A little bit of the Christmas Spirit

It’s Christmas and here I am, writing a blog, thanks to some very persuasive sistas who hold me accountable for such things. It’s snowing here in Atlanta on Christmas Day for the first time since before the birth of Christ (or 1880 something… I can’t remember; Mom just told me on the phone. She likes to tell me these things from up where she still is). And I’m home, in a cozy room with candles burning and my kitty at my feet, he who is getting high on the catnip I keep feeding him so he’ll stop pawing at me to play while I’m trying to write. Bad cat mom! See? This is why I keep tellin’ y’all that I’d make a bad Mom. Kids bugging you? “Honey…where’s the Benadryl again?” Probably not the right route to go.

But, as typical, I’ve already digressed from my topic. Which was… Christmas. I think. I was supposed to spend it with a friend today but, due to the aforementioned weather, decided to stay in instead. If I hadn’t spun out on the interstate a couple weeks ago (still think His finger was on my cartop on that one), I’m sure I would have, as I was looking forward to it most of the week. But, as situations changed, I’m home. And I also have to admit: I do not mind.

For many, many years I did not like this season. I still don’t like Christmas music even (the iPod’s on…but it’s very doubtful any Christmas tunes will show up on Shuffle). And I know that makes me sound all scrooge-y and bah-hum-bug-y, but it is just that at this time of year, 14 years ago, Dad passed. We had learned that Thanksgiving back in 1996 that Dad only had “weeks to months” to live, when the year had opened without even knowing he was sick. He passed away not three weeks later, smack between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was so entirely self-centered and bitter and sad for years. I didn’t celebrate. I didn’t send out cards. And Lord knows I didn’t want to hear a darned Christmas song, for pete’s sake.

Slowly but surely, I grew out of that. I met good friends who pulled me out of that self-centered world and helped me to learn to like the season again. I am a card freak; they’re usually written out before Dec. 1 these days. I love ornaments and lights and presents and gatherings and trees and the snowman figure I get from Mom every year (opening photo is this year's addition). Still hate the Christmas music (though iTunes did just pop up Dar William’s live version of “Christians and the Pagans” – ha! Well done, fates!)…but I reckon that will come at some point, too. Or not.

The thing is, I don’t mind being alone on this holiday. Back when I was in college, I worked security and often had to work the shift in order to keep my job. As I was three hours from home anyway, I would take on double shifts so that others closer could actually spend their day with family (it wasn’t completely selfless; 32 hours in two days makes for a nice paycheck for a 20-year-old college kid). It was just "what happens" sometimes and for some folks. And for as much as I didn’t like “the season” for so many years, I do tend to keep the spirit in my heart all year ‘round. (Plus, this year it doesn't hurt that I get to see my Mom and little brother in Phoenix 4 days into the new year!)

Again, I digress. In the past 24 hours, I have been tickled beyond belief. Have been on the phone non-stop (and for someone who hates being on the phone, that’s a feat), talking, texting up a storm and, okay – yes – Facebooking, too. But I had so much company even on a day I didn’t really need it, that I feel so entirely blessed. I got random messages from friends I hadn’t heard from in a while and invites to gatherings I never expected. I did get sentiments of sympathy for my solo state, but I understood those too: I get that this time of year does make people feel a little lonely and they might not understand that I wasn't feeling the same. I fully expect some of those who did may not be doing so again in the Spring. And that’s okay, too.

I guess what my rambling is coming down to is that, alone and cozy in a place I love, in the home of friends I adore and surrounded with tweets and messages and camera phone sends that weren’t here this time all those 14 years ago when I first lost touch of my love for this time of year? Well, I didn’t think I missed it. I learned this year how blessed I am to have actually found something I didn’t know I lost.

Merry Christmas, my dear friends!

Babies Just Ain't My Thing

I love my friends. And by friends here I’m being specific. Because although y’all rock, these are very specific friends I’m talking about for one very small, but ultra-important reason: they don’t think everyone should love children just because they do. And by everyone, I mean me.

Folks don’t understand why I’m opposed to be a parent. And it’s because I’m not. It’s not something I oppose; it’s just a choice. It is as conscious of a choice for me to NOT become a parent as it is for many of you TO become one. I don’t judge those who decide they want to be one…yet, somehow, I am judged for deciding not to be.

Why exactly is that? Why don’t we honor those who make this choice as much as those who do? I mean, it’s not as if we have a population problem and I am needed to carry on the race. (Granted, I’m so gifted and gorgeous that it may be my duty to….haha!) ;-) I’m sometimes told, “oh but you’d make such a great Mom!” And I think: Um…really? How do you know that? Or there’s the “just wait. You’ll meet someone special someday and want it.” And I wonder if their magic ball might could tell me tonight’s lottery numbers along with that bit of prophesy as well. I find it amusing that these people seem to think that they know me better than I know myself, that they could say something so inane.

I also get questioned why I think twice about dating someone who has kids not in their home. This one is a little trickier: I wouldn’t discount them, but it would take a lot to get past that. And it’s simply because I’m a realist. A part-time parent can become a full-time parent in the blink of an eye when that car pile-up happens on the interstate or a routine doctor’s check-up turns up a terminal illness. Knowing what I know of myself, wouldn’t it be naive – even wrong – not to consider these things before getting into something serious with a man with kids?

But, as usual, I digress. Back to the present. A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of spending time with friends who have three darling little girls. What I love about them is that they are parents, but also people. And though their girls are adorable (as, I admit, most kids are), after a few hours, I’ve had enough. I was pooped. Seriously pooped. And instead of having to make up some lame excuse to leave, I was just honest with them: I had had just about as much kids as I could that day. And God bless ‘em, do you know what they said? “We totally understand.” They did not make me feel bad – intentionally or otherwise. They did not try to convince me to stay. And I honestly think they were not insulted, did not take it as a slight, or did not judge me a bad person for feeling the way I did. Gotta say it again: God bless ‘em!

So, folks, I guess what I’m saying is this. Love who you are and what’s right for you. But let’s stop judging us non-breeders for what we are and what’s right for us, too. ‘K? Peace out.

Holding Out for a Hero

"Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Where's the street wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?"
-- Bonnie Tyler, Holding Out For a Hero

Going cheesy old school with y'all on this quote today. But while sitting out in the sun reading, I came across this line in Stephen King's Dark Tower V (Wolves of the Calla): "Eddie thought that Calvin Tower was, in the words of the song, holding out for a hero." And something told me: Get up. Time to write.

So I came back outside with a spiral-bound, college-ruled notebook (what makes blue lines closer together on a white page "college-ruled" anyway?) and a brown Sharpie. And here we are.

I always thought this song was about a woman pining for the Ultimate Man. After all: "HE's gotta be strong; HE's gotta be fast; HE's gotta be fresh from the fight." She wants a savior, right?

No.

In fact, in the very beginning - the quote I opened with above - she doesn't ever even mention a real man. She mentions gods and mythological figures. White knight saviors and whatnot. A hero to save that doesn't really exist? Please.

She needs to be her own hero.

If you remember back, think of when the song is even played in "Footloose." Country boys playing chicken with tractors? Really? Hero much? No.

Now, there are heroes - every day heroes in our lives, like our firemen, policemen and military. There are heroes to our children, like the baseball stars who take the time to actually autograph the game ball and light up their faces. And there are heroes in our every day lives: those who take the time to wish us a good morning, or call us when they know we're having a bad day. Folks who bring you a cupcake for no reason, or take that extra shift from you at work when you really want to be with your family instead.

I think the "woman" in the song can't find her hero because she doesn't realize she's her own. And she doesn't realize she is also someone else's.

A woman at work and I were talking the other day about whether true altruism exists. Because, I do think most folks want to do good and make others happy. But do we not also want to see the results of our actions? To see their faces alight, to see their change in mood? Because it gives us pleasure to make others happy. And as it should. But are our actions altruistic if we also feel happy and good about ourselves by doing them?

If true altruism doesn't exist, I'm very okay with that. How is that a bad thing anyway? Because if an act of nicety - being someone's hero however small - results in not only one person being happy, but two? Well, then. Mission accomplished x 2.

Friends, I say go on out this week and be a hero to someone. Wait for that hero if you need it, but be one of your own in the meantime for someone else who needs it, too. In that way, you are your own hero. And more that amazing for it.

"Outstanding."






Out at Happy Hour with two co-workers and a long-time friend this past week, I was challenged to write a blog on a quote that is really just one word: "Outstanding."

The reason why? Apparently, I say it All The Time. This actually took me aback. I had no idea I did. Folks have told me I say other silly things often. I say "wicked" a lot ("what the hell- are you from *Boston?!*) or "cool beans." But...Outstanding? I looked around the table and the nods told me yes. Huh. I had no idea.

So, being me (and a dirty martini in), I accepted the challenge without the slightest idea how I would do it. A blog on Outstanding would be a it! And my first thought after: you mean, as opposed to Standing Out?

And then it formed.

Outstanding, indeed. It really does mean "standing out." And the linguist in me now wants to research that. When did that happen? When did that swap in words happen (surely not in the English language?) that the meaning of two words - standing out - become one, only swapped? But, as usual, I digress and will move on.

I don't know when I picked up on that word or how often I use it. ("Um, a LOT, Stacy.") But, upon reflection now, I think it must be fairly recent and I think it must be how I feel about life right now, especially if I've been using it pretty subconsciously without even realizing it.

So what's outstanding about life? Oh, I can name the obvious: I love my home. I love my housemates. I even love my job (rare these days, I know!). My family is killer. My friends are amazing. I'm currently sitting in the sun, nursing a drink, listening to iTunes on an iPod I was told should have died years ago (by a site called iPod Death Clock that, unfortunately, no longer works). Sure, life is outstanding (and, yes, I purposely left out the love life)... but am I Standing Out?

I'd have to say: No. And I haven't quite figured out if that's a good thing or not. I'm leaning toward yes. These days, I play my cards close to my (small but proportionate) chest. Oh, you know how I'll feel about things if you ask me. But if you don't? I've turned into that Surveying Leo.

I'm a Leo through and through. Whatever you believe in that, whether you give it credence or not, I find it fun. And I do kind of believe. As a Christian, I do. And it does coincide perfectly: God did create the heavens, did He not? But, again, a story for another day. I am a Leo in my sun, my moon and my Venus (Aquarius rising for folks who know what that means). And there are two types of Leos: the Center of Attention (Standing Out?) and the surveyors.

I've become the latter recently without even realizing.

Without even realizing it, at some point I decided not to be Standing Out anymore and instead, just let my life be Outstanding.

And it made me realize. Outstanding cannot be created. Standing Out can. That's active. You can Stand Out in an active way. You can only let life BE OUTSTANDING in a passive way. And, for once? I love the passive way.

Pause. Back off. And just let your life be Outstanding, my friends.

“The joker ain't the only fool who'll do anything for you.” - Juice Newton, “Queen of Hearts”




As a disclaimer up front? I’m the fool in this scenario. But it’s not a bad thing.

In the ages of Kings and Courts, the Jester (the Fool) was really the most clever of folks. He had to capture attention and entertain. He was the clever one, making the king laugh and forget his troubles. He was The Entertainment and was revered. Don’t mistake a fool for a stupid person. The biggest fool you know is the most clever person you know. As soon as you realize that and get “in” with him? You’re golden, my friends. There’s a reason Jokers Are Wild, my friends. It’s not by accident. Those folks are wily and clever and brilliant.

Unfortunately, I? Ha. Am not that fool. Since it’s my blog, I’d love to say I was. Oh! I’m clever, I am! I’m astute. And I know things y’all don’t. Hee. Funny. But no.

Because, in reference to the quote, I’m a fool for love, not for life. Which makes me silly and naïve and perhaps juvenile and even stupid. But I kinda like that.

So here’s where that love thing comes in.

At 38, I finally learned to love myself. And that’s a story for another day. THIS story is about the loves I’ve had in my life. Who I was a fool for, each in their own turn. And I don’t regret each one.

The first one happened in college. He introduced me to the Grateful Dead and inspired me to get SCUBA certified. I have no clue where he is today. And even though some folks would say “you don’t know real love at twenty years old,” at the time, I thought it was. And so it is.

After moving to Atlanta, I dated a guy and I would call that love too. Not the same as the previous, of course (I’m 6 years older now at this point) and not the same way I’d define it now. But at the time, I was in love.

Which means it WAS.

Folks, if it doesn’t work out? It wasn’t NOT love. If you’re married to the love of your life now, it doesn’t mean the love you felt for someone a half a decade ago wasn’t. It was. It’s….just *changed* now. And that’s good. We should change as we grow. But I digress.

And I’ll digress again (for a brief moment). It really honestly pisses me off when folks say, after a break-up, that it “must not have been love.” Really? Why NOT? It was. At the time? It WAS>

My most recent “love” (there are actually 4 total so far in my life if anyone’s counting; hopefully 5 will be The It. Again, disgression) totally threw me for a loop. I was ready; he was not. He went there first and I followed. But two years gone now, I realize that he didn’t mean to hurt me. It just happened.

I’m a big believer in that. I’ve actually, in the past year, been able to put safely to bed (300 thread count sheets and all – bless, Shell!) that most of my loves are now people I still feel dearly about and want the best for.

The one in college? The first? Still hoping he’ll pop up on Facebook someday so we can reconnect and I can be happy for him about his SCUBA-diving career and wife and 3.2 kids. The one I dated recently after arriving here? I got closure very recently. Hadn’t seen him for two years (and the last time I did? Yeah. That’s another story for another day) and a couple weeks ago saw him again and all is By the Way of the Beam now. That means good. The last? Well….still waiting. We’ll see.

But that brings me back to what I said earlier. I love myself now. I WANT to be able to say that I still love all my old loves still, even if I’m not still in love with them. I’m 3 for 4. There’s still one left. Who I might still be a fool for, like the quote says. But I kinda like being a fool for someone….as long as I’m not fooling myself.

The English Girl Loves Her Words.

“Through their own words, they will be exposed.” - Sinead O’Conner, “Emperor’s New Clothes”



I’ve never been a huge Sinead O’Conner fan. She’s gorgeous and talented and has an amazing voice. But at the time I listened to her (waaaay back when, not going to purposely age myself by telling you exactly here), and her hit song was “Nothing Compares 2 U,” my favorite of hers was actually “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” I disagreed with her political and religious views, but I can still appreciate that she had talent. So back to the fable.

First: LOVE that fable. It’s about a completely narcissistic man who believed what any of his followers would tell him. It helped me deal with narcissistic men (and women) in my life… but, again, that’s a story for another day. It also made me understand that everyone – including myself – is narcissistic sometimes, in some ways. It’s not necessarily a bad thing…. If you realize it for what it is.

So today’s entry goes back to that quote. The last time I had a blog, it was the header. Because, honestly? It’s ridiculously simple and ridiculously true. People say actions speak louder than words? Ha. I disagree. Your words speak volume. Their words speak volumes. IF you know how to listen.

*I* read folks by their words, not by their actions. Crazy, huh? But think about it.

We’re taught (at least as women) that saying “I love you” is just words: Look at the actions instead, ladies! Okay, there’s something to that, in a way. But I also think it's bullshit.

I was talking with my cousin earlier tonight and I mentioned to her in our marathon call (for me- 90 minutes!) that my dad could never say “I’m sorry” when I was growing up. And I learned that behavior. I never said it for years. I’d try to make up for it in actions instead: being kind or loving, doing little things to try to make up for it in actions.

Why not just SAY THE WORDS?

Because, through our words, we are exposed. They make us vulnerable. They make us human. And it’s *so much harder to say the words than to do an action to represent the word.*

Sure, when someone loves me, I want them to show it. But I also want them to say it. Why are *words* discounted these days? Why don’t they mean anything anymore?

Maybe because my passion is words. I write. I edit. I speak. I teach. The written word is amazing to me. But the SPOKEN word is glorious. For centuries and generations, the spoken stories passed down from generation to generation was what was real. Even when there was no written language, spoken language was the way to pass on culture, faith, emotions and religion.

So why are actions “more important” now than words? In my world? They’re not.

Stop thinking actions mean more than words. Open your mind and listen to WORDS.

“When the right person knocks, be ready to open the door.”


I’m paraphrasing now because I was idiot enough to lose the exact quote (I'll get better at this as I go along, friends. I promise). But it stuck with me, and here it is, even if I have to take liberties with it.

This came from a woman I admired the instant I met her. When I took a job up in Marietta a couple years ago, a place that had to eventually lay me off (a fact I took well enough when the owner cried when he did it and now turned out the best thing that ever happened to me career-wise), she was the one I admired on the spot.

Oh! I was so intimidated by Sharon. She is talented. Classy. Educated. Someone I classified as the “typical Southern spitfire of a lady” though, if I remember correctly, she may not even be from here originally? But, oh! From day one I wanted her to realize that I knew my job and was a good, intelligent woman too (just like her, I hoped?)! Thus, the intimidation. And respect.

If she’s reading this now, I think she might even be amazed I felt that way. I always played that cool, of course. At that place of employment, I KNEW I could do my job. I knew I could do it well. No – scratch that: more than well! But I didn’t care if my boss, my boss’s son, or any of the other folks there appreciated my talent or not. I did her. Sharon's opinion was what mattered.

Why? That's another story for another day.

But today? I’m kinda really lucky that Ms. Sharon and I are still friends on Facebook now. And that we chatted in private messages the other day. See, the thing is? She recently took a chance on an old love without any preconceived notions of where it was going to go – and because of that, it’s working. And when I goo’ed and gushed, thrilled for her (the things of movies, this is!), and lamented for myself(not because I don't think it'll happen: it will. I just want it to more sooner than later. I have a blog now, afterall!) She gave me those words:

“When the right person knocks, just be sure to open the door.”


I'm keeping it unlocked.



(BTW? The picture is a rock I found. In that exact shape. Dorothy Gale Red made it what it is today.)