I just finished watching, 'Nothing Left Unsaid: Gloria Vanderbilt & Anderson Cooper.' The prevailing feeling I'm left with is...jealousy. I would give anything if my mother and I could have had a similar conversation; an honest reflection on her life, her challenges and her loves...what an absolute treasure that would have been.
As I watched this documentary, all I could think was, 'he has no idea what it will be like when she's gone.' Children imagine the loss of their parents and talk themselves into thinking they will grieve briefly and then go on with life, resilient and whole. But the absence of a parent is profound, and it leaves a permanent hole in the fabric of life, regardless of closeness or conflict. It is the death of one's roots, and if the truth remains unspoken, it is forever haunting.
The truth is, I don't know much about my mother. Her fear of transparency and my insensitive response to her honesty left us virtual strangers. Now she is gone, and the authenticity of her life died with her. This loss will always be with me.
Dear Anderson Cooper: I hope you treasure the great gift of your mother's story. In the end, it's the only thing that matters.
Image from google.com
Richard Pryor nailed it when he said, 'I'm in love with a bitch I can't stand.' That's exactly how I feel about conference food.
Last week, I attended a conference with two lunch options: chicken with mashed potatoes and veggies, or Alfredo bow-tie pasta with veggies and sun dried tomatoes. In the picture, it looked delicious, so I chose the pasta. Soon a plate was slapped down in front of me so fast that the bottom spun like a top. On the plate was cooked bow-tie pasta with no sauce, three steamed pieces of broccoli and not one effing sun dried tomato. I glanced around the table, hoping to catch someone's eye and give the look that says, 'can you believe this??' But like pod people, they were forking the crap into their mouths as if it was the best meal they had ever eaten. Then I realized all the plates looked alike - there wasn't a sun dried tomato anywhere on the property.
Those. Lying. Bastards.
Even if I wanted to throw a fit, which I was THIS close to doing, they couldn't have fixed it. Instead, I put leftover salad dressing on the pasta, added salt and pepper, and started forking the crap into my mouth like a good little pod person.
Next week, I'm going to a conference in Dallas. Honestly, it doesn't matter whether it's Dallas or New York City, I'm convinced event planners all refer to the same manual, Food For Constipation and Bloat. Of course, there's the token yogurt in big bowls of ice placed strategically at break time - probably to avoid a lawsuit - but let's get real, no one eats yogurt at a conference. And speaking of real, if you eat real food on a regular basis, and then eat conference food for a few days, your body will rebel by puffing up like a blow fish and slamming your ass shut. I have learned to wear comfy, stretchy clothes at conferences to accommodate the walking fat suit I've become while I'm there.
Worst of all, the effects of conference food last way beyond the conference itself. It takes at least two days to recover from these processed sodium and sugar debacles. Every time, I swear that I'll do it different. That I won't even eat the food. That I'll fill my purse with Kind bars, nuts and other healthy options. But as soon as I get to the conference hotel, I put the snacks on top of the dresser and think, 'I'm not eatin' that crap.' Stuffed from the greasy breakfast buffet, before the keynote speaker is even introduced, I have only one burning question on my mind: what are we going to eat next?
Picture from coastguard.com
My nose, Daphne, is a bratty little kid. She wants what she wants when she wants it. The problem is, as soon as she gets it, she doesn't want it anymore. I cannot tell you how many perfumes I have bought (because of Daphne's whining) that ended up in the 'rejected until I figure out what to do with it' box in the spare bedroom downstairs. Kind of like the Island of Misfit Toys.
Last week's perfume shopping frenzy wore me out. The fresh, springy scents I tried left a screechy after-smell, and Daphne would not stop badgering me about her craving for a sweet floral perfume. So I started sniffing through the perfumes I already have. Smelling one after the other, Daphne said, 'no!' just like the annoying toddler she is. After plundering through my cabinet, I went downstairs and started on the box of misfits.
The moment she saw the yellow package, Daphne gasped and pointed so I knew it was the one: Aura by Jacomo. It's a sweet floral perfume with freesia, mimosa and honeysuckle, finished by sandalwood and musk. And butter. Yes...melted butter. Aura was an inexpensive add-on to qualify for free shipping, which might explain why I set it aside. Now, a forgotten treasure suddenly found, it has assumed a prominent spot in my cabinet with the more popular perfume crowd.
Changing into my sweats after work last night, I noticed that my weekend 'lounge on the deck' cami still reeks of Aura from the clothes hamper. And finally, Daphne is down for a nap.
Photo from 99perfume.com
Life has taken a turn for the better in several ways and I'm feeling kind of...new. Which of course, means a new perfume. But choosing a brand new perfume for a brand new time is harder than it looks. After a Sephora extravaganza earlier this week, I'm thinking perhaps Jean Claude Ellena's latest - and reportedly last perfume for Hermes - might be the one. As much as I love Jean Claude, several things about his perfume are pissing me off. Like the name, Un Jardin de Monsieur Li.
'What are you wearing?'
'It's Hermes Un Jardin de Monsieur Li.'
Yeah, I don't think so. My 14-year-old self is still snickering at Un Jardin Sur le Twat Toit. It's the same reason I don't drive a Vulva Volvo. Plus, Monsieur Li has no staying power, so even if I were to talk myself into wanting it, Inner Farm Girl has already said no.
She said No means No. She's mean.
During an Ulta visit on my way home the other night, I start thinking my new 'it scent' might be Jimmy Choo eau de parfum. You know those cheesy online quizzes to find your perfect perfume? (Do you prefer romantic evenings, walks on the beach...or casual nights at home in soup stained sweats covered with dog hair and no bra?) I'm pretty sure that's what it said. Jimmy Choo must be a 'sweats with dog hair' kind of guy because this perfume is a frequent recommendation. Until a few days ago, I had never tried it on my skin because it has a hefty dose of patchouli, and my nose Daphne, is spoiled by Borneo 1834, the greatest chocolaty, dry roast beef patchouli of all time. Jimmy Choo smells too much like a colleague at the office who wears Coco Mademoiselle, a squeaky clean, twin set sweater kind of patchouli. Great patchouli is dirty, everyone knows that.
I've even tried going backwards to revisit perfumes I have worn during happy times in the past. This accounts for over-spraying myself with Victoria's Secret Heavenly last Saturday morning after a 20-minute stint on the treadmill while watching Pioneer Woman make fried chicken sliders on Food Network. And is it just me, or do you find yourself liking or hating a perfume more after reading reviews from Fragrantica and MakeupAlley? How else would Eternity Summer end up all over the collar of my favorite long black sweater?
Taking a little breather from my perfume search can only be a good thing at this point even though it's hard. I need more perspective before making a final decision about what perfume will mark this Very Special Time. Sit. Stay.
Image from google.com
Easter makes me think about everything I love; my family, my health and a rich life that constantly changes and evolves. People I love that are gone.
On Good Friday, B-man and I take a little road trip to buy lotto tickets just across the border of a neighboring state, and to drive by the farm where I grew up. We buy the tickets - and beer for later - then wind around the small country road to the farm. Walking through the barnyard, surrounded by collapsed buildings and rusted equipment, I can't help but think of the movie Titanic. Just like the movie, scenes in my mind go back and forth from the wreckage of the present to the past when the farm is at its peak, brimming with life. Now bird songs fill what would otherwise be complete silence.
My grandparents' home remains on the property and it is now owned by a woman who spends her summers here and her winters in Arizona, She arrives earlier than usual this year, which becomes obvious when her two tiny dogs begin barking in the house and Paige, our dog, joins the chorus from outside. B-man and I wander separately around the farm, and I try like always to push my nose against the shed that holds the tractors so I can pick up the scent of diesel, old metal and wood that reminds me of Dad and of home. But it's shut up tight, which keeps the smell locked inside.
As we stand around like sheep separated from their flock, the woman inside comes out and says, 'Okay, which one are you?' (She is used to my family visiting the property.) I tell her I am the second daughter and she says, 'you had dark hair last time I saw you, so that threw me.' Then out of the blue, she asks, 'do you want to come and see the house?'
Much of the house is the same as I remember. Because of the addition of a new deck and new landscaping, I assume that more will be different inside as well, but I am wrong. Everything from the living room, the narrow hallway, high ceilings and entrances to the basement and attic are all the same. Still intact is the porch grandma enclosed to do her oil painting, and so is the built-in vanity of her bedroom that held all sorts of magical perfumes and make-up. I cry and the new owner hands me a tissue. She says when she's ready to sell the house, she will offer it to my siblings first. 'I'll take care of it until it's back in your family.' I hug this woman I barely know and we leave the farm once more.
Throughout the two hour drive home, I keep telling B-man that I love him. I guess it is my way of saying what the day has meant to me and my gratitude that I can share it with him. At one point, I say, 'it's been at least 20 minutes since the last time I said it, but I still love you.' B-man says, 'Yeah, I was beginning to think the honeymoon might be over.' Then he smiles and kisses my hand.
Happy Easter.
Photo from eastersundayquotes.com
I don't claim to understand God. I am not religious and have no faith whatsoever in traditional dogma. Whether God is a guy in the sky, a beautiful sunset or the perfect meal doesn't really matter to me. Yes, sometimes I think God is food. However, I do know the spiritual sense of purpose I feel when I can say, 'this is what I was meant to do in the world.' It's been a long time since I felt that.
As my career in health care has progressed and changed over he past 15 years, I have become more and more removed from the type of human connection I find meaningful. Like a slow leak, it was hardly noticeable at first, overshadowed by my need to conquer the next challenge, and then the next. Denial worked its magic, assuring me that the stale air of corporate life is important, even though it is often filled with activity that is mundane and...pretend. Gone are the days of pulsating drama inside the hospital when I could see and feel where I was needed most and respond to that need in the moment. Never did I feel more radiant and alive. Never have I felt closer to my interpretation of God.
Since my parents died, I am haunted by their unfulfilled dreams and the shortness of life, especially in light of my own quiet desperation. I have explored other work, or moving out of state to find my lost sense of purpose. Then suddenly, an epiphany. Someone else saw it first, as if this person looked inside my soul and spoke the truth that I knew was there, but couldn't clearly see. And the truth, as it always does, set me free.
Photo from desertpeace.wordpress.com
This morning as B-man and I walked our dog, Paige, I got the distinct vibe of iris in the air. Some yards even showed the green stubby beginnings of iris blossoms to come. Irises are pure drama with their unique shape and earthy smell. Think about it this way, how many times have you received a bouquet of irises? They are far too wild to be in the 'Valentines Day/sappy romantic/I screwed up will you forgive me/sorry I didn't buy you cheese instead' category.
Iris stands alone.
And you can't choose iris perfumes willy-nilly, like you might grab Paris Hilton's Heiress (my current guilty pleasure body spray...if you tell anyone, I'll deny it). No, you have to be in just the right mood to wear iris perfumes or they come across all baby powder and dirt, which is a real bummer on the wrong day. Plus, these perfumes are introverts that don't like people all that much. Never wear an iris perfume if you're a compliment whore or you are hoping to get laid. It won't work. Iris perfumes were invented solely to show introvert solidarity.
During our walk I decided on Hermes Hiris as my scent of the day, and touching the frosted blue bottle when we got home made the back of my neck tingle. In true iris fashion, I've played it cool today, doing introverted stuff like making chicken salad, watching the last half of Titanic and sending a few work emails. Now I'm enjoying a glass of red wine with B-man. Quietly, of course.
Picture from pinterest.com
