Great Sand Dunes

Missed you this weekend, C-Philly. You would have loved it.

1/5 of the WWG

Hey Carrie,

Our moms are visiting this weekend. They arrived last night and we had dinner at the Cowgirl, something that amuses and pleases most visitors. My mom took your mom around downtown today and tomorrow I think we are going to Bandelier. So far it has been fun playing the tour guide, and seeing your mom has not been as hard as earlier visits in California. We made shrimp tacos tonight with spicy chipotle cabbage slaw and perhaps freaked out some friends from the East Coast and Midwest who were perplexed by the use of seafood in tacos, but it was a standard Lydon-family-style dinner with non-stop conversation and our old friends gin and tonic. No, your mom had diet soda but still seemed to enjoy herself.

She was practiced at the art of deception

I can see it on the horizon- the day I become my mother. It’s on its way.

The event that first hinted at this new direction was innocent enough. We were in college, living on Midvale. I did not have a lot of money for luxury items such as food that did not come in a Rice-A-Roni box, 10 for $10 (I love you Ralphs Club!). In an earlier life I had been terrified and disgusted when my mom used cream cheese from a block that had mold on one end. She insisted that she wasn’t touching the mold, and that the rest of the cheese was fine. Living in Westwood I learned that she was right- I did not die if I ate bread from a loaf that had grey fungus on the slices near the back of the bag. Milk was still good if it smelled okay. You wanted to eat yogurt that you feared had gone bad. I said the famous words that were later repeated many times in the history of Livewire—“It’s the sell-by date, not the eat-by date!” Out of frugality and necessity I had adopted my mother’s standard for throwing out food. I learned to be more careful two years later when I ate the three-day-old leftovers of the Moroccan Chicken we made in the crock pot, which is another story for another day.

I was in a doctor’s office earlier this week and saw the New York Magazine from late March in the reception area. The cover story delves into the rivalry between New York and London, in everything from food and art to finance. I didn’t have time to read much more than the opening paragraph before my appointment. When I came back to the waiting room I picked up the magazine and took it with me! I stole a magazine from a doctor’s office! I’m sure people do this all the time (they do, don’t they?), but I am flooded with the memory of being completely mortified when my mother walked out with a Smithsonian from Dr. Kuhn’s office after an orthodontic appointment. I mean, what would the next person read? Did anyone see her grab the magazine? Couldn’t she just take her chances and hope to finish the article while waiting during next month’s appointment? I couldn’t take my chances, I needed to know now about London. I needed to know if it beat out my choices/activities of where to live/what to do next year (currently on the top of the list: buying a house in a Mexican fishing village or working as an au pair for a former Soviet official; I am also accepting offers to be a professional tango dancer Buenos Aires). You can see that I need some direction.

So I brought the magazine to my office and flipped through it at lunch. Before even reading the London article I found a piece on Joan Didion’s new play, which is based on her book, The Year of Magical Thinking. I loved this book. I needed this book. I am reading other books to give myself space just so I can read this book again. And now I need to go to New York and see Vanessa Redgrave, as directed by David Hare, portraying Joan Didion. And I’ll have to get some cupcakes while I am there. I am pleased and amused when I go after something I want and instead get something I need, like more Joan Didion. Also, I am not yet my mother because she is far too practical to consider *just consider* booking a trip to New York to see one play when you already know the ending.

This post has too many words, so I’ll leave you with this:




Spring!


Ed. Note: This picture was taken last year around this time, but I promise the tree across the street really does look like this! I just don’t have a picture to prove it.

A grey sky, a bitter sting

Carrie,

Tomorrow is your birthday. I have been trying to think of a fitting tribute, something I can do to honor you. As if anything I do tomorrow or anytime will sufficiently honor you. Since you are in my head all the time I want there to be a physical manifestation or action to mark your birthday, something that is outside of me. Even though I can’t celebrate your birthday with you in person, as we have done many times, or even over the phone, which I would settle for, I want to outwardly note how grateful I am for our friendship and your presence in my life.

Last year I was determined to finish a knitting project that I had started for your 25th birthday and I planned to send it to your mom. I thought that working on it, for me, and using it, for your mom, might somehow bring this elusive notion of “closure” that everyone was talking about. Well, in typical Stacey fashion, the project is not finished. My grandmother’s birthday present is two months late and my mother’s present is now over a year late, so this might have happened even if I could have sent the final product to you in Santa Monica. But in the past year I have also realized that knitting something until the pattern says it is done was not going to bring any sort of closure. Time changes things, mostly your relationship with the pain, but the pain is still there.

A few days ago I received the reminder e-mail for your birthday from one of those online calendar services. I am still surprised when things like this happen. It’s a reminder that life goes on and most other people don’t know that you are gone. I know your parents had to do a ton of insurance paperwork and our old apartment still gets credit card offers in your name. I was shocked and offended when Todd still had to file his father’s taxes. Even though our lives have gone on, we recognize that they are now different. It seems like the rest of society should recognize this too.

Everyone knows I’m over my head

It’s one of those times when I want to pick up the phone and call you. I am feeling totally unsettled- the next few weeks will require that I make a big decision about what I’m going to do (or not do) in the fall. While it is my decision I feel like everything is out of my control. I know, it makes no sense. I guess I’m just scared of making a decision.

Should I go to school in San Diego? Should I go to school/work in London? Will going to London help me get back to Africa? Should I go straight to Africa and work in the field? Should I study in Canada? Should I look for a job in New York or DC? Should I indulge my desire to eat cheese and drink wine and teach English in Italy? Should I stay in Santa Fe? Where will the dogs live if I leave the country? Should we sell the house? How come Laughing Cow cheese is so much cheaper at Trader Joe’s than anywhere else? Do they have an “in” with the Babybel people? Why can’t I finish knitting my grandmother’s birthday present? How can songs by The Fray be so whiny and yet so catchy? Why have the local radio stations stopped playing anything else?

As you can see, I need you for these pressing questions that keep running through my head. Well, they are in my head when I am not stuck on “Or he’ll say he’s just not the same/ And you’ll begin to wonder why you came.” Can't. Stop. The Fray.

I fly SWA

Hey Carrie,

A little something I thought you might find funny, considering the Southwest flights we took together. This is from Mason-Dixon Knitting (I know it is a knitting blog but I promise it doesn't bite, go ahead, try it):

"On a Southwest flight, the rule of "open seating" is the law, and none of the seats are assigned, which adds a little drama and potential for disappointment if you're in Boarding Group B. Group A is all smug and "oh I printed out my boarding passes last night"; back in the day, they were all student council presidents and extra-credit suckups. Group C is the Land of the Lost--a more fatalistic and resigned group you'll never see. They're all going into the middle seats. One guy said to me, "I just want a seat inside the plane." But Group B, my group, are the Strivers, the ones looking at Group A and kicking themselves for not printing out their boarding passes twelve minutes earlier yesterday. The Strivers hope against hope that they don't get stuck in the middle. The Strivers want only to be Not in the Middle. They want to be Group A, yet they are not."

I remember sitting in the Oakland airport waiting for our flight back to L.A. at some horrible hour of the wee morning after Jen and Sean's cat had attacked us all night. I was reading David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day, attempting to stay awake, and I started laughing out loud. I tried to read you the section but was laughing too hard to get the words out. I think you read the chapter for yourself and then all the way home we kept repeating the phrase "Sure, I'd love to go for a walk around the lake, just let me get my artificial leg."

Love and Basketball

Hey Phillips,

You would be so proud of me- I played basketball this weekend! I know that is not a big deal for most people, but I think it was the second time in my life that I have played when not under duress in a P.E. class. I should probably clarify that by "played" I mean we borrowed a ball from the front desk at Ft. Marcy and went into the empty gym and threw the ball at the hoop. We were terrible. We decided to play a game with our own rules and the winner would be the first to make ten points. I lost, 10 - 4, but there was a moment after my second basket when it looked hopeful. What is so sad is that our goal was to get 10 points- I mean who sets up such a short game? Two really out of shape people who cannot make a basket if their life depended on it!

Also in sporting news, our Bruins are in the Final Four! (Austin Powers imitation) Yeah baby!