Posts tagged relationships

39 Year Old Comes with Splinter

Brought to you by Pete at Pep Boys for making my car the absolute last one off the lift tonight.

For sale!  One 39 year old with a splinter.  Not only a splinter but a week long one and not just a week long one but one that crunches that crunchy glass sound every time I step down.  I can hear it in my teeth.

That sort of splinter.  And no, the splinter isn’t 39 years old but I am.  Did you know when you’re 39 you are the Splinter Taker Outer not the Get Splinter Taken Out Person?  *DeepTweezeredSigh*

Sitting at home tonight working out a splinter that kept working in I cried, “Jesus!  I’m the person.  I’m not the kid and I need your help even with this.  Where are you cause it won’t come out?!”

I get it.  I get this age.  This adult age that says you are the one that cares for people not necessarily the one cared for.  Damn, babies and old people have it made.

I had, not one, but two flat tires tonight after a lovely dinner.  It didn’t bother me too much.  I made it to the gas station before they completely gave up the ghost, put enough air in to make it to Pep Boys.  Everything was okay.  But then I sat in the waiting room with three other women.  Around my age women.  Women that work their asses off to spend the evening getting tires repaired.  Women that needed new batteries because they probably ran into work early in the morning leaving the lights on. I left the waiting room, drenched in the smell of grease and new timing belts, and walked outside to the garage, “Please!  Could you JUST put the tires back on my car?  Just two?  Not four.”

I paced and paced and was entirely unreasonable and stayed far enough away to not make the mechanic think I was checking his work but close enough so he knew not to make me the last customer.

I was the last customer out.  I deserved it.

I get it.  I get flat tires.  I get splinters.  I know bigger things happen and just around the corner could be absolute ectasy or tradegy.  For now, for just this one little moment….

I don’t want to be at Pep Boys.  And I don’t want to be the Splinter Taker Outer.

Somebody hand me a needle and a match,

Cole

Lessons in Nevers

Brought to you by Mandy Thompson, cause she asked for a blog and one quick like.

I’ve lived a life full of nevers. 

I’m never leaving Irvine.  (I can’t wait to leave and explore and go see new places and some old places and then come back to this safe place.)

I’m not having babies.  I’m too old for that. (I met someone that makes me want to have babies.  I’m doing all those ‘getting ready to have baby’ things like downing Folic Acid and smiling at strollers.  He asked me if I realized I’d have to get up earlier than 10am if we had them.  I’m, gulp, learning that, too.)

I’m never going to love again. (The thing is, the thing to know is.  Even when the heart is breaking into so many pieces they are so small you can’t sweep them up, it repairs.  God recovers you.  He heals you.  It takes time and you get better and then love peeks back around the corner and says hi in that way it does where it takes your breath away and all the nevers turn into maybes and possiblies and then resounding yeses!)

I’m never doing that ‘church stuff’.  Ever again.  Like, with an extra never. (But, I am.  See, it’s not the church as in the building I adore.  It’s the church as in the people I love.  And no, I don’t love the ones all prettied up and perfected.  They are fine and lovely, too.  I love the ones with a little dirt on them.  I love the ones sitting on the side of the road.  I’m drawn to the ones that have a scowl at God from years of disappointment and always and nevers that left them with indents in their brow.  That’s the church I can’t say never to anymore because it’s you and it’s me and it’s that person down the street that needs to know someone gives a damn about them.)

I’m never cooking again. (I did.  Shh.  Don’t tell anyone that one yet!  I’m still not sure if I’m going to keep that never or not cause cooking isn’t my favorite thing.  It came with judgment and rules and disappointment when I was a young wife many years ago.  Now, I’m quietly cooking in the still of my home and trying things out with the judgment of only me and hoping one day to share a meal full of love with only…you, well, and you, too.)

I’m never going to be okay.  (I am.  And so are you.  And there are those moments.  You know, THOSE MOMENTS, when it feels as if the last bit of the earth has finally caved in on you.  The moments when every foot is on your neck and you cannot imagine lifting your head again from the weight of every boot and every shoe saying, “You won’t make it, you.  No, you won’t.”  That’s a lie.  You will.  And you will be okay.  And you are okay even if your darkest moment.  In fact, your darkest moment is really the lightest because that is when God walks in full of love and mercy and takes all your nevers and covers them with promise and hope and expectation.

Rabinna Kabir.  (He is a Big God.)

Much love to you sitting in a coffee shop looking out at cars passing and not stopping.  Hoping you stop and remember your nevers and squash them when the time is absolutely right and not a moment sooner and not a moment later,

Cole

Pre Middle Age Love

I’m not sure if it is love leaning against a shiny new 1960’s mustang with horn-rimmed glasses and a man that adores you.

Perhaps it’s the stoic sort of love that takes sunglasses and shades not the sun but the looks staring at a tear-stained face.

Or a door that either lets someone in or lets someone walk out.

But I love love.  I love the messiness of it. I love the childlike excitement of it.  I love the 1960ness of it.  I love the grit of it in a strong woman that wants to be weak and a weak man that wants to be strong. 

I love love.  I love what it smells like in the morning and in the afternoon when it waits upon a call or a visit or a letter.  And then evening love that comes with a moon and maybe some stars and the promise of kisses and whispers and tomorrows and todays and maybe much laters.

I love love. I love how it begins and I love how it ends and that it can take my very breath away with a glance or a thought or a sound or a memory.

In these years, these in between years.  These years of not being young and not being old I take love and hold it tight and say yes to it and not no to it and am awed that it still chases after me and dares me

to…

Valentines Day 2011

Cole’s Christmas Card (say that three times fast)

Lessons in Best and Worst

Brought to you by my favorite cream sort of peasant top that I love so much I bought two.

I asked you. I did. I asked you two things.
1. What was the best part of your weekend?
2. What was the worst part of your weekend?

And normally I gear the question to the ladies cause you men tend to hold back your words but you answered too and I love that.Wanna know mine?

The Best
Sitting around a dining room table BS’ing with my brother and sister-in-law. Riding in the car with Baby Brother. Darling Nieces Sweet Sixteen. Setting out platters. Decorating for things other than work. Hearing the high pitched scream only someone in their teens can master. Hot chocolate. The slight mist of rain that almost isn’t rain but puts a glow on traffic lights. Losing weight and not knowing it cause the scale hasn’t been working but you have. The whooshing of wet wheels on wet roads. Getting closer to the finish line of my first race. Street lamps. Front porches. Remembering being Evil Knievel Brave as a child and thinking that might come back. Detailed dreams without endings. Three books, dog-eared. Inspiring a love of museums in you. Air conditioning and windows open…cause I pay the bill.

The Worst
A remembering cry of grief that came from my toes and out of the top of my head. The second row of the theater. An empty tank of gas. Not having a band aid big enough for your wound.

And then it hits me. The Worst are still good even when they are bad.

My cry of grief was healing and brief and beautiful and muffled and I got through it quick because I knew where to go. And the second row of the theater isn’t wretched. I mean it’s not like I didn’t have somewhere to live. It was more an arching of the neck sort of in the middle of entertainment complaint. How bad can that really be? And an empty tank of gas? That means there’s a car to be filled and that’s pretty cool because I can fill it and take a couple adventures! And not having a band aid big enough for your wound - your loss, your hurt, your anger, your frustration, your unknown. I do have one, I do. The only place I know to go is to God. Maybe you have somewhere else and, hey, make it happen if it works for you. But I’ve tried Mint Chip Ice Cream.  It melts.

You all shared some of your best and worst this week with me. I love when you share. It’s sort of like pre-school but for us Pre Middle Agers. Kinda cool, you know?

The Best
Homecoming. Cuddling with Sailor Boy. Discussing Rapture and sex in same bible study. Taking son and daughter to a college expo. Son and friend built me a fence. Sex, diamonds, whisky, loved ones. Dancing at House of Blues while my hub and kids were home sleeping! Did my 10th race.

The Worst
Laryngitis. Sailor Boy puking on fave pair of heels. Sudden migraine on lazy Saturday. Weekend ending. The rain and…it’s cold! A misunderstanding. Not getting enough sleep (baby didn’t care mommy stayed out late!) Suffering from injuries.

Much love to you this quiet night with one car whooshing past every now and then and the occasional rain drop,
Cole

Lessons in Messy, Beachy Love

Lessons in Details and Gratitude

Brought to you by a McDonald’s large, not medium, Diet Coke.

It’s Friday and the end of a very, ultra busy event week.  I have sore everything and things are throbbing that shouldn’t throb.  On top of that, on a morning where I should bask in the glory of my amazingness, which is what I do the mornings after events, I had a press conference to stage.

*cursing under my breath and out of my bed which I did not want to get out of*

It’s post press conference.  I park underground, come inside my apartment, kick off my heels and instantly feel grateful.  I mean grateful in the hugest way someone can feel grateful.  Grateful like empire state building or egyptian pyramid big grateful.  That grateful.  But it’s for the little things.  The detail things.

Here’s a couple I thought I’d share.

Feet free from four inch heels.  Large diet cokes when you normally get medium diet cokes - especially hot days with air conditionless cars.  Service managers that say, “I know others don’t see but I see you - you have your eye on everything, Cole.  I see.”  Sunglasses that shade harsh sun and brief frustrations.  Showing grace when I only want to show ‘strangle’.  Home air conditioning set low and then lower again.  Mixing up all The Godfather movies to make my own synopsis.  Assistants that finish my sentences and understand my different head nods.  Men that remember.  Summers.  Being called a sexy, smart damsel in distress.  Working until my team stops working. Necklaces that turn into bracelets that turn into sometime belts. Tears that last three minutes instead of three days.  Sweaters.  Messy beachy hair.  Almost biting my nail but then not because things really are okay.  Little boys with summer tans that scrunch their noses when they answer you.  Girls that proclaim their favorite color is pink until their favorite color is green.  Oh, and nicknames.  I love a good nickname.

I like details.  I love the little things.  I’m enjoying this summer, this Can’t Decide If I’m Going To Be Hot Or Cold Summer.  It’s fickle.  I understand it.  It’s sort of like a woman that way.  I get that.

Much love to you as you pay attention to the little details of your very big every days,
Cole

Lessons in Wills

Lessons in Crowds

Brought to you by sparklers and the joy of writing your name with one.

Sunday night and I had two fairly enticing options: go to Pacific Symphony’s Firework event at Verizon Wireless Ampitheater or grab a bottle of wine, some very bbq-ish food, sit on the hood of my car and watch fireworks old school.

I did a little of both.  I’m sorta like that.

I like days that don’t have much in the way of structure to them.  Come when you want and go when you want and have dinner when you want and eat macaroni and cheese with bacon when you want.  Those sort of days.  Today was one of them.  I finished with a perfectly greasy meal and, it being still light out, figured heading over to the ampitheater might be worth while.

It was. 

So, there was this perfectly lovely event and as it ended there were sudden mad dashes for the exit.  Rather than join the crowd, I sat back and…watched.

There are interesting things to see when you watch the crowd.

The Hand Gesturer.
He’s standing in the midst of the crowd and melting down.  Though I do think he’s talking to himself as a coping mechanism and I can completely appreciate that.  It’s the hand gestures that make me wonder if he’s going to pull a machete anytime soon and take out half of Orange County.  Keep thinking of happy, soft places, sir. You’re almost out of the crowd.

Look at Me Guy.
He speaks loud enough for half of the crowd to hear him, “I’m SO glad we got the good seats and not the ones 30 rows back.  Aren’t YOU?”  He sees me roll my eyes at him and quiets down a bit.  I’m not fond of The Loud having been one in my past life.

The Comedian.
Okay, my favorite.  Mid to late fifties, walking down the stairs and getting in the crowds, always looking for the laugh sort of guy.  He says, “I lost my wife, but that’s okay.  If you find her you can have her.”  His wife is right behind him rolling HER eyes. 

Sequined Hat Woman.
She’s around 84 and is wearing a sequined top hat that has been sat on at least 37 times.  If you saw the way she wore it though you’d smile like I did.  She walks by me and I mention my admiration.  Her response, “It’s old but I’m never going to stop wearing it.”  When you’re 84, the style rules no longer apply to you. 

(Please, please shoot me in the back of the head if I turn into a sequined top hat wearing old woman.  Please.)

No, this wasn’t the same crowd as the Sting concert and there weren’t waitresses coming by for my drink order and the line for the disabled shuttle was longer than the VIP drink line.  Still, I think the stories this crowd could tell would be richer any day.  At the end of the event, the conductor of the symphony honored the members of the armed forces by playing each of the marches.  As they played you saw young and old stand and reach across aisles to salute and nod at each other.  Nods full of layers.  Nods full of life.  Nods full of sacrifice and struggle and decisions. 

You get to wear a freakin’ sequined top hat when you’ve sacrificed for your country.  And you get to talk to yourself in crowded lines that make you nervous when you’ve given years in service for our freedom.  And you get to make silly cracks at your wife’s expense when you have to leave your country and work overseas.  And you get to talk overly loud…..well, no….you don’t get to do that, sir.  You’re still too loud. 

A big, sequined, sparkler written thank you.
Cole