girl on fire

I’m sitting on a plane to Scottsdale remembering how embarrassingly long it’s been since I’ve written anything non-work related, and flipping through this month’s Elle magazine and Women’s Health. For which I paid a hefty airport price tag of $9.16 for two bundles of glossy paper. I kick myself for never remembering to buy magazines before a flight, but I just love the glow of those bright kiosks full of shiny paper and words and books and oddly shaped pillows. 

I’m running (somehow) pleasantly on 3 hours of sleep, our president has just been reelected much to my delight, and I am on my way to a beautiful resort for 3 days to work for about 2 hours, and “mingle” for the rest, all paid for.  Business is good, and I’m actually starting to feel like I know what I’m doing and where I’m going-- Definitely not words I could have uttered even 2 years ago. At this moment in my life, quite surprisingly to me, things do not suck. In fact, I’m terrified to type the words, but life is good.  So why can’t I ever just sit back and enjoy the moment? I’m not a negative person by any means, but I am a worrier. A realist. A fighter. A woman who like many, has fought tooth and nail for every single thing she has. Who has struggled, who has been lost, abused, and completely pathetic at many points in this life. 

If you are a person like this, perhaps you can relate—you’re secretly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Your life experience dictates that things can perhaps go well for a time, but will surely be followed by them going terribly, terribly bad.  Like this demon disguised as a 3 year old child sitting a few rows up from me.

Lately though, when not contemplating the benefits of an amendment banning children on planes, I’ve been thinking that doesn’t have to be the case. This is the time of the year I typically dread the most—the holidays. Anyone from a broken and dysfunctional family could tell you that they’d rather drink themselves though the months of November and December rather than steep themselves in holiday cheer, but… dare I say… not this year?  Because at some point, I, we, all of us must realize that our happiness is up to us. We own it. No other person, presidential candidate, spouse, friend, cohabitating jobless twat, family member, or asshole on the street or your facebook feed should have the power to change your ability to live in the moment. The moment that you take a breath and absorb all that is well in your life. And damn the rest, if just for a moment. This life isn’t perfect, so if we wait for that, we wait in eternal turmoil.

There are a lot of things that I want, have convinced myself I need, that I don’t have. Where I don’t live. who I don’t love. What I don’t weigh. But, even for a small part of one day, if we, especially women, could put all that away and be happy for ourselves and God forbid—for others—it could produce something special (and new) if you’re anything like me. 

And even just a few hours of forced quiet time on a plane could conjure enough “live in the momentness” to produce thanks for this perpetually grey internal cynic, vaguely external cheery person. And isn’t that what this month is about-- Thanks? (well yes, and gravy)

.

So if you need to, have a good cry and a tall drink, and get on with your shit.  Because this is your moment, your country, your life, and your choice.  Live it.

her.etic

lately, i've been thinking a lot about what we as humans want out of life and the circumstances of why we deem it as important. if you're a woman, you are likely married or desire to be so. have you ever asked yourself why though? (you don't have to say it out loud). same goes for children. the argument can (and has been made) that those who prefer to go the childless route are selfish. but then i personally think that we are all selfish creatures. even a parent is somewhat selfish in their desire to have a child born of their own flesh, and mirror their image back to them. and adoption, in many cases is a last resort when a couple has exhausted their means of conceiving. and this, these two life choices, as women-- this is all that is available to us for identity? surely not. but it's an awful lot of what society and facebook want us to settle for.

so why do you want what you want the most? why do we believe the things that we do? and are we somehow predisposed to these ideals. it might be possible that i was just born a liberal, sarcastic, Jesus lover hyper-sexual foodie. it's possible. at the very least, someone with these inherent qualities is assured to never vote republican or picket planned parenthood or give up bacon. baby i was... born this way? or no, created. just as others might be born (or shaped) to bake apple pies in kitten heels, pay only 14% in taxes on their millions, and marry Mitt Romney.

all of this on the heels of my week's already interesting dichotomy of intersections, and quite unceremonious position i was put in recently to defend my "beliefs". i put those in quotes as my mantra lately has been more one of a cranky feminist doubter than devout pew sitter. i'll explain-- on sunday, while watching Homeland, the greatest show on television, i was preocupied with thinking, and feeling guilty about, the very real connection to religiously conservative nations and the presence of extreme violence that exists conveniently within them. and how conversely, vastly secular nations exhibit relative stability and peace. don't believe me? just compare Iran and Sweden. or England 500 years ago. these thoughts always creep in and cause those dreaded "live in the discomfort" moments i hate so much. how can you profess christianity or any religion when you are so distracted by the evidence in front of you that a large source of this world's violence and wars are caused by religion? that you're asking yourself, and God if he's listening, if religion is the root cause of violence in our world, and not being able to come up with no as an answer. hell, all i wanted to do was watch my damn show. instead i got to wrestle with how perhaps judeo-christian fundamentalism, while more palatable to us western white folks, has the same core dysfuntionality as radical islam.

ouch. hear that? that's the sound of people leaving this blog and condemning me to hell.

and then as luck, and God would have it, i had an unplanned come to Jesus argument with an atheist the very next day. one that i like enough to cook dinner for and get naked with.  but also one who harshly denies any basis or connection to faith based healing, purpose, calling or creation. we skirt these issues normally, and i'm not usually a hard line taker out of my own weakness, but one can do a simple wikipedia search to discover the faith basis of successful social programs such as alcoholics anonymous for example, that continue to work and benefit our society as a whole-- all might i add, based on christian ideals. don't even get me started with the "nuns on the bus". so he can ignore the facts, and i can hide from the glaring, sometimes nasty truths of my faith. and still no one, not anyone, has all the answers. except for maybe wikipedia. and that i should probably keep my clothes on.

all of this is a very long winded way to tell you that i'm beginning a new direction with my writing, and therefore this blog-- we will have in tone, much to my discomforted dismay, more honesty and vulnerability. something i often preach yet don't practice very often. but more than that, as an exercise to move past viewing vulnerability as a weakness, and more as a source of courage. and practice. a practice in courage we'll call it.

a practice for what you ask? oh i'm so glad you did...

one day, far far away from now, i imagine myself having enough time, chutzpa and focus to fulfill my dream of writing a memoir. one with recipes. a memoir with recipes. that people might actually enjoy reading. because as my good friend steph says, "recipes tell a story". that's true, and they especially tell mine. and i am ready to begin the process of working out what exactly that might look like. and truthfully,  i really need a place to fully delve into unabashed food worship here. facebook is making me feel fat as i subscribe to too many fitness pages and "track your run" apps, when all i really want to do is tell you about the thick-cut sourdough baileys soaked french toast i made this weekend. yes.

so as i move forward toward this new direction of more vulnerability, less whining, a modicum of more maturity and intelligence, and a lot more yammering about food, i invite you to read on and join me if you're interested.

i am hungry for more.

between the bars

months back i sliced my hand washing a wine glass in the sink. i applied too much pressure with a worn sponge to the thin glass, and it cracked. effectively, swiftly slicing my hand and thumb deeply. immediately, in shock, i stumbled to cut off circulation, but didn't realize the severity of the cut. only once i saw the blood flowing. harder & persistently for hours and hours it bled. scared, i bandaged it tightly, praying for the bleeding to cease.

once the blood ebbed, and the bandage removed for the first time, i looked down at my thumb and saw the deep wound & now mutilated flesh. then, the pain came. i numbed it with various things-- pressure, ice, medicine, more wine. every day i got up and re-bandaged that wound. and for a while, it would bleed again.

while showering, i kept careful as to not wet it for some time to ward off infection. i used my injured left hand as little as possible. but every once in a while, i'd forget that i was injured, and use that part of my hand-- opening a jar, unbuttoning my jeans. the pain came searing back immediately. a reminder-- you are injured. still wounded. use caution.

eventually the thumb healed and the skin grew over. the cut however, was deep enough i found out, to sever a few nerves. numbness and a slightly thicker patch of skin now covered my wound. every time i reached to touch it, i felt total numbness in it's place.

with time, the nerves and synapses in my body started to form & fire and find themselves again. everyone said they would. everyone said, eventually you will regain feeling. but not all the way. my once bleeding wound, now has keloided scar tissue attached. some feeling has returned slowly, i feel my body strengthening. the body is amazing in it's healing & repairing mechanisms. but one nerve, it seems, is just... severed. the others found their way back. but full feeling, is likely never to completely return.

on the outside, it looks perfectly healed. but each time as i run my fingers across the raised skin, i feel the reminder of that day, through the slightly numbed scar,

and then i think of you.

on heavy rotation: monthly playlist

for the better part of a year now, i've been addicted to spotify. if you're not on it yet, why?? unlimited streaming, people! somehow i got into the habit of compiling and posting monthly music playlists after a few friends kept hounding me for new music i was into. enter the social media music monster. so, since these have become a "thing" among my little friend group, and have become a slight obsession that keeps me from actual productivity some days, i figured i should start sharing them here with y'all.  there's always something old, something brand new, something odd and something blues.

here's j'uly. subscribe & enjoy!

other fav's: memorial day, throwback thursday, m'ay

please hammer, don't hurt em

 source: huffington post

so jen aniston wore these lovely things recently. for the sake of technical correctness, we'll call them pants. or, the reason brad is no longer married to her.

i love that ever since she started dating the man in black with too much access to hair gel up here, she's now "edgy". well jen, actually lower thigh leg chaffing due to walking thru an airport with billowing harem jeans on, is just stupid. not edgy. but i appreciate how you're trying to match your man in cool points and tight-mouthed seriousness. hold tight in your solidarity! i guess long gone are the days when you were dating john mayer and breezed about miami beach in flowing dresses, jesus sandals, and irritant free thighs.

at least with justin, you can share your moisturizing creams and pent-up teen angst.
(cute blazer, though)

love,

angelinaforever

musings on still being alive, meryl streep, anger, and why you're a bitch

oh blog, i've missed you. i think about you every day and how inept and fearful of a writing season i am in. but you, this outlet, my poor readers connected to me through it, i need thee and your commiserating community. your outbound fearless thought pin boarding. and i'm here once again, for how long? who can really know. i don't. but just do what i have been attempting lately-- live here with me in the moment, would ya? breathe.

ok.

now, i am going to get a cool beverage and clean the smeared day old mascara off my face and put real clothes on for the first time today. after which, i will go to the store to get some wholesome (and not) necessities for the week, and then pretend to go for a run. really i will just go for a walk in deep contemplation mode with my dog. tomorrow, i will say, is a new day for drive and intense calorie burning.


we're back! and you betcha i walked.

i think it was after saying, out loud, for maybe the 135th time in recent memory, "GOD, people in love are so annoying", that brought me back here. by back here, i mean some real reflection. for me, real reflection involves the writing process.  you can be assured that if i'm not writing, i'm avoiding whatever deep rooted thoughts and ideas may bubble up and  come out on virtual paper for me to see plainly on a computer screen. but what else could it be? the random, blissfully out of character hookup that now sends me spiraling for answers for my behavior and.. the future? or is it that today i actually hid a photo on my facebook news feed of a lovely couple dressed in their finest off to a military ball. i actually needed to hide it from my view. as if to say, AWAY FROM ME, SATAN. he looked great in his square-jawed medal-clad best. she in her adorably taffetta-d shimmery blue bedazzled expected--and what looked like itchy--attire. oooh i cringed writing that. you see why i hid it, people?? or, my mother's recent epiphany (utmost sarcasm intended) and subsequent reaching out to me after 4 years of limited interaction and unbearable tension-- it's time for us to go to therapy. oh really? yes, LETS sit on a couch and pay money to argue about my childhood with a moderator present. oh, your insurance is covering it? well then, what are we waiting for? let's hop back on that crazy train ... or still, it could be that wildly popular HuffPost article i just read so appropriately titled, "why you're not married". (book of the same name flying off the shelf at your nearest desperate single woman barnes & noble near you)  oh, you know i've already kindled that shit.

chapter 1?  you're a bitch. well based on that last paragraph and really everything we already know about me, yes, yes i am. thank you, book.

this is why we stay away from whatever brings us closer to surfacing up to the honesty of our situation-- we get to see how angry at life we really are. sure, go on with your bad self and live, but deep down, you're angry. you're angry just like me. at basically everything. ridiculous things. uncontrollable things. unfair things. at your husband/boyfriend/person you sometimes engage sexually. at work and the fact that we have to do it at all. at the milk for expiring right when we needed to make that soul replenishing au gratin potato recipe. at having to attend a wedding where you will see a lot of people that will require you to drink heavily in order to dull your subconscious desire to stab them repeatedly. at the fact that - babies - are - everywhere. no really, they are fucking everywhere you look now. go check your pantry, you might find one.

why are we so weird about admitting that we are angry? it's right there next to depressed on the list of unspeakable emotions category. for me, i'm not sure how much self-help literature, or therapy, or chanting mantras of contentment can realistically create lasting change. but what i do know, and what we must practice more of, is that if we are to receive more love, we are to express more love. true love means making up your mind to give it, even when you feel that maybe those people on your "angry" list (and facebook news feed) don't deserve it. want more love? express more love. -signed, the universe.

grace? is that you knocking? i'm not here right now. but could you just hang out for a while? i've got old meryl streep movies to watch and wine to drink. -signed, jen.