Dena Marie

My new friend Dena Marie is disappointed with my pool playing. To be fair, I never told her I could play pool, just that I would. Growing up in Texas must have led Dena to assume every little girl learns the basics of the game by the time they turn 13. I could see the distress on her face when she realized there would no competition, but she finally gave up and just played both sides, winning nicely I believe, but I really know nothing about pool. Perhaps it might have been better if we had gone there before happy hour, I don’t know, but Dena’s a lot of fun when she’s drunk and I don’t think she’s inclined to hold a grudge. She’s taking me shopping today, a sport in which I happen to excel. I need some things since I’m staying in Denver a few more days. Yes, I know I could do laundry, but where’s the fun in that? Dena Marie doesn’t like me to use her full name because she says it is soooo redneck. She has a brother and a sister with redneck names too, but I’ve forgotten what she said when she yelled them out at the bar last night. She does a lot of yelling cause she’s from Texas, where girls are allowed to spit, belch, and fart in public. Well, not in church ya know, but certainly outside the hotel in the smoking area. The man who was panting around us the first night we hung out together said I was “elegant”. I’m not sure what that meant exactly, but I guess it has something to do with those ladylike qualities my mother beat into me; speak softly, don’t scratch, keep your legs together when you’re wearing a skirt, and a lot of other crap that I mostly do automatically now.

Dena is a self-made woman. She travels most of the time doing training for a phone company (not naming names). She’s young and single, has no college degree, but ever so clever, the kind of woman who makes things happen. She’s got her own style and while it is as different from mine as day from night, but we compliment each other nicely. The tomboy I used to be is not far below the surface, although my clothing choice for business is definitely not jeans and a tee shirt. Dena, seeing me there in my high heel boots and silk blouse, made a half assed stab at apologizing for being herself. I told her she was delightful. I didn’t tell her I secretly wished I had the nerve to go into a bar and make a scene, but I think she knows. We’re headed out to find a mall in a few minutes. I’m going to buy some Denver clothes, tight jeans and high top flat heel boots, only I will be getting something feminine to wear underneath. I’m thinking that Dena needs a little black dress and a place to wear it. I’ll keep you posted.

Pictures, Yeah!

High from Colorado

My middle toenail from my right foot is lost somewhere in this hotel room. It had been hanging on since the incident at the camping trip and I had put a bit of tape on it so I could continue to wear my open toed shoes. It was startling to glance down at my foot and find it MIA. Now I’m trying to imagine the horror of the cleaning staff when they saw that small rectangle of red in the bed linens, or the carpet. Perhaps they even picked it up to investigate, and then dropped it in disgusted haste. I did a cursory search inside my shoes and even shook out the hose I wore the night before, but no luck. I sat staring at the tiny new toenail that is growing hopefully, all white and innocent amid its bright red and brazen sister toes. I debate on painting the skin on my toe red, but finally decide I can lighten my overweight baggage by sending my sandals home with my husband. Oh, did I mention he decided I might just be worth the cost of a plane ticket this trip? He arrived on Saturday night and will leave tomorrow morning. We had a great Sunday climbing in the Garden of the Gods (pictures to follow), had a number of lovely meals in Denver, went to Old Colorado City and made a purchase in “Nice and Naughty” (he sat out front while I shopped), and did a lot of other fun stuff I’ll just leave to your imagination. All and all I count it a good weekend when all I lose is a toenail. Hope yours was as perfect as mine.

HOMEFRONT

I’m posting this quickly before the router crashes again. Life has been overwhelming this week at my house, but I am headed to the relative simplicity of Denver this afternoon where I hope to catch up with everyone. . .

All three of my children sat at the lunch table Saturday laughing and sharing the sweetness of the moment. It has been two years since they were all home at the same time and I looked in wonder at the three amazing people that I seen to have created, loved, guided, and then the hardest part, set free. Saturday night they went out on the town together, visited friends at Sine, and somehow ended up playing volleyball at a local lesbian bar. I’m sorry I missed the evening, but no matter how cool they think I am, I understand I am the mom. They need me in Mom mode right now, especially with the changes we have all been going through lately. They know they almost lost this haven of stability and comfort, this soft place to fall. I never realized how deeply affected they had been by the problems between their Dad and I. I do realize how self-absorbed I have been though and know it is time to shift gears. I remember needing my Mom when I was an adult and not ever getting her support emotionally. I will not be that woman.

Sunday the two younger went off to hike, the oldest to a reunion of coworkers from his days with Kings Dominion Clown Band, and I entertained the group of dear friends I acquired by marriage. One couple came bearing wine from their local vineyards in Nebraska (who knew ?) called “Right of Way Red”. Somehow I was hesitant to open it, especially since they don’t drink and asked for sweet tea to go along with the antipasto I was serving in the kitchen. The next couple to arrive, just home from a trip to Greece, brought some wonderful cabernet that we immediately uncorked and consumed. The evening was too beautiful to sit inside, so I lit the fire pit and we ate dinner on the patio, Chicken Gorgonzola, garlic and portabella pasta, green salad and crusty bread, followed by sorbet and piroulines, plus a few ripe figs plucked from the tree over our heads.

Late in the evening when our guest left and the children trailed home I sat with my girl, helping with her crossword puzzle and talking about honesty. We have decided there will be no more secrets between us, ever. She knows the dark thing that dwells in her came from me; she sees it, she understands it, she forgives it. She tells me the truth, and calls me on the bullshit I sometimes espouse, lying to myself because I have no one else around strong enough to stop me. We decide to seal the new bond between us by getting matching tattoos of two spiral galaxies, but fortunately neither of us is sober enough to drive.

She came upstairs Monday night crying after talking to her husband on the phone. We opened the bottle of red from Nebraska and found it undrinkable, indescribably awful. It gave us something to laugh about anyway and we talked only about her, how hard she tried, how much of herself she gave away, how little she has to show for the 4 years she lost from her life. I have no answers but she doesn’t expect any. I am content that she lets me hold and comfort her as she sobs out the hurt and anger. She talks of the two men she has loved, the Russian fiancé who was murdered and the man who lives happily in England while her life is torn apart. We play “should ofs” and “what ifs” for a while, but nothing changes. Love still doesn’t conquer all, Pasha is still dead, Nick has still moved effortlessly on, and her heart is still broken. Life is always about the pain and the laughter, and the hope that there is a bit more happiness than despair. Tonight the pain wins, but yesterday it was joy, and tomorrow, win or lose, we will both find the courage to stand and meet it head on.

For you WG

What's in a name?

OMG! I got carded tonight. Of course, the clerk at Kroger was a big dorky idiot, but still, I thanked him, and would have tipped him if I weren’t pretty sure he would take it the wrong way. What is priceless about this story is the wine I was buying. Just couldn’t resist, you know.

Porn? Check, Wine? Check. Fun? Check

So, here’s the funny story about how my daughter, my husband, and I happened to be watching triple X porn together last night. It seems one of her London friends thought it would be hysterical if my girl had to turn on her computer going through customs and they found the CD with two Hungarian girls doing it all, and I mean all, with a couple of American guys. There was even a cameo shot of a black man, although we never saw his face. Customs missed it entirely, as well as the weed another friend had stashed in her wallet. When she found that she had a moment of horrible clarity as she remembered being admonished for petting a drug-sniffing dog at Dulles. Anyway, she was in a morose mode last night when I came in from work, had done some damage to the wine reserves, and was feeling chatty. I had a few in an attempt to catch up, and she told me about trying to play her workout CD and finding this one in the drive. One thing led to another, in that way they always seem to do around me, and before you could say tits and ass, there were way too many of them close up and personal on the little screen. My husband wondered in, grabbed a glass of wine and joined us, and gales of laughter ensued. Later in the evening we took drunken pictures, totally clothed of course, but embarrassing, so you don’t get to see them. Sorry. Have an awesome weekend darlings.

I've been to the mountain, bathed in the river, drank from the fountain

I’m posting my big story over here on the family blog, and as you read you will notice I give a passing nod to Jack Daniels (for medicinal purposes only of course). We downed half the bottle the first night, even though I hate the taste of whisky, it did help us drop off to sleep. What luck that we had found the ABC store in the same shopping center as Blue Ridge outfitters that Saturday morning when we stopped in Charlottesville. At Blue Ridge we bought our “pocket rocket” a propane cooker, and both immediately commented the name sounded like a vibrator, and my girl spotted the liquor store as we were leaving the lot. When I ripped off my toenail, she fetched the bottle along with the first aide kit, but as fortune would have it, we used antibiotic ointment for external application, sour mash for the wave of pain. She needed a bit too for her ankle and the nerve to doctor my dainty toe, recently pedicured and gushing blood. I am embarrassed to tell you that shortly after those first swigs for the toe incident, I dropped the bottle on the rocks and broke it to smithereens. Having no liquid courage and still being sober enough to drive, that break was probably the deciding factor in our decision to get out that night.

I wrote these words Friday morning and am putting them here so you will understand the state of mind she was in when she got home.

If ever a child needed mothering, my girl does now. She’s like a bird with a broken wing, frantic and struggling, unable to deal with the loss of the blue sky. For the first time that I can remember she is not where she wants to be with her life, but my lord, she is where she needs to be. Tomorrow we go to the mountain, where I believe I can touch her heart and free her of some of this burden.

Sunday when she rose we drank mimosas, played dance music, and had more fun cleaning the house than most people do at a party. She is almost all sunshine again, and while I know the shadow is still there, the mountain worked its magic on us both. Our bodies are battered and sore, but our souls are still standing firmly on the ridgeline of Old Rag, wild and free.