Dylan McKay (and other related things)

I was talking with some friends the other day about what we had been watching on TV.  One friend (who's name rhymes with "Glayna" but I won't tell you her actual name because I want to protect her identity) said that she had been time traveling back to the 90's and visiting that favorite zip code, 90210.  Oh yes, you can now watch reruns of "Beverly Hills, 90210" on Amazon.

I am all over that.

Now a little known fact is that 90210 was Bill's favorite show.  At least at that time in his life .  Every Monday at 8:00 PM he could be found waiting breathlessly in front of the television, ready to join his dearest friends, Brandon, Brenda, Dylan, and all the rest of those spoiled, rich kids and all of their teen aged drama.  Except Aundrea, because she had to falsify her address in order to attend West Beverly High.  She was the token poor kid.  But I digress.  Bill especially liked Dylan.  He might have actually loved Dylan but I'm not totally sure.  It was a very sad day for Bill when Dylan's character left the show.  And don't even get me started on the highly anticipated return of Dylan at the end of the show's run.  Gosh.  The excitement.

Anyway.

So I started watching the series again.  From the beginning.  In order.

It's awesome.  The clothes are all coming back in style!  The hair!  There are fanny packs and scrunchies!  The spandex under the jean shorts!  The high-waisted jeans with crop tops!  Oh gosh.  Even the lipstick colors are popular again.  And I'm pretty sure that I heard Donna say, "Dope!" when referring to her first impression of Brandon Walsh.  I'm not lying.

As I was watching the pilot episode I kept thinking, "Man, I gotta call Bill and see if he remembers this part."  Or, "I have to remind Bill about Betty the Surfer Girl." and "Oh man, I wonder if he remembers Dylan's hotel suite scam and how Brandon was such a goody-goody dick about it."  Over and over I had these damn thoughts.

Hmmm.  That's not going to happen now.

I guess I'll just keep watching and remembering.  I'm sure there will be an episode that sparks a memory about what I was doing when it originally aired.  Like I was probably wearing my black lace bodysuit, tucked into my button fly Levis, with my black Dr. Martens (no socks), and watching with a bunch of baseball boys while sitting on sofas of questionable origins.  In a sketchy apartment, no doubt.  (On a side note:  those baseball boys did love them some 90210 and Melrose Place!)  I'll remember going to the bar afterward and drinking pitchers of PBR (using my tip money and thinking I was way cool) and playing pool.  Mostly I just watched the pool playing and ran the jukebox.  We always played the same songs.  Might've played a few rounds of VP (video poker to you novices) too.

I will remember it all.  But I'll be sad that those memories won't have anyone besides me to appreciate them.

And I will be thankful that I already know the outcome of the whole Dylan/Brenda saga.

To Write...or not

I think today is the first day of fall.  That means summer is now, mercifully, in the past.  I say good riddance to that shit show.   But I also don't want to think about the passing of another season and the ushering in of a new one either.  Someday maybe I'll write about why.  Not now though.

I haven't been writing lately.  I've been thinking about stuff to write about plenty.  That's never a problem for me.  Lately though I've been concerned, paranoid maybe, about letting other people glimpse into my mind through the words I put down on paper (or a screen).  Seems like it's not just my paranoia either.  Too many times in the recent months I have had someone ask me if I was writing about them.  Doesn't seem to matter what the topic is either.  Those unfounded assumptions can lead us to some uncomfortable and unnecessary places.

So I quit writing because I got tired of explaining.  I know that I don't even owe anyone an explanation but, my people-pleasing nature and all, makes me feel like I should at least try to assuage the paranoia.  Realistically my balls are big enough that I would have absolutely NO problem calling a person out if I really wanted to.  By name even, if I felt like it.  I just don't ever feel like it.  My writing is not meant to hurt anyone or manipulate or lean towards the malicious side.  Trust me when I say I could fill volumes with accounts of idiots and liars I have dealt with.

I tend to write in generalities not in specifics.  I write about the culmination of many experiences and how I process them not about an isolated incident.  Except donuts--I will for sure write about specific donuts and where to get them.  Good old Hemingway said it well when he stated, "There is nothing to writing.  You just sit down at a typewriter and bleed."  That's how I write.  Don't like it?  Don't read it then.  Makes you squirm and feel uneasy?  A tad bit guilty?  Not my problem either.

I've spent a lot of time this (past) summer reading or listening to books about "becoming your authentic and true self."  Or something arrogantly along those lines.  I've read about setting goals and discovering what truly inspires you.  I've learned about abandoning past mindsets that no longer serve you and establishing new priorities.  I've rethought my habits and rituals.  I've even read about changing my eating patterns and exercise habits.  And the commonality shared in all of these things?  Well besides the reading part?  It's writing.  Writing down the changes.  Writing the goals.  Writing the worries and fears.  Writing it all out.  Writing seems to diminish the enormous presence of the unfamiliar or the scary stuff.

So I will write again because I'm good at it and it is me.   And I will write about what is on my heart and in my mind.  I will run and exhaust my physical self so I can better hear my soul speaking and put those clear(ish) thoughts down on a page.  I will write to make sense of life.  If that's even possible.

Good Time Girl

Bill played 4 years of college baseball.  That's 4 years of wild debauchery.  Instead of sex, drugs, and rock and roll it was more like sex, beer, and baseball.  Not necessarily in that order either.  But one of the most foul (ha ha, pun!), yet provocative players during these years were what Bill referred to as "Good Time Girls."  These were any handful of girls who, like their name suggests, just wanted to have a good time.  Now let it be known that during this time I was a good, solid, responsible girl.  Sure I had my wild times but generally I was a Good Girl.  Definitely not a Good Time Girl.  Looking back I think I was a little envious of these girls' ability to throw out a mindset like my own and just concentrate on having a good ole time.  

Then I got married and had babies.  And then I had more babies.  And I stayed at home and was a really bad ass housewife and mom.  Bill worked hard, really hard, and this carefully constructed life worked for us for many years.  I felt loved and safe and respected.  I was still a good, responsible girl.  I took care of everyone and everything.  I did this for lots of years.

And then Bill died.  That changed everything of course.

A good friend and I were talking the other day about how our dreams and priorities have changed as we've gotten older.  Like what we did for fun as a 25 year old vs. what we do for fun now.  Or what we would look for in a husband at 25 vs. 35 vs. today.  We talked about how our taste in friends had even changed over the years.  Maybe how we'd outgrown some but found new, better fitted ones, for our current place. Everything changes and evolves.  Nothings stays the same.  If you actually take the time to think about this and ponder it you might be surprised at what you figure out.

It was a good talk anyway.  One that got me thinking.

How had my priorities changed?  What did I like now?  What did I like to spend my time doing?  Who did I want to spend my time with?  And the answer I came up with?  I want to be a Good Time Girl!  Well, not exactly like one of those girls from 20 years ago, but my updated version of one.  My liver can't take the constant abuse of all those parties and I need my precious hours of sleep.  I also am not a good whore, but that's a story for another day.

What I mean is I want to concentrate on having fun.  Fun is my priority.

OK, OK, settle down.  I never said that I was going to abandon my kids and run off or anything.  Everyone in my household will be properly cared for.  The responsibility thing runs deep in me.  Too deep maybe.  What I'm saying, though, is I don't think I need that safe and steady thing anymore, or at least not in the way that I needed it when I was younger.  When I was younger I wanted stability and consistency.  I didn't want Good Times--I wanted Safe Times.  Little personal risk.  Some other person to hold me up and maybe shoulder some of my responsibilities.  I wanted a responsibility sharer, if that's even a thing.  Someone who shared paying bills, raising kids, keeping a home running, standing by me while I grew up.  I think I'm explaining it mostly right.

But since Bill left, I have figured out that I am kind of a bad ass by myself.  A lot of the things I didn't think I could do were actually just things I didn't want to do.  Big difference.  And a lot of the things I thought I had to do I learned that I didn't actually have to do.  I'm finding that fluidity and flexibility and yielding to change are all necessary to my survival.  And my happiness.

So I'm going to embrace the idea, or at least my idea, of becoming a Good Time Girl.  I'm not quite sure what that means yet but I think it probably will include some late nights, lots of laughing until my stomach hurts and beer comes out my nose, excellent talks with fun people, and probably a few painful mistakes along the way.

Funny thing about pain......I don't know that I even feel it acutely anymore, it's become such a constant for me.  Not sure if that's good or bad.  But I do know that I'm going to try to suppress my Good Girl mindset for now and fully embrace the Good Time Girl methodology.  Whatever that may be.

Quotes

I love Pinterest.  I love searching for recipes and ideas for new hair styles.  I am inspired by garden pins and decorating ideas.  But most of all I love the quotes that show up in my feed.  I love quotes.  Actually, I love words in general so loving quotes is just another medium for my fondness of written expression.

I save any quote that speaks to me.  I've archived funny quotes and salty quotes.  Nasty quotes and dark ones, too.  There are inspiring quotes and brutally honest quotes that seem custom written for me.  I think that if a person were to look over my Pinterest quotes board they would be able to get an accurate feel for what kind of person I am and where I've been. They might also be a little scared, but hey, I'd rather be scary and real than fake and complacent.

Occasionally I will read through my quotes and see if any of them need to be deleted because they no longer serve their purpose in my life.  Usually though when I search through those words I am reminded of who I am.  I forget this important fact sometimes.   Life has a sneaky way of making me forget myself.

I spent the weekend, quietly, and alone.  Well, I'm never really by myself, but I was alone for the night so that counts--at least in my book.  I cleaned the house, painted a table, went on a long run, and started editing my Pinterest boards.  Honestly, I was looking for a little inspiration in my world and it seemed like Pinterest was as good a place as any to start.  I edited mercilessly.  Threw out the overly-churchy quotes.  Tossed the passive aggressive quotes and figured that being honest and candid was a more pragmatic approach to dealing with idiots.  I deleted many, many inspirational quotes about being positive and being kind.  Frankly, I'm kinda tired of being kind to people who don't deserve my kindness.  How's that for candid?!

What did I keep?  Which words did I allow to remain as representatives of me, my thoughts, my intentions?  Oh, I kept plenty.  There seems to be a common theme with whisky quotes and statements about how to deal with assholes.  There are snippets about setting boundaries (which everyone knows I'm unable to do) and not worrying about other people.  I kept lots of lines of poetry, Atticus and Alfa leading the way. (Haven't heard of them?  Look them up.)  Oh, and lots of Hemingway. (Bill would be so happy, though not as happy as if it were Melville.)  Hemingway, despite his tragic demise, was a bad ass, with all the drinking and adventuring and fishing he wrote about.  Girl can dream......

But the concept I found to be most relevant and pertinent to me right now today was patience. Patience and I are not well acquainted.  Maybe it's from losing Bill--I understand, all too well, how short life can be and how quickly everything can change.  I operate on a different time frame now.  I understand how this tendency can read as impulsive, but I assure you it is not.  Spend a few hours in my head and you'll see just how much thought I put into every decision.  And I do mean Every.  Freaking.  One.   Having recognized this tendency now,  both subconsciously and at the surface level, I have withdrawn, figuratively,  from the world for a while.  I just want to sit patiently (yay, patience!) and see what unfolds.  No chasing or manipulating or forcing anything.  Just waiting.  And watching.  And learning.

Like I said before, patience and I are not good friends.  But we're quietly learning to respect each other.

One Hot Mess

I cried in the middle of Dick's Sporting Goods the other day.  I've actually done this before so I guess it's no surprise that I would do it again.

Yes indeed, I was a hot mess.  Kinda think it's my MO these days.

Expanding on that image......

I sat down with Jon tonight and asked him to explain football to me.  Now I understand the basic concepts and strategies about football--I'm not totally ignorant to the sport.  God knows I've watched enough of it that I'd be a damn fool not to have picked up at least a little something.  But I was more interested in having Jon explain it to me in order to see if he actually understood what he was supposed to be doing.  Isn't there a saying about not fully understanding something until you've taught it to another person?  That's what I was trying to do, I guess.

The kid knows his stuff.  Like drew me pictures and stuff and explained each position in great detail  to me.  He showed me how and why certain plays were better than others.  He even explained the secret codes (my words) of the plays.  Yeah, he knows what he's talking about and I was impressed.

And then I was sad and had to go into the field and cry with the cows for a while.  See, I shouldn't have to be the person raising these kids by myself.  I shouldn't have to do things like buy girdles (with the knee pads because that's super important apparently!) and decide which cleats (high top or low) were appropriate for a receiver (Low ones, I know.).  I'm so tired of being the person who tells these kids about stuff I really don't know about.  Ever watch a YouTube video to learn how to throw a curve ball or how to correct a batting stance or move around a scope on a gun?  Well I have and I freaking hate every part of it.

I suppose all parents feel inept at some point in their parenting career.  But let me tell you that I have never felt more incapable of raising these kids than I have in the past year.  When I think ahead to all that I still have left to teach or impart to these kids (driving lessons?  dating?  making bad decisions?) I am nearly paralyzed by fear and the feeling of insurmountable responsibility.

I've got no co-parent.  I've got no one but me.  And I'm a hot mess.

Running

I had a nightmare the other night.  Hadn't had one in many, many years.  I actually woke up, completely disoriented and covered in sweat, and could not go back to sleep.  I was afraid.  Like heart pounding, irrationally afraid of the dark.

I can't remember exactly what the dream was about.  Something was trying to get me and I was trying to kill it but I didn't know if I could actually kill it or if I should try to reason with it.  Yeah, I'm sure there's some deep-seated meaning to the imagery of this dream.  I honestly don't want to know what the hell it means.

What I do know is that I was all alone that night and maybe that's why I was so scared.  There was no one to laugh at me or tell me that I'd be alright.  There was no one to get me a cookie or hold my hand until my heart quit pounding.  There was no one to play with my hair until I fell back to sleep either.  Instead, I just got out of my bed, burned a little sage, lit a candle, and read for a while.  Eventually I fell back asleep.

So I think this is why I need to run.

I've always been a runner--not a fast runner or a long distance runner.  I like to keep it to 3-4 miles 3-4 days a week.  Until a few years ago at least.  And then I found myself tying my shoes and heading out the door every single day for about an hour.  I suppose I was attempting to run from my sadness.  I was probably trying to use the running as a way to process what was happening in my life.  I'd suggest that I was even trying to run myself figuratively into nothingness but I like to eat too much to actually let that happen.  I think it's just my coping method of choice.  I like how it represents running away without actually, well, running away.  I dated a guy for a while and spent all my free time running--should've been a sign that maybe I should've literally run away that time.

With all that running I did I actually hurt myself and ended up with a string of injuries that prevented my daily running therapy/ritual.  It scared me not to be able to use my representative escape.  I even convinced myself that, like a smoker, it was probably good to see if I could exist without my vice (running and smoking are very different vices--yeah, I know) for a while.  You see, I am quite good at convincing myself of just about anything.  Just about anything.  Remember that.   I healed and started running again but not as much as I had in the previous year.   I didn't need to.  My world was full of kids and work and friends and introspection as I maneuvered through my new life.  I didn't think I needed to figuratively or literally run away anymore.

But then I had that bad dream.

When you use a muscle repeatedly you build and maintain that muscle.  When you stop using the muscle it will atrophy.  Simple physiology.  And then it made sense to me what had happened.  When I stopped running I also stopped being alone.  At least temporarily.  But see, I am alone, so trying to pretend otherwise allowed that reality to atrophy and I lost the strength to be alone.  I need that muscle or whatever the hell it is to get strong again so I don't ever have to feel the way I felt at 2AM.

Self preservation and running are solitary pursuits, best left to the broken hearted.  Or so I'm finding. I have a new pair of shoes,  a new running bra (having boobs that don't enjoy the bouncing), and a mind and heart that don't agree on much but can be easily convinced to run.  

Dinner

I had a friend one time who told me that he knew a woman was upset when she ate ice cream for dinner.  Directly out of the carton.  I believe he was on to something here.

But what does it mean when you eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky for dessert?  Also directly out of the container?

There is a kind of tired that goes beyond the physical feeling of exhaustion.  There is a tired that renders a person numb and unfeeling.  That kind of tired goes all the way to the depths of your soul.  Void.  Emotionless.  Hopeless.  Alone.

I think that’s the kind of tired that makes a person eat ice cream for dinner and drink whisky out of the bottle.

I’m wondering if there’s a cure for that feeling?  No amount of sleep offers relief.  No activity can spark a reaction.  No recklessness or pursuit of adventure can create any lasting shred of excitement.  

Nothing but monotony and beige and silence.  

That’s not entirely true, I suppose.  I guess that patience will eventually offer up some sort of new proposition.  But do we take a wild leap and accept that offer?  Or are we so frozen and stuck that we don’t even recognize it?  Or maybe even disregard it completely for reasons we don’t even understand?

I like to be tired.  I like the feeling of sore, fatigued muscles.  I run. I lift weights.  I do yoga.  I do farm chores and garden and cut wood.  I know tired.  Tired quiets the words and ideas that flow in the mind.  Tired makes your bed feel that much softer.  I know tired.

But when I go to bed tonight there won’t be dishes or cups left in my kitchen sink.  There will only be one spoon.