Domesticity rocks

Lucky me, I have another 4.5 days before I return to the Library and work! But Himself is not so much with the luck, and has to return to the real world tomorrow. Still, we're making the last day of the joint honeymoon-time off, and are spending the day engrossed in domestic activities. He's outside in the courtyard, in the wicked desert heat, planting a metric f-ton of purdy flowers we picked up at Lowe's, and I am in the climate-controlled condo, doing laundry, unpacking our wedding goodies, cleaning, and--only occasionally--taking a break to succumb to my internets addiction.

I daresay I have the better end of the deal.

Wait, actually, no. Miss Magdalene's got the better end of the deal.

Lucky little wench.

I think my real life began a long time ago

We're home.

But more importantly...

We're married.

There's much to say, about the trip, the wedding, my 30th birthday, all of the many ideas that are scampering about in my head, the adventures, the experiences...And to make things more emotionally complex, towards the end of the trip, I got unexpected and very sad news, from more than one quarter. Some of it can be mentioned here, some of it not, but none of it now. Now, the only thing that matters is that we are home, and I am so very, very happy to be back. Austen and Magdalene are fairly disturbed by our absence and then reappearance, and in typically neurotic feline fashion, have alternated between meowing, purring, and hissing at us, fighting with each other, and giving us little "presents" in inappropriate but nonetheless creative places.

I think we'll all need a few days to settle down.

Woman On the cusp

(This post is brought to you via one very strong vodka gimlet).

Wow. It's been a while...I see myself falling back into my old wayward blogging ways, which is to say, I go MIA for months at a time. Which kinda sucks, because that's not what I want, and it's not the way to get people to read you. But then, I'm not here to get people to read me. I'm just here because I can.

I am on the cusp of two very important things in my life: turning 30 and getting married.

What this translates into in modern palance, is, I am becoming an adult. And a wife.

Still haven't figured that last bit out, especially because most days I feel like I am a selfish kid, playacting at maturity. And I suppose if I feel like it, I am. But at least I'm acknowledging it. I'm not pretending to be something I'm not. I'm just me, Melissa, trying to bumble along and make the best of the amazing gifts in my life.

I'm not certain about much, but one thing of which I am certain is this: my life is getting better with each passing year. Each year, I become more proud of my accomplishments, more comfortable in my own skin, more able and eager to pursue my creative endeavors. Whether or not I become a better person remains to be seen.

One other thing I know is this: I have been so lucky, so blessed. I have known love from many people--family, friends, lovers, mentors, colleagues--and it's enhanced my life and made it beautiful and even, a time or two, quite literally kept me alive. Here's hoping that the next 30 years bring me the same amount love, luck, and good people.

Crazy isn't Sexy.

My goodness, time passes quickly. A few crises come down the pikes and all of a sudden, almost a month is gone. The pros? We're less than a month out from the weddingmoon...the cons? Uh. OMG HOLY COW WE ARE LESS THAN A MONTH OUT FROM THE WEDDINGMOON!!!

Other than that, what's doing? Too much. The weekend lurking just ahead promises not one, but two bridal showers. One's work related with some of my desert library family; the other is a little more wild, with dirty mad libs, Twister (the game, not the movie), and copious amounts of alcohol. I have developed an alarming and wallet-depleting addiction to scrapbooking (TOTALLY did not see that one coming), and I get to see Peter Gabriel in concert next week at the Hollywood Bowl. Fun abounds.

This last weekend, however, was not so much with the fun. Last Saturday was rather sluggish, and I spent most of the day laying about on the couch, not cleaning or doing laundry or anything productive, simply filled with a dissatisfied sense of ennui. Himself came home from work and my mood didn't improve. After a couple of hours of wheedling and nagging, he pretty much just hauled my ass out, put me in the car, and started driving to a quaint little restaurant deeper down in the desert. As soon we began to drive, I stuck my head out the window, took in the early evening air, and felt better. My mood only improved after we got to the restaurant and found ourselves seated in a lovely courtyard with twinkly fairy lights and a nice, strong gin gimlet. As is usually the case, I began to reflect.

It occurred to me that I tend to wait for my life to be perfect--my laundry to be folded, my kitchen sink to be scrubbed, my errands to be run--before I allow myself to live my life, enjoy simple pleasures, try to be present in the moment. But that evening, amidst the gently happy crowds, the evening darkness closing in, Jason's bighearted smile, and the feeling of utter relaxation, it occurred to me--this time, this particular moment, this was life. Nothing else. And it was perfection.

There's this chick that I know back in Indiana. She's...how do I say...a little bit not all there. Actually mentally ill. Functional, more or less, but mentally ill. And to add insult to injury, she's not at all intelligent, and also dishonest and manipulative (added to her general lack of functioning brain power, this generally means she gets caught in her copious lies on a fairly regular basis). All around, not a particularly pleasant person to know unless you get off on that kind of manipulation and melodramatic nonsense. But I'll say this: the chick knows how to live in the moment.

(Of course, that might be because she's genetically incapable of thinking beyond the next three minutes, so the present moment always looks pretty good). But I'm trying to be magnanimous here.

So anyway, back to the pleasant Saturday evening...for some reason, Crazypants and her ability to embrace the moment popped into my head at that time, and the best thing that I realized that evening in my gin-induced reflections: Even the crazies have something to teach us.

I just hope I don't have to become crazy to learn! Ultimate moral of the day: crazy isn't sexy.

But then again, neither is falling-over drunk.

Erring on the Side of Hope

California is...an interesting place. To most, it's a glorious place, with the promise of sunny, temperate days, glitzy glamorous nights, and plenty of potential success and dreams to lure many an unsuspecting soul here. But there's so many invisible (and sometimes visible) hazards. There are so many faultlines, ready to rupture and break us all apart.

So it is with Himself and me. There's always a faultline, in each relationship, even the most happy and blessed. In our case, the faultline is Himself's son (we'll call him Himself Jr), my soon-to-be stepson. All is not sunshine and harmony in our life right now, and much of it has to do with Himself Jr.

He's a mere fifteen years old...probably the same age as my mother was when she first started to hit the skids. I haven't seen Himself Jr. since before his dad and I got engaged last October; even before then, Jr. had been painting the town a little too red, experimenting with some too-dangerous drugs, getting into too much trouble with the law. We thought he was going to be going to a drug rehab/bootcamp center for a year, and just a day or two ago he was moved to one. Himself and I have had too much experience with addiction and criminal behavior in our families to do or think anything other than "One day at a time," but we still breathed a cautious sigh of relief.

Too soon, it seems. We got the call that Himself Jr. took off from the rehab place (apparently, in California, they can't force minors to stay. Bunch of damned liberal nonsense claptrap, if you ask me) and now no one knows where he is. I have to believe that Himself Jr. is as scrappy and resourceful as ever, and will show up sooner or later, probably sooner rather than later, and almost certainly worse for wear.

But I mourn for Himself. I see the worry that is beginning to carve lines of disappointment in Himself's face. I mourn for his happy-go-lucky streak, his sense of self-worth, his optimism, each of which takes a hit each time Himself Jr. raises hell. I have never reared a child, most likely never will, but I have enough empathy and imagination to conjure the emotions that plague Himself now. And all I can do is just hug him, listen, refrain from making any conclusions or judgments.

The damned pickle of it is that I like this kid. The few times that we've seen each other, we've gotten along. Even laughed a couple of times. He's smart, he's honest (even with everything else, he's honest), and he's absolutely determined not to give a damn that he is wrecking his body, his mind, his life.

As I've said, both Himself and I have seen what addiction can do to a family. And so I worry for us, for our fledgling marriage, for its tender fragile state. I worry about what could happen if Himself Jr. continues down this path. But then, if the worst can happen, and our partnership suffers as a result, I suppose it is just as possible that the other extreme could also happen...

Out here in the desert, the San Andreas Fault runs right through, a volatile flaw in our otherwise stable earth, just ready to open its yaw someday and unleash untold destruction upon us, 2012-style. But here's the cool thing about the Fault--you can see where it is, because there's a band of green foliage growing on it. Green, in the desert. Even in the summer time. Because of the Fault. Water percolates up from the Fault, you see, so even this potentially frightening thing brings some good to us, some life to our region. And of course, it's just as likely as not that the Fault won't get faulty in our lifetime, thereby reducing all of my anxieties to naught.

I'd like to make it so that this faultline in our relationship can be like the San Andreas--despite what happens, or perhaps even because of what happens with Himself Jr., I'd like to see that something else, not awful at all, can come out of it...I'd like for Himself and I make it so that, like the greenery on the San Andreas Fault, something good comes from the faultline which runs through this...I'd like for us to make this a relationship strengthened, a love enhanced through even the most dangerous flaws that lurk at the heart of a home.

That's Great it Starts with an Earthquake

It was not how I had intended to spend my Easter (AKA Zombie Jesus Day). I had not particularly desired or planned to spend it on the couch, wheezing hacking gagging snotting my life away and reading the Buffy Season 8 graphic novel series. I didn't intend to be left behind as Himself went roving through the wilds of the high desert. And I sure as heck didn't intend to be preparing myself to kiss my ass goodbye and readying myself to potentially depart this plane of existence.

Okay, yes, in hindsight, that statement is a tad melodramatic. I tell you what, my people, it wasn't so over-the-top of a statement yesterday when I found myself realizing, "Hey, that's NOT a delivery truck..." It was, in fact, an earthquake. A big one. The Big One? I didn't know. All I knew was that, each time in the past, these little rumblers have been over within seconds, before I had time to react. And I had grown complacent as a result. And yesterday, when the floor started bouncing and the walls and ceiling began to shift, I thought "Earthquake! Don't move, it'll be over soon...now...now...now?" And it kept not being over. The shaking kept on, and the shaking got worse, the rumbling grew louder, and may I re-iterate that the floor was bouncing. Things that are unmovable shouldn't...well...move. I finally felt my limbs begin to unfreeze, and I got off the couch and went to an inner doorway like they always say (I'm pretty sure "they" were never in an earthquake) you're supposed to do, and that's when the shaking got to be the worst. The beautiful old antique grandfather clock that Himself has had for many years, and has not worked of its own accord in the same time, was swaying back and forth so violently that it was gonging as though it were high noon.

And then it ended.

I was choking on my own fear (as opposed to the nasty phlegm which has taken up residence in my body since I got sick), breathing in short, tense gasps. I didn't know where it was, or how big it was, but my instincts told me that it was BIG. (The longer the earthquake goes on for, the bigger it is, usually). I called Big Sissy in New Jersey to let her know I was 0kay. And then I bought two one-way, non-refundable plane tickets to the Midwest.

Okay, not really, not that last bit. In fact, being on the phone with Big Sissy helped calm me down. And we didn't lose power, and nothing broke, and frankly, we got off very very lucky. But still? I'd rather have ham and chocolate easter bunnies than this s*^t.

Balls McCarthy, though, I'd take a tornado any day!

Wives in Books: Julia and Julia; Cleaving

March--otherwise known as the Month of the Thousand Library Programs--has passed, thank god. I survived, more or less, but it appears that I did so only on the strength of an unholy pact between me and my body--a pact that was made without my conscious knowledge. My body agreed to get me through March, only on the condition that it would be allowed to collapse come April 1.

And so, despite my responsible and vigilant ingestion of many vitamins and minerals (I smell like an herb garden right now, I think), I am now at home, buried under a pile of unwashed quilts, nursing a sore throat and feeling very sorry for myself indeed. The cats look askance at me, as if they are wondering why I am home in the middle of the day and not feeding them.

Life is hard.
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So. Book review time.

Two books, one author: Julie Powell, known in some uncharitable circles as "a soiled and narcissistic whore." I'll refrain from such judgments, mainly because A.) Hey, we've all been there, and B.) It just takes way too much energy at present. And plus, there's an absolutely adorable egg whisk on the cover--which I actually registered for! Heh.

Julie and Julia: 365 Days, 524 Recipes, 1 Tiny Apartment Kitchen. If for some reason you've been living under a rock for the past few years (or, the other alternative that can explain a disconnect from pop culture, have been attending grad school), and haven't heard, it's a book based on the blog of a woman who, on the eve of turning 30, decided that she had done very little worthy in her life and so proceeded to spend the next year cooking up every recipe in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Powell documents her experiences in her blog, expands upon them in her book, eats a lot of butter, and drives her sainted husband crazy. Defying all odds, she gets noticed, her book gets published, and a movie is made out of it.

Both the book and the blog have a refreshingly honest--and caustic--tone and text, to say nothing of a supremely quirky wit. As well, Powell offers up a more than a few domestic details which I find utterly beguiling. As an almost-30 almost-wife, I understand career frustrations and the feeling of abject terror that comes when I realize that the only thing standing between me and middle age are ten tenuous, flimsy, easy-come-easy-go years. Julie Powell's been there, and her book is a good companion to light the way.

Her husband, Eric, is along for the ride, and he certainly benefits--and suffers--from the project. He practically gave her the idea for it, and he certainly provides her with a great deal of support (and manpower) as she cooks her way through the year. More than once, I found myself thinking, "That is a marriage I'd like to aspire to."

That is, until I read Cleaving.

Powell is taking a lot of flak for this book, perhaps not unjustly. It's a very different kind of book from J&J...it's more specialized (meathooks and butchery, anyone?), it's not as funny, and in fact, parts of it are pretty darned sad.

You see, Julie ends up cheating on her husband. Not just for a one-night stand, but for a long time. A couple of years' worth of time. And her husband knows. And they stay together, the whole time pretty much, and eventually Julie and her lover (who's a real toad of a guy, btw) part and Julie's devastated. And so she goes off and learns butchery.

Here's the real departure--butchery. Because once you get past the screamingly obvious metaphor (Helen Keller couldn't have missed it) of Powell butchering her marriage, the meat stuff is pretty boring. I actually skipped over most of that, because to me, the redeeming parts of the book were Powell's reflections on her marriage, her husband, her affair. She pondered Eric, the strange, secret language of their relationship, the past and the future of their marriage. She tried to come to terms with the sick nature of her obsession. I'm still not sure if she succeeds at any of it. The final lesson--in fact the only lesson--about marriage that I can take away from this book is that there is no happy ending, ever. Each marriage is a story in progress, without end until the ultimate end--death or separation. Each day the marriage evolves, and the only way to evolve with it is through vigilance.

And fidelity. I'm just sayin'.