Soul Talking

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Maya Angelou speaks to my soul. I have to confess, I haven’t read a lot of her stuff. I will be fixing that straightaway, though, because every little thing she wrote or said, that I have a read, speaks to the very heart and soul within me. I read her words and, “Yes! Yes! So much yes!” screams from my head.

Maya Angelou, thank you for putting words to the stories of my (our) hearts. I have felt all of these things and I have felt them fully.

 
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Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at it destination full of hope.

 
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My great hope is to laugh as much as I cry; to get my work done and try to love somebody and have the courage to accept the love in return.

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Loving someone liberates the lover as well as the beloved. And that kind of love comes with age.

 

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I am grateful to have been loved and to be loved now and to be able to love, because that liberates. Love liberates. It doesn’t just hold—that’s ego. Love liberates. It doesn’t bind. Love says, ‘I love you. I love you if you’re in China. I love you if you’re across town. I love you if you’re in Harlem. I love you. I would like to be near you. I’d like to have your arms around me. I’d like to hear your voice in my ear. But that’s not possible now, so I love you. Go.

 

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As always, with love –

Stef

I get weak

Some of the things he writes make me weak and soppy and hopeful. No matter what, I don’t think I’ll ever stop being a romantic.

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I think this is from Moulin Rouge, but I didn’t realize it until I was trying to attribute the quote that was in my mind and looked it up:

The greatest thing you’ll learn is to love and be loved in return.

With love,
Stef

On Writing Blood

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Hemingway. HEMINGWAY. A man of unfettered passion. He lived his life fully, he wrote from his vast experiences; he dominated his life.

I was having a conversation with a friend last night about the poetry I write. I generally don’t share it because it is often intensely personal. I write it when I’m feeling strongly. I write it from experience or longing. I write it when I HAVE TO GET IT OUT.

Hemingway has a quote, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” To which I say YES. YES.

I write from my heart. It’s not going to always make sense to somebody else. Sometimes it barely makes sense to me – these mutterings that sometimes only resemble coherent sentences – but they are the words that cascade from my heart, tripping through my brain and down through my finger tips.

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I want to live my life and feel every moment and then I want to write about it. Fully. I don’t want to apologize for the things I felt. I don’t want to hide what I felt and not be honest. I want to say this is what I did and, dammit, this is how it felt! And I’d do it again. Or I wouldn’t, because it hurt too damn much, but at least I felt something. I didn’t hide away and forget to live my life. I want to love and be loved. I want to feel and experience and when I’m 90 I want to say, boy, I can’t believe I did that but it sure was fun!

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I’m so practical. I’m so inhibited, most of the time. But I’m also such a romantic and I can be very creative – but I bury it. Because.

Because . . . why? I’m scared. Of doing the wrong thing. Of hurting others. I’m scared of judgement & condemnation.

I want to live without apology. Without guilt. Without worry. I want to LIVE. Why should I apologize for wanting to make the most of my life? To celebrate life? To love, to dance, to kiss. To have Wednesday afternoon dance parties with my sons. To have midnight walks with friends. To have adventures. Why should I apologize for that?

Ernest Hemingway Quote

 

Hemingway. I want to be Hemingway.

 

With love,

Stef

 

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A dark poem

Wrong, wrong, wrong
March 18, 2014

Everything I knew is wrong;
There’s no end in sight.
The road is long;
Dullness, stupidity, like night.

Up, down, right, left;
Nothing where it should be.
Dammit, so bereft;
Don’t you know me?

Run away then, old friend!
Act like it’s not real.
Don’t expect me to bend;
I didn’t break that seal.

Ha, I did it right, as always!
Smug little bitch, I am.
Now stumbling through this daze;
Who are you? Ma’am?

Open up the wine;
Consume it all.
Overindulge & dine!
But don’t bother to call.

That’s enough, like she said:
Crumpled up piece of paper.
Help me, I feel like lead;
Lift me up out of this labor.

Head down, mewling.
Didn’t I do it right?
Right is wrong, soothing.
Hell no; trampled in the night

Recent inspirations, part one

As with most people of my generation, I spend a good portion of my day online. Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram – they are my daily companions. Not my only companions, of course, but my early morning, late night, midday break companions.

As I cruise around these sites I often find bits if inspiration. Lovely pictures, amazing words, things that I want to remember & feel for a long time to come. I generally save these to my phone to look at & weed through later, and I thought I’d share some of these with you:

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This is the story of a girl

Who cried a river and drowned the whole world

and while she looks so sad in photographs

I absolutely love her

When she smiles

Do you know that song? You know how you can hear just the words “this is a story” and you can immediately connect the lyrics and sing the whole song 500 times in your head (or out loud) after that? And then your husband (or boss, or teacher, or friend) says “AS I WAS SAYING this is a story about cattle futures and the stock market . . . ” Or, actually, my husband or boss or teacher (if I had a teacher) would never say that. Maybe “. . . about Edward Gorey” or “. . . about intellectual property, counterfeit product sales online and their crossover into phishing fraud.” Or something like that. Anyway – I LOVE THAT.

I find great comfort in the familiar. It’s soothing to me to hear a song I know and love. The cadence, the words, they all flow through my mind effortlessly and, if I love the song, it makes me happy. Like a hug (because hugs make you happy. Unless your heart is cold, black and shriveled up). The same with my favorite old tv shows or the same books I have thumbed through a dozen times or more. The characters are like visiting with old friends and the familiar words are like a salve to my metaphorical open wounds.

On a recent business trip I had to figure out a book to take with me.

(Yes, technologically adept as I like to consider myself I do still have an overwhelming affinity for actual books. I like to feel them in my hands. I like to dog-ear the corners. I fear the term “dog-ear” will go out of fashion in 2.5 seconds due to all the electronics permeating our society. I’m so conflicted).

I have no less than 7 books on my bedside table that I have barely started or not cracked at all, but when I turned to grab one none appealed. Why? Well, there’s a lot of newness in my work life and I just couldn’t stand the idea of embarking on a new journey with a new author and a new story to work through in my already clouded and over-taxed head.

What if I didn’t like it 30 pages in? What if it was sad and depressing? What if it didn’t hug my soul like a tried and true good book can do?

So I chose an old favorite. Through 4 “please watch the safety demonstration in the event of an emergency landing” monologues while “all electronic equipment is switched off” I plowed through my old favorite, smiling at the words, remembering the characters. I found myself immersed, once again, entirely in the movie in my head – how Amelia’s jetty black hair looked (via a bottle, shhh), her blushing indulgence to femininity in her crimson gowns and fancy undergarments, and her painful need to be right and strong ,and her huge heart and conflicted morality. Ahhhh. There is nothing like catching up with old friends on long plane rides.

Or is it catching up with yourself? I have a theory (supported by nothing except my second Diet Pepsi tonight) that when we connect with something from the past – a book, a movie, a song, even a fragrance – it can take you back to the old YOU. The person you were then, when you first loved it, and it can feel like a comfort because it makes you feel like, or connect with – consciously or not – the old you. That old friend that you knew better than anyone, foibles and all, before you went through the experiences that makes you the YOU of today.

Over the summer I made several long car trips by myself (or with my children, but with THEIR electronic equipment I may as well have been by myself) and I had this odd thing happen. On one trip I was in the middle of the Oregon desert, the boys had their headphones on and I resorted to mindlessly hitting “seek” in hopes of finding something interesting. There were 3 radio stations that came in; one was political news (not on your life), the other was in Spanish (and that gets old when you don’t speak it), and the third . . . just happened to be playing a country song I LOVED when I was in high school (and filled with high school angst, I might add). I found myself singing the words before I could even remember the name of the song or who sang it. I just knew that I knew the words and as I sang each verse and got closer to the chorus I remembered the full song and . . . tears. No kidding. Tears. Because that song comforted me when I was a teen and broken-hearted and here I was, so many years later, and BAM! It pulled at my heart and I was in tears. I don’t remember the who, what or why of that broken-heart – I just remember the emotion the song conveyed all those years ago.

It’s like that movie with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks. Sleepless in Seattle? And she’s in the car driving and listening to him on the radio, in a bit of a trance, and he just says something that clicks with her heart (something her mother had said, about love & magic) and she’s crying. Just like that. Those things they reverberate in your soul.

Or is that just me? Bah. Maybe. But that’s okay. I can own it.

So – if you find me listening to the soundtrack for The Sound of Music in my headphones please don’t mock because I’m probably a major stressball and I’m just reverting to my childhood happy place as a coping mechanism. Back when my mom and I used to pop popcorn and watch this movie every year around the holidays when it came on tv and I felt loved and when I watched Julie Andrews sing and I could breathe and I knew ALL THINGS IN LIFE WERE POSSIBLE.

Ahhh. Sigh. Breathe. Repeat.

Mucho amor, mes amis!

Stef

(No, I don’t speak Spanish. Or French. It’s Frenish. Just go with it).

Shakespeare in the shower

Summer. I get to sleep in a wee bit later and it’s fantastic. I snoozed until 7:20 this morning and noticed when I was getting up that my hubby was stirring a bit as well. I took my time in the shower, lost in the lather of the moment, trying to wake up and face the day. (You know how you get into the shower and the white noise keeps you lost in your thoughts? Sometimes I can’t even remember if I shampooed already or not.) Today, though, I was busy lathering and planning my world domination when I was pulled out of my thoughts by my husband’s voice in the next room.

I paused. I listened. I heard . . . . Shakespeare?

*sigh*

Yes, Shakespeare. Oberon. Or possibly Theseus. From A Midsummer Night’s Dream (hereafter known simply as “Midsummer”). It is the soundtrack of my days. I hear “dost thee,” “hast thou,” “couldst” and “fare thee” every hour of my time with my husband. In the kitchen, in the car, while grilling, and doing laundry, doing the dishes, during commercial breaks on TV, and in the bloody bathroom. The boys are asked, “Hast thou gone pee?” and I’m told, “Fare thee well, nymph,” when I leave the room. It certainly makes things interesting.

Have I told you about my husband? He’s an actor, you see. Well, really he’s a writer for hire. (HIRE HIM, por favor). But about five years ago when he started acting in community theater it TOOK OVER HIS SOUL. I may be exaggerating just a teensy, weensy bit. Maybe not. When he’s in a role it is his life until the show is over. No lie. For reals.

For about three years he participated primarily in a somewhat traditional musical theater company where he played in well known shows like Miss Saigon, Cinderella, A Christmas Carol and, his favorite, Jesus Christ Superstar. He was Jesus. He loved it.

He loves being on stage and performing in front of an audience. He loves the applause and kudos he receives when he does it. He LOVES singing and he does it quite well – and quite loudly. My husband and performing for people were MFEO. (If you don’t know that reference then go watch Sleepless in Seattle right now. I’ll wait here.)

Then he branched out. He started working for a company that provides entertainment on an old train that runs up the mountain and back. He does dinner theater murder mysteries and wild west type shows, primarily, and some seasonal trains around Christmas. He has participated for two years in a short film festival where, one year, the movie short he was in won first place and he won Best Actor. Awesome. (I’d post a link to the full movie if I could find it. Which I can’t. Fail.)

WAIT! It’s been found! Hallelujah! It’s 13 minutes long but really ridiculously funny: Beneath a Western Skyscraper

The train show thing – with a few other things that pop up once in a while – is so much better for us as a family. He’s not gone every day to rehearsal. We can plan things and do them together. Novel concept. I like it.

BUT . . . a few weeks ago he was presented with an opportunity to do Shakespeare for the first time. SHAKESPEARE. The Bard. The Man. The Legend. (Did I mention that my husband and I were both English Lit majors in school? Yeah, that).

The problem? It’s a traditional theater show again.This time, though, with a different company. He emailed me the schedule. He said, “Honey, it’s SHAKESPEARE.” He waited. He emailed again and said, “I told them I won’t do it if it’s not okay with you. But, honey, it’s SHAKESPEARE. And the rehearsal schedule isn’t that bad. We can still go on vacation.” Good, because I’ve got non-refundable tickets and my name is already on a pool lounger.

So what’s a wife to do? I said yes. Of course I said yes. What I have always told him was simply this, “Who am I to stand in the way of your dreams?” I may be his wife and life partner, but I’m not going to hurt, hamper or detract from his personal growth if I can help it. Provided that fulfilling his dreams don’t negatively impact the well-being of our family, of course. In this case, his dream is to play Oberon and Theseus in Midsummer. So be it.

Which brings us back to today. I was in the shower and I heard Shakespeare.

So, first it was this:

O, methinks, how slow
This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
Like to a step-dame or a dowager
Long withering out a young man revenue.

That’s Theseus – the king. I hear this line all the time now. That poor old moon is blamed for so much. Tragic.

Then it was Oberon, the Fairy King, speaking to Puck:

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm’d: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;

To which I said, “that’s some love-shaft!” *giggle, snort* My apologies. Poor taste. Still funny though.

Life could be boring. Thank goodness it’s not.

Fare thee well, my dear friends. Time is apace and my thoughts are much in the bosom of my home. I leave you with dear Puck’s parting words:

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;
Else the Puck a liar call;
So, good night unto you all.
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Robin shall restore amends.

A Love Story

Get a cookie & a coffee and settle in because this got long. 
I warned you here and here that there would be more to come from the phenomenal inspiration I have received from reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s follow-up to Eat. Pray, Love called Committed.
There’s a part near the beginning of the book when Liz (again, I call her Liz because we’re that tight now) is first beginning her journey to understand the institution of marriage. She was in a village in Vietnam and she began speaking to a family of Hmong women about their marriages. She realized quickly there was a disconnect between her Western concept of marriage (for want of love & companionship) versus a more Eastern concept of practical/arranged marriages. As she further ponders this she says:

[the Hmong woman was not] placing her marriage at the center of her emotional biography . . . 

In the modern industrialized Western world . . . the person whom you choose to marry is perhaps the single most vivid representation of your own personality. 

 And this gem:

Your spouse becomes the most gleaming possible mirror through which your emotional individualism is reflected back to the world.

Read that last one two or three times to let it sink in. That is so true. So crazy, unbelievably true.  
As Liz next states, and I fully concur with, Western women cannot wait to share the stories of how they met their husbands. In detail. With pictures, if possible. It’s true. Because we (we, because *I* am one of those women) consider choosing our husbands as one of the singularly most important things we will do in our lives. Until we have kids, or a divorce, it may be the SINGLE most important thing we do. We value choosing our partner much more than choosing a profession, a place to live, or a dog. Why? Because those things are fairly changeable and usually lacking in broken hearts and shattered crockery. Husbands & marriages, and divorces, especially, tend to be high in the broken hearts and broken crockery category. 
(I know this from personal experience. My husband still reminds me of his favorite cup that I threw at him and broke about 5 years ago when we were going through the hardest time we’ve had in our marriage. Yes, I throw things. These days I try to limit it to things that don’t break or hurt if they hit their mark. Like pillows. It’s who I am. My biological father was a redhead. Fiery. I have bad aim though.)
For these Hmong women their husbands play a role, or position, in their lives but have no bearing on their lives as a WHOLE. Not in the way that we Western women wrap ourselves up in our menfolk and then, later, when things get real or turn sour we have to unwrap ourselves and remember who we are again. For them, it appears that they remain who they are inherently as individuals without needing or even wanting validation as a woman, wife or mother from their husbands. (And vice versa for the husbands as well, it seems. (Bear in mind these are my observations from Liz’s observations so there is a fair amount of interpretation happening here)). 
Liz is quick to point out that just because husband/wife roles appear to be be a little less all-encompassing than we expect in the West that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a notion of romantic love. Romantic love is everywhere and crosses all cultures. In their culture, however, it may not be tied to the actual mechanics and necessities of marriage. Interesting, no? I believe these kinds of “pragmatic marriages” can breed a type of love – especially those long-lasting marriages of many of our grandparents. It’s just a different love than love born from passion first.
Love is love. Marriage is marriage. 
But we, the greedy Westerners, we want it all. Wrapped up in a pretty package with a bow on top. We don’t really want to work for it. We just want it to appear – perfect and complete the moment we say “I will.” 
I think there’s a point in marriages – maybe it’s the infamous 7 year itch – when they will either break or bond. Some of them may string out past the 7 years due to some efforts from one or both parties to keep things together – but generally the writing is on the wall at some point. 
But in other marriages this may be the point when the partners actually start effectively partnering. They start actually learning to listen, really listen, to each other and learn that marriage and love must be nurtured. A wife must water and fertilize her husband’s love and he must absolutely do the same to hers. That can’t be done without respect.

I think marriage years can be compared with individual growth in terms of maturity. So: 
  • The first 7ish years of marriage is like being a teenager. Instant gratification, I want what I want and I don’t want to compromise. Classic teenager behavior. 
  • The next 7ish years is that really, really important time between being a teenager and fully-fleshed adult with responsibilities and decisions. So much growth and change in a small, compact time frame. If we aren’t careful we grow too quickly. Other times we don’t grow enough. It’s a balancing act to make sure one does not outgrow the other.
  • The next 7ish, or more, may be the cementing of that mutual respect and maturity. At least that’s what I’m hoping because we’re heading there next. I’ll keep you posted. 
What does it all mean? It means I’m a Western woman. I want LOVE with my marriage. I want to be the deliverer of his happiness and the nurturer of his soul – but I’m mature enough in my marriage to know that it CAN’T all come from me. It has to come from within him. Just like some of my inspiration, self-awareness, confidence, and individuality MUST come from inside me. Because I’m still me and he’s still him and we just share each other.
And, since I’m a Western woman – here’s our story:
It was ’98 and I was 22. I worked at the student newspaper at my university. We had a cartoonist that I knew of – from reading the paper we issued – but I had never met. We called him the midnight cartoonist because he ALWAYS turned his cartoon strip in at midnight the day it was due. So I never met him until one day he came in during the daylight hours and our editor introduced us. 
He had long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. Earrings. His face was red because he had just ridden his bike to the office and it was wet outside. There was a line of water that had kicked up from his back tire onto the back of his anorak type jacket. he was wearing holey khaki pants and had on leg pegged (due to the bike riding). He had a huge warm smile. 
I didn’t see him again until January ’99 when we had a class together. I smiled at him but he didn’t remember me at first and I had to remind him that we both worked for the paper.
Then he started walking me back to the newspaper offices every day after class. One day I told him my BFF was coming to visit and asked him where should I take her? And did he want to go out with us? So, you see, *I* asked *him* out. I did it. 
So she came up and we all went out. At the end of the night he leaned over and told me how cute my freckles were. Then he kissed me.

The next day I left for Spring Break and thought of him most of the time I was gone. I came back A DAY EARLY from Spring Break because I wanted to see HIM. We spent every day together from then on. But I had already planned to move back to California in 2 months and I did. I moved away. Honestly, I kept telling myself it was just a fling. His hair was longer than mine for goodness sake! 

I was wrong. I moved back Cali in May of ’99. He came to visit me in July. I went to visit him in September and he proposed. Scarcely 6 months had passed since we had started dating and we were engaged. WE JUST KNEW. It was another 4 months, and 2 visits, before he moved to California to be with me. We got married 6 months after that in July 2000.  See, proof:
And we lived happily ever after. 
*barf*  PUHLEEEZE. 
Remember, I throw crockery. AT HIS HEAD. (Once, about 5 years ago. And I missed.)

We live, more or less happily, and we try hard and we WANT to be married to each other. Should we ask for more than that? I don’t think so. It works for us.

Great Expectations

Okay, I’m going to attempt to put together a cohesive narrative from some of the thoughts that have been floating willy-nilly in my head since reading Committed by Elizabeth Gilbert. I finished the book a few days ago and, as promised, I have started going back, re-reading, and highlighting those passages that particularly resonate with me.
That Elizabeth Gilbert chick knows what she’s doing. Out of the gate the first concept she writes about is something that likely resonates with all married women – did I make the right decision? And not just about marriage, but about everything. Do my expectations of love & marriage and my current reality gel with what I thought they would be? Once upon a time each one of us made a decision that altered our life path. In order to make a decision of that momentousness we also generally produce a set of expectations – the future effects of that decision.
But first there’s the decision. We are so overwhelmed with choices now that, as she writes, “many of us simply go limp from indecision.” I have certainly felt that way. Too many options. When I’m asking my hubby what he wants for dinner, or what kind of something he wants and I say you can have this, or this, or this, or this, or this – he interrupts with, “Too many options. Narrow it down for me.” Because confronted with so many options how can we possibly know which one of them will add to our lives – make us healthier, wealthier and wiser? 
Once we do make a decision do we then run the risk of becoming “compulsive comparers?” As Liz says (because she and I are so tight now I call her Liz) compulsive comparers are “always measuring [their] lives against some other person’s life, secretly wondering if [they] should have taken [their] path instead.”

LIFE ENVY.

I’m guilty of it, as you read here. My blogging inspiration, and the object of my “life envy,” Joni, wrote that she was guilty of it as well here when she looks at the Pioneer Woman. If you are a woman who has never experienced life envy then I want to meet you because you’ll be the first (that I know of).

I’m going to re-create the following passage word for word because I think it’s huge:

All these choices and all this longing can create a weird kind of haunting in our lives – as though the ghosts of all our other, unchosen, possibilities linger forever in a shadow world around us, continuously asking, “Are you certain this is what you really wanted?”

Oh boy. That’s it. How do we look at our lives today and be content?
I’m 35. I’m married to a man who isn’t perfect but I love him anyway. I have a job that is far from perfect, and especially aggravating of late, but it’s my means for supporting my family. I have two children who are also imperfect – but they are MINE, and a part of me, and that’s the important part. I stand here today with this imperfect life and I could so easily wallow in despair for other choices I could have made – but there are no guarantees in life, you know? I could own a house on the hill, wear expensive jewelry, drive a sports car, etc, and still be absolutely miserable. You get out of life what you put into it. 
Let me say that again: YOU GET OUT OF LIFE WHAT YOU PUT INTO IT.
If you are discontented and unhappy then you are likely going to get discontent and unhappiness in return. But if you take all your expectations and filter them through your present reality then you just might find you have exactly what you didn’t know you wanted. 
I have a happy, loving home. I have a husband who strives to be the best he can be, who loves me, and who makes me laugh. I have two gorgeous and talented children who melt my heart every night when they choose to share my spot on the sofa with me rather than sit – anywhere – else (and we have a large sofa). 
It’s all about perception – not perfection. All the other stuff – the bills, the grocery shopping, the late homework – that’s just the minor aggravations that life gives us to keep us humble. 
Now, I’m going to close this missive so I can go enjoy a perfect evening with my imperfect family. 

Blessings!

A half-baked idea is okay as long as it’s in the oven.

Do I shirk my duties and dive into the blog thoughts swirling around in my head? I could literally write volumes right now if given the proper time and space to sit and think it all through. 
Alas, that’s not even an option! Too much freakin’ work.
I got home from my trip very late on Friday night, or extremely early Saturday morning – depending on your point of view. I was delayed an extra 6 hours in the Denver airport after sprinting to my gate only to find out I missed my connection. Also, I DON’T SPRINT. I don’t even jog. Seriously. I think I almost died. But then I had to spend 6 more hours there and I truly knew what death was.
Oh.My.Goodness.Was.I.Bored.
Spotty internet connection and limited charging capabilities meant I couldn’t stay online or watch a movie to bide the time. I read some but I was completely distracted. Too many people hustling and bustling all over the place.
Saturday morning I woke up stiff and sore. I sort of decided then and there to take the rest of the weekend off. We celebrated the hubby’s 41 years young, I hung out with the boys and caught up on some of my Tivo’d stuff. 
Back to the grind today and, wow, do I have a lot to do. Plus, at home, there’s so much kid STUFF to deal with – Invention Convention, dentist appointments, IEP appointments, Katie Beckett Applications, laundry, lunch money, etc. I feel like I might never come up for air.
When I do, indeed, come up for air then I hope to put together some great blog posts around what I’ve been reading. I’m absolutely loving Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed. I seriously want to take a highlighter and go back through and mark all the poignant passages. In fact, I think I may do just that.
If you are married you should read this book. If you are thinking about getting married you should read this book. If you are divorced you should read this book. If you at any point in your life plan to live in a committed relationship you should read this book. No lie. 
The thing is – it’s all the stuff we learn after 10-15 years of marriage. It’s the distance and experience. The plain ‘ole knowledge we don’t have when we are all in L.O.V.E. and dying to get married RIGHT.THIS.MINUTE. 
It’s the things our mothers (some of them) or our grandmothers (a lot of them) went through and thought about and dealt with without actually giving it a name. They just lived it. Sucked it up and dealt with it. It’s the angst wives go through – the sacrifices, challenges, juggling we all do and learn to deal with some way, some how. It’s all about finding that happy medium for us “modern” wives.

More to come.