Red Writing Hood: My Own Worst Enemy

This week's Red Writing Hood challenge is to:  


"Think of a person you don't like, and describe what you might say if you had to share an elevator ride together. Then describe what happens when the elevator breaks down. For six hours."

My Own Worst Enemy

I wonder if there are security cameras in elevators. I hope not.

I mean, yes, I suppose they would be useful for the muggings and assaults. I can get behind that, to a degree.

But yet---there's something about the sealed momentary isolation, that pregnant pause between floors.

Especially when you're alone. Like that day. Especially when you're typically accompanied by two knucklehead boys, who view elevators as the perfect venue for cage fighting. Like most days.

I hummed to myself, enjoying the rare elevator ride without bloodshed. Then she skulked in. Her beaky little face and beady brown eyes sucked away my peace like a Dyson.

It seems like she's been with me my entire life, much like a mole or an unfortunate skin tag. I run into her everywhere---during my daily commute, in the morning, during lunch, even at my kid's birthday party.

I swear, she even finds her way into my dreams. 


I pushed the "close" button and busied myself with my cell phone, pretexting (my word for "pretend texting") to avoid eye contact. .

I continued to type to nobody, writing, "IhateherIhateherIhateher," when I felt a sudden thump, and a sickening grinding of gears. Stuck. 

I rolled my eyes to myself, continuing to pretext. She watched me, smirking.

"You think I don't know what you're doing?" she hissed, "What are you hiding from?"

I lifted my head up, and gazed at her thin upper lip, stained with cranberry lip gloss. It may have looked good twelve hours ago, but now it highlighted the geologic decline of her face. "I don't have anything to hide," I replied, "Like you said, you know exactly what I'm doing."

She grinned, "Yeah. You're hiding from me. You know I'll tell it like it is." She laughed softly to herself, "I know why you hide behind that phone."

"Um-hm," I said. I turned to my phone. No service. I sighed and waved my hand in the air.  "Well, enlighten me, Oh Wise One."

She sat down on the floor of the elevator, crossing her long legs, her right foot kicking idly. "You know that you don't really have anything to say. You know that it's a lot easier to comment about the weather on Facebook than actually call somebody with that fancy phone."

"Hey!" I said, "Maryland is now a hands-free state! I don't call anybody because I do not drive distracted! And when I'm at home, the kids are always demanding my attention. I really can't use the phone."

She shook her head slowly. "Really? That's a nice story. You know it's utter bullshit."

I stood up, pressed the UP button, once, twice, three times. I exhaled heavily, then griped, "What the fuck is going on with this elevator?"

"We'll be here for at least six hours," she replied. "Leave it to you to choose this one."

I laughed, "We'll you're here too, Einstein."

She stepped closer to me, "Yes. Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" Her brown eyes narrowed. "You need me here."

"No," I said. I swallowed hard. "I really don't. I've worked pretty damn hard to avoid you."

"Yes," she said, "That's it exactly! You avoid things. You don't call people. You don't make plans. You let your friends slip away. Why do you do that?"

I sat there, staring at the floor of the elevator, willing it to whisk me up, up, and away. I twisted my wedding ring, and noted that my pinky was trembling slightly. "I don't know," I mumbled.

"You do too," she answered. "You're avoiding again."

"Whatever," I said, turning my full attention to a hangnail.

"Dammit, Helen!" she said, "You wear your issues like a thrift-store poncho. If a friend doesn't call, it's because they hate you. If you don't get enough comments on your blog, it's because you are a terrible writer. If the world is not shitting glittery rainbows every time you open your mouth, it's because you suck. Is that about right?"

I said nothing. I turned to my hangnail, tugging gently, twisting the loose skin back and forth. With each tug, I felt a fresh jab, another reminder.

"Fine," she said, "Avoid some more. Don't engage, build up your little electronic walls, and watch your world grow smaller and smaller. Just don't take me with you."

I chuckled softly. "Don't take me with you? I am you. You're along for this ride, like it or not."

"That may be," she said, "But I'll fight you. I'll open your wounds. I won't make it easy for you to disappear."

She jutted out her chin, and held out her hand.

I really hope that they don't have cameras in elevators. I hope that there isn't some bored security man, wearing a pretend badge and a three-day-old beard in some room. I hope he isn't watching me, talking to myself, at the mirrored walls of a stalled elevator. I hope he doesn't see that hand, half outstretched, half contained. Stuck in-between. Nowhere.

I would hate for him to see my own worst enemy.

Houseness

In my oh-so-illustrious blogging career, I've discovered a few truths about comments.

1. People will comment if you write about your vagina.

2. People will comment if you write about embarrassing crushes. (Especially if you admit your lust love for Benjamin Linus and Malcolm Gladwell.)

3. People love to share their opinions about painting and home repair in general.

In light of this, I thought I would tell of the time my vagina repainted my master bedroom under the watchful gaze of a post-coital Michael Cera:

I find this guy nerdy-hot, and even I find that mental image shudderific.

(Although I do wonder how a vagina would paint a bedroom. My guess is badly.)

This incredibly long buildup is to let the one reader who might care about such things know that I've finally completed the home repair project I blogged about on March 23, 2010. 

The room used to look like this:

 

I'm not sure what was most offensive about this room....the One Day at a Time inspired comforter, the 80s-fabulous lamp, or the lovely bullfighting picture. Let's not forget the CORAL paint sample on my wall. 

There may be additional reasons why we don't have a third child. This is not a room conducive to sexy time.

This paint sample and all the related ugly-ocity remained festering in my room until Tuesday. We bought a duvet cover, painted the room, and now retire to this: 

 

It is still a work in progress. The lamp is too big for the corner bookcase, and I'm not sure that the curtain will stay. But now, at least, I don't feel like I'm living in a set from Boogie Nights. 

Since I'm totally getting my Martha Stewart on, let me tell you about my other attempt at houseness. 

My kids and I go on lots of walks. During these walks, Owen collects rocks, leaves, and other organic materials and takes it home for his "treasure box." We now have three of them: 

These are the three vases from the three bouquets of flowers I have been given  in my entire life recently.

The far left holds bits of coral found along the banks of the Chesapeake. The far right holds various treasures, including rocks, Sweet Gum Balls, shells, rocks, and rocks. I plan on using it to maim any midnight intruders. The one in the middle contains the acorns found on my front steps. 

These three treasure boxes remind me that it doesn't take much to find wonder and beauty in this world. It doesn't take too much to make your kid happy. It isn't that hard to make things pretty. 

That is, unless, you're picking up the acorns with your vagina. That's a whole other story.

Three Meals in the Life of a Marriage

Monterrey, California

I sat at a table with my husband of two days, watching the fog billow out like a skirt. As I held a glass of California Chardonnay, by the stem, like I had studied, I watched him gaze towards the water. Seagulls cawed in the distance, as the waves, one stroke at a time, sculpted the rocks. He smiled to himself and inhaled deeply.

When we had discussed places to honeymoon, Monterrey seemed to be a logical choice. We could drive there, and Paul knew the place well---he had lived there for a year when he was studying Korean. He spoke of it with the foggy half-memory of a dream---the barking seal lions, the sourdough bread bowls, and the mornings kissed with the sea's salt. He wanted me to see it, and love it, as he did.

We ordered  what very well may be the world's most perfect food---mussels, cooked in white wine, butter, and garlic---with a crusty loaf of bread to sop up those glorious flavors. We ate, held hands, stole glances at each other's new wedding rings, and wove a future together. 

Tucson, Arizona

Although our days were dedicated to studying business at the University of Arizona (Paul), and teaching seventh graders to appreciate poetry (Me), our evenings were all about Frank. 

Frank Sinatra, to be specific. 

Each Wednesday evening, we would meet at Frog and Firkin, a British-style pub on University Avenue. We sat under the awning, amidst the tattooed, nose-pierced college students, drinking Guinness Stout, so perfectly poured that you could eat the foam with a spoon. We ordered pizza and garlic fries, and talked to our friends about politics and travel and books and, yes, jazz music. 

As the sun began to descend, turning the sky to the purple, dry holiness of a desert sunset, Frank began to sing. 

In real life, Frank was some guy with a day job, but on Wednesday evenings, it was Ol' Blue Eyes. 

All conversation halted as he crooned, "Fill my heart with song/Let me sing forevermore." 

I rested my head on Paul's shoulder and relaxed into his warmth. As I held his hand, I thought, "You are all I long for, all I worship, and adore." 

Calvert County, Maryland 

We kissed the boys goodbye, thanked my mother, and hightailed it to the least kid-friendly place we could imagine: Sakura. Surely, nobody under the age of ten would be at a sushi restaurant.

Paul had introduced me to sushi years ago, partly by coaching me past my instinctual gag reflux: "Swallow it! It's just a California Roll! You're not even eating fish!" 

It took awhile, but now I will eat the real-deal--urchin, eggs, even tentacles.

We ordered our platter of sushi, and talked about his work, our boys, running---the normal things we discuss when we're able to complete an entire thought without a youngster piping in about dump trucks. We laughed, we touched each other's hands, we teased.

I watched this man talk, still in love with his quiet sense of self, his intelligence, his compassion. His eyes are still as blue as the ocean, and as warm as the desert at dusk. 

It doesn't matter where we eat. I will never be hungry when I'm with him.

A Corner of Fantastic

There are little corners of fantastic all over the place. Some  find it by the beach, others in the mountains, and yet others at Nordstroms.

(I'm not judging. Finding boots at 75% off can be a holy experience.)

I'm honored to have the opportunity to write about one of my favorite things--the iconic tobacco barns of the Chesapeake Bay Region. Please click on my guest post for The Taste and Travel Connoisseurs, and leave a comment if you like.

It would do my little heart good. While you're there, stick around and learn about places to eat, drink, travel, and unwind. It's a beautiful corner of fantastic, right here on the Internet.

Sundays In My City: Ladies Love D.C.

Every time I go to a city, I imagine my urban life. I imagine my city-dwelling self, dressed in striped tights and hipster bowling shoes, heading to a concert in the park or my adult kickball league.

My urban self would know the best Asian-Tex-Mex-Fusion Taco Truck, and would eat her Wasabi Burrito on the steps of the art museum, just because I could.

My urban self would buy jewelry and sunflowers at the weekend Farmer's Market, after drinking espresso served with a sneer and a seven dollar prize tag.

My urban self, clearly, would be very wealthy, very young, and most likely childless. In other words, not me.

I am almost completely okay with this. Especially because my children are becoming old enough that I can take them into the city with some regularity, and soak in all the culture without all the hassle.

We always take the Metro into DC.

"MORE TRAIN!" cries Joel as we travel, missing it even while he is still riding it.

On Friday, we went to DC because Joel had an eye appointment at Children's National Hospital (no eye-patching--just bifocals). We used all public transportation, and thus had some time to kill. We decided on the National Portrait Gallery. 

My expectations were low. I just didn't think that Owen and Joel would be all that impressed with musty pictures of  Warren Harding. And yet, in the spirit of this eclectic city, the museum surpassed all expectations.

Three words: LL Cool J

 

Taking up an entire wall, this oil tribute to LL made me proud to be an American. Only in this country can LL Cool J, Willie Nelson, Lance Armstrong, and Martha Stewart be on the same walls as Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and John Hancock.

Want to see more? Here's a link to the entire Americans Now exhibit.

It's this kinda stuff that makes me grateful that we live in the outskirts of our Nation's Capital. We are privileged to have these funky little wonders, just waiting for our footsteps, our widened eyes, our whispered, solemn "Wow."

You may laugh. But I tell you, in all sincerity, a city that celebrates all of our Americans--including those in Adidas tracksuits---makes me downright proud.

In the words of LL himself, "I'm the best takin' out all the rookies/So forget Oreos, eat Cool J cookies." 

I guess he's proud, too.

This is my first Sunday in My City for a long time---and I've missed it. Check in with Unknown Mami to discover images and words from other cities. 

Knuckleheads

I was at a playgroup this morning. My friend watched my two-year-old repeatably attempt to scale  a couch, in efforts to climb upon a counter-top, and perhaps swing, Tarzan-style from the ceiling fan.

She shook her head, and observed, "You know, Nance---your husband is such a mellow guy. I'm really surprised that at least one of your boys isn't like him."

I rolled my eyes, pulled Joel away from the fireplace poker, and replied, "You and me both, sister."

My husband, whose legendary cool makes Barack Obama look like Macho Man Randy Savage, apparently kept all the Chillaxing Genes to himself. My two knuckleheads, as I now call them, believe that life is better as a Mountain Dew commercial minus pesky details like helmets or common sense.

I thought about her comment all day today. I thought about it during preschool pickup, as Joel rode a couch like the late Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider.

I thought about it on the drive home, when I noticed he was missing his glasses. I asked, "Where are your glasses, Joely?" prepared for another rousing game of Find The Eyewear.

"I don't know," he replied. Then, after a few moments, he found them. There were on his forehead, hidden by his mop of frat-boy-after-a-great-night hair.

Don't even get me started on his older brother.  The shenanigans with the Little Tykes car alone causes me to reach for the whiskey.

After pickup, I had to take the knuckleheads to the special store to pick up the super-special pizza dough and olive oil. As we perused the wine aisle, I heard Smashmouth's "Rock Star," playing over the intercom.

"I LOVE this song!" I squeed, and started dancing in the aisle. Hands in the air, like I just don't care and all of that. Owen joined me, doing his patented bend-and-creep-with-devil horns dance move. Joel sat in the cart, shaking his head back and forth.

So where do these boys get it from? Oh....right....me.

***
Speaking of my younger knucklehead...there were four amazing entries in the Pontify My Son Contest:

Salt:

The Blogging Goddess:

dek:

My Life in Purple:

All were beyond amazing. Truly. The mind, it is boggled. However, I consulted my team of experts and it was determined to be a two-way tie between...The Blogging Goddess (those shoes!!!) and Salt (the throne!!!).

Salt gets the Eddie Murray bobblehead and The Blogging Goddess and I will negotiate something cool for her prize.

Thank you, everybody for your indulgence. (Get it? Indulgence? Reformation humor! The best!)

Creating a World of Joyful Hearts

On Sunday night, a friend and I sat by the banks of the Patuxent River, drinking red wine and watching the sky bloom into rosy, amber perfection before settling into darkness.

We had one of those conversations that you wish you could put in your pocket--witty, thoughtful, and reflective.

She was discussing the world she wanted for her daughters, and it made me think about the world I want my sons to give her daughters, and in turn, her daughters to give my sons.

In other words, it made me think: How do I raise men who treasure, value, and respect women?

Redefine Strength
Masculine strength is traditionally viewed through the prism of power and physicality. Don't get me wrong---there is nothing wrong with being physically strong. Yet, I try to teach my boys to recognize and admire strength in all its forms.

There is strength in speaking the truth, in proclaiming that it is not okay to use "fag" or "retard" as a pejorative.

There is strength in listening. Instead of thinking of what you're going to say next, be fully present and engaged in conversation.

There is strength in humility. Don't be afraid to admit that you need help, or you do not understand, or if you are afraid. Nothing builds a connection more quickly than simply acknowledging that we are all souls, and we are all on this journey together.

Recognize Our Light
Because we are all souls, we must live lives worthy of that light.

This means love should never hurt. We do not hurt our loved ones with words, our hands, or our bodies. We must never allow contempt to enter a relationship. Yes, people disagree. Yes, there may be anger. But never, ever allow those dark moments to extinguish another light.

This means that we are not better than anybody else. Talk to the waitress, the custodian, and the substitute teacher like you would talk to your grandmother. Say "please" and "thank you." Hold the door open for people, and pick up litter on the side of the road. Give blood. Buy a stranger a cup of coffee.

After all, that's somebody's baby.

Put Your Feet in the Moment
You only get one life. Embrace the miracle of life, fatherhood, friendship, and love.

Embrace the grace which comes from life's stumbles.

Seek the joy in a full moon, a cherry blossom, or a perfect line drive.

And, please. in the midst of all this...call your mother.

This post was written in support of a non-profit called The Joyful Heart Foundation, which was founded in 2004 by Mariska Hargitay, who plays Detective Olivia Benson on “Law & Order: SVU.”  Mariska started getting fan mail from rape survivors and was moved to create a foundation to help heal the victims of crimes dramatized on her show.  Joyful Heart’s initial and primary mission is to help victims of sexual assault mend their minds, bodies and spirits and reclaim their lives.

Today, the foundation is also at the forefront of an effort to end a disheartening backlog of tens of thousands of rape kits in labs across the country, a backlog that contributes to a rapist’s 80 percent chance of getting away with his crime.  The backlog and its detrimental effects will be the topic of an SVU episode on Wednesday, September 29th.

Please click here to read other writers' vision for their children's futures in support of this cause.