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Today was an exceptionally cozy day. Mom and I reorganized the upstairs living area to incorporate and decorate the sweet little Christmas tree Dad and I brought home earlier in the week.
While we steadied the trunk and strung the lights, we sang loudly along to the melismas of Handel’s Messiah (believe me, you are very sorry you missed this performance!) and then Pandora Christmas radio. It was all quite like the movies, our trimming the tree, except for me occasionally utterly phrases like, “These lights look shitty.” Sorry, Ma.
She’s used to my not-quite-Hollywood behavior, at least. One year Ty and I stayed up into the wee hours of the night decorating our silver tip tree with countless strands of carefully placed white lights. When Mom awoke to the surprise the next morning she oohed and cooed and called us her “little elves” (name inspired in part by the red button up union suits we both wore; union suits: onesies for adults with functional back flaps, if you know what I mean). It became one of her favorite Christmas memories until she learned we’d smoked a smidge of “weeds” while executing the labor of love. Again, sorry Ma . . .
Another year, Tyler and I were in his room on Christmas Eve wrapping presents and again poofin’ a little toof. Dad knocked on the door and we tried to gently deter him by explaining, “No Dad, don’t come in. We’re wrapping!” But, Dad being Dad turned the knob oh so slowly, easing the door open; then with his eyes squeezed shut poked just his head into the room. After a few seconds Dad’s nose began to twitch like a rabbit’s and he asked innocently, “What’s that smell?”
As I recall, Christmases were relatively devoid of such scandal during my adolescence; but delve into the single digits and you’ll find little Tessa creeping into the closet, behind the couch and into closed paper bags. I snooped all over our house every year and repeatedly ruined surprises for myself. Once, I found an awesome Spirograph set which I oddly never received (karma . . . ?) and when I was about 11, I found two Boxcar Children books my brother bought for me. For some reason discovering that gift early has always caused a little twinge in my heart. I think I may have changed my ways after that.
Unfortunately, my ways-changing didn’t happen in time to salvage the candy ornament Ty made in third grade. At four years old I neatly crawled under the tree, retrieved the sparkling rainbow swirl dangling dangerously low on a limb and took it back to my bedroom where I ate it under my bed.
Ahh, confession never felt so sweet. Merry holiday season, everyone!
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
It’s Halloween and I’m feeling resentful.
Most people around are excited about dressing up and having places to go. But I do that every weekend! Must I tonight?
Actually, it’s the knowledge that darling little kiddies will be arriving at the house I’m housesitting any moment calling out for tricks or treats and I will have nothing to offer. Nothing tangible anyway. . .
My ego is jumping back and forth with solutions: Go to my parents’ house and hide; run out and buy some candy; ignore any ringing doorbells; open the door with a smile but tell the niños I’m candy-less . . . Does this sound like I’m in the midst of choosing whether to fight or fly? I’d rather just sit here and listen to Spanish guitar music than do either. Bah humbug, I know . . .
Halloween has never been a big holiday for me. I had some really cute costumes before I was old enough to pick them out myself; then for some reason, in 6th grade I decided to be a “black and orange girl”. Really. I wore some combination of black and orange clothing and painted each half of my face one of the colors. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now kind of makes me sad . . .
I was a gypsy one year, in San Francisco. That was fun, feeling beautiful, exotic and vagrant. In high school, my sweetheart and I dressed up in pillows and these ridiculous chubby cheeked masks and actually went trick or treating. That was fun, too. The only other time I remember being particularly excited was the year I was a cheerleader, but the excitement was much less about dressing up as a cheerleader than it was actually being a cheerleader; I’d been accepted to the squad not long before and was wearing my own uniform.
Maybe I don’t love Halloween because as a Two, I already employ the masterful skill of shape-shifting on a regular basis. I have a hard enough time putting on the real me to waste any putting on some other guy’s face.
All humbugs aside, I did decide to dress up as Shirley Temple this Halloween. I a-d-o-r-e-d her when I was wee and insisted quite fiercely that certain people call me Curly Top. I don’t know what it was about Shirley that I envied so . . . her button nose and perfect curls couldn’t have stolen my heart at that age, could they? No, I think it was her consistently playing the poor orphaned child who always manages to find love in the arms of a beautiful stranger in the end. This probably has something to do with my unloveability complex, too. If only I could be like Shirley . . . .
Anyway, I appreciate the opportunity to vent. Writing served one of its many therapeutic benefits on this shining fall evening (the kiddies will be happy it’s so warm out!) and I, now at 5:05 p.m. feel ready and willing enough to go out and buy candy (if there’s any left at the store), blush (for my soon to be rosy cheeks!) and dinner (because I love to eat and no one’s here to make me any :p).
Have fun ya’ll. Do report back on any spectacular costumes you create or encounter, if you’re so inclined. XO
Two concepts have been catching my attention lately that I just saw to link this morning: anger and discipline.
I mentioned in the post Emotional Catharsis something about enjoying and indulging in emotions other than anger–and at this point I should probably use the term “hot” anger and take the time to distinguish it from “cold.”
It’s fairly simple, really. Of course, both will feel different to everyone, but essentially hot anger results in yelling, fighting, and aggressiveness. Outrage is an excellent synonym for this kind of anger. Cold anger, on the other hand, usually manifests as glowering or even being expressionless, and ignoring someone out of anger–giving someone the “cold” shoulder.
I was going to say I could accept cold anger more than hot, but I realize now that I was confusing containing or controlling anger with cold anger. In reality, cold anger can be just as cutting as hot.
Anyway, I saw the detrimental effects of hot–and undisciplined–anger this morning walking the two little dogs I am sitting for. One is part Jack Russel terrier and blatantly aggressive towards other dogs. I was warned of this by his owner, obviously, but I was still shaken when, as we were strolling along peacefully in the autumn a.m., he suddenly howled and leapt all over a gate with a dog behind it. First of all, I’m used to taking care of bigger, better behaved kanines– mostly labradors–and secondly, I was raised in a family where mistakes and punishments were nearly always handled with a calm and somber conversation (“Tessa, we need to have a talk. . .”). Needless to say, angry outbursts of any kind (or any species, apparently) are not anything I’m accustomed to.
Lesson #1 learned, I shortened Teddy’s leash considerably and we walked on. I mulled over the experience and held the lesson begrudgingly in my awareness. I didn’t like this having to be on the constant alert to the behavior of this dog. Although not such a terribly big deal, it became a little bigger when we passed the empty lot across the street from my parents’ house. Our yellow lab, Savannah, was doing her morning exploration of the property with her nose to the ground and her whole backend wagging in delight. It was all I could do not to call “Bonsie!” and watch her do her best impression of a gallop across the grass to greet me. But, knowing I had an unfriendly-to-other-dogs dog in tow, I was forced to let the opportunity quietly pass.
My anti-anger button was pushed again moments later. I was looking forward to taking one of my favorite shortcuts in town down a single car country lane lined with autumn hues, old farmhouses and an exceptional view of the mountain. But as we turned left to take the path, I had a sense that we would be unable to. Sure enough, down at the end of the road I could just make out the wiggling body of another little dog. We detoured instead.
Cradling my own frustration so as not to let it grow out of proportion, I recalled the words of Teddy’s owner. “I could probably train him not to act out this way, but I don’t have the . . . it just hasn’t happened.” Rethinking the conversation helped me realize that we all have a choice to literally train ourselves not to act in certain ways. “Training the mind” is a frequently used phrase in regard to meditation. Thus I made the connection between anger and discipline.
I considered that perhaps it isn’t anger, per se, that I have the problem with, but rather undisciplined anger. Undisciplined sadness, too, which when allowed to spiral out of control can lead to people actually taking their own lives.
Of course, discipline is it’s own double edged sword that I’d like to explore in some depth. Another day.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
This afternoon I am having trouble finding my ground.
My morning was delightful. I worked in the Berryvale deli again. I’m learning quickly with the upward arc of the curve and feeling confident and fulfilled in my new position.
When I got home I was welcomed with the unfortunate news that my big and only brother is not doing as well as he could be. For years he has been struggling off and on with a depression that runs in our family; and lately the “noonday demons” have worn him down and run him ragged.
It always stirs up all kinds of thoughts and emotions in me when this happens and I’ve been having a hell of a time trying to write about it. Now finally, after a good hour of killing my babies (relax; it’s a term writers use to describe deleting words and phrases that don’t quite work), I find myself breathing more easily.
I’m a enneatype 2–and I’m choosing to use box this into the enneagram framework because without a container this subject will spread all over the screen. It is my nature to shape-shift and adapt to any situation, or more accurately, to the energy output of anyone else. So when my mother is struggling under the weight of worry and my brother is battling the darkness, it becomes very difficult for me to continue gliding through life as has been my way for these past few weeks. You see, it doesn’t feel right for me to be content on my own when the others around me are not. 2′s bear the dual burdens of guilt and shame; and both rear their ugly heads at rough times like these.
So for the past hour, I’ve been spitting out sentences like “I haven’t always been so happy” and “Last year at this time, I was overwhelmed by anxiety and sadness” in attempt to commiserate, become more relate-able, justify my happiness and still try to help and inspire. Gross. I even began a post where I was going to pluck downer sentences from my old journals so I would sound more “real.”
It is perplexing to think that I would consider such things to be potentially helpful to the situation. Although, to be fair, the frame of mind I have been experiencing lately is new. Feeling like it might actually be my duty to reap the happiness life has sewn for me is . . . different. . .
As I walked along that glorious forest lane yesterday, I had a thought, “Your first priority is to take care of yourself.” This idea in and of itself is something I’ve been toying with a lot over the past year. Especially, again as a 2, because of my compulsive need to give and give and give in attempt to feel worthy of love.
But yesterday the thought went a step further, into the territory where logic actually confirms a more esoteric truth. I thought, If I were a mother with a newborn baby, certainly no one would expect me to take care of anyone or anything before tending to the needs of my child. That would be absurd. And then came this: I am my own newborn babe.
I have struggled in the past, truly. There have been days when I couldn’t stop crying and times when if not for the arms of a friend wrapped around me, I would have broken in two. And even though I’m happy as a lamb most of the time nowadays, the clutches of darkness are only at bay. As easy as it has be to forget, I am not immune to despair.
Yet when my brother is sad, I get confused as to whether I’m supposed to be sad, too. I wonder if I need to be doing something, something important, and doing it NOW to try and make things better.
But what if all I really need to do is to gather the seeds of gladness sprinkled before me and hold them tightly? Because if I don’t have them, I can’t plant them. If I don’t plant them, I can’t reap the fruits they will grow. If I don’t sew, I can’t reap, if I don’t reap, I can’t share . . .
Again, my life is so, so rich. I’m lying down on a couch wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted (that word is spelled so weirdly. How can anyone read it and not think crotch-e-ted?) with the Yankees and Angels dueling it out in the background. Dad and I just finished a scrumptious Italian meal of red wine, mixed green salad, spicy sausage, rotini and homemade spaghetti sauce ripe with sauteed mushrooms, bell peppers and tomatoes from our garden. It doesn’t get much better; and I’m beginning to believe that yes, it can always be this good.
Today was another exceptionally full and busy day. I had my first official day in the deli at Berryvale. Despite that no one has yet to mention anything about me doing any baking (which is what I thought I was hired for), I still enjoyed myself immensely. I spent the morning smiling, flirting, and waiting on customers, pushing buttons, serving wraps, filling coffee and did I mention? Smiling.
After Berryvale, I moved on to work a shift at the SAC gallery. That I followed up with a short jaunt (it’s hardly a jaunt; the door to the kitchen is in the gallery!) to the Village Books bakery where I prepared (and sampled; mmm) ganache for topping trays of brownies. If you’ve not yet had ganache, you ought to. It’s semi-sweet dark chocolate melted into heavy cream. It is so sinful and delicious, and makes me think of Chocolat every time. . .
When I eventually got home, I was tired and rather displaced. I tried to collapse into a nap, but was still buzzing from the day’s activity. So I went for a walk.
It was divine. Bonsey (i.e. Savannah Belle Bones, the best dog in the world) went with me, past the high school, through Shastice park and onto a Disc Golf course. The course is actually just a lovely trail that wends through the woods with the occasional wire goal along the way. It’s lined with deciduous trees and thimbleberry bushes that turn golden in autumn, so the richness of fall color is there on all levels. Tonight we were out at sunset and due to the alpenglow, the pink hue streaked 360 degrees of the sky.
The highlight of the outing occurred when I happened upon the most luscious of smells in the middle of the trail. Suddenly, it was as though I’d walked into a grove of honeycomb. A sweet, subtle scent permeated the air. I inhaled deeply and raised my arms to the sky. I inhaled again and again and again and sighed in between.
The richness of life is available in every breath. Every breath is a chance for glory, for grace. I challenge you: take it.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
Uh oh. Only 20 minutes to write this time. In 22 I need to eat dinner, then jet out the door to my new-w-w JOB! Which I am officially hired for, by the way. Tonight I’m on for four some hours of register training with Sean. Phew.
I’m squeezing in this blog post because I was asked if I forgot to blog last night. I was just that touched that I decided to alter my plan to fully recharge my battery and only half refuel for the sake of keeping ya’ll informed (well, Mom informed. She’s the one who asked :} ). So now I’m lying on my back in the ever so elegant “legs up the wall” position, typing with Mom’s laptop perched atop my belly, leaning against my thighs. Now that’s what I call dedication!
Dad is cooking spaghetti in the background. Probably, since he’s rushing around to get it done while I still have time to eat it, I should be helping. Or at least keeping him company with some pleasant chitchat. But after a day of training my replacement at the gallery and a night of being trained ahead of me, I feel I must eek out my energy wisely.
And again I find myself worrying that I’m going to bore my reader by going on about the same topics. How to reconcile this dilemma? Anyone?
Oh well, here I go about dancing again: I found a restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes away that has a Salsa band and dancing on Saturday nights! I used to drive an hour every weekend for church; now instead I’m off in high heels to wiggle in the dark to Latin beats . . . and I somehow don’t think God would mind. You see, when I dance I truly connect to deeper parts of my being and to the Divine, and that’s about the point, in’t it?
Joseph Villaseñor and I will be going to Tabú, the blessed restaurant, together this weekend. Last Saturday we had a rather in depth conversation about the nature of our relationship (status: dance partners in crime). We discussed jealousy, commitment and the potential that having a basically platonic yet spicy partnership could have for our fun on the floor. I also promised Joe there would be little danger of me getting mad at anything he might do–other than leave me sitting in the wings at Tabú if the ratio of male to female dancers turns out to be typical. My hopes are set higher!
He and I concluded with a promise to maintain direct and open lines of communication; and I’d say that’s a good policy to apply to all relationships, be they muy picante or not.
Adios, mis amores!
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
