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!"

The nook.

A sigh carries the weight of a million emotions.

The nook, what a lovely place to be.
Nestled against the temperate tuft of your chest is where I find
the quiet contentment that lulls me to sleep.
Legs entangled,
and bodies twisted together in the jigsaw
fashion that matches my being to yours.
The nook is love; it is that place between dreams and sleep
and whispered conversation that deciphers the diction of my skin against yours.

I love that place of safety, and I crave it
after tireless weekdays and work induced stress.
I find comfort, and ease in the embrace of the nook.
It is settling. It is intoxicating. It is paradise.
It is pressed into the space between your neck and your chest -
against your collar bone and curled into your side.
With every moment of my cheek against your skin,
I fall deeper into a satiated place of absolute love and affection.

And here, I sigh, and kiss away the weight of a million emotions.

[rewind] Drink Your Wine

I wrote the excerpt below in the spring of 2009. I recently uncovered a forgotten blog, and this piece was one work that stood out. It is now four years later and I still have these philosophical convictions about life, my life, and where it's going. For an extrovert, I am pretty closed off when it comes to dealing with my own emotions and the stressors in my life. For whatever reason, I find the easiest course of action against defeat is solitude. I think that it is easier to self-destruct and push your emotions to the extreme than it is to take pause and really reflect on your demons. But read, and develop your own opinions.

Breath taking moments, require no introduction. 
A leap of faith sends chills down the spine of an irresponsible lover. Momentary lapses in judgment have left this heart brash. Immobile. And fierce. 

Irony should be drunk like wine; appreciate the crisp bite as it transcends through your being and casts a thick fog of doubt over your beautifully correlated plan. Life is a plan, whether you choose to acknowledge the itinerary or not. Each moment breaks into the next – strung like beads: ornate. Unique. But patterned together for a larger purpose. Building blocks of the future, so cliché and generic that these moments slip into minutes, and hours that consume years. This future draws rapidly and leaves in a blink, dusting memories in its wake. Life is measured in discovery, anniversaries, and achievement. It is the girth between beads and the substance of our purpose. As young adults, we plot success. The world waits, bated, at our fingertips. Our minds are full of ideas; innovation inspires confidence, and a ‘can-do’ attitude that fuels this ego and pushes the belief that we can conquer the world. And we do. The top of the mountain blazes, and draws to it an army of creative minds. The early years fly, and the victory found in achievement creates frenzy. Having tasted the brevity of success, we feel exalted and push forward. Drive and ambition are powerful traits of a person's character, they define an individuals ideals and create a divide between those that DO, and those that DO NOT. Face it, we're not all crafted for victory. 'The road less traveled', so to speak, rears greater reward. But the journey is perilous and not all are crazy enough for the challenge. So these peers find comfort in their lack of ambition and fall into a monotonous wasteland. For them, it is easier to live in chaos than it is to try and tame it - they settle. This portrayal of the comrade and the fallen is evident in every generation. 

This journey consumes a lifetime - and in a breath, we stop. We measure our gains in losses and achievement; our life has been threaded together in beads and bracelets. The moments of the inbetween, at the time, seemed so tedious and penniless. But upon recollection, those moments come to life and curve the lips upwards into that small, private smile. To appreciate life, or to understand success, we must overcome regret and pay acknowledgement to the smaller details. Insert irony here. Years spent focused on the prize end in nostalgia, and recollection of life's more minute bringings. Drink your irony, and embrace its pithy. Paint your portrait in shades of vibrance; this is your life, Live It.

That boy's got my heart in a silver cage.

"....the answer is simple. Love is a mix tape." -Rob Sheffield, Love is a Mix Tape

I spent hours of my youth pouring over melancholy music and crying my way through teenage angst. I didn't have a "real" boyfriend until high school, but I still tortured myself with the sing-song lyrics of Tony Rich Project, Stone Temple Pilots, and Jann Arden. I longed for love, even as a pre-teen - I longed to feel the emotion that serenaded me to sleep every night. I begged God, on the rare occasions that we spoke, to deliver a boy to adore me. And love me. And make me mix tapes. I wanted to feel the brutality of love, as I had come to understand it through boombox speakers.

Now, here I am in my mid-twenties and I don't know much more than I did as a girl with tear-streaked cheeks. My relationships, the few that I have had, have all spiraled into unsuccessful paint spatters and irreparable disasters. I suppose the only common denominator in each of those scenarios is me, a fact I accepted after my last horrific breakup. And I suppose that no relationship is really "successful" until he puts a rock on your finger and coaxes you down the aisle. But is that how success, with love, is measured? I would like to think that marriage isn't the only peg tilting the abacus. There has to be more - something, anything, more.

In 20 years I have aged, but I haven't really grown up. Despite my cynicism and inner battles with dating, I still just want a boy to listen to music with. I want a boy that will listen to tracks, and in my absence, think of me. I don't know if it is the music, the idea, or the need to feel validated by song - but I think my obsession with love stems from an inability to lower my unreachable expectations. Expectations that, ironically enough, have been built on lyrics. Tony Rich taught me to keep my turmoil inside, and hide my feelings from everyone but myself. STP preached skipping town on a southern train, and Jann Arden told me to chase and change insensitive men. Conflicting? Absolutely.

For me? Say Anything. Hold a boom box over your head and stand outside of my window. Stake your claim - in my life and on my heart. Stuff vulnerability into a casette tape and hand pick your emotions, only to lay them out - track by track - in a wildly romantic demonstration of love. I am convinced that texting and tweeting and - dare I say - Facebooking has pickled the concept of bravery, especially in regards to the heart. Phone calls are replaced with sms messages, and Valentine's cards come via email. Mix tapes? Extinct. And without a viable substitute. While I am, admittedly, a social media drone I still cling to the idea that love exists beyond your laptop, iPad, or cell phone. Technology and the instant gratification of the Internet have put a hex on the already-delicate world of love, and dating. This era, or generation xxyyzz - or wherever it is that we are - has created one million more stressors and obstacles to eradicate in the quest to find love! It is exhausting.

I will close with this:

"I had this guy leave me a voice mail at work, so I called him at home. And then he emailed me to my BlackBerry, and so I texted to his cell. And then he emailed me to my home account. And the whole things just got out of control and I miss the days when you had one phone number and one answering maching - and that one answering machine had one casette tape, and that one casette tape either had a message from a guy or it didn't. And now you just have to go around checking all these different portals just to get rejected by seven different technologies. It's exhausting." -Drew Barrymore, He's Just Not That Into You

Amen sister. To be continued..