour and the like. I am a creative person, I could totally do this!
Well, once my daughter realized that I was not going to the grocery to get more hummus or eggs or milk (People are dairy-free! Some people are vegan! I don't use milk on my oatmeal. Okay, I do use home made yogurt, but I don't have to!), there was a bit of a joke's-on-you backlash. My husband thought I was trying to make a point- like I was waiting until he cracked and went to the store instead of me. My daughter started whining and chanting, "go to the store! If Mama would just go to the store. I want pancakes!!" She was almost inconsolable about the pancakes, but her daddy was able to calm her down. Meanwhile I was eating my oats at the table when I realized: you can make an egg substitute with flax meal. Yes, I did say it outloud. I was calm, cool, collected. Of course this was after my daughter had stomached some oats or Wheetabix and the pancake train had left the station. My timing could have been better, I admit that. My husband, being the good soul he is, uttered "that would have been good to try- maybe next time."
I wish I could say that we are still holding out. That we do not have 2 gallons of milk, two cartons of eggs, and store-bought hummus in the fridge, a watermelon on the counter (along with the many pounds of squash and cukes), and dried fruits and nuts aplenty in the pantry. Steve went to the grocery yesterday after his weekend work duty. We did forget onions and crackers so at least we will have to be creative in those areas. What on earth will we eat the hummus with? If it was just me, I would still be trying to use up the dribs and drabs and coming up with some new pantry-cleaning diet (It works on your household pantry and your personal reserves, padded-extra-pounds "pantry"!). Not that I was ever in this for the weight loss potential. Just going for a new way to make the dinner madness a bit more interesting-for me. And I still see no reason why avoiding the grocery can't be a viable goal for us in this first world nation, with our CSA share and backyard garden vegetable heavens piling up on the counter and filling the crisper.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Anniversary #14
I came home from my morning job (which is actually really fun) and found my yongest daughter in her highchair finishing lunch, my hubby getting ready to ride to work and a splash of color and enticing display center table.
Our wedding champagne glasses each had a couple sprigs of wild geranium and columbine (from our garden!) and were arranged on a napkin, artfully set at an angle to the table edges. Propped at the bottom edge of one glass was a re-used card. (I love re-using cards by saving the picture side that has not been written on and recycling the messaged half. Not only did Steve do this, he chose a card that I had given him on Easter that had the words "You make a whole bunch of happiness bloom in my heart." The card has been in my card box for years so i finally passed it on. And here it was being passed on again. Too apropo. So he cut out the blooming message and taped it to the picture side of the front half of the card and filled the back with his poetic message.) I read the message and was completely filled with a warm, happy glow and warm fuzzies and all that lovey mushy stuff. Steve knew that he wanted to pick some flowers and have them waiting for me but the rest of the ensemble all materialized organically. He saw the flutes when looking for a vase and thought he would polish them. Then he doubted whether or not he should use them because one of the stems is a bit unstable. And then it hit him:
May 27, 2014. Happy Anniversary to my dear Taralynn. I thought about polishing these cups from our wedding day, but then I realized they are just fine the way they are: *a little tarnished by the years but still shining underneath; *a little unstable under certain circumstances but still intact; *a perfectly matched pair. Just like us. I love you Taralynn. Love, Steve E.
I couldn't have said it better myself and in fact I didn't. I wrote in a silly humorous card late that night right before he came home from work and my sentiments just didn't really measure up. I should have just said ditto. :)
We celebrataed our anniversary the Friday before by heading to fancy Mansion Hill Inn in downtown. We enjoyed a night on the town. But I had my monthly bill and Steve drank too much (and was consequently lying with his head in the toilet for a bit) so the romance was a bit on the low end of the scale. However, the overall night away from home without kids cannot be understated. We had a lovely time. Combining that luxurious experience with the simple yet poignant present and it was the best anniversary yet.
Our wedding champagne glasses each had a couple sprigs of wild geranium and columbine (from our garden!) and were arranged on a napkin, artfully set at an angle to the table edges. Propped at the bottom edge of one glass was a re-used card. (I love re-using cards by saving the picture side that has not been written on and recycling the messaged half. Not only did Steve do this, he chose a card that I had given him on Easter that had the words "You make a whole bunch of happiness bloom in my heart." The card has been in my card box for years so i finally passed it on. And here it was being passed on again. Too apropo. So he cut out the blooming message and taped it to the picture side of the front half of the card and filled the back with his poetic message.) I read the message and was completely filled with a warm, happy glow and warm fuzzies and all that lovey mushy stuff. Steve knew that he wanted to pick some flowers and have them waiting for me but the rest of the ensemble all materialized organically. He saw the flutes when looking for a vase and thought he would polish them. Then he doubted whether or not he should use them because one of the stems is a bit unstable. And then it hit him:
May 27, 2014. Happy Anniversary to my dear Taralynn. I thought about polishing these cups from our wedding day, but then I realized they are just fine the way they are: *a little tarnished by the years but still shining underneath; *a little unstable under certain circumstances but still intact; *a perfectly matched pair. Just like us. I love you Taralynn. Love, Steve E.
I couldn't have said it better myself and in fact I didn't. I wrote in a silly humorous card late that night right before he came home from work and my sentiments just didn't really measure up. I should have just said ditto. :)
We celebrataed our anniversary the Friday before by heading to fancy Mansion Hill Inn in downtown. We enjoyed a night on the town. But I had my monthly bill and Steve drank too much (and was consequently lying with his head in the toilet for a bit) so the romance was a bit on the low end of the scale. However, the overall night away from home without kids cannot be understated. We had a lovely time. Combining that luxurious experience with the simple yet poignant present and it was the best anniversary yet.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Collateral Damage
What is collateral damage? It is losing something valuable that you did not intend to lose while throwing out the trash. So my trash and my baggage is this: my mother is an alcoholic, my dad is an enabler and my family is still dysfunctional because of all of that. The collateral damage is the rest of my extended family, including in some ways my brother and his family.
I need to use this as an exercise in allowing myself to have some feelings on the matter and to validate those feelings. As a child I was not allowed to have feelings. Because my mother had them all. She controlled everything. I use to call it Smother Love. Now I call it manipulative, among other words. My therapist would say that I protect my dad and I do. So I need to also say that my dad may not have had all the feelings and emotions but he certainly helped squashed my own. There is nothing to be scared of. Don't be a baby. You maroon. And sometimes it wasn't directly at my brother or me but the criticisms and judgements of other people were sometimes so strong (from both parents) that I did not want to be at the receiving end. So I made myself a mini-mom. A likeness of her that would allow me to blend in and hide- from her. To survive. I also strived to be perfect and still struggle with that today, although it has gotten better since cutting the ties.
Ha, survival. Sure I am 37 years old but I am still dealing with the repercussions of having to live with a selfish, volatile alcoholic. It sucked and it still sucks. She is or maybe was since I am stepping back from it all now, a vacuum, a black hole that sucked everything around her down into her inky mire. I used to tell my aunt that it bothered me so much that one person could cause such heartache, pain and angst. That my mother was the one thing we could all agree upon as being unreasonable or (insert any negative adjective here) and yet no one would stand up to her. All of us were still powerless to flip the switch off.
Until my brother and his wife started having words with my mom about her drinking. You cannot watch our kids if you are drinking. I have no idea how many times and different ways they had to say that. So how many times did she stop drinking only to start again? We all know the answer.
It may have been before my brother had kids, but I told my mom once that I didn't like her drinking. She said I know I have a problem. I think I can have just one (drink) but I can't. She cried a bit and I felt better for having said something. (That had required many hours of therapy for me to do that!) But of course it did nothing ultimately.
I do not want to type out the whole process that started with my brother's family and led to ours. I have told it too many times. And those are just the facts. It is not the feelings. The real meat of the matter. I will say this, however. It really began for me personally when dad asked me to talk to my mom (and after having experienced a week from hell around my oldest daughter's birthday when my mother stayed with us). We both talked to her and it sort of felt good but sort of like, what now or so what? She seemed most upset that we were ganging up on her.
I am angry that I am still having to deal with this. That not talking to her is great but the whole complicated drama still plagues me daily. But the anger is just the superficial layer. It protects me from the underlying torment. I just don't know how to let it out!
Sometimes I think I need to tell my parents how I feel. Tell them what happened to push me to this point. but I don't want to be like my mother. She does things out of spite. To hurt. My truth as an explanation for why I am stepping back would likely be taken the wrong way, thus defeating the purpose.
I do not trust my mother to be decent. to think of me outside of herself. To interact with me or my family in a way that will not leave me feeling anxious and horrible and with chest pain. How sad is that? I write that but I do not feel the depth of sadness that I know must be there.
I do not want to wallow in self pity but I do not think I have allowed myself the freedom to experience the pit of despair. Only then will I be able to rise above it with no strings attached. So how do I do that?
It is obvious I think that I am a mess when it comes to this situation. It has me all in knots. My poor kids who have a tired mom (thus more cranky) because I am trying to process this hefty load. There is one shred of collateral damage right there. The indirect affects it has on my girls. and then there is the family that I want to see. That I miss hanging out with. But i am not ready to face my mom and so I am not going to see my aunts, uncle and cousins and my brother and his family. Now that makes me sad.
I have tried calling my dad twice in the past couple of months and he has not attempted any return communication. Our girls have received a box of homemade clothes from my mom with cards signed from both of them. But no phone call, no email and no notes.
It feels like I am standing at the edge of a precipice. One small breath of wind and I will be plunging down into the depths.
I am making myself crazy wondering what he is thinking. What sort of crap he has to put up with from my mom. Trying to make the sadness dissipate. Sadness seems like such an incomplete word for how I feel. I need a bigger vocabulary!
The thing that bothers me the most is that they are both likely feeling like I am doing something negative to them. That I am choosing to be mean/heartless/unforgiving. But I am really choosing to be true to myself and loving to my family.
Don't they want to know and understand what this is all about? My therapist tells me that it is naive to think that I could have a relationship with my dad while he is still in the middle of the same old alcoholic-enabler pattern. I guess I did have that hope. but the bigger underlying hope is that at least one of them would at least be able to wonder how I am. At least try to understand what I am going through. Ask, how are you? Ask for me to explain what I am thinking or how I am feeling. Ask what they could do to make it better. Not telling me that they are praying for the Holy Spirit to open my heart to them. I am not waiting for them to fill these expectations. In fact I think I am working on grieving for their absence and finding the harsh reality left behind- and being okay with that truth.
My therapist's response to my telling her that my dad hasn't returned my phone calls was "that sucks." Yeah that does suck.
Neither of them respond to emailed photos of the girls, which my mom did ask for once upon a time. We are just each following our own scripts, writing out the other persons parts based on our own insecurities. Not good for business. So I keep coming round to this truth: there is no point having any conversations until she or they are ready to and I will know when she is in recovery (the first step in being ready). She isn't because I have not received the sorry notes. The ones asking for forgiveness and more importantly asking for what to do or how to help.
So it all comes back to me again. I still carry that resentment, which I need to cast off and let go. It was their choices when I was a child that got us to this very point and it is still their choices that have me dealing with their choices. I am still dealing with their crap. Even after deciding that I have had enough of their crap- and have removed myself from the crap. It is all in my head and my heart and I need to let it go. The collateral damage sucks, but you know what, is it really so mcuch collateral damage if they arent separate from the situation. The enablers are just as important to the plot as the alcoholic. Thats their shitty choice and they have to live with that.
I just want to get to a point where this isn't on my mind or near enough to on my mind that I spend way too much time thinking about it. I don't want to be tainted anymore. and I need to focus my energies on my family- and expanding my vocabulary. I want to eloquently express myself. (And write some essays for children's magazines. On nature topics, not dysfunctional drama. Whew.)
I need to use this as an exercise in allowing myself to have some feelings on the matter and to validate those feelings. As a child I was not allowed to have feelings. Because my mother had them all. She controlled everything. I use to call it Smother Love. Now I call it manipulative, among other words. My therapist would say that I protect my dad and I do. So I need to also say that my dad may not have had all the feelings and emotions but he certainly helped squashed my own. There is nothing to be scared of. Don't be a baby. You maroon. And sometimes it wasn't directly at my brother or me but the criticisms and judgements of other people were sometimes so strong (from both parents) that I did not want to be at the receiving end. So I made myself a mini-mom. A likeness of her that would allow me to blend in and hide- from her. To survive. I also strived to be perfect and still struggle with that today, although it has gotten better since cutting the ties.
Ha, survival. Sure I am 37 years old but I am still dealing with the repercussions of having to live with a selfish, volatile alcoholic. It sucked and it still sucks. She is or maybe was since I am stepping back from it all now, a vacuum, a black hole that sucked everything around her down into her inky mire. I used to tell my aunt that it bothered me so much that one person could cause such heartache, pain and angst. That my mother was the one thing we could all agree upon as being unreasonable or (insert any negative adjective here) and yet no one would stand up to her. All of us were still powerless to flip the switch off.
Until my brother and his wife started having words with my mom about her drinking. You cannot watch our kids if you are drinking. I have no idea how many times and different ways they had to say that. So how many times did she stop drinking only to start again? We all know the answer.
It may have been before my brother had kids, but I told my mom once that I didn't like her drinking. She said I know I have a problem. I think I can have just one (drink) but I can't. She cried a bit and I felt better for having said something. (That had required many hours of therapy for me to do that!) But of course it did nothing ultimately.
I do not want to type out the whole process that started with my brother's family and led to ours. I have told it too many times. And those are just the facts. It is not the feelings. The real meat of the matter. I will say this, however. It really began for me personally when dad asked me to talk to my mom (and after having experienced a week from hell around my oldest daughter's birthday when my mother stayed with us). We both talked to her and it sort of felt good but sort of like, what now or so what? She seemed most upset that we were ganging up on her.
I am angry that I am still having to deal with this. That not talking to her is great but the whole complicated drama still plagues me daily. But the anger is just the superficial layer. It protects me from the underlying torment. I just don't know how to let it out!
Sometimes I think I need to tell my parents how I feel. Tell them what happened to push me to this point. but I don't want to be like my mother. She does things out of spite. To hurt. My truth as an explanation for why I am stepping back would likely be taken the wrong way, thus defeating the purpose.
I do not trust my mother to be decent. to think of me outside of herself. To interact with me or my family in a way that will not leave me feeling anxious and horrible and with chest pain. How sad is that? I write that but I do not feel the depth of sadness that I know must be there.
I do not want to wallow in self pity but I do not think I have allowed myself the freedom to experience the pit of despair. Only then will I be able to rise above it with no strings attached. So how do I do that?
It is obvious I think that I am a mess when it comes to this situation. It has me all in knots. My poor kids who have a tired mom (thus more cranky) because I am trying to process this hefty load. There is one shred of collateral damage right there. The indirect affects it has on my girls. and then there is the family that I want to see. That I miss hanging out with. But i am not ready to face my mom and so I am not going to see my aunts, uncle and cousins and my brother and his family. Now that makes me sad.
I have tried calling my dad twice in the past couple of months and he has not attempted any return communication. Our girls have received a box of homemade clothes from my mom with cards signed from both of them. But no phone call, no email and no notes.
It feels like I am standing at the edge of a precipice. One small breath of wind and I will be plunging down into the depths.
I am making myself crazy wondering what he is thinking. What sort of crap he has to put up with from my mom. Trying to make the sadness dissipate. Sadness seems like such an incomplete word for how I feel. I need a bigger vocabulary!
The thing that bothers me the most is that they are both likely feeling like I am doing something negative to them. That I am choosing to be mean/heartless/unforgiving. But I am really choosing to be true to myself and loving to my family.
Don't they want to know and understand what this is all about? My therapist tells me that it is naive to think that I could have a relationship with my dad while he is still in the middle of the same old alcoholic-enabler pattern. I guess I did have that hope. but the bigger underlying hope is that at least one of them would at least be able to wonder how I am. At least try to understand what I am going through. Ask, how are you? Ask for me to explain what I am thinking or how I am feeling. Ask what they could do to make it better. Not telling me that they are praying for the Holy Spirit to open my heart to them. I am not waiting for them to fill these expectations. In fact I think I am working on grieving for their absence and finding the harsh reality left behind- and being okay with that truth.
My therapist's response to my telling her that my dad hasn't returned my phone calls was "that sucks." Yeah that does suck.
Neither of them respond to emailed photos of the girls, which my mom did ask for once upon a time. We are just each following our own scripts, writing out the other persons parts based on our own insecurities. Not good for business. So I keep coming round to this truth: there is no point having any conversations until she or they are ready to and I will know when she is in recovery (the first step in being ready). She isn't because I have not received the sorry notes. The ones asking for forgiveness and more importantly asking for what to do or how to help.
So it all comes back to me again. I still carry that resentment, which I need to cast off and let go. It was their choices when I was a child that got us to this very point and it is still their choices that have me dealing with their choices. I am still dealing with their crap. Even after deciding that I have had enough of their crap- and have removed myself from the crap. It is all in my head and my heart and I need to let it go. The collateral damage sucks, but you know what, is it really so mcuch collateral damage if they arent separate from the situation. The enablers are just as important to the plot as the alcoholic. Thats their shitty choice and they have to live with that.
I just want to get to a point where this isn't on my mind or near enough to on my mind that I spend way too much time thinking about it. I don't want to be tainted anymore. and I need to focus my energies on my family- and expanding my vocabulary. I want to eloquently express myself. (And write some essays for children's magazines. On nature topics, not dysfunctional drama. Whew.)
Sea Dreams
My family and I went to France for spring break and had an amazing time. But those thoughts and memories are for another time. The only relevant part has to do with the fact that we flew over an ocean and the in-flight map that depicted our plane's flight path across the ocean always brought a little fear to my heart.
I do not like the ocean. Or rather I am deeply afraid of it. I appreciate the beauty and majesty of it from naturalist and religious aspects but I prefer to marvel at the mysterious creatures and dynamic presence from the safety of the sand. I might venture in as far as my waist but my feet need to feel the semi-firm ground beneath my being.
Once, or rather twice in my life I have snorkeled- on the shores of Maui and Costa Rica. The terror that rose up in Hawaii every time I put my face in the water was palpable in my every pore. My face was like a bobber being handled by an impatient toddler. I am lucky I saw any fish at all. The silence of the scene had me convinced that something was going to sneak up behind me and attack. It was not a long endeavor but I was proud of myself for having given it a go. The plane ride to Hawaii was uneventful for me because I was given valium and an alcoholic beverage prior to boarding. It may sound extreme but I was highly anxious and in danger of completely freaking out. Waking up as the plane was landing (on top of the water?!) was momentarily horrifying so the fact that I willingly sought out a personal relationship with the cove and its critters is somewhat amazing.
I was much more brave in Costa Rica, but very careful to stay a safe distance away from shore. My head did not bob quite so frequently but the same surges of quiet, rising fear threatened to disable me. I felt a bit more free, especially as I watched Steve exploring with near abandon.
Back to watching the plane move at a snails pace on the map had me swallowing the same fear. This time I had to hold it together for the sake of my kids. I refused to let my brain fill with images of the plane crash landing on a never ending wave with a horizon free of land. (shudder) That ocean is no big deal. We are fine. Don't think about it. The mantra of an ocean phobic person.
Is it ironic that just when I thought I had survived the plane trip with some dignity and with relatively little fear and no panic, I was wrong and due for a humdinger of a nightmare? Literally. All of those emotions that I gulped down and suppressed resurface themselves in my dreams the night after we returned.
The sea roiled and the waves were taller than any building in the sea-side city. No matter how far I walked from the beach area, the ocean was a stones throw away. It was like a feral dog that follows you where ever you go. No amount of shouting will make it runaway. Like my own shadow, creeping behind me or beside me.
One night the waves crashed down on the city. The boat that was my temporary haven was thrown from side to side. (The was some sort of miraculous cushion in my subconscious reality that kept my dream self safe from injury. I have never experienced being thrown against a wall or tossed to the floor like a piece of trash so in my dream I recognized being hurt without feeling pain or exhibiting any symptoms.) The scene was completely terrifying. I had no idea what the people on the land were doing- were they OK? How could they be okay? The sea was everywhere!
Then the sky opened up and rain fell in sheets. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Water was everywhere. When it finally subsided, the city was covered in a layer of liquid, distorting the streets and horizontal surfaces. Every step sloshed. The earth was a shallow puddle that seamlessly connected with the bottomless salty depths of the sea.
Life went back to normal in this weird wet world. My naturalist job continued with computer work. I was slightly concerned that the cords and wires might cause some electrocution, but that fear was not consuming me. I was jittery with new love for a colleague; I had no husband or kids in dreamland. This man was my fresh and wild romance. Sparks shot between our fingers when our eyes met and when we kissed it was of fairy tale proportions. The Princess Bride states it so eloquently. You know the part- that this kiss blew all the other historical kisses (just a handful have made history) away. And always in the background (or foreground) was the churning sea.
This new and intense love was brief. Not long after the sea turned our city into a shallow pond I saw the tsunami coming as I walked to work. It was doomsday wrapped up in a salty drink. I rushed to my lover who was typing away at the computer. It amazed me that he didn't see the danger right-outside-the-window. I urged him to move quickly. My panic was not just for the inevitable crush of water but for our love. Could it drown so quickly without experiencing longevity- new firsts in different chapters of our lives? It made my heartache to think that this intangible conection might be swept away.
We headed to a car so we could drive up the mountain- along with the villagers. and still that mother of all waves inched its way closer. We could not get high enough to avoid the crash- it seemed bound to get us for sure. My heart was beating wildly out of control as the panic rose in my throat. I was annoyed at my love-why was he moving so slowly? Didn't he see the end of the earth right there?
My heartbeat faster and faster and the anxiety built like a solid wall in my chest. I kept glancing over my shoulder out the back window of the car- down the hill and out across the port- that wave was bigger than anything I could imagine. The world would be one giant ocean and no sanctuaries of land. I was almost in tears as tore my eyes from the horror and looked at my love. I reached for his hand, wnating to feel the spark. Knowing that the weight of that much water would annhilate our bodies and our love. Then I awoke.
Of course I was scared but actually I also felt a little relieved. The emotions had all been released. Whew. (But typing this and in essence reliving that nightmare crazy. I scared myself!)
I often wonder if watching Jaws as a kid was really enough to cause my intense distrust of the ocean and the wonder of the deep. What else could it mean? so I search for meaning beyond the phobic obviousness.
My dream dictionaries have been my friends since high school. Ocean according to one book is this (only relevant parts included here): the meaning of this dream varies according to its details and action...The ocean...if very rough or stormy, it is a warning that real courage will be needed to overcome your obstacles...
Well, one major obstacle in my life that I am currently trying to work through is my alcoholic mother. Perhaps another time we can analyze that can of worms.
Storms according to the same book are obstacle dreams and portend a season of discontent from which you will only recover when you realize that you are the master of your own fate.
Water if rough or murky signifies difficulties.
I wonder which is worse: the fear of the ocean or the potential obstacles or difficulties life may bring. It is like swallowing a whole boat load of salt water. Makes you sick, leaves a bad taste in your mouth, dehydrates you and makes you cough. Not necessarily in that order.
Wish me luck as i sail the waters of life! Maybe flying over the water is better...
I do not like the ocean. Or rather I am deeply afraid of it. I appreciate the beauty and majesty of it from naturalist and religious aspects but I prefer to marvel at the mysterious creatures and dynamic presence from the safety of the sand. I might venture in as far as my waist but my feet need to feel the semi-firm ground beneath my being.
Once, or rather twice in my life I have snorkeled- on the shores of Maui and Costa Rica. The terror that rose up in Hawaii every time I put my face in the water was palpable in my every pore. My face was like a bobber being handled by an impatient toddler. I am lucky I saw any fish at all. The silence of the scene had me convinced that something was going to sneak up behind me and attack. It was not a long endeavor but I was proud of myself for having given it a go. The plane ride to Hawaii was uneventful for me because I was given valium and an alcoholic beverage prior to boarding. It may sound extreme but I was highly anxious and in danger of completely freaking out. Waking up as the plane was landing (on top of the water?!) was momentarily horrifying so the fact that I willingly sought out a personal relationship with the cove and its critters is somewhat amazing.
I was much more brave in Costa Rica, but very careful to stay a safe distance away from shore. My head did not bob quite so frequently but the same surges of quiet, rising fear threatened to disable me. I felt a bit more free, especially as I watched Steve exploring with near abandon.
Back to watching the plane move at a snails pace on the map had me swallowing the same fear. This time I had to hold it together for the sake of my kids. I refused to let my brain fill with images of the plane crash landing on a never ending wave with a horizon free of land. (shudder) That ocean is no big deal. We are fine. Don't think about it. The mantra of an ocean phobic person.
Is it ironic that just when I thought I had survived the plane trip with some dignity and with relatively little fear and no panic, I was wrong and due for a humdinger of a nightmare? Literally. All of those emotions that I gulped down and suppressed resurface themselves in my dreams the night after we returned.
The sea roiled and the waves were taller than any building in the sea-side city. No matter how far I walked from the beach area, the ocean was a stones throw away. It was like a feral dog that follows you where ever you go. No amount of shouting will make it runaway. Like my own shadow, creeping behind me or beside me.
One night the waves crashed down on the city. The boat that was my temporary haven was thrown from side to side. (The was some sort of miraculous cushion in my subconscious reality that kept my dream self safe from injury. I have never experienced being thrown against a wall or tossed to the floor like a piece of trash so in my dream I recognized being hurt without feeling pain or exhibiting any symptoms.) The scene was completely terrifying. I had no idea what the people on the land were doing- were they OK? How could they be okay? The sea was everywhere!
Then the sky opened up and rain fell in sheets. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed. Water was everywhere. When it finally subsided, the city was covered in a layer of liquid, distorting the streets and horizontal surfaces. Every step sloshed. The earth was a shallow puddle that seamlessly connected with the bottomless salty depths of the sea.
Life went back to normal in this weird wet world. My naturalist job continued with computer work. I was slightly concerned that the cords and wires might cause some electrocution, but that fear was not consuming me. I was jittery with new love for a colleague; I had no husband or kids in dreamland. This man was my fresh and wild romance. Sparks shot between our fingers when our eyes met and when we kissed it was of fairy tale proportions. The Princess Bride states it so eloquently. You know the part- that this kiss blew all the other historical kisses (just a handful have made history) away. And always in the background (or foreground) was the churning sea.
This new and intense love was brief. Not long after the sea turned our city into a shallow pond I saw the tsunami coming as I walked to work. It was doomsday wrapped up in a salty drink. I rushed to my lover who was typing away at the computer. It amazed me that he didn't see the danger right-outside-the-window. I urged him to move quickly. My panic was not just for the inevitable crush of water but for our love. Could it drown so quickly without experiencing longevity- new firsts in different chapters of our lives? It made my heartache to think that this intangible conection might be swept away.
We headed to a car so we could drive up the mountain- along with the villagers. and still that mother of all waves inched its way closer. We could not get high enough to avoid the crash- it seemed bound to get us for sure. My heart was beating wildly out of control as the panic rose in my throat. I was annoyed at my love-why was he moving so slowly? Didn't he see the end of the earth right there?
My heartbeat faster and faster and the anxiety built like a solid wall in my chest. I kept glancing over my shoulder out the back window of the car- down the hill and out across the port- that wave was bigger than anything I could imagine. The world would be one giant ocean and no sanctuaries of land. I was almost in tears as tore my eyes from the horror and looked at my love. I reached for his hand, wnating to feel the spark. Knowing that the weight of that much water would annhilate our bodies and our love. Then I awoke.
Of course I was scared but actually I also felt a little relieved. The emotions had all been released. Whew. (But typing this and in essence reliving that nightmare crazy. I scared myself!)
I often wonder if watching Jaws as a kid was really enough to cause my intense distrust of the ocean and the wonder of the deep. What else could it mean? so I search for meaning beyond the phobic obviousness.
My dream dictionaries have been my friends since high school. Ocean according to one book is this (only relevant parts included here): the meaning of this dream varies according to its details and action...The ocean...if very rough or stormy, it is a warning that real courage will be needed to overcome your obstacles...
Well, one major obstacle in my life that I am currently trying to work through is my alcoholic mother. Perhaps another time we can analyze that can of worms.
Storms according to the same book are obstacle dreams and portend a season of discontent from which you will only recover when you realize that you are the master of your own fate.
Water if rough or murky signifies difficulties.
I wonder which is worse: the fear of the ocean or the potential obstacles or difficulties life may bring. It is like swallowing a whole boat load of salt water. Makes you sick, leaves a bad taste in your mouth, dehydrates you and makes you cough. Not necessarily in that order.
Wish me luck as i sail the waters of life! Maybe flying over the water is better...
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Rando poem #1
In my high school and college days I wrote a little poetry. Some of my favorite ones I wrote in a special book with a wetland scene on the front. Mallards are landing in a marsh. I have no idea why a journal like this would have found its way to me. There are only 10 poems, one of which is not my own but I liked it. and one I wrote in guitar chords but cannot remember the tune. Maybe someday I will test it out.
Anyway, here is the first one I want to share because it spoke to me today and I could feel the emotions I had when I wrote it in college. Thankfully I have matured and am no longer so horribly stuck in these negative feelings. For whatever reason I was particular about how I wrote the words so I tried to duplicate the placement here.
Abuse me please
words of love I translate to be of
girls so much better
than me perhaps size C or D
or extra long no fat to pinch
who do you like to caress
just with your eyes
your fantasies unfold before me
abuse me please
Abuse me please
I cry lonely tears of
self conscience pride
cannot believe beauty
you find in me no self esteem
tormented inside I torture you
to make you say
she's better, a goddess I
can't be
Abuse me please
Abuse me please
so confused to understand
cruel society
what have I become; unhappy with
who I see, can't love me
so abuse me please
abuse me please
think no good- don't deserve
your true love
ironic I have touched before
and looked and liked not so long
before- you
and guilty I am
so abuse me for my
hypocrisy
Abuse me please
Anyway, here is the first one I want to share because it spoke to me today and I could feel the emotions I had when I wrote it in college. Thankfully I have matured and am no longer so horribly stuck in these negative feelings. For whatever reason I was particular about how I wrote the words so I tried to duplicate the placement here.
Abuse me please
words of love I translate to be of
girls so much better
than me perhaps size C or D
or extra long no fat to pinch
who do you like to caress
just with your eyes
your fantasies unfold before me
abuse me please
Abuse me please
I cry lonely tears of
self conscience pride
cannot believe beauty
you find in me no self esteem
tormented inside I torture you
to make you say
she's better, a goddess I
can't be
Abuse me please
Abuse me please
so confused to understand
cruel society
what have I become; unhappy with
who I see, can't love me
so abuse me please
abuse me please
think no good- don't deserve
your true love
ironic I have touched before
and looked and liked not so long
before- you
and guilty I am
so abuse me for my
hypocrisy
Abuse me please
Monday, January 13, 2014
#ImAtEllen
I don't really know or understand about these hashtag things, but they were all over it at the Ellen Degeneres show last week Wednesday (1/8/14). They told us to post a picture of ourselves with this #ImAtEllen tag. I didn't have my phone and even if I did I can't text or access the internet or do anything cool on it at all.
But I did win VIP tickets to the Ellen show. I "won" them in an online silent auction for a local non-profit. I was the only one to bid so I got a steal of a deal on a pair of VIP tickets, long-sleeve American Apparel Ellen tee, glass Ellen water bottle, and an Ellen recycled-water-bottle-bag. I was most excited about the tickets. I chose some dates and crossed my fingers for a good date with a fun guest or two. The middle of the week wasn't my top choice, but it all worked out. The show, however, was a tame one for Ellen. It was still awesome to be there and watch how a TV talk show gets filmed. And we were in the middle of the second row so we were pretty close to Ellen.
After the show I was a bit disappointed at the tame quality of the show. Below is a letter that I had hoped to draft and send to Ellen to explain myself.
 |
| Susan and Tara at Ellen! |
But I did win VIP tickets to the Ellen show. I "won" them in an online silent auction for a local non-profit. I was the only one to bid so I got a steal of a deal on a pair of VIP tickets, long-sleeve American Apparel Ellen tee, glass Ellen water bottle, and an Ellen recycled-water-bottle-bag. I was most excited about the tickets. I chose some dates and crossed my fingers for a good date with a fun guest or two. The middle of the week wasn't my top choice, but it all worked out. The show, however, was a tame one for Ellen. It was still awesome to be there and watch how a TV talk show gets filmed. And we were in the middle of the second row so we were pretty close to Ellen.
 |
| Waiting to get in the studio. |
1/10/13 Dear Ellen,
There are so many things I want to tell you! I think I had
this crazy vision that I might be able to explain myself in person while at the
filming of the January 9th show, which was on January 8th. Crazy indeed.
In researching (very minimally and not very well) who the
guest would be for the January 8th filming I discovered that January
8th is National Argyle Day. Did you know that? I carefully observed
your outfit (I am avoiding the use of the phrase “checked you out”), and it was
not obvious that you were wearing anything argyle. I was, however, and even planned my outfit
around my favorite pair of argyle socks. Now I do not expect that you will
remember even one face from the thousands (millions?) of people you see in your
studio audiences, but you might remember me. I was the one in complete
abandonment of censure and danced in the aisle during one of the final
commercial breaks like the song was actually a decent, fast and fun song and I
had even a smidgen of dancing talent. Albeit I believe I had more gumption and
should be admired for baring my dancing soul to complete strangers. Anyway, you could have seen my pink and red
argyle socks boldly covering my calves above the tops of my light blue boots if
the entourage of people gave you but a moment to look my way. Suffice it to say, my dance moves did not
match the sophistication of my ensemble. It was a foolish display and I
oscillate between utter embarrassment at the thought of how many people watched
me lose control and flaming desire to see at least part of the “show” aired on
national television. (This is just a suggestion but perhaps a small chunk of it
could be shown as part of a bloopers theme or what-not-to-do-during-commercial-breaks.
I won’t even ask for monetary compensation. Just please use my full name in any
descriptions- Tara Lynn Von Dollen. Thanks.)
Now I have to tell you that although I found being in the
audience to be exhilarating and awesome (and dancing as I said above was the
personal highlight) I was and am very disappointed that we didn’t get to see you dance. My friend and I were even in
the second row with extra room in front of us- just for you. Incidentally, that
Tom dude used it a lot to encourage us to scream and clap more enthusiastically
and to find volunteers for rapping and dancing.
You would probably agree that although he is good at what he does, he is
no Ellen. And come to think of it, I don’t know if he busted any moves either.
So what gives? Were you under the weather? I paid a lot of money to fly, stay in LA and
be on the VIP list for your show and I really had high hopes that you would
dance (for me). I did also spend a lot of money on a pair of killer Miss L Fire
shoes on my brief trip, but that’s beside the point. I came to see you dance
and I left still wanting to see you dance. Oh the disappointment that stills my
beating heart.
Only a small part of me expects you to read this- hi, rando screening
person! But if you made it this far you
may realize that I do tend to get my hopes up in situations best left to
hopelessness. The final thing I want to say is this- I think you rock! Here is where a devoted fan would say “I watch
your show every day!” or “I own all your Ellen gear.” Or “I named my first born Ellen after you and
it’s a boy.” The truth is, however, that I have not watched your show much the
last couple of years. (Excuse #1 is that my daughter, bless her heart, doesn’t
get your sense of humor. Well, actually,
it is hard to tell her she can’t watch TV if Mommy is always glued to it after
school. We did watch you when she was younger. sigh) I miss you and I keep
tabs of sorts by watching my across-the-street neighbors’ rather large TV
through our front room windows. The sound isn’t great but I can see the guests
and imagine your wit in my head. And not to worry, the neighbors rarely get
upset at my peeping.
Okay, this is the final thing I want to say: Thank you for
reading this and acknowledging my feelings of disappointment- if only for a
second. I know you have a lot on your plate what with the People’s Choice
Awards (congratulations!) and the Oscars coming up. (I do plan on watching your
no doubt hilarious hosting job as long as it doesn’t interfere with Downton
Abbey.)
Take care of yourself and keep dancing! Even if you won’t
dance for me.
Best regards,
Tara
PS We made friends with one of the WB security guards who
initially checked us in. I wish I could tell you his name. He was so nice and quick to share his lovely
wide, white smile. We shared our sandwich halves with him even. He could use
some recognition.
So I went to EllenTV.com to contact her but was limited to 1500 characters. Not words, characters! I had to edit and cull and weed out the crap to be left with the ain gold nuggets of it all. Read below. I may still try to send her the full-length feature but we'll see. I have to find another avenue first.
Dear Ellen, I was in the audience on January 8th,
screaming/clapping/pretending it was January 9th. Although I found being in the
audience to be exhilarating and awesome (and dancing as I say below was a
personal highlight)I was and am very disappointed that we didn’t get to see you
dance. Not even a little, tiny bit. :( My friend and I were even in the second
row with extra room in front of us-just for you. So what gives? Were you under
the weather? Nervous about the People's Choice Awards? (Congrats! BTW) I paid a
lot of money to fly, stay in LA and be on the VIP list for your show and I
really had high hopes that you would dance (for me). Seriously, I came to see
you dance and I left still wanting to see you dance. Oh the disappointment that
stills my beating heart. Now I do not expect that you will remember even one
face from the thousands of people you see in your studio audiences, but you
might remember me. I was the one in complete abandonment of censure and danced
in the aisle during one of the final commercial breaks with pink and red argyle
socks boldly covering my calves above the tops of my light blue boots. Suffice
it to say, my dance moves did not match the sophistication of my ensemble. I
would trade all that to have danced in the same room with you. Anyway, thank
you for reading this and acknowledging my feelings of disappointment-if only
for a second. Take care of yourself and keep dancing! Even if you won't dance
for me. Best regards, Tara
With 19 characters to spare
There are so many ways to process the experience! Here is what went through my head on the plane ride home the following day:
She (Ellen) seemed a bit off- not quite as "on". That was what I noticed first. Then during the next part of the show that included a video of Matt (?) posing as a Brookstone employee I almost forgot that I was sitting in a TV show audience. I was caught up in the laughter and funny scenes. Suddenly I noticed with shock that Ellen was still sitting in her chair,a dark silhouetter in from of the very large, bright screen. It was like a parody of the real Ellen. We were laughing at this Matt guy while Ellen sat in the dark, facing the audience. I found myself trying to tell if her eyes were open. It creeped me out actually.
Perhaps the long day and prep determined her subdued demeanor and overall tame show. She was off to the People's Choice Awards afterall. (Well, they might not have been until the real January 9th so there is no excuse!) Still is was amazing to witness and such fun to participate.
I wonder with half embarassmenet and half phobic-hope that my dance scene will be viewed by Ellen's team and showcased in some small way for the whole world. A brief glimmer of fame for my close to meaningless existence.
It was exhilirating dancing in the asile during the commercial break. Fear abandoned me and I was left with an insane desire to not stop dancing. No matter what. No matter what dance move failed to be completed correctly or left out entirely (is running man still a kosher dance move?). Oh the humanity, to quote a favorite movie (Super Troopers). I can only imagine the mix of thoughts running through Tom's head, and the cameraman, the rando dudes, Ellen (ha!), and the hundreds of women. Did they understand even a little the euphoria, nigh temporary dementia that overcomes a person in those situations? They become a mere hologram of themselves. A shadow puppet controlled by some nerdy computer programer or graphic designer intent on creating discomfort or pure hilarity (surely nothing in between) in viewers. A strange social experiment.
I'm so glad I wore my argyle socks and blue boots instead of my brand-new, grown-up, expensive Miss L Fire shoes. Sure, those would have been admired but they also would have been destined to seal my fate in an impregnable fortress of embarrassment sure to result from an undignified fall or debilitating ankle roll. I need practice dancing in heels before baring my dancing soul in the stairway aisle of the Ellen Degeneres show!
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