unexpected time

Almost a year ago at this time, I was in South Carolina visiting a friend when in a flurry of text messages and phone calls, I found out that a family friend had passed away.

It felt so strange.

To be surrounded by so much beauty; and yet, to keep getting reminded that there's so much pain and sadness, too. I had been working on a lot of funny, silly story ideas about Hilton Head hotties, the dearth of sad sack starter wives and the outrageous plethora of second-time-around sex kittens on that island. My trip was made up of Mai Tais and Pina Coladas, noshing on sushi and wading in the ocean. But mostly, I found myself alone inside my thoughts. I had a hard time absorbing everything and finally sat down with my friends for a heart to heart.

And so I cut the trip short to be able to attend the funeral. I had just seen the young woman not two months’ before, at a baby shower. She looked so good, I kept signing that to her and I remember teasing her about the obvious lack of piercings. For years, longer than most pierced people that I know, she’d been dotted with a variety of metals. “I’m a mother now,” she signed to me. “It’s not right anymore.”

And the baby was luscious. A charming chunk who grabbed onto me, arms windmilling, to tote him around the buffet and delight him by pointing out the babified shower decorations of chicks and ducks. It was a happy day.

Later, I learned about the depression she’d had since the baby was born. How she’d taken pills and fought with the baby’s father. Felt like she was failing. At the funeral home, I looked at photos taken when she was little and remembered her when. The priest was from the deaf school and he signed a beautiful service. And later, I pressed the letter into her dazed mother’s hand.

In my letter, which was and is private, I tried to explain how much the young woman’s mother had meant to our family over the years. To tell her that she was a beautiful mother. Pitiful small words that didn’t say much at all, not everything I wanted to say. Not hardly at all.

One year later, I think about that little baby. Remember the way the proud young mother looked that day, smiling serenely and happily telling me her news. Teasing and laughing at the young grandmother, who seemed happier than she had in years.

Still, I remember.

maybe I do, maybe I don’t

All of my friends know that it’s pretty easy to talk me into doing things. Typical conversation between Lisa and a friend:

Cheryl: “Let’s go here and do this.”

Me: “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Cheryl: “Come on. You know you want to.”

Me: “No! No way am I doing that.”

Cheryl: “Come on, Lisa.”

Me: “Oh… Okay.”

The thing is, most of the time I want to do whatever it was that I was asked to do in the first place.

I just feel like I shouldn’t want to do it.

I want to not want to do it.

You know?

Letting go of old habits… It’s hard. It’s the one thing about growing up that has been a struggle for me. If you knew me in person you’d think I was cool and collected. Well. If you didn’t know me very well that’s what you’d probably think. My friends know better. They know too much.

Over the years, I’ve usually ended up doing the “right” thing. And I love the idea that I might be living my life by example today. I really do want to do that. But sometimes, being an adult, and doing the right thing, just feels so… cumbersome. Like the coat I have to shrug on to walk to my car. I’ll take it off again as soon as I get behind the wheel. Otherwise it makes me crazy. It just gets in the way. But for a few moments, I have to have it on my shoulders. That’s how I feel about being grown up sometimes.

And I don’t want to relive my teenage years. Like most kids, when I was in high school I wanted nothing more than to grow up. I’m comfortable in my skin. More so than in my teens or my 20’s, yes, I’m just in a really good place now. Cheryl and I were talking about that over dinner this weekend- just being this age, in this place of discovery and wonderment, forever.

But growth is important. Increasing your base of knowledge. Continuing to change and learn and to try new things. Not becoming complacent. Learning to let go of old habits. But sometimes, when it comes to growing up, it feels like you’re giving up, too.

I hate that.

the life of the party

Sometimes it would be a call at 3 in the morning. No, not another ex-boyfriend with late-night meanderings in mind. Not at all. It was Julia.

With a tone of almost-ecstasy or unfathomable despair, my friend would relate her drama du jour as my half-asleep brain tried to process what she was saying. That she was “stranded” in a motel room in a bad area of town with a couple of guys she’d met in a bar earlier that evening. One wanted to tattoo her while the other wanted her to do a lot of coke. Neither one of them would let her go home. “I don’t know what to do,” she breathed. “I’m drunk and I’m so scared, Lisa.” And I could feel her terror, trembling in her voice and coming across loud and clear over the wire.

“Julia,” I said, thinking quickly, “I’ll call the cops. They’ll be there in no time.”

“Oh No,” she said. “Don’t do that. I’ll get in trouble because they have the coke.” OK, I said, still thinking. Then I’ll call you a cab. “No, no,” she whispered dramatically. “That will take too long. And I don’t have any money! Can’t you just come and get me?”

“Julia,” I said patiently. “I live 40 miles away. A cab can get there much more quickly than I can. Have the driver call me and I’ll give him a card number to pay for your ride. It will be fine, I promise.”

This goes on and on while I lie on the edge of my bed, clock in hand, thinking about how I have to get up for work in a few hours. And how insomniac-me will never get back to sleep. And how clearly, she’s not in any danger. She just wants a friend to join her for the party. No, seriously. That’s how she thinks.

But that’s the joy of Julia.

And if it wasn’t a 3 am phone call, it was a call hinting at suicide, or at least severe depression, at 2 in the afternoon. On more than one occasion, this resulted in my leaving work to race across town(s) to her house… Only to find her drinking margaritas and slumped over the kitchen table but ready to party.

“I can’t believe you left work for me. I love you!” she crowed. “And I’m going to change. Everything’s going to be different. Look,” she said, waving a hand engulfed by a cluster cocktail ring from Avon. “I’m engaged to Bobby!” Bobby, it turned out, was a paunchy ex-rocker with stringy hair and Motorhead t-shirt, who slinked down in the corner of the room looking wild-eyed at the thought of marriage.

She wanted to believe it so much, I felt obligated to say something in kind. “That’s great, Julia,” I forced a smile while Bobby edged his way out of the kitchen. “I’m really, really happy for you.”

And it was also worrying about her when she didn’t show up for classes for several days in a row in the year or two she attended college. I finally grabbed my boyfriend at the time and drove over to where she was living, a dingy apartment butted up against the aforementioned crummy motel. There we found her, naked and lying on the floor in a semi-comatose state. We dressed her and drove her to the hospital where she was pronounced malnourished, suffering from double pneumonia and as having some sort of immune deficiency. I was rewarded with a wan smile. “Thanks, Lisa. You’re always there for me. Don’t worry. I really learned my lesson this time.”

I think everyone has a friend like that. The life of the party. And something of a wash-out, all these years after the party’s over.

But, there’s always that feeling, at least for me, that I’ve got to do something to help these friends. I just have to. Julia was always that kind of friend for me. I just can’t turn my back on her, or on anyone in need. It’s just not in me.

Friends since high school we were, and Julia seemed like she had everything back then. Always had the newest, coolest car. The cutest clothes. She was smart, funny and popular. And she had the best ideas for where to go and what to do. Sneaking up on a penned-in lion in someone’s yard. Hanging over the monkey bridge and screeching at the ghostly whistle of a midnight train. Making even a humdrum trip to the mall exciting. She was just so much fun to be around. The one person who could make me laugh so hard I almost wet my pants, practically every time we were together.

But she didn’t have everything. In a lot of ways, she had nothing. Just a very, very sad childhood story. Mix it up with margaritas, meth and oxycontin, and there you have it: a life that was well worth living, but unrecognizable to the very person who was living that life.

The last time I saw her, she seemed so thin. So, so thin you could have snapped her in half. I wanted to hold her, and tell her that I would always be her friend. That she could always count on me. “Please eat something,” I begged instead, my eyes on her face. She just laughed and tossing her hair, walked out of the food court without ordering, while I stared blindly at the Ferris wheel.

We lost touch after that. Again. Because ever since she dropped out of college, she’s moved around a lot. Different men, different situations but always the same story: “I’m really getting my act together, Lisa. This time, I really am. I have a good job and whatever-his-name-was-that-month and I are getting married!” She always had to make that last-ditch attempt with me. To try and convince me that the old Julia was still there. Still a winner. Still on top.

Every time she called, I wanted to tell her that I knew it wasn’t true. I wanted to beg her to me be honest with me, so that I could try to help her. Promising her, like I always had in the past that I would hold her hand as she walked up the steps to rehab. Instead, I did the only thing I knew how to do, to allow her to save face:

“Congratulations, honey. I know it’s going to be perfect.”

hippies at heart

Kel went to the Oregon Country Fair last week outside Eugene. It was emotional for her because it was her first time back since we were in high school.

The country fair remains uncommercialized. Still held on private land. Still has plenty of available drugs. Beautiful hippie girls going topless with painted breasts. Music that makes you want to gig. They camped overnight and found what they needed behind the canopy of an old tree.

I’m a hippie at heart, said Kel, and my heart swelled at the thought. Because I feel it too, every time I’m in Eugene. Righteous anger at everything that’s inside the norm. A town without political diffidence. Deadheads ejected from motels not from partying but from tie-dyeing t-shirts in the bathtubs. I still reject the thought of buying a tie-dyed t-shirt. Turn my nose up at the too-perfect dye matches available in the mall.

The last time I went to the country fair I had an experience that will stay with me always. Next year, she said to me. Next year, we’ll go together. I can’t wait.

I wrote this last summer, after I returned home from my usual bi-annual pilgrimage to Oregon. Over the last few days, I’ve signed my new lease and scheduled my move to Portland. I leave in a little less than two weeks’ time. It’s been a long road to get me to this place. With a lot of friends that I’ll always cherish. Memories that I’ll never forget.

The blog will continue. There might be a hiccup or two while I am getting settled, and the name will change to reflect my new digs, but it will still be the same old Lisa… living in a new town and having all new adventures. With, I’m sure, plenty to write about. Many local bloggers had much good advice about how to handle the transition. As with all of the blog format changes I have put you through, it will take a little time to get organized. But I can promise you, it will be worth the wait.

When it came time to get really ready to move, I had a lot of anxious moments. It costs so much more to live in Portland. What if I get a place and find out the local crack den is next door? What if I move and my huge family engulfs me? What if, what if, what if… But somehow, it’s all working out. Like it was meant to be. Finally. Everything is falling into place.

I’m going home.

the pseudo-intellectual

The other night I was out with friends and a man sat down with us and started talking. A financial consultant, he also dabbles in other business interests and had a lot of stories to tell and opinions to share. Within five minutes, I knew where he went to college (not that I had asked, or was particularly interested). And he was obviously very smart. Maybe a little too smart.

We had a lively conversation and an interesting exchange of ideas. And yet… I was a bit put off by an overuse of what my friend Jack calls “ten cent words.” And the liberal sprinkling of foreign phrases that he added into the conversation at every opportunity. Clearly, he was trying to make an impression. And he did. I’m just not so sure it was the impression he wanted to make.

Pseudo-intellectuals. During an election year, they crawl out of the woodwork.

The funny thing is that I know I’m probably fairly pretentious, too. Hell, so are most of my friends. But we know it and we can laugh at ourselves when we get a little too serious or highbrow. We definitely don’t have to impress each other by throwing our brain-weight around. The pseudo-intellectuals I’m speaking of here don’t consider themselves “pseudo.” They just think they are smart, period. And they relish any opportunity to spread it around.

Of the smartest people I know, two stand out- and neither went to college. One is actually a high school drop-out. Both of them are well-traveled. Both of them are current on political and socioeconomic events and news. One, a man, has read every book ever written, practically. Think of a range that includes the Bronte sisters and Robert Reich. The other, a woman, will take every opportunity she can to make the case for her candidate of choice, until she’s blue in the face- and then some. They are deeply passionate, deeply knowledgeable people. And when we get into any sort of interesting conversation that’s beyond the legal limits, I hang on their every word.

Not only am I not impressed by someone who tries to impress me with their credentials- however shiny they may be- I feel like pulling out my hair when I find myself stuck in an endless conversation with a pseudo-intellectual. I also feel somewhat offended by people who assume that a college degree is a prerequisite for intelligence. Or that a high-paying career is the only measure of success.

When I think of the most successful people I know, they don’t necessarily have those signs of material wealth that we so often mistake for success. And as a side note, most of the people I know who live in big houses and drive big cars also have a great deal of big debt.

No, the people I think of as the most successful probably don’t even think of themselves as successes. One of my friends went through a painful divorce and lives in a little old house that’s constantly in the middle of a remodeling job. But he also has a career that he enjoys and daughter who seems to grow more beautiful by the minute. He owns his home in a city where no can afford to buy, probably in part because he got there before the last boom. He takes trips hither and yon as the mood strikes him. And he’s just happy. What more he could he want? That’s success, as far as I know.

I know that he has everything that I want. Well, aside from that painful divorce. And isn’t that the greatest measure of success? Success by comparison, I guess you’d call it. And I’m just trying to be funny, literal-minded readers. No, he’d no more call himself successful because I think he’s a success than any of you would. I suppose some people consider themselves successful based on the way that others view them, but those people don’t seem to exist in my world.

I’m reading over this last paragraph and I’m waxing far too intellectually.

Or at least I’m doing a good job of faking it. ~


Have an excellent weekend, guys.

no regrets

I’ve never believed in regrets. My thinking has always been, whatever it was that I did, I wanted to do it at the time. For better or worse, I made a decision that I thought was the right one, and I can’t impact that choice today.

And yet … There are a few things that I probably could have handled differently. Situations that could have been executed with a little more grace. Loved ones and liked ones that I could have treated more kindly. It makes me feel worn down just thinking about it. Maybe there are some things that we cannot leave behind, no matter how hard we try.

I believe that everyone has done something that’s not in their character just because they wanted the experience.

But have you ever done so many somethings that you start to question what your character has become?

I had an eye-opening discussion about regrets with a couple of my heart friends recently. Because yes, anywhere we go, and especially anytime we are at the Pub, I will open up a discussion to get ideas for the blog. It’s irresistible, really. Because who else will give me so much brutal honesty and give my many questions such thoughtful consideration?

Between the three of us, two of us felt the same about regrets. And the third said she had regrets, but that they were just a part of who she was at that time in her life. Que sera, sera. A point which we then argued about for the better part of an hour: You have regrets but they were just a part of who you were at the time? Isn’t that the same as having no regrets at all?

Maybe we were just splitting hairs… and sloshing beers. Either way, I think that dealing with regrets has to do with forgiveness and self acceptance. Learning from your mistakes, and trying to be a better person. Not looking in the rear view mirror so often that you forget to look at what’s in front of you. It’s my own brand of twelve-stepping.

And so far, it seems to be working.

three strikes

I feel a great deal of disdain for people who let me down. Lie to me. Go behind my back and try to start trouble for me. It’s happened on occasion. Not often. But when it has happened, depending upon my perceived severity of the situation, sometimes, I’ve cut the cord.

Cutting people out of your life. It isn’t easy to do. And, I still don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. But there are some transgressions that are so hurtful that I just know that I don’t want that person in my life anymore. Period.

Once, a long time ago, a very nasty rumor was started about me. A rumor that quickly spiraled out of control in our too-small town and reached my then-boyfriend before it reached me. Thankfully, we had an honest and trusting relationship. He knew that I would never do anything like I was purported to have done, and we instead puzzled at great length about the rumor and where it started.

We wrongly concluded that another party (also implicated in the rumor) had made it up and started spreading it around. The resulting confrontation would have been comical if it wasn’t so sad- my boyfriend was my height, maybe shorter, and a pacifist; the other guy, a dead ringer for an oversized Ted Nugent and a wacked-out martial arts enthusiast, nunchucks included.

My guy confronted the other guy, who was so honestly bewildered and upset; we couldn’t help but believe that he’d had no part in the fabrication. He was married and the story, which had reached his wife, brought up some old, hurt feelings about a real infidelity in the past. It was an unfortunate situation for everyone involved.

An unfortunate situation that became even more preposterous when we discovered the culprit. The person who started the rumor was none other than a friend. A very, very close friend of mine. Who had no reason to believe that I had done anything of the sort and in fact, made it up out of thin air just to cause trouble for me. I stopped speaking to her immediately after one final confrontation.

My parents, friendly folk, liked her a lot and often asked about her. Even years later, my dad would bring up her name. I made up a story. Because the rumor was so ugly, it was just too embarrassing to tell my father. Instead, I told him that we had just fallen out of touch. It was easier, but it left that window open for him to ask about the “friend” from time to time, and to lecture me again and again over the years about just how important my old friends are, throughout my life.

I know that. And I don’t like the idea of cutting someone out of my life. It’s hard to do. But as difficult as it was, I thought- and I still believe- that it was the right choice for me.

But sometimes, I still question my actions. I remember the fun I had with my old friend. The many experiences, confidences and good times we shared. I know she’s fallen on hard times since our friendship ended. Would she have kept her head above water if we still spoke on the phone every day? If I still were offering her my unconditional love and support? I don’t know. And it makes me feel sad. Like a bad person, who is uncaring or judgmental. And then I remember the rumor, and all of the trouble it started. Why I had to let my friend go.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel so wrong anymore.

a memorial for midnight

One of the best things about living in Northern Kentucky is the people. Neighbors aren’t just people who live next door. They bring you dinner, stop by with dogs in tow to chat and always welcome a little splash of bourbon and some good conversation on the porch. I’ll never, ever forget the friends that I’ve made here.

This story is from when I lived in Mansion Hill in Newport, on the street where all the flight attendants live. I was really, really (still am) close with my neighbors- most nights we’d visit on one of our porches and we even went up north to the big lake together one fine summer. Things like this happened all the time:

I was out late one night, drank way too much and somehow didn’t make it all the way up the stairs, but slept on the couch instead. I wake up early in the morning to a repeated knocking on the door. I still have traces of make-up on and my head hurts but I grab an old t shirt and shorts off the floor and run down to answer the door. It’s my neighbor Alan’s kids from across the street, looking somber.

“Midnight died last night. We’re going to have a funeral today,” they told me sadly.

Let me explain about Midnight. Midnight was a big black tomcat officially bunking down at Ella’s, a southern belle who lived across the street and on the corner. A flight attendant, Ella is often out of town, so other neighbors would feed the tom and sometimes take him in for a night or two. I am not really a cat person per se but I liked him; he’d often disappear for a couple of days and then come home with a gash in his ear, evidence of fighting, and reeking like kitty, too. I knew Ella and the kids loved Midnight, so I felt really bad for them. Still not really awake, I said sure, I’ll be there, and then I went upstairs and promptly fell back asleep. Ten minutes later, someone is pounding on my front door again. I go back downstairs.

“We are starting the funeral in five minutes so get up and come over,” says Alan. “You need to be there.” OK, OK, I wake up for real, decide to wash my make up off later and manage to brush my teeth. Still in the ratty t-shirt and shorts, I walk over to the field at the end of our street where everyone is gathered.

As far as cat funerals go, it wasn’t bad. Ella, crying, had us each write down a memory we had of Midnight, and then we read them aloud and Alan placed them in the shoebox with the cat. Then, he started digging the grave.

It’s early, but it’s one of those hot, sweaty days in the Midwest in May when you can tell it’s going to thunderstorm all day long. Really hot already, and it’s only 10 in the morning. Alan is digging and digging into what turned out to be shale, and not dirt. For some reason (I guess because of the grave digging), my fancy-schmancy attorney neighbor is wearing overalls and a wife beater. Ella, too, is wearing an old t-shirt and shorts. It is hot, it is sad, the field smells and now there is a mist of red clay in the air, in our throats, in our hair and all over our clothes. Alan dug down as far he could go, buried the cat, and we all stood there silently. Then Alan looks at me and says, “Well, we had a funeral. Now we need to have a wake.”

Dirty, sheeny with sweat and red clay and still wearing streaked eyeliner, I followed the procession back to Alan’s house. Alan’s wife, Caitlin, is in the kitchen already making bloody marys. I walk in and watch her drop three shots into the first one. “That one’s yours, Lisa.” Mmm-hmm. We trooped out to the front porch. Eight hours later, we were still there. Still drinking. Still dirty. Still wearing our grubby clothes and covered in red clay (and last night’s make-up).

We kept drinking and talking, talking and drinking, clearing out all of Alan and Caitlin’s booze, all of mine (half gallons) and all of the booze at Vanessa (another flight attendant who lived next door to me) and Ella’s houses too. And as the storm rolled in, so did a number of guests… Alan’s family is rather well-known so visitors included a would-be mayoral candidate, a higher-up in the local parochial school system and a number of other neighbors and friends. By early evening I am speaking in tongues, practically, leaning all over the mayor and telling him about some city-related grievance.

At some point, I go inside, where Caitlin finds me in the kitchen, hands gripping the counter and staring up at the ceiling (she related all of this to me at a later date).

“Honey, do you think it’s time to go home?”

“I don’t know, Caitlin. What do you think?”

“Let’s go home, honey.”

Caitlin, mother to us all, walked me home and dropped me on the couch. I “take a nap” that lasts until morning.

The next day I wake up, and find a big bowl of water on the floor. I puzzled over that briefly (whatever was I doing?) and then went on about my business. Two days later, I am at Vanessa’s house telling her about the bowl of water.

“Oh Alan and Ella put that there.” Alan and Ella? Did I wake up and have them over?

“No, they came over to see if you had any more to drink and to get something to eat. They brought over young guy and some of his friends to look through your kitchen (young guy lived next door and was always amazed at how much drinking we all do). They wanted to see if you would wet the bed if they put your hand in water.”

Bastards! I immediately stomp over to Ella’s house with a what-is-the-meaning-of-this speech.

“Oh honey, it was so funny,” drawls Ella. “But when we put your hand in the bowl of water nothing happened except that you kicked off your blanket.”

“Who was in my house?”

“Just me, Alan, young guy and about six of his friends. I can’t believe…”

“You can’t believe what?”

“I can’t believe the only thing you wear to sleep are those littttle tiiiiiny underpants.”

For as long as I lived over there, ever after when I ran into young guy he would wave excitedly, I would slink away and Alan would laugh himself sick.

cut off your nose

I’m often amazed at how spiteful some people can be. I mean, it’s shocking, really. But then again. Nothing much surprises me anymore. Very few people end up being what you thought they would be when you met them. And sometimes that’s for the best. But sometimes… People can be really petty. Very small. And I’m left to wonder: how does it make you feel inside, knowing how you hurt other people?

Or do you mostly just hurt yourself?

For New Year’s this year, I thought about writing the anti-resolutions. Where I would say things like, “To people who think that messing with someone’s life is a game, well. May it all come back on you onethousandfold. Friend.”

But, like always, upon some self-reflection (and you guys Know How Rare That Is for Me. Ha.), I decided not to do that. I still haven’t capitulated and become the angry blogger. Stripped off my clothes except for a bunny costume head and bunny feet and started firebombing. Well, at least I haven’t started doing that yet. For now, I’m going to forgive the people that have wronged me this past year. And it’s straight from the heart:

You shouldn’t have started all of the unnecessary drama. And, in your heart, you know you shouldn’t have involved me. But you did. And I’m not angry. I feel bad for you. I’ve forgiven you, for everything.

And now, I’m going to forget you.

I started already, at the beginning of December. You probably didn’t notice. Didn’t even feel it when I started to move on. Or maybe you did. Maybe you felt the cool breeze of my disregard. A hitch in your step that you attributed to a crack in the sidewalk. A funny happenstance that you wanted to share, but on the heels of the thought was the knowledge that you have no right to contact me. And as time goes on, forgetting just gets easier for me to do. I hope it gets easier for you, too.

Happy New Year, dear readers. I hope it’s filled with new beginnings, new challenges and most of all, new friends.

grounded

Last night we went to check out a friend’s band. There were many, many funny moments… but my favorite conversation had to be this:

Jo: That was fast.

Me: Please. You know I’ve never had to wait to get served at a bar.

Jo: That’s because they know you’re going to spend a lot of money.


Talk about a quick deflation! Friends… They keep you grounded.