Fidget

I went to a second Friend’s Meeting today. The vibe in the room was much different today. A restless and impatient feeling in the air. A woman sitting across the aisle from me kept fidgeting – shifting her weight, moving her legs, changing positions in her chair. I’m not sure if she was the source or another victim, but listening to her move around made it difficult for me to concentrate and I found myself fidgeting as well.

Still, it was strange to hear people stand and talk about the things that I hear in my head but cannot speak with my tongue. One man talked about the Quaker belief that all are called to the priesthood, even those who feel unworthy or unsuitable. To be a Friend is to commit one’s self to it fully, 24/7. A second man spoke of dealing with the deep feelings of anger he had experienced over the past few weeks, anger at feeling manipulated by politicians trying to play on his and other’s fears, drowning out the still small voice inside.

The atmosphere in the room calmed considerably after the second speech, and brightened as the children returned from First Day School.

I did not stay for the meal. I lost my nerve and my courage and slipped out after drinking a glass of water. I felt foolish – there was lunch and an ice cream social to welcome new visitors and I knew I should stay and try to talk to people. But something in my head froze and my confidence left me.

Dear Maserati Man

J and I will never be beautiful people, but neither one of us needs to drive a $142,800 car with a custom brown paint job to compensate for our averageness.

You sir, on the other hand, will never be anything other that ugly inside and out. Years from now we will still be laughing in amazement over your choice to create a lane at the intersection of East Carson and Birmingham Bridge, flip us off and run the red light.

I hope that car of yours keeps you warm at night.

Ghost Home

The first feature I see as I walk into the kitchen is the old cabinets. The hardware is different – original latches painted white instead of the bronze-toned window latches J installed to keep ours closed. The cabinets are slightly askew and the shelves are dusty and dirty.

I turn to my left and see my old sink. A double instead of a single, but it is the same heavy, white metal sink with ridged drain boards on each side. The cabinetry is the same off white metal. I’m certain that if I opened a drawer, it would balk and give a rusty screech before opening, and close with a heavy, clanging thud.

The sound of my footsteps as I walk the wooden floors through the high ceilinged rooms is familiar.  The parlor has a large area of untreated wood in the center, where a rug would have lain. The mantel and tile in this room are the same as my former home, the dark wood and mirror glass contrasting with the mottled-bottle green tile of the fireplace. The mirror is oval instead of square.

One wall of the entrance is paneled floor to ceiling in dark wood. A loveseat is built underneath a window opposite. The banister is square, the pegs turned.

Upstairs, I see my old home continue in the wavy glass, the heavy wooden frames and doors. The ratty carpeting muffles my footsteps. I have no doubt that if the carpeting was stripped away, the sound of walking through the rooms of the second floor would echo too. A half dismantled kitchen stands in one room, the remnants of a time when the place was split into apartments.

This is not my house. The rooms are right angles instead of hexagon curves. The structure is brick instead of vinyl over wood frame. The basement is slab instead of dirt, with the same cement footprint from a long discarded oversized furnace in the middle of the room. The bathrooms are woefully out of date, the basement needs rebuilt, the windows need replaced.

On the way home, J talks about potential, how confident he is that he could bring the place back to life. He feels the same resonance as I, the same sense of familiarity that comes from walking back into a place that you truly loved and called home. We have the money and skills this time around to do it right, he argues.

I say no, that it is too much work, with a young child. J is working as a contractor and doesn’t have the illusion of a safety net that comes with full-time employment. I make enough to cover our bills if he should become unemployed, but just enough.

Still, even if it is just memory, this is my house. Standing large and high on top of a hill, with a view of the country below, wild and overgrown landscaping, a detached garage with poorly hung doors.

September 11 - Revisited

On this, the 11 anniversary of September 11, it seems appropriate to talk one last time about my brother.

Since my September 11, 2006 post, my brother has been deployed two more times. Both deployments were served in the United States, on a base outside Atlanta. He stayed behind to replace units sent to Afghanistan. All of us think about the soldiers he replaced who did not come home.

Deployment number two resulted in the postponement of his wedding until his tour was finished. Over half of deployment number three was spent traveling back and forth from Atlanta to his home, as his wife was diagnosed with a brain tumor.

This year was my brother’s twentieth year as a reservist. With twenty years in, my brother can retire. We all waited for the letter marking this twentieth year. The letter came and preparations were made for his retirement.

Because he actively served in the United States Military, my brother is entitled to an increase in his pension. However, this increase only counts toward his first and second tour, as the law granting military reservists additional pension was not grandfathered back far enough to cover his first tour.

On September 9, 2012, the same day that his unit was officially deactivated, M retired from the Army Reserves. On the way home from the Inactivation ceremony, he and his wife stopped at for dinner.

Someone picked up their check. To that person, who saw my brother and his wife at the Eat N’ Park in Altoona Pa, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

My brother served safely. He is able to retire, to live his life, to love and be loved. Since the operations in Iraq and Afghanistan began, 6510 members of the United States Armed Forces have died. Countless civilian women, men and children are dead due to an unholy combination of incompetence, ego and the desire for vengeance.

Pray for Peace.

Light

I did something different today.

J’s family decided to attend my BIL’s 10:30 mass (1). As I have made it abundantly clear that I will not be setting foot in a Catholic church (weddings and funerals excepted) I elected not to attend, even though it was the BIL’s birthday. At some point in the past few weeks I decided to maintain a stand on this position. This is becoming something of a tradition in my maternal family, as I am not the first cradle Catholic woman to walk away from the church with nary a backwards glance.

Instead I attended a Friend’s Meeting. My first one.

I have been kicking around the idea of attending Friend’s meeting for years. In the past year I learned that there was a meeting in Pittsburgh, but until today I had not gathered the courage to actually walk through the door.

But when J asked me what I was going to do today, I told him that I was going to the meeting, then the Arts Festival. I planned on attending the 9:00am Meeting (2), but Toddler Alien, who appears to be emulating the sleep habits of his aforementioned uncle (which is to say that he is sleeping far less than ideal for a child pushing 3), had the sort of breakdown that required a nap to restore him to good humor.

I stayed home, even after J insisted on waking Toddler Alien. After refereeing an argument about clothing  (Toddler Alien dislikes shirts with collars, J was not about to take him to mass wearing a Charles Darwin Origin of the Species t-shirt, cuteness of the frog be damned), the two of them headed off.

But I did not want my statement to be a lie. I decided to attempt to attend the 10:30 Meeting. I placed some conditions on the attempt. I would drive by the building, so I knew where it was located. If I could find the location until after 10:30am, I would not interrupt.

I found the place. I drove past it twice, searching for a parking space, as I felt odd using the parking lot next to the building.

It was scary, walking into this strange place. Scary, taking a step that I have spent so much time contemplating, but not doing anything about.

I was welcomed. I made a nametag. I walked into the meeting room. It was quiet, with windows open to the fresh air, the natural light. It was so, so silent. I sat down on a chair in a row to myself. After a few minutes, I sensed people sitting next to me.

Minutes passed. I contemplated on why I was there, on that day. What was it that made today different for other Sundays? Probed my conscience and my feelings, to figure out.

Two people spoke. One spoke about physics, and the search for truth. The other spoke about the difficultly in determining the mind’s truth. Between the two, I had a moment of clarity, that I was there, on that day, to begin learning how to speak and live my truth without anger or fear.

I watched the light, meditated on why it seemed so brilliant in one corner of the room. At the conclusion of the meeting, as the elders managed announcements, I stroked the walls. Brown velvet walls, absorbing and reflecting the light.

In the end, I stayed for the meal. I ate some salad, some fruit, a jelly sandwich. I spoke with a woman, another former/lapsed Catholic, who asked me, intently, why was I there? I told her the truth – I had heard many good things about the Friends from a former professor, that I had a lot of anger and needed a someplace to work it out that would not tell me what to do.

All day, today, I have carried an unfamiliar kind of peace with me. I am not different, but I am not the same person as I was at 10:25am. I do not know how to label this feeling.

(1) BIL is a RC priest.

(2) Fewer people, no social hour afterwards. I wanted to be inconspicuous.

Sporting Support - Much Has Changed

With J and Toddler Alien gone for the week, I took Friday off with the intention of sleeping in and lounging about the house until they arrived home. A last minute change of plans left me with a three day weekend to myself. Faced the prospect of too much free time, I emailed a friend, informing her that I was suddenly free for the next three days and asked if she would like to get together. B suggested coming to her Yoga class, then getting some breakfast.

Which is how I found myself digging through my drawer of workout clothing at 8:00am Friday morning, trying to find something suitable for a 9:00am Yoga class. As merciless and brutal as my initial post-baby purge had been, I still found myself putting on clothing that no longer fit.

Specifically sports bras. The bands of most of the bras have deteriorated over the past months and the cup sizes are mysteriously and ridiculously small. I managed to salvage three Under Armour bras, but they will not last more than a couple of months.

So after a class that left my upper body sore and my wrists aching and a smashing good breakfast at Pamela's, I set off for Marshall's to replace the bras. And walked straight into trouble.

Some time, in the past three years, the really great, supportive, tight compression bras that I am used to wearing while working out disappeared and were replaced with total, utter crap. Every single bra I tried on, even tried and true brands from my pre-baby life, were so loose of band and short of cup fabric as to be unusable.

Visits to two other Marshall's, a T.J. Maxx and a Dick's Sporting Goods over the past two days have confirmed my suspicions. If you are a woman who is large of cup but small of chest, you will not find bras to fit you in your average retail store.

The closest to success I came was an Under Armour bra I found it Dick's, which was tight of band but too small in the cup to be comfortable. I've checked online and I can order the bras from their website - but at $57.99 a bra plus shipping, I am paying dearly for the privilege of making sure my upper body stays put.

Opaque Bubble

Today was a shitty day, in which I allowed myself to be baited into a political discussion, lost my composure, as I am do every single time I allow myself to be baited into a political discussion, and came to the very firm conclusion that my SIL lives in an opaque bubble.

Part of me can't help but hope her bubble bursts in spectacular fashion, if only to see how long her ass will remain sore from hitting the ground. Part of me is furious with allowing myself to be baited. Part of me is just really fucking tired and ready to pull the plug on talking to anyone about anything until after November. And the rest of me feels depressed and isolated.