First Dating: The relentless muse (short essay, rough)

More ramblings of the heart, they have become my obsessive little muse. There is so much to study, and assess - and these emotions are beautiful and ugly and confusing and exhausting! So what is IT? It is the allure of finding a love that consumes you. The kind that draws you in like the prick to a balloon - slowly at first, but eventually deflating all sense of logic and bringing a dreamy air of possibility to your conscious. It takes you. It feeds you. It changes you. Love pumps venom through your heart and brings life to youthful fairy tales - is Prince Charming real? How many toads am I supposed to kiss? What of those toads - who ends up with them? That first fall will cripple you. Your communications skills, persuasion tactics, and emotional tolerances are challenged. Too philosophical? I am easily lost inside metaphors and unnecessary verbiage. The truth is this: love is a hostile takeover.

A bit more about me: I am an insubordinate asshole. You say black - I say rainbow. You say no? I forge ahead and paint my rebellion in your skyline. Is this a sign of immaturity? A quirk of personality? Sometimes with love I scream, "NO!" I fight. I run. I muzzle my emotion - always without success. No matter the refusal, my heart always wins. I have cussed, and turned my back, and unsuccessfully attempted to spit out this fire. The fire that eagerly tries to ignite its insanity in my heart. Does this make me the Scrouge of love? Probably. But does any writer have a story that isn't bleeding with heartbreak and difficulty? Is pain the muse that propels our pen - or our cursor - into motion?

Hemingway drank and whispered imaginary people into his prose. He seemed to have it right.  Every work of his mind has been regarded as a "revolutionary piece of art" - and it was. It still is. But he was also a drunk that penned his thoughts to paper with self-loathing and whiskey.  Every writer has a trigger, or two, that prompts thought into action. Guess what mine is? Emotion fascinates me. Love hypnotizes, terrifies, and stumps me. I realize that my disgruntled obsession is self-inflicted. I know that the pursuit of understanding such an elusive enigma will pickle my mind and, likely, breed pessimism - but I still think that love is the greatest thing that can ever happen to you. Or to me. Every folly - every fall - every heartache and every single butterfly IS a hostile takeover. How will I choose to submit? Find. Understand. Conquer.

The search continues.

Day Three: I hate all of you.

5am came really early today. I am pretty well adapted to this insane workout regime I implemented on myself, but today was just terrible.

Going into this cleanse, I knew that day three was going to be wretched. This is the day that your body starts detoxing all of the nasty crap you have been feeding it - caffeine, alcohol, hot dogs, BARBEQUE, of all things. I am pretty picky about what I eat, but let's be real. Sometimes you just need a damn hot dog with grilled onions, relish, sour kraut, fresh onions, and jalapenos... (Have I ever mentioned how much I LOVE hot dogs??) Where is the Hot Dog King right now?!?! I have a funny story about that guy, but I will share that one later.

This morning was rough. I stumbled out of bed and begrudgingly drove myself to the gym. I map my workout routine the night before and save it to my iPhone (it minimizes my mindless wandering around the machines) and I completed every single set of leg exercises. I felt like death through the entire process. I felt nauseous. I felt tired. I felt cranky. I felt like sleeping on the ab bench sounded much more gratifying than sit-ups on the ab bench. When Stephen asked me, "how are you feeling?" This is what I told him:

How am I feeling? How am I FEELING? Let me tell you how I'm fucking feeling. I feel like shit. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm sweaty. I smell like ass. And I'm pissed off at that stupid girl and her pony tail - why does she look so damn chipper!? I hate you. I hate this. I hate everyone and I just want to go home and take a NAP.

I stormed off, miserable and exhausted. Once home, I kept my promise and took a 30 minute siesta. Mind you, I was drenched in sweat so now my awesome egyptian cotton bedding smells like angry gym girl. At 8am I woke up and was less angry, but still feeling yucky. I did some more research on the mechanics of juicing and I deduced that I was not drinking ENOUGH of that green sledge. I am basically an anorexic juicer. I kind of feel like that is a double negative, but I'm not a doctor.

Trial and error, I seem to be doing a lot of that. I stopped by Daily Juice and ordered a 24oz Depth Charge - it is 100% green nutrients, and it was delicious. I am also upping my water consumption and introducing a fish oil vitamin into my routine. For now, I am less crazy and feeling much more optimistic about this juicing thing. Time will tell.

Stay thirsty my friends.

One down, twenty to go.

Day two. I survived the night and maintained a surprising amount of energy this morning. I learned, the hard way, that the amoxicillin I'm taking can cause insomnia. How awesome is that? I am a total diva about my sleep, but when 5am struck I was one perky ponytail pounding away on the treadmill. I always open my workout with a 2.5 mile run; I like to sweat. If I'm not sweaty, I feel like I'm not making any changes. Post run, I was high on endorphins and pumped to tackle my least favorite day of the week: arm day. I understand why men like to pump up those SWOL biceps - they see instant results! I do not see instant results. I have weak little woman arms and no matter how many tricep curls or military pushups I do - I still look like Patty Mayonaise. It is maddening. But yet, I push on.

I need to stop right here and make a confession: I made a slight modification to my juicing regime. After several conversations with the only doctor friend I have, and a few recommendations from friends, I was finally convinced that juicing while on heavy antibiotics is not the best idea. HOWEVER, I found the happy medium. I will continue to drink my veggies for breakfast, lunch, and snacks - but for dinner I will rotate in various vegetable based soups and smoothies. Last night I went fat girl on a bowl of five-onion soup from Central Market. If you know me, then you know how much I love onions. All onions. Slice them up with salt and pepper, and I will crunch on that tangy snack all day long. YUM. Today I am rotating carrot juice (which I learned, I do not hate!), black bean puree, and that dreaded "veggie juice" I mentioned yesterday. I think I'm going to heat it up and drink it as a soup. Stephen doesn't think I can muscle through it, so clearly I must prove him wrong.

Here I go, trotting along the trail to physical enlightenment. Or am I just stumbling into Crazy Town? I think it is too early to tell. No wine. No booze. No coffee. No chocolate. And NO hot dogs. NO FUN AT ALL!! I haven't attempted any acts of homicide, yet. I had a nasty craving for tater tots last night, but then I reminded myself that nobody wants to see a tater tot in a bikini. One day at a time, people, one day at a time.

To be continued.

Juicing: Day One. Let's get our feet wet.

I would like to start by bringing up the topic of oral health, and I would like to add emphasis on the importance of regular visits to your family dentist. I mean, REGULAR. 

I am good to my teeth. I brush, 2x daily, floss, gargle with mouthwash, and I have even dabbled in the trendy art of "oil-pulling". I have braces, as an adult (pause for snickering), and I am pretty reliable with my ortho and dental visits. Or so I thought. My orthodontist mentioned, about a year ago, that my wisdom teeth needed to be pulled. The conversation was casual, and he suggested a handful of oral surgeons that would be a good fit for me - I left his office and never thought about it again. Wisdom teeth - what was the big deal? My current insurance plan didn't cover the extraction and if it was such a looming problem then my Orthodontist would have said so, right? My work schedule is erratic and the idea of blocking out time to get hopped up on funny gas and endure a set chubby cheeks just didn't sound like anything I was interested in. I mean come on, ain't nobody got time for that.

Well...I should have made time for that. Let's talk about how awesome my Easter weekend was! I woke up Saturday morning with mind blowing pain in my left jaw; this pain was so intense, it shackled me to the bed all. Day. Long. I googled every known toothache remedy - clove oil, tea bags, salt water, you name it! Nothing would alleviate my agony. By 10pm that evening I was seriously considering a trip to the ER; a good friend of mine, bless her sweet soul, dropped by with a few pain meds that promptly lulled me into a peaceful slumber. (I would like to insert a disclaimer here, before rumors of drug use circulate the Internet - I am NOT a recreational drug user, but sometimes you need something stronger than a Tylenol) Sunday morning I woke up with zero pain. In exchange, my face had swollen to the size of a citrus fruit and I looked like a chipmunk. I instantly thought I had inadvertently ingested nuts at some point, but my boyfriend reassured me that he didn't try to poison me while I was out. What. The. Fuck.

After several conversations with my mother, my friends, and God himself, we all agreed that I needed to get into the dentist ASAP. Unfortunately for me, my dentist is a family practice and they are not open on the weekend. It was not until Monday morning (today) that I could get in for a consult. And wouldn't you know, those evil WISDOM TEETH had resurfaced to ruin my life. So here I am, puffy faced and on an intense cocktail of amoxicillin. We have set the date for oral surgery - Cinco de Mayo, God really has a peculiar sense of humor. On another note, once these wretched wisdom teeth are gone, my braces will follow. FINALLY.

On another note, and the real reason behind this blog post, I am taking this opportunity - the one where I am puffy faced and reduced to mush as nourishment - to test the infamous "juice cleanse". I am a sucker for trendy "lifestyle" changes. I am militant with my workout schedule and I am pretty picky about what goes into my body. However, after watching 'Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead' I have decided that a little detox would do me some good.

My Goal: 21 days ON THE JUICE, to encompass my time on antibiotics and the recovery period after my oral surgery.
Plan: I am starting with the Central Market, in-house juices until I find a juicer I like. Today I picked up Beet/Apple/Orange/Ginger and it did not suck, it was actually delicious. I also bought carrot juice, and a "raw vegetable" concoction of celery/spinach/jalapeno/tomato/carrot/leek/cucumber that does NOT sound so awesome.

I will make a very solid attempt to track my progress via this blog. Let's be real, I have made that promise in the past and failed every single time. This time, (un)fortunately, I refuse to show my face in public until the swelling is gone. This Mac and I are going to have a lot of one-on-one time together to bond. Or to blog. Cross your fingers.

First Dating: Stolen fate (short essay)

Fall is my favorite time of year. I love the crisp nip of fall mornings, hot coffee, long button-ups and boots - I love cozy evenings in and red wine and all of the other wonderful things that make the fall a seasoned favorite. But more than all of the novelties and nostalgia, I love fall because it has always represented a time of reflection. The days are a bit shorter and with them come moments of solitude. You're at home with a glass of wine and nothing more than the thoughts bouncing around in your head. I love those nights. I think about work, mostly, and my family. I think about changes I would like to make with my career or lifestyle. I think about literature, my friends, and the newest restaurant opening its doors. And sometimes I think about the past; I think it is important to let the past creep in once in awhile. If we can't remember where we came from, how are we supposed to know where we are going?  

These cocktail hours with history often make my a little blue - there is always some part of the past that you wish you could return to. That is the nostalgic part. But then there are some things that, when remembered, make you glow from the inside through your fingertips. Sometimes I reflect on my past relationships and I think, "If I had settled at any point earlier in my life, I would have never known the kind of happiness I have today."And THAT is a profound realization. If you sit and marinate with that thought, for just a moment, you see the huge impact that the past has on your present. For me, I remember every heartbreak, every mistake, and every pleading conversation with God that litters my memory. I didn't understand my unfortunate luck with love and I always assumed I would be wifed and wed by my mid-twenties. Instead, I grappled with the idea of happiness as a twosome and cursed cupid when he didn't hunt in my favor. I saw every prospective partner through rose-tinted glasses and daydreamed about the possibility of "the one".

I think that happiness varies with contentment. It is one thing to feel comfortable in a relationship, and thus, feel "happy". But is that real happiness? Or is that just emotion that exists between "happy" and "unhappy" - like a train station, except that you aren't waiting for anything yet. You are still staring at the schedule and debating on whether or not you want to go anywhere at all! And while you're waiting, someone will brush against you and ask, "is this the line for the 9 o'clock?" Before you know it, the distraction of conversation steals your attention and you're laughing at his jokes and noticing the way his eyes crinkle and crease when he smiles. Like magic, it happens in an instant and you never expect it.

That kind of love can never be compared to anyone, or anything else. It's the kind of love that blooms in the middle of the winter when everything else is hiding in hibernation. It is the sneakiest thievery your heart will ever know. It isn't settling, and it isn't regret. It isn't indecision over train schedules or life direction and it isn't uncertainty. It is a bubble bath in November with your soul mate and a bottle of wine. It's love: imagine that.

All [the] exes live in Texas

I had an interesting conversation with an ex recently, and by interesting I mean my blood was boiling and I wanted to throw plates. But before I extrapolate, I will back up and elaborate.

I moved - okay, fled - to Texas three years ago after a horrendous breakup. My flight tendencies have a tendency to outweigh my fight and I wanted to build a new life in a new place where no one knew my name. So, I found Austin and immediately fell in love. Again. I won't drown you with the millions of reasons why I love this city, and Texas, but it is safe to assume my heart now belongs to the Lonestar State. Alas, I digress...

After my early-life-crisis-slash-relocation-adventure, the ex in question - we will call him Houston - made a series of career moves across the country. Most recently, he landed in Houston (hence the name) and has been inhabiting the lower quadrant of Texas for about a year and a half. We have spoken, claimed a truce - it is all ancient history. I have no problem sharing MY state with a person from the past so long as he understands the unspoken rules of exes in Texas. Which, judging by the most recent conversation, he does not.

Now we are at the present. Earlier this week, Houston reached out to me to see if I knew of anything "fun happening in Austin" for his birthday. Which, I infer, means that he wants to spend his birthday in MY city. While I admit my flattery - he sought me out as a source for all things cool and exciting in Capitol City (and why wouldn't he, journalists have the coolest jobs and we have to know where said cool is. Because its our job) - I am also fuming. I am insulted, angry, and deeply confused.

During my first two years in Austin, Houston and I dabbled in long distance relations. While in this limbo, I frequently invited him to visit my city. I begged, I bartered, I plead, and I was always met with the same answer, "I hate Austin".  (How is that even possible? No one hates Austin.) So you can understand my confusion over his newly found desire to venture into my part of the state - after I so generously gave him the southern region! It isn't a secret that the food, music, and entertainment is better in Austin. I suppose I can see why he would want to abandon his city for the weekend to play in mine. I suppose I can see his logic, but why now? What sudden come-to-Jesus revelation led him to open his eyes and see the awesome that is Austin?

Now, because of my overactive imagination and slightly irrational nature, I find this problem hinting at an even larger issue: how do I keep him out? If we were still in Arizona, I could write Arpaio and request that a fence separate central Texas from any exes trying to illegally smuggle themselves in. Or I could build a moat. And to be clear, this is not an issue of unresolved baggage. This is an issue of territory and I found this fire hydrant first.

The bottom line is this: after the demise of a relationship, how do we keep the former players in their respective space? It is difficult to compartmentalize confusion and love is a rampant catalyst of mixed emotions and grey areas. Even after the trains have jumped tracks and moved on, the unspoken rule of space cannot be ignored - that is how trains crash.

Love is messy and seems to have an uncanny ability to resurface, unexpectedly, without an invitation. In this scenario, I have moved on. He has moved on. I just ask that he keep his life a few hundred miles from mine. I was here first. I planted my flag, claimed my space, and now this part of the state belongs to me. This town isn't big enough for the both of us.

So, Houston, here is your answer: stay in your own city.

We are here!

“We are here! We are here! We are here!”

Last night, for the first time in 27 years, I put glasses on. I didn’t know my vision was bad, in fact I thought I had the eyesight of a hawk. I thought I could see everything – but I was wrong.

I have never been particularly vocal about politics, mainly because I don’t like to create confrontation and I have never understood why people bicker back and forth knowing there will never be any resolve. I am passionate about a few political subjects and tend to favor feature focused articles over hard news stories. I'm a pacifist - or so I thought.

Yesterday afternoon I drug a handful of friends with me to the Texas State Capital to witness the scuttlebutt that had dominated my Twitter feed all weekend. We ambled around the Capital Rotunda and patiently waited to be seated in the gallery. Having no extensive experience, or knowledge, on the political process (outside of West Wing and The Good Wife) it took me a few beats to feign understanding. 

Senator Wendy Davis stood, in a room of predominately male counterparts, and read letters from the people of her state. Most of the stories were firsthand accounts of personal experiences with abortions, and others were simply words of encouragement and support. I brought Gabel, my 10year old son, with me to give him the opportunity to witness something outside of his normal scope. Like any kid in his age bracket, he glued his attention to the iPad. It wasn't until the second call to order that his interest shifted and he watched the verbal strategy unfold on the Senate floor. He was fascinated, and overwhelmed me with questions. "Who is that? Why won't they let her sit down? What is a filibuster? How will we win?"

The democratic support Davis received in her attempt to plight SB5 was outstanding. Senator Watson, of Austin, fought for his colleague and her ability to administer a successful filibuster. Davis was served unsubstantiated and bogus (in my most humble opinion) calls that cut her 13 hour performance shortly after 10pm. But with the help of her fellow Senators in blue, and the audience in orange, Texas successfully put SB5 to bed. At least until Perry calls a second secret session (which, sources state, will commence July 1st). What I find most amusing is the republican party's earnestness with which they upheld Davis's adhering to the rules, yet they attempted to submit and pass their vote AFTER the midnight deadline. Rules are rules, no? My 10year old understand that.

On the way out of the Capital, Gabel took my hand and admitted, "mom, I don't really understand what happened. Did we win?" While the topic discussed on the Senate floor was, in my opinion, too delicate to explain to a 10year old, I still felt he deserved an honest and educated answer. So I explained to him that we were fighting for the woman's right to choose: to choose what happens to her body and to choose what will be best for her. He seemed to understand that. He then said, "So, it's kind of like the Civil War? I mean, with two American parties fighting one another?" I didn't put much thought into it at the time, but as we came home and I tucked that sweet face into bed I couldn't put the simile to rest. I sat in my room for a long time last night, mulling the analogy over. And you know what? My kid is a genius. 

The fight over Senate Bill 5 in the Texas Senate is similar to the Civil War. The war on slavery, and civil rights 100 years later, is nearly identical to the battles we are waging against women's health care. In 1861 the Union and the Confederacy shed blood all over the south in a fight to abolish slavery. It was a fight over whether or not another group of American individuals had the right to make decisions for themselves. Now, 150+ years later, the government is engaging in intellectual and judicial battles of the same caliber - whether or not a group of American individuals should be allowed the right to make their own choices regarding their body, their health care options, and their future. "The white man" is a common slur pointed at the male members of the republican party, and it isn't always a founded dig. But when an army of southern men determine whether or not I have access to certain health care options - I have a problem. Men have no business putting their hands, or their laws, inside MY vagina. Unless you are doing a pap smear and delivering my baby, keep your mits to yourself. Senator Leticia R. Van de Putte of San Antonio asked, at 11:44pm, “Mr President…I would like to know how many times a woman Senator on this floor must raise her hand in order to be heard above the voices of her male colleagues?” How appropriate; she questions the obvious disregard for female participation while arguing a bill discussing women's ability to voice their own choices. 

Life opportunities such as this are the best learning platforms for our children. I am unorthodox when compared to other parents, but I believe that my son should experience the elements of life as they present themselves. I tote him around everywhere with me, and as a result he is well-balanced and constantly curious about the things building around him - two qualities that will mold him into a fine young man and maybe, just maybe, send him to the house to represent the voice of his generation. 

So again I will don my spectacles and quote the eloquent prose of Dr. Seuss's Horton Hears a Who - "We are here! We are here! We are here!"