Vicarious Rising

My Business

Paranoia isn't really one of my schticks. It's probably because I don't worry too much that anyone is concerning themselves about me. When you consider your own needs are beneath notice, it's safe to assume everyone else doesn't consider them at all either. So, when someone remembers me saying something in a passing conversation, such as a preference of mine, I am surprised and delighted by the recall. Once some new acquaintances of mine invited me over for what I thought was a party they were already having and I was an addition to the group. It turned out they had a big French cheese tasting set up because I had mentioned how much I loved French cheese, but couldn't find any good French cheese outside France. This was a French couple, and basically I was the only guest. I went home literally crying in amazement that someone would be so thoughtful.

Don't tell anyone I am such a mushball.

But sometimes I do have boundaries, and something happened today that has me feeling a little strange. Maybe it wouldn't have my radar blooping if it hadn't also set off my friend Tara's as well.

My husband likes to be overly helpful sometimes. It is a good trait about him for the most part, but sometimes it grates. It's not just with me and it's not particularly patronizing. It's just part of who he is. For some reason, he took it upon himself to email my friend Tara in Abu Dahbi and inform her that he and I were headed to the Lake house for the Labor Day weekend holiday, purportedly in the event she tried to call me and couldn't get in touch with me.

Now, first of all, I admit I am horrible about answering my cell phone which is perpetually on vibrate. But why did he have this urge to email my friend to notify her of our plans? Or, as Tara emailed me and forwarded the message:  "I don't understand why he would be emailing me.  my relationship is with you and not him."

At first I wrote it off with a "eh, that's just how he is", but as the last few hours have gone by, I'm feeling a little, I dunno, privacy invaded.

At a minimum, I can tell him he weirded my friend out. But I guess I can't really understand why he felt the need to ensure my connection with my friend. It's odd. Maybe it's nothing. But I don't like it. Maybe I should wonder about my feelings about it. Ick. Sometimes cleaning up just my side of the street is fucking stupid. I just want him to stay on his.

Fostering My Inner Dweeb

Several pop culture magazines, blogs and other sources have been declaring nerds and braininess the new cool. I suspect this is wishful thinking on the part of nebbish journalists typing feverishly at their keyboards, but I rather like the sentiment. Except for the idea of being different becoming commonplace. Kind of an oxymoron if it becomes just for the sake of being odd. Or just annoying.

I haven't heard anyone use the word "dweeb" in a long time. I'm not sure it is used in a colloquial way any more, but my mom still uses it. For some probably misplaced nostalgic reason, the word seems right today. Better than "dork", "nerd" or "geek". Just a little anachronistic, a little off. Like me.

I heard the word "wicked" used in New Hampshire this past weekend. I know this is a word frequently used in New England, and one I picked up in my early teens when I spent summers with my grandparents in Massachusetts. My grandmother uses the word wicked, but in the "evil" context of the word, yet almost in the way that it makes it cool to teens. Such as, "the dress that girl is wearing is just wicked," in a scandalized tone. Hilarious. My grammy will be 80 this year. I think she's wicked cool.

Dweebishness is a trait I've never tried to hide, although I wouldn't say I am especially vocal about it. I was a quiet kid with my nose in the books, I loved museums, the ballet, historic villages, puzzles. But I wasn't one of those kids persecuted as a dork. Maybe it was because I was so quiet or because the popular crowd generally liked me and sometimes tried to include me, although I was very wary of them. So, I've never felt any particular shame about the joy I feel about my geekish pursuits.

Which is why I wonder why it took me so much by surprise when my all-too-brief road trip through northern New England felt like such a euphoric release to me. While my meditative state at the lake was necessary, the subsequent journey through the winding roads, with stops at antique shops and cabinetmakers, Shaker Villages and maple sugar candy stands filled me with such youthful glee and wonder that I can't believe I haven't taken a vacation since June of 2005.

What the hell can I be thinking? I love getting out there and seeing the world, learning about it, not just from behind my laptop and through books. On Friday, I sat at the Canterbury Shaker Village with an older woman who taught me how to hook a rug in the old way that seafaring men used to when on long voyages. It was so fun. Meanwhile, two other ladies were spinning wool from their own sheep. My son was giving them advice on mixing the dark and light wools, and they very patiently pretended they hadn't thought of it themselves. I ate beef pot pie. I can't remember the last time I ate beef pot pie. I also keep forgetting to check out how exactly it is that the Shaker's were a celibate group. It does explain why the Canterbury group's last member died in 1992, but it doesn't explain the mystery of how they lasted since the late 1700s. Well, they were great craftspeople. How they focused their energies is, perhaps, none of my durned business.

On Saturday, I had the opportunity to meet Thomas Moser, who is the founder of Thos. Moser furniture headquartered in Maine. If you have not seen his furniture, you should check it out. Many call it the finest made today. I certainly agree. I've long been an admirer of his furniture, but affording it is quite another story. My 12-year-old son fell completely in love with the stuff. He was utterly star struck when he met Mr. Moser. It was really charming to see him talk to the guy and tell him how he hated furniture shopping but absolutely loved everything in his store.

My lesson from this quick jaunt is that I think I need to get out of the house more. I've been telling my husband we should take a vacation for ages, and he just keeps telling me "what for"? He doesn't seem to have the same need as I do to get out there. It's not that he doesn't enjoy it when he goes, it's just that it isn't one of the things that feeds his soul. I'm thinking I'm done waiting for him to get on the same page as me. I think that's a case of my expectations being all wrong. Perhaps I need a solo trip. But that makes me feel a little afraid too.

This is a journey I've not yet taken.

Staying Power

A couple I know just celebrated 40 years of marriage. I've known them for probably half of that time, which is incredibly weird to me. I was a teenager when I first met the husband half; he was once my father's boss. Interestingly enough, as the youngest of their children said tonight, the man's wife was the one who made up the rules in their home. Although the husband was not entirely inclined to follow them, or anyone else's rules.

Tonight I attended a party given by their children, three daughters, who are all lovely, strong women. When the youngest was giving a speech conjecturing about how her parents made it this long, she mentioned reading somewhere about marriage that it was "surrender" and "accepting defeat". Sounded a bit familiar to me, as in recovery-speak. The young woman rejected this theory and believed instead that her parents had made it successfully because they were complimentary opposites and supported the other where they were weak. Knowing the couple as I do, I tend to agree with their daughter. And frankly, this couple is one of the coolest that I know. And I have to say, I am not sure that defeat or surrender is in the vocabulary of either one of these individuals.

I hope it is not a bad portent that the husband ran his boat (lovingly named after his wife) into a rock this afternoon, tearing a large hole in it and causing it to sink. All his kids and grandkids were aboard and they all bailed it out and got ashore safely. And everyone was in good spirits by the party at the end of the day despite having to tow the ship to land.

My parents will also have put together 40 years of marriage come next June. God knows I can't look at their union in the same way I look at the one I saw today. My parents used to be good friends of this couple. Or rather, my father was. And then my mother's mental illness kind of wacked things up. It wasn't anything malicious, really. She just isn't well. I think my father would be sad to know they were not invited to this party; I didn't tell them about it. My parents do not have any friends to speak of.

Somethings to observe and integrate into my thoughts as I try to figure out where I want to see myself in my own future. And the regrets I do not want to surrender to.

My therapist says that marriage can be either a repeat of your past and return to the familiar or, if you get it right, it can be the completion of your adulthood, filling in the gaps of your weaknesses and helping heal what went wrong in the past. But even in the best of marriages, it is a compromise and a moving, live thing, not a stagnant state.

Sounds freaking exhausting to me. And yet, the looks on the faces of the couple tonight... there's much to be said for being part of a team.

Change Before Its Time

Today I took a ride through some back roads and hills of Vermont and New Hampshire. The summer has been mild in the Northeastern U.S., and the foliage is showing early signs of turning to its autumn shades. It is lovely, but disconcerting for the herald of fall to show up so soon.

The sky was overcast, and I couldn't help but think that it would be wonderful to experience a day riding the same route on a sunnier day in a convertible or on a motorcycle. Something freer to be nearer to the air. Maybe smell the chimney soot and harvests. I wonder if it will be freezing and brown by early October, normally peak leaf-viewing season, because of the unusual weather.

As I disassemble my problems, I find myself wanting to rush to a solution. I am so tired of sitting in discomfort, unresolved. And yet, I do not want to be like the dead leaves, dried or molding because I rushed to change things. I'm not a tree. I don't get to repopulate my branches in the spring. And, frankly, I would like to think that I am only somewhere in the mid-summer of my life, at worst. I don't want the younguns raking up my broken mistakes and bagging me up in black garbage bags for the trash man to take away. It's just sometimes so hard to remember that I don't have to be in such a rush. That it is harder to undo things. And I didn't get where I am overnight. Patience.

But sometimes? Sometimes things hurt too much for me to have patience. That's when I try to change too soon. But maybe patience with the hurt isn't the answer. I don't know what the answer is, but I do know numbing or running from it ain't it either.

Blinded in the Reflection

My stay at the Lake House is coming to an end. It has been a good stay for me overall. I have always had a hard time being quiet with myself. While I very much enjoy my own company, I rarely have used it to sit in quiet contemplation. I took advantage of the time and space this time to do just that.

I love the comments left in the last several days. Apparently, AOL does not have any fans. It sure was warm by the campfire with all the company y'all gave me. It was nice to feel the presence of friends.

It's been interesting sitting with my thoughts. I still have no resolution to my problems. Not that I expected to come to any. One thing I have learned in the past two years is to manage my expectations to a more reasonable level. But I have detected a pattern of mine that I hithertofore had not seen. It disquiets me, yet also reveals something about how I have been trying to deal with problems in my relationships with the opposite sex, which also extends into difficulties in my marriage. Certainly worth persuing if excruciatingly uncomfortable.

For someone who prides herself on not being afraid of the truth, it is humbling to me to realize how much I have missed. Sometimes you can stare in a mirror for a very long time and still not see what is there. You actually have to move a little so the light will change, then you can see something new revealed that had been in the shadows before.

Spoiled by Speed

It's amazing what one gets used to in everyday life. While I am jonesing to my commune with nature here at the lake, my horrid internet connection is driving me up the wall. I broke down and signed up for a trial run with AOL, something I managed to avoid for my over 13 years online... on dial-up service, no less. Let me tell you: torture. And not only that, it is costing 30 cents a minute for a local call because I am in bum-fuck Egypt.

So, I shall be brief.

I feel like I am being granted a huge opportunity for personal growth here in the cut off land of the lake. I certainly feel evidence of something greater than I all around me. I've plenty of things hiding in the recesses of my mind I need to address, maybe it's time to examine them.

Or maybe I should just break out the s'mores and build a campfire. Anyone care to join?

Far Away from Myself

My internet access up here at the Lake House is pretty limited. I'm borrowing a computer (long boring story) and the connection is slow. I suppose it is not the worst thing in the world to not be hooked into the fast lane. I can see a green hummingbird sitting on a feeder as I type. There's a fat spider tending his web spun between the Weber grill and the window to my left. It is very, very quiet this morning. My husband left for work, my son is still asleep.

I like the way it feels right now, and yet...

It reminds me of the end of Kate Chopin's book, the Awakening, I guess. I've always loved the end of that book, which also scares me. Sometimes I think I yearn for too much tranquility.

And when I get to that point, I miss my blogging buddies. I haven't been able to read your blogs and interact with y'all like usual. I've been disconnected with my social group. The people who get me.

Maybe this is just fallout from being so crazed with moving out, then drained from last weekend. I need to get back in touch with my buddies and myself.

At any rate, thanks for listening to this meandering post. I'm ok. I think I just needed to spout. I'm going to try to poke into your blogs if the internet will comply. I miss you.

Survivor: Alkie Versus Normie

I made it through the weekend with the non-alcoholic family. It was not the most comfortable weekend and I definitely felt like a social moron. But I don't think too many eyebrows were raised.

They did arrive with two bottles of wine and the question: "Do you drink wine?" My response was a stammering, no I don't. The other choice responses were: "use-ta guzzle it," "I was a wine-o and don't want to go there, but thanks for asking" and my personal favorite, bursting into tears.

My sponsor came for one of the nights, and that was really cool. She was there both as support, but I like to think she was there as a friend. I like her a lot as just a regular person.

Right now, I am just enjoying the crickets and the sound of boat motors. The departed family left behind a bottle of white wine that's sitting in the fridge. I think I am going to ask my husband to do something about removing it. The bottles of red, the liquor and the beer here doesn't bug me at all. I only can expect so much from myself. But I think I'm doing alright.

Rampant Thoughts

While I sit here waiting for these guests I really don't want to see, I am trying not to concoct crazy excuses why I need to hightail it out of here. Did I forget that I needed to save the whales? I have an engagement for tea with the King of Jigordia that I really ought not blow off?

When I carted myself off to rehab nearly two years ago, I made the decision to tell my son's teachers at school what was going on in the event he had difficulties in the transition. He was ten at the time and at a relatively small Montessori school with a very wonderful staff. I knew it was likely that my unsavory habit would leak out to some of the parents, but I hoped that in the long run the decision to be open and honest about what was happening, in light of my decision and determination to get well, would not cause things to be worse for my child.

The family that is coming up to the lake house is from this Montessori school. And the thought occurred to me this morning that perhaps the reason the entire family decided to take the trek up to this neck of the woods rather than simply send their son to stay with us for the weekend has something to do with the fact that I am a fucking drunk. An alcoholic in recovery, but an addict is an addict.

Hmm. I wonder.

Well, I  made my bed. I will quit pissing and moaning about it. And I will try not to scratch off my skin from all the itching to want to escape back into introvert haven. The bloody, scabby look is not attractive in the summer.

Constriction of Self

The hustle of activity as I pack up my belongings feels familiar to me. It's not just the packing, although I certainly have relocated plenty of times. Moving is not really all that big a deal to me. I'm not much of a sentimentalist nor am I a packrat. The majority of the things I hang on to are books, and even those are replaceable. The things that I cling to far to long are not material. I wish I had a dumpster for that crap like I do for whenever I move from one home to another.

No, it's more than just the loading up of my life into neat boxes that I know so well. The feeling that is creeping up on me is also related to the weekend guests who I am also planning several days around, including meals and activities. I am being relentless in occupying my time, filling in every spare moment with homebuilding-related work - not because it is imperative to do it right this second but because I do not want to give myself a moment to feel this awful feeling that is so well known to me.

When I stop to look at what I am doing, it seems as if I am erasing myself. When I was growing up, the children were to be seen not heard. Our house was sometimes called "the museum" by my first husband, who was more than a little disturbed by the "look don't touch" manner in which my parents lived. No one would have known three children grew up in their home. I can tell you, three children did not really live in their home. So, while I am packing up my temporary home, one that has never really felt like it was mine to begin with because, well, it has never meant to be more than just a stop until my real home is built, I am making the place look as if I had never been here. I can't help but feel disturbed by the sensation that I am re-enacting my childhood.

And then there is this weekend, where I am so nervous about whether or not I will be able to successfully people please our guests without coming apart at my seams. I keep telling myself, quit being a baby, this is not a big deal, it will be fine, they will have a good time. But I know myself well enough now to know that I never know how badly I am in trouble until I am sinking. And I know I am crossing several serious boundaries of mine all at once now, yet telling myself that I am fine, that it is no big deal. That I can handle it. That I should handle it. Suck it up. I have no needs. I never have. I'll survive. I always have.

And so it goes. And so it always has. But that was then, and it almost got me killed. I need to stop, look and listen and not ignore that voice inside me that says maybe it's ok to say how uncomfortable I am. And not berate the shit out of myself for it.

Damn. I'm not quite to the point of not berating myself yet.