nuts and mom.

The other day as I grabbed a handful of nuts (no, no – not that kind of nuts) and tossed them into my mouth (still not that kind of nuts), I wondered when, exactly, I started to like nuts (edible nuts! oh jeez, I’m making it worse).

When I was a kid, I hated nuts (this is going downhill…). Almonds, walnuts, pecans, cashews, pistachios… gross. Peanut butter good… peanuts bad. I’m still not a fan of walnuts unless they’re buried in fudge or brownies, but all the other nuts… yum! (Yummy nuts. Wow.)

nuts.

Whenever Mom took us out for ice cream, she’d get pistachio or butter pecan. Ew. I did not want nuts contaminating my ice cream. (Ha!) I always got coffee ice cream (foreshadowing my future as a coffee junkie?)… with chocolate jimmies (we called them jimmies… not sprinkles… guess where I’m from?). Today, I love pistachio ice cream. And butter pecan. (Oh, coffee is still my favorite.) I hated nuts. Now I love them. (And my spot in hell is already reserved.)

As I’ve grown up (which clearly never reached completion), I’ve noticed other changes – changes not related to nuts.

Mom used to tell us to be cautious with our money. Don’t go all crazy shopping. I’m sure this was a struggle for her, being thrifty by nature, trying to convince four daughters not to buy those shoes… or those jeans… or that music. For years now, I’ve agonized over every spending decision, no matter how small. At times, I drive myself a little crazy, unable to decide if I should spend even $5 on something not 100% necessary in my life. (Unfortunately, my husband is the opposite – spend now, regret later. Or maybe don’t regret ever…)

During my teenage years, I spent an embarrassing amount of time talking on the phone. Mom was never on the phone for more than a couple of minutes at a time. She didn’t enjoy it, and she never understood how I could possibly have that much to talk about with my friends. Thinking back, I don’t understand either. I hate talking on the phone. I avoid it as much as humanly possible.

I’m not sure what took me so long to realize that my propensity for worrying is genetic. Mom is a worrier. I was, too, and it’s grown to unhealthy levels as I’ve aged. I’m sure worrying is a natural part of being a parent. But I know I worry more than I should. Just like Mom. I also never thought I’d be the softie with my kids that my mom was with us. But I am. I’m totally the pushover. If I ever try to punish my kids, 95% of the time, I fold and dismiss the punishment before it even starts. Kind of like Mom.

The rumors are true. I have turned into my mother.

Is this a phenomenon for men, too? Do they turn into their dads? Or their moms? I have some obvious traits, physical and otherwise, from my dad. But I’ve always had those. Becoming Mom happened much later.

And… now I have to deal with the fact that I just wrote about nuts and my mother in the same post.

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truth in humor in truth.

We have a running joke in my house… at my expense. It’s funny because it’s true. It’s also kind of sad because it’s true.

At the end of my senior year of high school, I received a postcard from a local furniture store. Congratulations! Visit our store to receive your free gift! Being the third of four daughters in my family, I already knew what the free gift was. All of the graduating girls received one.

mini hopes.The mini cedar chest was only about nine inches wide and three inches high. Adorable, really. It was Lane’s marketing ploy to encourage parents to purchase a full-size ‘hope chest’ for their daughter. This started back when girls supposedly hoped for a husband after graduation. Nearly forty years later, one of the local furniture shops continued the tradition.

The furniture store closed permanently years ago, but I still have the mini chest. It’s packed away at the moment, but the last time I saw it, I pawed through the contents. An old hand-written note from my first boyfriend. A dried flower from my junior prom. A concert ticket stub from The Cure. A museum pass from my time spent in London. A well-worn map of Edinburgh. A photo of the view out the window of our room in Florence. And a few other little memories.

It’s my hope chest. And it’s tiny. Because it’s directly proportional to my level of hope. Ha!

The boy: Mom, what’s that wooden box?
Me: It’s my hope chest.
The boy: It’s pretty small. What’s inside?
Me: Not much.
[Laughter.]

And therein lies the joke.

When I first acquired the box, I was a morose, angst-y teenager. And, yes, kind of hopeless. I loved Morrissey and Robert Smith. I don’t think anyone thought of me as happy. I have my moments of near optimism. And moments of great hope. But I remain a relatively melancholy person. [More on this later… try not to let the anticipation drive you mad…]

I’m glad my family (and I) can find joy and laughter in my neuroses. No, I really am. Laughing is good. Even at my own expense. Besides, we all have our thing (or things, such as it is), don’t we? Some are more amusing than others, but still, neuroses just the same.

My 10-year-old son already has a fixation. When a cat hears a can opening, he runs to the source looking for tuna. If I drop a coin, my son comes running to snatch it up and put it in his change-counting bank. The boy has over $250 in that thing. Mom bought me one of those as a joke a few years back. Mine’s got about eleven bucks inside.

But I do have a tiny, tiny hope chest.

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movies and music and arms.

Everything I write becomes a movie in my head. I’m not even sure which comes first – the words or the visions. But I always have both. I see my stories unfold. My characters take over and tell me what to write. I let them lead me. Inevitably, I find myself inside the movie with them. I can see everything. I can smell, taste, feel… and I can hear. I hear my characters’ voices. I hear their breaths, their footsteps, their screams, their laughter, their cries. And I hear music. Their music… my music… and music that becomes a character.

Music is a huge source of inspiration. A song, a whole album, or even just a few lines can throw me into a new story or revive an old one. A few years ago, I wrote a 50,000-word piece of fiction inspired by a single song. And I didn’t write it in silence. I never put myself in a quiet place to write. I can’t do it. I always have music playing. I think I need it. For the story… and for me.

I remember helping Mom in the kitchen when I was little. I can still smell her Nina Ricci L’Air Du Temps perfume. And I can still hear David Bowie coming from the old radio on the shelf. All of my memories have music attached to them. It’s part of the story for me, just as it is when I write.

I am not a musician. My singing is decent and I can still remember the piano recital piece I played when I was six. But that’s where my musical ability ends. I do have strong opinions about music, though. I don’t pretend to know what’s technically good or bad music or whether an artist truly has talent or not. I just know what I like. And what I like… is men.

Oh… but not just any men.

Men with guitars and powerful voices singing meaningful lyrics with intense emotion. It gets me every time. Every damn time. My God, I fall completely in love. And I become obsessed, usually with one artist at a time, losing all desire to listen to anything other than him… that one man who speaks to me… who sings for me. Until I find the next one. Oh, but I revisit. I never truly get over any of them.

I’m not sure what draws me to a particular artist… something just happens. It may happen the first time I hear him or it may happen unexpectedly after hearing him dozens of times. The only constant is genre. Never country music. I’ve never understood why it’s popular. If I hear the slightest twang of country, I’m out. I loathe country music. And cowboy hats. Just… no.

For the love of all that is desperate and beautiful, I grew up loving The Smiths and The Psychedelic Furs.

My current obsession is Hozier. He tells stories. And he does it beautifully. He stands there with his guitar and… God, his voice. I melt. Emotional… passionate… heartbreaking. I adore it.

If you’ve not heard his music or you’ve only heard Take Me to Church, you’ve got to hear more. Listen to From EdenJackie and WilsonWork SongCherry Wine.

I have been listening to him, and only him, for weeks. Some days, it’s only one song… again and again. Repeat. Repeat. I’m a junkie. I can’t stop. I can’t get enough. I am desperately in love with his music – his voice, his lyrics, his guitar playing, his hands, his arms…

movies and music and arms.

Those arms… those hands… Is there anything sexier? I think not.

I think my guitar fetish is a result of my forearm/hand fetish. I love this part of a man. I think it’s my favorite part. (Well… yeah, let’s go with that.)  Arms. And a voice… a deep, beautiful voice. And arms. Hands and fingers… and arms. Oh.

I need to replay that one song… right now.

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love across the ocean.

When I was much younger and had more freedom and fewer neuroses, I ran away to Europe.

I suppose “ran away” is a bit of an embellishment. But it sounds so much more adventurous and impulsive. The truth is, I really wanted to go to London so I searched for justification. I found a program through my college tied to the University of London and applied.

London Flat

It was unusually hot when I arrived in London that August. I found a flat with four other Americans and made friends with the doorman at the casino next door. Paddy from Ireland – he looked out for us. It was comforting having him around.

Some of the classes I took in London involved field trips instead of textbooks. History of London consisted almost entirely of walks to all different parts of the city, many I never would have visited if not for that class. My art history class went to museums and galleries almost every day. We never had to pay admission anywhere. We even got a free pass to the British Museum for the entire term.

One of my flatmates and I traveled together over our break. We had already spent a long weekend in Scotland so our decision was simple. We were off to the mainland. And this was pre-Chunnel. We rode a ferry… and both got seasick.

My friend/flatmate wanted to see Vienna. After that, it was all Italy for days.

First stop, Venice. We got a tiny, inexpensive hotel room with a private shower. We were thrilled as this was quite rare with our meager budget. We both took 30-minute showers that night… and again in the morning. Venice was lovely, but it rained most of the time we were there. The City of Water was… well… it was wet.

Skipping to the last stop, Rome. We walked a lot in Rome because we could not be bothered to figure out the public transportation system. Some of the narrow streets we walked on were deserted except for us. We had pieces of the city to ourselves. I’d love to wander those streets again. I remember being a bit lost, stopping for some bread, cheese and fruit, and finally popping out on the other side in view of the Vatican. No map required.

Venice and Rome were wonderful, but they paled in comparison to our middle (and longest) stop. Florence. Oh… Gorgeous. We had a lovely yet student-budget-friendly place to stay right in the center of the city. The keys to the rooms hung on randomly placed nails on a wall in the lobby. They looked old and charming hanging as they were, like something you might find for sale as wall décor at Homegoods. No two keys alike. The shared bathroom was a little room with a drain in the floor and a showerhead on one side. Water went everywhere. I kind of loved that shower.

Medici | FlorenceThe weather in Florence was beautiful. We walked everywhere. Occasionally we’d stop and sit in the sun on the steps of some of the most beautiful architectural landmarks in the world. We saw David. He was giant. Everyone has seen photos, but in person, wow… giant. The architecture blew me away, exterior and interior. I could have stayed there for weeks… months…

I may never know exactly what made me love Florence so much. I just felt something there. I fell in love.

Or maybe it was the gelato.

Gelateria | FlorenceI’ve never had any even close to that level of deliciousness in the States. The flavors I chose were caffè and bacio (coffee and chocolate hazelnut). They were lovingly scooped into a big sweet waffle cone. I remember my friend and I walking out of the gelateria stunned by the generous size of our little treat. But it was only two scoops! My God, they were huge scoops. I may have had my own pint in that cone. It’s okay. We had skipped lunch.

Maybe Florence made me love that gelato. Maybe it was the time and the place. Perfectly romantic and historic and warm and beautiful. I would love to return to many of the places I visited – London, Paris, maybe Venice senza pioggia. But Florence was my favorite. I want to visit again. Not just for the gelato, but that definitely is something to consider.

Posted in travel, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 19 Comments

chicken revelation.

Did you know you can shred chicken with a stand or hand mixer?

chicken revelation. | whatsandrathinks.wordpress.com

This is loads better than using two forks (which is a freaking nightmare)!

This changed my life. Although I don’t love how chicken flies everywhere and I later notice tiny shards of chicken on my apples.

Oh, and I’ve tried the paper plate shield, but that was not effective.

Thus concludes my chicken advice for today. Carry on.

Posted in advice, food | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

10 things I wish I’d known (and believed and accepted) sooner.

Do you have any words of wisdom you wish you’d heard when you were younger? Or words you wish you had believed when you did hear them? I may have more than the ten below, but for now… my list – in no particular order (although clearly the last one is the most important).

10 things I wish I'd known (and believed and accepted) sooner.

  1. Don’t try to be something you’re not to impress others. It’s exhausting and you’ll never know if anyone really likes you.
  2. Don’t lie to yourself. I know exactly how easy it is to convince yourself every irrational thought in your head is completely true. Chances are, lots of those thoughts really are only in your head.
  3. Collect lots and lots of experiences and memories, not lots and lots of stuff.
  4. Don’t assume it’s love. It could be infatuation or lust or a Band-Aid for loneliness or too much wine or a great visit with your friend Mary Jane.
  5. Don’t change your life or sacrifice your dreams for someone else’s. And don’t depend on someone else for your happiness. Make your own joy.
  6. If faced with the choice, saving is pretty much always better than spending.
  7. Try to figure out what you’d enjoy doing for the rest of your life and go for it; put higher education on hold until you have some idea what you want to study.
  8. You do not have to be perfect. And you do not have to be like your sister or brother or cousin or any other relative or friend… you just have to be you. Resist comparing yourself to anyone. Give yourself a break.
  9. Ignore everyone who thinks you’re weird because of your fashion choices or your love for The Smiths [or whatever you’re into].
  10. Do not eat that whole box of Twinkies. Trust me. Regret…
Posted in advice, love | Tagged , , , , , | 1 Comment

fighting the heart.

I am a woman driven by emotion. This is not necessarily a bad thing. Emotion fuels my creativity and I would never wish it away. The love story enthusiast inside me adores the sweet romantic picture of me this way – ruled by my heart, not my head. hide But emotion shouldn’t outweigh intelligence in crucial life decisions.

Oh, but it has. I have allowed my emotions to run my life. And I’ve made some terrible decisions.

I have a sister fifteen months my elder, almost to the day. I love her. We get along great and have always been close. And she is my polar opposite.

Since high school, she has known what she wanted to do with her life. And she has done it. She worked her ass off and graduated second in her class. She attended college with purpose and goals. She landed the stepping-stone jobs best suited to achieving those goals, including one that paid for her master’s degree. She has always made choices truly right for her, not worrying about anyone else’s expectations or opinions. She is professionally happy, fulfilled, and successful. I envy her.

However, she is on her own. She never married and never had (nor wanted) children. She has friends, old and new, but when she goes home at night, it’s to an empty NYC apartment. I don’t envy that.

Now me.

Much of what I did in high school mirrored what my sister had done a year prior. Her path, not mine. I did not work my ass off and graduate second like she did, though. I never had to work very hard and still graduated seventh. [God, I can still hear my mother’s voice, “Imagine what you could do if you actually tried!”] I never struggled academically, especially with all things math. I know. What a nerd. But I had no purpose or goals. I went to college the fall after high school graduation because it was expected of me. Waiting would have been the smartest decision ever. I stood at the diverging paths and chose poorly. And that has made all the difference. Unfortunately.

I didn’t pick a school based on my future career goals since I had none. I chose a school based on geography. Proximity to a particular someone influenced me the most. Bad decision. Oh, it was an excellent school, but I was as aimless as ever. And the particular someone exited my life before I even moved into the dorm.

Once entrenched in college life, I faced the what’s your major question with increasing frequency. I had no answer. After freshman year, although I breezed through calculus, my favorite class was my studio art foundation course. Professor M was amazing and I never wanted to leave that third floor studio. What’s your major? Art. Bad decision. What does one do with an art degree? I have no fucking idea.

And then school was over and life kicked me in the equivalent of a man’s nuts. What now? I had a largely useless degree and no clue what to do next.

Over the next few years, I moved around. From my parents’ house to an apartment close to my old dorm and to another apartment with my on-and-off boyfriend to another apartment with horrible roommates and one more apartment on my own. I muddled through a few miserable office jobs. A whole collection of bad decisions. I never found motivation to change things because beyond wanting desperately to fall in love, I didn’t know what I was after. Still.

I am married now [more on this later] with two great kids. We have a home, my children are happy and healthy, I am loved. And I’m endlessly grateful for all of it. But I am also confused, unemployed, aimless, and without limitless pockets of cash to survive while I try to correct or at least improve the dire results of my poor decisions.

Why doesn’t every high school have a required course called Decision Making 101? I’m pretty damn smart. Intelligence is one of the few qualities I admire in myself. I may doubt myself on many fronts, but not this one. Yet I have struggled my whole life with making good, healthy, smart decisions – making decisions for the right reasons, not the emotional, immediate gratification reasons.

That I had to seek professional help over this should shock no one. [More on this later…]

I can remember times of momentary clarity when I knew exactly what choice was right, but even then, my emotions squashed my rationale. I’ve done things solely to fit in. I’ve made important life decisions based solely on what I thought was love or what I thought others would perceive as cool. I placed importance on things of little significance and tried to please people who were irrelevant in the end. I let my relationships take control, but not the ones that should have mattered most. And when it all inevitably went to hell, I wondered who was out to get me. (Me. It was me. You got that, right?)

The little demon inside me can make the stupidest decision seem like the best idea ever. It’s rather remarkable in its own self-destructive way. See? I can be positive. Ha.

Now for a poetic ending… (not my forte, please don’t laugh. much.)

            I’m a picket barely hanging onto my rail on an abandoned fence,
            Swaying in the wind, waiting for a gust to rip me free…

            So I can fall face down into the dirt beneath.

Posted in anxiety | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments

moving picture.

A long time ago, I imagined a picture of what my life should become. It’s mostly unrealistic and unachievable, and whenever my real life veers from this preconception (which is constantly), I view it as a failure. And I focus on those failures so intently that I’ve grown blind to my successes. This, of course, is ridiculous.

I’ve created a situation where success is impossible, and I punish myself for failing to achieve it. I would never put this kind of pressure on someone else. Why do I do it to myself?

If I dare come close to accomplishing any small part of the magic picture, I derail myself. It’s like I want to fail… like I expect to fail… like I force myself to fail. And if I do manage to make part of the picture real, I devalue that piece. Must have been too easy. Everyone must be able to do this if I did it. So I turn that into a failure, too. God, is failure my comfort zone?

I insist that external forces throughout my life have landed me in this place – school, work, family, bad luck, genetics. I’ve mastered creative blame. I must be fucking amazing because nothing is ever my fault. I have thousands of excuses ranging from semi-valid to just plain ridiculous. But I know the truth… the blame is mine.

My dreams don’t come true because I don’t believe they will come true. I don’t believe I deserve them. If I don’t act a certain way or look a certain way, I cannot be worthy of friendship… of success… of love. Instead of worrying what others think of me, I should be thinking, “Here I am. This is me. Love me or don’t.

Instead, I agonize over every decision, worrying what this person or that person will think of me and my life. I feel judged for my every action (or inaction). And I am being judged – but only by me. Where do we learn to be relentlessly hard on ourselves? I know I’m not the only one. I’ve read countless diatribes while procrastinating… while searching for distractions so I can avoid doing anything at which I may fail.

Even this blog – I spend far too much time worrying about how my words will be received. Seriously. I haven’t even been doing this long enough to have readership in double digits! Hey, if you’re reading this, I love and appreciate you. And I should just be me. Not who I think the universe wants me to be. I magically write with abandon when it’s for my eyes only. The moment I know someone else is going to read my words, however, I edit myself, second guess myself, talk myself into a pool of self-deprecation and self-loathing. My talent or ability is not the issue. Pretending to be someone other than who I truly am – that’s the issue.

I must stop fighting myself. ‘Cause I’m pretty fucking cool. Flaws and foul language, opinions and passion, humor and heartbreak, rules or no rules. I should write like it’s just for me… all the time.

This shall be my new magic picture. A moving, changing, evolving picture. As it should be.

Posted in anxiety, writing | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments