Dandy Lionheart

She's as weak as an old, mothy dandelion--

not one with hair like the sun,

but with a dusty halo of grey smoke

And the lawnmower is buzzing

towards her in straight lines

up and

down

the lush green lawn--

up and

down

a predictable path, creating

a hypnotic pattern in the earth's

prickly carpet.

Her fragile, powdery head (((floats)))

above the grass and should be able

to see: the oncoming doom. But

she can't move. She's planted,

rooted in the stubborn dirt of her fate.

The two-way abstraction called love

is propped up by air

shaped into sounds

of hollow faith:

words;

at times, even less than.

Because as long as the mirage

****hovers****

inside the tiny jewelry box

inside her mirrored ears,

she will swim in that pool

until it all dries up,

sucking the last drop of milk

from

her hapless

dandelion

heart.

Sunshadow

the sun outside casts a long dark shadow inside

and my heart pumps nothing

maybe sleep is what I need

I hid your pictures

but I still see them

us together and me happy

.locked inside.

.that little box.

.locked in time.

then the bright days of you

disappear

when I roll

over

and

open

my eyes---

memories torn by a tear.

eye's cocktail

My red glass is full

on the table but you keep pouring

I don't see it but I feel it

when the sweet overflow drips out

bubbles and runs over the edge

now on my thighs

I want to tell you to stop

but I can't then you drop a pebble inside

so my drink splashes over and I catch it

now in my mouth

Somehow your words go unheard-

You shout in my face and I close

my ears in the dust storm but slurp up

the meaning in my palms now wet

not once

not twice

not three times-

I lose count -- how deep is this well?,

five fingers shallow-ly stir

-----the cocktail.

Alas lonely the cup sits

unable to quench

this ever-growing

dry -- bone -- thirst

The Slow Clock

click - tock

the slow clock

ticks

slower

bending time

backwards

to moments preserved

to be replayed and continued.

click - tock

-caught in a freeze frame-

the window narrows,

squeezing and heightening

the pinch in the chest and the tickle beneath. Agony

meets ecstasy. Horror meets temptation.

Anxiety of the most precious variety. Drunk

on fantasy and hateful of reality,

they sit.

I'm Fine, Just Throw Me a Fastball

Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. No, I take that back. They all seem to be curve balls. Everything has a catch or a snag. Just once, I wish life would throw me a fast ball, straight down the middle: something I can see coming and know exactly what to do with it.

Yesterday a dear friend wrote and asked me how I'm doing. "Fine," I said. "Fine?" he asked. Yes, fine. Work is fine. Family is fine. Friends are fine. When I responded "fine," I meant that in a positive way. But when he challenged me on it, I was forced to acknowledge a rather lackluster sensation.

The problem is that nothing is easy. Sometimes it’s a minor issue (as in, why must the Virginia Department of Transportation funnel five lanes of traffic into a single lane on I66 Saturday morning when I need to be in Charlottesville?). But sometimes life’s difficulties are not so minor. That’s when I have to wonder if it's me. Is there something deeply rooted in my psyche that complicates my world unnecessarily? The answer is “probably,” but that would take hundreds of dollars and hours of therapy to figure out. So, instead I write. That can help. So can photography. Some days are just like that.

Return to Sender

Returned mail lands in the wrong hands,

and with that the lights go out.

The owner sneaks tainted loot.

A message lost is won unwanted.

A moment of wonder,

with new words

all to sit and ponder.

Today tests tomorrow

tests yesteryear

while a ghost voice flounders

in our ear

crying an anti-cheer.

Blackbird be gone.

Knowing some

can be worse than

knowing all

or even,

knowing none.

Doc, are these dreams

made of fear

or are they some sort of

real world seer?

Pre-tested temptations

sound sweet

way down yonder in the holler

where you can still stall her

with silence

and fodder.

Impossible to delete,

letters unsifted, torn, and drifted,

read in a dark, dank room,

clutter the diary

with craze

unfounded.

But old blood turns blue.

It needs air and care and flair,

and a one-way valve

for two.

So maybe

rap, rap, rap back

you raven bird.

Maybe just "accept"

how the red paper drips

a grey story down,

as it drops and slips

easily into the shadowy spout

even if it sticks to the pipes

now drowned.

Stop Looking at Me

You -

Stop looking at me.

I won't look at you

because to do so would be to acknowledge

your judgment

of me,

and validate it.

I know what you're thinking

and you're wrong.

You don't know what I know.

You don't know all of the facts

and the gestures

that I know.

You don't know the lack of facts

and the lack of gestures

that I know.

You don't know my confusion.

You don't know my need.

I could never explain all that you don't know

to you.

So again,

please,

stop looking at me.

We need to pretend

that we're not face to face.

That there is no tear welling in my eye

for no reason.

Riverdream

Sixty miles from the horns of Capitol Hill is the old historical town of Fredericksburg. This is not the strip mall-congested civil war haven that can suck the life out of you in Route 3 West Fredericksburg. No, I'm talking about the cobble-stone-sidewalk, homes of George Washington's sister and mother, civil war haven that is somehow endlessly charming in Route 3 East Fredericksburg. Being about mid-way between Washington, DC and Richmond, this area was a hotbed during the Civil War where about 100,000 people died as a result of four battles (Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania, and Wilderness). For that reason, it's a destination for American history buffs.

This side of Interstate 95 also hoards another treasure: the riverbed of the Rappahannock -- and the last few weekends, I've been hooked on its lure. Last Sunday during a tubing trip, I witnessed a large falcon brunching on a large fish (well, 12-inches long seems big for this size river). The bird perched on a branch above the water and pecked away at the wiggling fish trapped in its talons as I gazed from below. It was quite a gravity-defying spectacle of agility. This weekend was no disappointment either, watching some sort of water bird (duck?) dive beneath the river's surface for minutes at a time for prey below - no more than twenty feet away.

I'm certain I'll find my way back to the riverbanks again, though I promise it's not to watch mother nature's predators at work. There is something so inherently peaceful and soul soothing to be near that river, I can assure you, the fish feasts are merely a minor distraction from the beauty of it all. Here is a little something I borrowed from it today. Bear with me as it's still a little fresh.

Riverdream

Rippling water surrounds me, surrounds and 

drownds the  silent silence, 

making a new silence of water 

anew 

 silence of water  that 

moves and 

takes me downstream      before 

whirlpooling 

back 

to where fish     - jump -           and 

 dodge 

great rocks 

and 

diving  birds.

In this quiet, 

the sun dances 

a water tango - 

reflecting sharply 

while melting softly 

                 into the love creatures 

                                       below. 

A moment on the hazy morning train from Fredericksburg

From here the sun looks even bigger than it already is. I'm losing battle of the curl against my hair and blue herons blend with the steam from above. The Rappahannock's topface is smooth as a vintage mirror with only the occassional ripple or wrinkle due to watercraft not wind. The morning is young but prematurely aged, an ungentle reminder that Washington, DC was indeed built on a swamp and that nature can be glorious even when oppressive.

No More Red Beer

When I was a kid, one of my Dad’s favorite nighttime beverages was Red Beer. I’m sure on more than one occasion, he employed one of us kids to make it for him. It’s easy to do, simply pour a glass half full (or more) with beer then top it off with tomato juice.

Thinking about it now, it’s a drink that doesn’t make much sense and I don’t think I would ever dare partake as an adult (unless in a moment of severely blurred judgment, perhaps a failed attempt at the hair of the dog). But at the time, it seemed like a normal and acceptable thing to drink.

I imagine in a different place or a different household, they may have mixed the same ingredients and called it something else. The Food Network has a recipe for a Spicy Red Beer, but it’s really more like a Bloody Mary. In Mexico, maybe they call it a Bloody Sunrise. In France, maybe a Bier Royale? But in my household it was known as a Red Beer.

Whatever you name it, looking back, the drink doesn’t make sense. Mixing beer? With tomato juice? But I suppose then, like now, I’ve learned to accept many things in life that don’t make much sense, but just are.

Working in the news, it’s easy to get jaded. “Another person was just shot dead in the Bayview? That’s not news.” (That’s a direct quote to me from an on-air host of the ABC Radio station in San Francisco.) It is what it is, I guess. Another black person killed. Another Red Beer.

This week was particularly fruitful, if you’re thirsty for Red Beer. About 80 people were killed in a suicide bombing in Pakistan on Friday. The Pakistani Taliban took credit for the attack, saying it was in retaliation for the death of Osama Bin Laden. But the Pakistanis didn’t kill OBL, so why attack them? It doesn’t make sense: Red Beer.

Terrorists can’t board a Delta flight, but they can buy high powered guns and ammo? Somehow the second amendment still applies to them? Red Beer.

The US and NATO are continuing to support rebel forces in Libya. Yet, in Syria, where the UN says more than 850 people have died in the last two months since the government cracked down on unarmed protestors, there is no NATO/US support? What’s the difference between the countries? Red Beer.

Fine, maybe I’ll drink the Red Beer and accept things for what they are. It's naive to think that the world would do things that make sense. It’s just heartbreaking to watch videos like this posted to Youtube on a daily basis. Why is the army shooting at these people? (Red Beer.) And why are the protestors risking their lives to pull dead bodies from the street? (Red Beer.)

The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m surrounded by Red Beer. Maybe one of these days I’ll figure out a way to change the drink menu. Or maybe I’ll just figure out a way to drink it all in. As chance has it, I just read that an extensive collection of pornography was found in Bin Laden’s compound. Alas, more Red Beer. It might not make much sense, but it's a tasty tidbit nonetheless.

What I Learned in Bikram Yoga

I saw it coming. She had asked to leave the studio a couple of times but the instructor told her to stay on her mat and rest. When the woman behind me finally threw up in the bucket, I think I actually rolled my eyes and thought to myself, “She’s so stupid, she ate before class.” I have seen one person pass out before in yoga (and I think she was epileptic), but never anyone get sick.

So I got annoyed. Her problem meant the teacher had to stop class to take her upstairs. There was a break between poses and I could feel my muscles started to tighten up.

There are a few rules which they repeat during each class: stay on your mat, stay in the room. If you can’t do a pose, go into the rest position. Don’t drink water or move between poses. It’s distracting to others who are trying to focus. And don’t eat for two to three hours before coming to class.

So when the woman regurgitated her breakfast, I knew she had made a big mistake. And her mistake was cutting into my precious yoga time.

It’s not the first time I felt irritated in yoga class.

One time, the man next to me coughed through the entire class. It was a congested, sloppy, gut-wrenching cough and I thought he was rude to spread his germs around the studio. In my mind, the instructor should have asked him to leave. Truth is, I’ve found myself getting peeved with the instructors on other occasions as well. If I’m in “standing bow” pose, don’t prolong my agony by giving another student pointers on how to do it better. If I'm teetering on one leg in that hellhole of a room you better believe I'm counting every second. (I’ve actually found myself cutting a look at the instructor for making us hold it longer than I thought necessary.)

Now, to the rule about staying on your mat. You’re supposed to stand with your feet together between poses. If your feet aren’t together, or if you step off of your mat to grab a hand towel, I do notice. The teachers are all pretty good about telling you not to judge yourself: if you fall out of a pose, don't get frustrated -- just try to get back into it as quickly as possible. I think I've improved as far as that goes. As much as I want to improve with each class, I try to smile when I fumble up a pose rather than grimace. But if someone reaches for their water when I’m in backwards half moon pose, I have been quick to judge.

For those not familiar with it, Bikram is very intense – the room is heated to at least 105-degrees (one night it was 124) and for 90 minutes we complete a series of 26 postures that you hold for anywhere between about ten seconds up to a minute. Bikram himself says that he’d rather you have a heart attack during class so you don’t have one later in life. What I hadn't learned until that day is that physical stress isn't the only reason for cardiac arrest.

After class that day, I returned upstairs to change my clothes and the woman was in the lounge recovering while she waited for her daughter. As soon as she saw me, she commented on how impressed she was with the young women in the class. "I don't know how you do it." (Gulp. Guilt set in.) She was so nice and felt no need to apologize. She admitted that she had eaten breakfast complete with coffee before coming to class. (I knew it!) But for once, I didn’t feel any satisfaction in being right that day.

The truth was that I had been wrong. I may have advanced in my moving meditation class to the point where I wouldn't judge myself. But I have failed by judging others: wayward students......frustrating teachers.....a studio that's too hot.....a studio that's too humid.....and beyond: erratic drivers, lackluster co-workers, pushy people in the train station.

That list could go on for infinity. But my reaction to get upset with them is really only a reflection of myself and how I fit into my world, whether it's in the yoga studio or driving down New York Avenue at rush hour. I don't want to go through life with a grimace on my face. One of my instructors once said that yoga is a practice, not an event. You might not achieve exactly what you want the first time round, but just do what you can and get a little bit better each time. So now I've given myself a new mental posture to attain: when someone steps off their mat during a pose or if someone cuts me off in traffic, I will simply look at myself in the mirror and smile. When I can do that, and mean it, that's when I know I've found my yoga.

Post Script: I wrote this piece several weeks ago and was going to publish it the day that Osama bin Laden was killed. It didn't seem appropriate at the time, so I saved it. What that means is that I have had time to practice my new goal -- and would you believe that it is working? I no longer get irritated with other students who do something to distract me during a pose. I don't get mad at teachers for making us hold a pose longer than I think we should be holding it. Instead, I focus on myself, what I can do, and most importantly, what I can control -- and my classes have been much more stress free. (I will admit, though, that I have yet to perfect that "judgement free attitude" while on the road. But I have hope. There has been a slight improvement. I think I actually LET a car or two cut me off last week.)

Saying Goodbye

I’ve never been good at saying good bye. The first sad so-long I remember happened when I was about six-years-old. Mom and Dad took me to Nagymama and Nagypapa’s* house to spend the weekend (that's the whole crew, in the photo to the right, in their living room; my nagymama is about to ash on my little brother's head!). I remember watching the family station wagon roll back down the driveway away from where I was standing. Tears streamed out of my eyes. I think I ran into the house and hid somewhere for a period of time, until I was comfortable enough to show my face again. (No, my sadness had nothing to do with my grandmother's cigarettes.) I know I had fun the rest of that weekend.

The next time I remember being sad to say good bye to someone was in the third grade. My best friend was Linda Lovelace and we had been attached, BFFs, both with a love of horses, until my parents sold our farm in Unionville to move to another farm in Rapidan. That meant starting in the fourth grade, I would be attending Orange Elementary School for two years, instead of Lightfoot Elementary, where Linda would be. We’d reunite again in the sixth grade, at the Middle School – but I was facing a two-year, 30-mile separation from my best friend and I didn’t like it.

You would think that over time, I would have adapted to the notion that change happens, and it can be (and usually is) a good thing. But even when I graduated from college, was hired in my first “real” job**, and it was time for me to say good bye to the women who I worked with at the mall, I became a sniffling, snotty mess. Heck no, I didn’t want to work in that job anymore (as much as I did enjoy the store discount, it challenged my patience with the general public). But those women had become my surrogate aunties. British Deb was super cool and protective over me. Marie Christine had a thick French accent, and even though she could be hard on me at times, I know she loved me nearly as much she did her own daughter.

So that day, as I gave my last hugs to these women, I was overcome with emotion. I can’t explain it. I got that lump in my throat. It’s caused by the Vagus Nerve, I know that much; I just don’t know why I can’t control it. And I hate it: my face contorts, my eyes get puffy, my nose fills up, and I find it almost impossible to swallow. And for what? Those tears don’t do any good. They don’t help anyone. If anything, me crying makes others feel badly, and that certainly isn’t my intention. And it definitely isn’t a pretty sight to behold.

Needless to say, because life is how it is, I just had to say good bye to another very special person. The reasons are complicated. As much as I might hate to admit it, “employment” is a universal necessity, and “international borders” can’t be ignored. We have promised to reunite and I’m certain that we will, but we don’t know exactly when nor where.

So as his impending departure neared, my vagus nerve got quite a workout. It would flex unpredictably and suddenly, the burn in my throat and my eyes taking over instantaneously. It could be triggered by the voice of a friend coming to wish Gary well. It could be triggered by a kind look from the one going away. It could be triggered by a fleeting thought about our time together.

My senses went into hypermode, clinging to every little detail. Have I kissed his shoulder too many times in the last three minutes? Maybe I should ease up. If he says he doesn’t want a drink right now, maybe he really doesn’t. And I swear I could smell his sadness when he entered the room. Well, maybe it was really the crease in his cheek that gave away his emotion, or his posture. But I know I could sense it even before I saw him. (Just ask the Institute of HeartMath; they would believe that statement.)

I actually held up ok when the final moment came to give a hug and kiss goodbye. He checked into his flight at Dulles. We grabbed a bite to eat and laughed at his former boss as he completed his exit interview online, on his smartphone. We snapped a few photos of us together.

Then I made the mistake of tucking a card into his carry-on bag before he entered security. I didn’t sense it coming, but bam: my face crumbled and my eyes burned. Tears fell. In short, I failed to keep him from feeling badly.

I know we’ll see each other again, just like Linda and I reunited in the sixth grade. We’re going to be moving on to a better, more fantastic place, just as I did when I left my job at the mall after college. And it’s not as though he’s dropping completely out of my life (thank heavens for those smartphones).

But for some reason, my little vagus nerve just doesn’t know how compute those worldly facts when it comes to saying “Cheerio.” Maybe HeartMath can work on a fix for that problem. You know as they say, "hope springs eternal"....as does my vagus nerve for now.


*That’s "grandma" and "grandpa" in Hungarian.
**My stint as a Financial Advisor for Morgan Stanley Dean Witter definitely needs to be a post here in the near future.

Why I Don’t Read The Huffington Post – It’s Technical.

I actually like Arianna Huffington. I love how her life and career and influence have evolved over the years. Her spunk and (almost shamefully) her accent, tickle me. And, she was most gracious the day she came for an interview with Bob Edwards. However….

I receive the The Huffington Post Daily Brief by email everyday and I almost never read it and I’ll tell you why. It’s not out of protest for how they pay (or don’t pay) for much of the content. There are many wanna-be-columnists out there who do benefit from Arianna’s popular web page (even if the many random posts get lost on the busy site). Those policy wonks and non-profit champions can repost their nice little Huffington Post link on Facebook or Twitter (not unlike my little blog here), making themselves feel better about their day (yes, I do feel better about my day, thankyouverymuch).

Nor is my avoidance out of protest for posting stories like this one: “Paul Carr: The Strip Diary, Day Four: An Expert Video Guide to Gentlemen's Club Etiquette: This Vegas adventure is supposed to be a learning experience -- so I decided it was time to man up and learn the correct etiquette for visiting a strip club.” Really, Arianna? Really? I clicked on the link only long enough to verify that yes, the piece really was as bad as I expected it to be. Now, as predictable as some of the stories on The Huffington Post might be, this one shocks my tummy each time I look at that title line.

And, lastly, no, the reason I don’t read The Huffington Post is not because she misspells her name.

The reason I don’t read The Huffington Post is simple: the pages take too long to load. It’s a basic matter of "time economics." Plus, once the pages do load, there is so much extra content on the page that it slows down my entire computer. The site is overloaded with flashy advertisements and cross links to other sections of the Post, that it feels like a miniature eternity to get from story to story compared to most web sites. One page took nearly twelve seconds to download today (and I think that’s actually faster than it has been in the past). To compare, a Google search for “huffington post” yielded “about 58,200,000 results” in “0.05 seconds.”

I also know that when other applications start to slow down on my laptop, I can always attribute the turtle pace to the bandwidth hogging Huffington Post page which I inevitably forgot to close.

To be fair, The Washington Post web site is extremely cumbersome as well. A quick test of their main story today about President Obama’s plans to cut the budget took approximately twelve seconds to load as well. The page might look loaded, but if you attempt to scroll down past the advertisements and photos at the top to get to the meat of the story below, the entire page freezes on you.

So patience is required. And for The Post, I have patience. I forgive their annoyingly ambitious advertising strategy to financially support the time-tested newspaper. Especially now that The New York Times has initiated a lockout for us online news searchers, I very much appreciate The Washington Post’s version of a “free press.”

But for The Huffington Post version, I think I’ll give them a few more years to earn a journalism award or two before losing any more of my very precious surf time on that site.

Grand Dame Heirloom

Sniffing the stem of a vine-ripened tomato the other day immediately made me think of my grandmother. It’s the dead of winter so of course my mostly-ripened tomato came from a greenhouse in Canada and, sadly, the scent was on the thin side of the olfactory spectrum (as was the color and taste) -- but that smell of the stem was enough to take me back to Grandma’s house. Technically, I should say it took me back to grandma’s garden. Well, technically, I should say it took me back to grandma’s row of tomato plants. I’m sure at some point she had a full garden but by the time I came along all she really cared about were her plump ruby red ‘mayters come August.

I love tomatoes – if I don’t have a sufficient amount of tomatoes every day, I feel like something is missing in my life, kind of like if I didn’t brush my teeth, but less smelly. There have been times when the pint of tomatoes I bought at the grocery store didn’t survive the short trip home to my apartment. They seem like a vegetable but are really a fruit. I still don’t get that really, even though my trusty food expert just informed me that tomatoes are a part of the citrus family. (“Look at the pit, the seeds,” he said.) That said, my grandmother’s tomatoes were sweet enough to be considered a fruit.

Manning* grew up during the depression in the poorest part of rural Virginia. I assume that’s part of the reason why she wasn’t particularly keen to make or eat salads. So in yet another ironic twist, her delicious tomatoes were rarely cut fresh as a side salad during summertime suppers. Actually, the majority of those juicy fruits found their way into a Mason jar, in theory to be consumed during the barren months of December, January or February. In reality, most of the canned fruits found their way to the dumpster after sitting on Grandma’s shelf for a couple decades too long.

Thankfully, that isn’t the memory that made its lasting impression on my heart’s affinity for the summer fruit-vegetable. No, what did it were the hundreds of thousands of tomato sandwiches (I'm sure that's not an exaggeration) I consumed, until high school graduation catapaulted me out of the Virginia countryside and into the concrete-heavy city. I swore then, and if I didn’t know any better now, I would still swear that I could live off of those mouth-watering tomato sandwiches. White bread (yes, usually Wonderbread, unless something else was on sale), spread with full fat mayonnaise (unless she used the equivalent “salad dressing,” generic store brand, not ever Miracle Whip), two or three slices of tomato (depending on how big the produce), topped with a sprinkle of salt and pepper. One of those sandwiches was never enough. I don’t remember the record number I had in a single sitting but it was probably enough to send most tummies to the sickbed.

Grandma was always proud of her tomatoes and her tomato sandwiches and everyone in the family was happy to feed that pride with endless "oos" and "ahhs" over her harvest. I know I would stoke her ego on purpose and make a bigger fuss than necessary over them. Maybe that’s why when Grandma had grown beyond her tomato-growing years, she still insisted on planting them each spring. She wasn’t agile enough to properly feed, water and pick them, but she wouldn’t ever give up her beefsteak tomayters. Then about three years ago, she discovered a new brand of giant tomatoes and she insisted on my mother ordering and planting them for her. But as proud as she would be of those Better Boys, I think they were called, they didn’t compare to the ones she used to grow.

Not at all, really.

It became a painful act of courtesy – pretending to oogle over her oversized-tomatoes, which she would have to pick early because otherwise they would split on the vine, or worse, fall to the ground, from growing too big, thus leaving them short on the flavor stick. I don’t think she knew we weren’t impressed by these "prize-for-size" winning fruit. Never one for self-doubt, she was even more self-unaware in her final years.

Grandma was never able to shake the depression-era frugality that was a part of her core. So even when she was overstocked with August tomatoes, unable to eat them all, she somehow managed to put them all to work. The saddest day was the one in which Grandma bragged about her stewed tomatoes. “They had gone bad on the insides, were a bit mushy, but I just cooked them into a stew, so now they’re ok.” We tossed them out when she wasn’t looking, for the benefit of her health.

Manning lived at home by herself into her 87th year. Nurses had been hired (by my mom) and fired (by grandma) because it pained her self-sufficient heart too much to pay someone to sit in the house with her all day and do (what she thought was) next to nothing. What that means is that she was left to her own devices to feed herself (often unbeknownst to the rest of the family). Want to guess what her meal of choice would be? That’s right. A good, old-fashioned tomato sandwich. The problem is that’s ALL she was eating and after a couple of months of such an earth-friendly, self-sustainable diet, she had withered down to frail bones and skin.**

By September, Grandma’s tomatoes were spoiling and my mom convinced her mom (“Momma” is what she called her) that she would be better off in an assisted living home. Manning regretted the decision immediately. She nearly refused to eat any of the food at the facility. The only meal I remember seeing her eat at that place was …. yep….a tomato sandwich made special just for her. When she offered me the second half, I actually did want it. But no way was I going to take that little taste of goodness away from the woman who had worked so hard all her life to care for her family, but who now was without a garden or car to whisk her away to the neighborhood FoodLion to (gasp!) buy her own tomatoes.

No, I don’t eat tomato sandwiches anymore. Thanks to Dr. Atkins, I try to steer clear of any unnecessary breads, of the white variety especially. And sadly, Grandma passed away quietly on Christmas morning in 2009. But my love for that red, juicy, tangy fruit lives on -- and I do indeed indulge. Thanks for that one gift (of many), Grandma, wherever you are right now.

*Yes, that’s her name, and it took decades for anyone to recognize the irony in the fact that she was the one who wore the pants in my grandparent’s marriage.

**Real world proof that one can not actually live on tomato sandwiches.

jigsaw obsession and dirty aprons

I’m obsessed. It’s not totally my fault, though. My boyfriend is the one who pulled out the puzzle. Now I am hooked. It’s difficult for me to walk into the room and not want to sit in front of the half-complete, 1000 pieces of my current jigsaw puzzle.


Maybe I just have an obsessive personality. (Don’t answer that.) Maybe not, though. I obsess over certain little things, like my cuticles, where to put the comma, and yoga. However, the big things, like my career (“Where do you want to be in five years.” I hate that question), buying a house, or raising a family, not so much.


But the jigsaw puzzle. My mind won’t be at peace until the last piece is fitted snuggly into its cozy spot.* Why is that? There are other types of puzzles that stimulate your mind. Crossword puzzles. Sudoku. They’re good for you. Many believe that elderly who play crossword puzzles extend their lives, and according to one study at least, they cut the risk of developing Alzheimer's nearly in half**. (Yet another study out ofthe University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill says that there is no strong evidence that such activities actually prevent the disease.)


Either way, in my mind, the jigsaw puzzle is a subordinate form of puzzle than the crossword or sudoko, even. It's just not an intellectually stimulating activity.


So why obsess? Maybe because in its own way, the jigsaw puzzle, sort of, organises*** chaos. The thousand little pieces, at first, have no connection. Looking at them dumped onto the table, they are all different colors - some bland ones cardboard side up - and it can be overwhelming (it does me, anyway). But eventually it will all come together, piece by piece (of course, I start with the edge). And slowly, part by part, the picture as a whole comes clear.


I wouldn't want to equate that process with the process of life, and the chaos one seemingly endures from time to time -- that would be too obvious, wouldn't it? Yes, of course. Let's just say I enjoy the old-fashioned pastime for the sake of passing time, no point needed.

Which reminds me of the reason behind Kitch (sic). Just as the jigsaw puzzle is a bit old-fashioned, so too might be the subject matter herein (assuming I make it past the first post; I’ve written and deleted and procrastinated out of fear – why would anyone want to read my trite synaptic misfires?). I disclaim now that there might be a hard to follow theme (eclectic, some might say; kitchy to others; kitschy, yet, to others). That said, I can almost guarantee my next post will have nothing to do whatsoever with puzzles, or mental health, or organising one's dirty aprons in life. But, admittedly, it might have something to do with all the little obsessions in my life****. Consider yourself forewarned. And now, maybe consider taking on your own jigsaw, seeing as the weather is right for it and all.


* Just how at the end of the day, my mind isn’t at peace until I’m fitted snuggly into my cozy spot.


** Learn more: http://www.naturalnews.com/004403.html#ixzz1BJeSDVSb


*** Still confused and coming to terms with the proper use of "s" and"z" -- I blame Noah Webster for that. Yes, he is the one to blame.

**** Revision: There is one big thing I do find myself obsessing over, with a smile, of which I might write about at a later date.

BFF -- or FBB?

This scenario has happened more than once: me, sitting confused and hurt, wondering why I became friends with that person in the first place. I'm sure anyone who made it to kindergarten has felt the same emotion on some level. I remember a school play when I volunteered to bring in a "Zero" candy bar for my friend to use on stage (we were learning our numbers). I don't remember which number I played on stage, but I very much remember that after the play, she ate my white chocolate treat. I cried; she didn't even ask if I wanted it back. Today, I definitely would not cry. (Have you ever seen how white chocolate is made?)

However, I have felt a sense of betrayal by a good friend on more than one occassion, and over issues much more serious than a silly piece of candy. And so.... I have had to learn the hard way the value of loyalty. And forgiveness. It seems you can't have a true friendship without both. When do you let yourself get mad? When do you let yourself forgive? And, when do you make yourself stay mad?

The question is: How do you react to friends behaving badly (FBB)?

When I'm on the other side of that judgment equation, when I'm the one charged for crimes against friendships, I would want leniency. Yesterday, I broke my boyfriend's favorite coffee press. I was easily forgiven.* But in truth I've done worse. In high school, I dated a friend's boyfriend -- after they had broken up, yes. But still a horrible thing to do because she actually still liked the guy. I lost that friend for good, understandably, and for the wrong guy, not understandably. It helped me learn the lesson of loyalty. It took me much longer to learn about forgiveness.** I'm probably still learning both, to be honest.

Some pals are just impossible to throw away for good. They're the cockroaches of friends. You may get mad, you may fall out for a brief period (go into hiding under the Fridgedaire?). But when the seasons change, that friendship will see the light of day again, no matter what.

Unfortunately, I have also learned throughout the years, that there are some people who are worth letting slip into life's jet stream. Sometimes people or relationships that take more than they give and I've had to ask myself: is this really worth it? It's a painful process to come to the answer.

That said, it's also a good time to remember the value of loyalty, and no friendship should be tossed aside hastily. As I mentioned, there was a time when I was less than loyal and I learnt (or "learned" - which is proper?) through loss why it's so important. We have all been wronged by certain people along the way. Some of my friendships have been tested to the point of break-up. Some endured that test, and those friends over time are for certain the most precious. With this in mind, here is a little something I cobbled out on the subject.

An Indictment

You’re my friend --

Not a parent

Not a teacher

Not my boss.

So please don’t scold

Don’t preach

Don’t correct

Don’t pick one friend over another,

unless you want me to do the same --

to obstacle you when you’re on that path

towards hurt and torment.

I may resist

your words

like you resist mine

and that’s ok in our rulebook.

We have rules unwritten.

There is no need to document the fine line

between

our right and

our wrong --

rendered obsolete they will be

because even in the trial of our friendship

the end verdict will stay the same.

A life sentence: friends.

-Ariana

*I imagine if I were to shatter more than one piece of favoured glassware, that forgiveness would be a bit more hard won.

**Remind me to tell you that story one day.