The Horror in Your Head

I can't consume print or television media with too much infusion of blood and guts.

For one, there are pretty terrible things actually happening in the world. I find it interesting that so much of our population is entertained by fictional shooting, hacking and violence.  Aside from that, I have trouble getting strong visuals out of my thoughts.

Husband can watch a gorey film or documentary and get it out of sight and mind fairly quickly, or so he says. I still think it processes in his subconscious and lingers as all things really do in the human brain.

Despite how well you might process a story filled with the most terrifying of circumstances--however fictional--it's a little unsettling to know that somewhere a living man or woman contrived the story and its details. How does Stephen King sleep with himself on any given night?  What on this green earth is living in his head to weave this stuff together?

[Shudder from Gropius.]

Every now and then, I have a horrible dream of the most colorful and detailed plot and imagery. Where did it come from? Is it a remnant from something I watched in a film? Just a creative manifestation of something I'm trying to work out subconciously? I always wake up from these dreams feeling more frightened that my mind was capable of coming up with such a thing than I was of the dream itself.

There's a dark side to human nature, no doubt. I don't know where it comes from.

Speaking just for myself, I know I'm best off trying to keep good company, seek good in circumstances and minimizing exposure to unnecessary violence-- even if it's coming from an indirect experience of media. It's not always possible, but that's the goal.

I'm Actually Good Without Extra "Help"

When my grandmother went shopping for clothes, she loved to have someone greet her as soon as she walked in, follow her around and make suggestions about outfits and sizes, hang out with her outside of the dressing room while she tried things on, fetch another size, tell her whether the outfit was becoming on her figure, etc.

I like the part where someone greets me when I walk in the door. And that's where it ends.

I don't like it if I have to flag someone down to get help--especially if there is a hoard of employees standing around talking and not paying attention to customers--but if a sales person is on my arse every second I'm in the store, it literally drives me nuts.

Last week I ran into a store to get a few cotton tops for vacation and a sales woman continued to banter me about whether I wanted her to take them into a dressing room for me. The first time, I was like "No thank you." 

The second time (which was 1.5 seconds after I finished my response), I said "I appreciate it, but I'm just going to hold on to them while I look."

The third time she insisted, I said rather sharply, "THANK YOU but I don't know if I AM going to try them on." Of course she didn't stop there. She repeated my response in question formation, "You aren't going to try them on?"

If the shirts weren't exactly what I wanted, I would have replied, "No, and I'm not going to buy them either, thanks to the glory of your annoyingness. Good bye."

But that's a little tape rolling in my head. Our encounter ended there and thankfully, I was able to get out of there untainted by another approach.

I'm glad they didn't press me several times (like they usually do in that store) to open up a credit card. That would have been the last straw.

I wonder if my independent shopping preference is a generational thing or if I'm just weird.

My Grandmother's Beach

Experiences during the formative years follow you around for a lifetime, and if you're lucky enough to have had positive ones, they provide ongoing sources of mental vacations for those times when you can't get away.

The first time I learned we would be spending a week away from Charlotte during the summer to go to the beach with the entire family--including two aunts, uncles, cousins, and my grandmother--I was pissed. Being a young teenager, all I could think was that it would diminish the freedom of summer by seven days.

But my parents were good enough to let me take a friend with me, and it turned out to be a great time.

Every year for a number of years after that, my grandmother continued to rent this large house on Atlantic Beach, North Carolina for the purpose of bringing her family together as the matriarch and preserver of traditions. The large porch was equipped with rocking chairs, and the long wooden boardwalk stretching down to the beach gave an open invitation to the rough surf everyday. Always this beach seemed to exist as it must have for millions of years, without crowds of people, hotels or commercial establishments.

Of course most of our time was spent on the beach itself; or on the deck looking at the sea, feeling our hair coated with salt and imagining what was swimming out there near the horizon; or propped up on the boardwalk rail marveling at the clear, star-filled sky untarnished by light pollution. It always seemed windy at night.

A few mini-excursions came to be anticipated, some with joy and some with a strange nostalgia not entirely inspired by favorable expectation...

An older cousin-accompanied trip to Jungle Land, a mini-golf and bumper boat adventure that we always did at night. I can remember how magical the artificially colored water looked--this sensory experience mixed with the distinctive smell of gasoline dissolved in sunscreen that was still lingering from a day on the beach.

A sweltering exploration of Fort Macon, which was always reserved for the hottest day of the week. My uncle would tease us relentlessly about making the short drive there until one early afternoon the inevitable summons arrived.

A visit to the towns of Beaufort and Morehead City, where restaurants that have been part of family summers forever, along with little shops and nooks along the Sound, were waiting to be re-discovered. In those "must buy a t-shirt everywhere" days, it was a paradise considering the possibilities.

One evening we went to the mysteriously named Radio Island, surrounded by the Sound, to hunt for "specimen." I always admired my family's knowledge and love for nature, and my uncle, who was a judge, was famously entertaining on his vacation days. He strapped a headlamp on so he could more carefully identify little shrimp and marine life in the tidal pools. I remember the feel of the sand stinging my ankles as the wind whipped up around us.

When my grandmother became too elderly and physically challenged to organize the trip, we were also getting to an age where things were fast becoming too complicated to coordinate over several families.

We would all miss out and think back on those times with such fondness.

I'll never forget my gratitude to my grandmother for many things, and these summer weeks live in a place of my consciousness only reserved for love and innocent, untethered happiness. I go there often in my mind.

This year, my father rented the same house on Atlantic Beach. We haven't been there together for over 15 years.

Sunday we'll meet my parents and my brother's family there. What will the week bring?  Surely we'll be equipped on arrival with tales from past years and the intentions to visit Clawson's, the Fort and other fond remembrances. But we'll also carve out new stories, built from experiences driven by a different time and a different place in our lives.

I only hope they will leave a similar lifetime impression for D-Man, who is just around the age I was when I experienced the first summer at my Grandmother's Beach.

Hangin' On By a Thread

The final days before a vacation can be...torturous. I love my job, I'm pretty happy with things in general, but I'm just dying to get unplugged from responsibility as I know it for a little over a week. I need it and have been needing it.

For as many lovely weekend trips I plan and take, nothing does it like a stretch of time to actually completely remove oneself from the standard routine.  ...And to be in a faraway place.

It's been nearly impossible to get everything done at work. The constant interruptions of meetings and details are hairy and time consuming. Every time I tick something off the to-do list, something appears as an addition on the bottom, thus the line items are not diminishing. Eeek.

Tonight after 11 hours of working I went to Crispers with the fam. We are hesitant to do grocery shopping since we hate rotting fridge food.  A salad with a twist would be good for us, we thought.  There was a new girl working the register, and though she was super nice and apologetic, it took some time to get the order put in.

After waiting for a looooong time, we wondered what exactly was going on. Hardly anyone was in the establishment, and there were 4 people visibly "working" in the back. Hmmmm.... So to make a long story short, after what seemed like a millenium we received our food. It took forever, you see, because they didn't know it was a to-go order. (And that would add on 20 minutes how?)

We stopped on the way home for me to jog into the grocery store for a few essentials. It was now past nine and we were all exhausted.

The perfect day ended when I dumped most of my long awaited salad on the living room carpet. 

Vacation: it's what's for dinner...soon.  We're glad to have super vigilant neighbors, a large dog who doesn't appreciate intruders and folks to randomly stop in the house. Let's hope that thread holds strong for a few more days.

The Cupcake Fight

I recently discovered a little cake shop near my office called Cakes by Ron. Holy cow. They are to die for. But I was good. I brought back a chocolate chip cookie sandwich one for my co-worker and a variety for the fam. Husband loved the peanut butter cupcake and part of the triple chocolate cupcake which was mine, but I must point out, I was generous enough to share.

 

I would love to pop up a photo of that beauty, but we ate it before I thought to take a picture.

 

Husband recently celebrated his birthday, and since he hates cake (yes, but does like cupcakes, which he insists taste different), I got him this lovely creation from Pastry Art:

 

 

 

So back to the point of this post, a few nights ago a Cupcake Fight ensued in our home. There was part of the giant tart from Pastry Art left and one strawberry cupcake from Cakes by Ron. After a healthy dinner (I swear) D-Man asked if we could cut him a piece of the tart. He then said, "Actually no, I'd like that strawberry cupcake."

• Husband: "No. That cupcake is mine."
• D-Man: "But you offered it to me yesterday, and you ate the other cupcake."
• Husband: "That was yesterday. You said you didn't want it. And I want it today."
• D-Man: "But that's not fair."
• Husband: "I'm a pretty generous person. I give things up when I can make someone else happy, but I'm not going to give this one thing up. Is this really worth getting all upset over?"
• D-man: "Yes, it is. That cupcake should be mine."

And so it went. It was hilarious. In the end, Husband had the cupcake and Dakota ate the tart.

We Are the World

Our local PR association is being challenged by the state organization to come up with an adaptation of an 80's video, movie, etc. to show at the annual state conference. It's something sort of fun they do every year to shake things up a bit, demonstrate creativity and get the chapters involved a friendly little war.

I can't make it to the conference this year, but I'm pretty impressed with what my fellow association peeps have come up with: an adaptation of "We Are the World" called "We Tell The World." Now how clever is that? They got together last night to record it at a local studio that donated the time for the love of fun and competition. Can't wait to see the final result.

Meanwhile, I can't get the original "We Are the World" out of my head.

I was in third grade when it came out and became hugely popular. It really brought alive my very first awareness of the troubles around the world and the belief that we share a responsibility to help people everywhere who are in need. The feeling I got from the song and the video were exactly what was intended. It was before the days of skepticism, back when I believed everything was golden and lovely and people helped because they cared, not because it was politically correct.

I still feel that way about all of the artists who came together to make the song. I will always remember the opening lines with Lionel Richie and Stevie Wonder.  "There comes a time, when we heed a certain call--when the world must come together as one..."



Do you remember when the song came out? Was it inspiring for you? Does it remind you of a certain time in your life?

We Can't Like ALL The Same Things

A few minutes ago, we were both somewhat excited to see that Mr. Mom is on one of our movie stations.

It's been a while since we've enjoyed the flick. Perhaps we've never actually seen it together. That movie is ten days older than water, but Michael Keaton rocked it--totally. The "you're doing it wrong" scene where Keaton is dropping the kids off at the school going in the opposite direction of the organized flow is a classic for sure. And Husband can identify, having been a single dad.

Husband and I are approaching our sixth wedding anniversary and our tenth year together. We don't like all of the same things...okay we don't like many of the same things.  That's the spice of life, though, right?  It keeps things exciting.

Husband loves beer. I'm a mixed drink girl, if and when I have a drink, which is seldom.

He's got a heart for things on television like UFC (stupid looking men fighting in a ring), reality shows where people are jumping onto tiny platforms surrounded by water and getting unexpectedly hit by punching bags, and commercials for beef jerky.

I like Jeopardy and Pepsi Refresh commercials. We can both agree on nature shows, some documentaries, Modern Family, and of course the Office.

He would love for me to once, just once, enter an adult store. I would love for him to once, just once, follow me into Ann Taylor and pretend to enjoy it.

Husband can hang out for hours at the neighbor's man cave after work. I can spend hours on the laptop--after spending half or more of my day on the computer at work when meetings aren't heavy.

He doesn't "get" spending more than $100 a night on a place to sleep when we're out of town. (Thank goodness he never wins that one.) I don't get what the hell you do with more than one fishing pole...okay more than three fishing poles, for God's sake.

He busts out with a wife beater tank top every now and then. I threaten him. "If you ever go anywhere wearing that disgusting hick-fest of a half-shirt--other than the man cave--I can't claim to know you."

And there are other differences. Plenty of them.

But at the end of the day, we can both quote Mr. Mom more than we'd like to admit (although different parts), and Husband is a damn good dad. I'm glad he's The Husb.