Cannot BELIEVE

I haven't posted for 11 days.
I have been in the midst of moving - exciting and important and totally absorbing.

A few things I've been working on: packing and purging and goodbye-ing, selling my car and notarizing the signatures on the title, driving 5 hrs north to see a friend i really needed to see before leaving MI, adventuring with an excellent friend who came to help me move, driving out of Detroit in a blizzard and into NC at 4 AM, unloading and donating and reloading and cleaning the mildew off the platform bedframe that was stored in my mom's outbuilding for 14 months, getting a new mattress because the old one - oh never mind, purging 2/3 of the files i've carried around in 2 heavy metal cabinets for 10 years, shredding all the personal documents, rescheduling/rerouting the NC to NYC leg of the move due to more snow, managing my mom's anxiety about said snow (and numerous other potential risks, past and present), making sure the dog has enough walks and treats and rescue remedy to get through, replacing 3 dead phone chargers, meeting up on the road with my excellent cousin whom i haven't seen in almost 6 years & his niece whom i've never met...

I'm on the road from NC to New York now, spending lots of evening time in road motels (fulfilling my mom's request to not drive all night like i did on the way from Detroit to NC), which means I'm also indulging in a big fat dose of cable TV. Shows I've heard about but never seen, from Ugly Betty to Cash Cab, and shows like House that I (mostly) enjoy but barely allow myself to just sit down and watch in everyday life because I always feel I have to be DOING something, even if that something is a "busy" but ultimately unproductive activity like facebook. I also got sucked into an interesting-for-the-tv-guide channel behind-the-scenes exploration of the film Precious, which I still have yet to see, and yes, last night I watched Blades of Glory almost in its entirety. I feel a little weird about all this, of course - I know that, even when the shows are good, TV is at best a passive, if not largely mindless activity. And I know that I have plenty of other things I could be doing right now, such as a) pushing my creative work forward and b) applying for more jobs.

However: part of me - the part I'm indulging for these few days - just needs to absorb all this transition. And needs to be still and quiet and just a bit passive to do so. Paying attention to things that are not My Stuff and All the Boxes it is Packed In, or My Resume, or My Creative Work, or anything having to do with My Life and What I Am Doing With It Next helps with this. A lot.

At my mom's house in the mountains, where I spent 3 days last week, I finally watched the Mad Men Season 1 Disc 1 from Netflix that I had been hoarding for months because I wouldn't let myself sit down, relax, and watch it at home. But I also spent lots of time watching the birds that gathered on and below the feeders outside my mom's kitchen window - doves, a bluejay, 2 cardinals, countless sparrows, 2 woodpeckers (one with red on his head, one without, neither pileated but both beautiful), 2 rufus-sided towhees, a few tufted titmice, one fat brown unidentifiable something, and one red bird unlike any other I had seen. The moments I spent absorbing their colors, shapes, markings, and movements were more relaxing than any time spent in front of a screen. (But the onscreen stuff has stories, and I really like stories too.)

Any minute now I'll shift from transition/vacation mode into Do Mode again. Not just unpack-the-truck settle-in Do Mode, but job app/creative work Do Mode. But for now, I'm enjoying the state of reflective distraction afforded by the current suspension of Do.

Packing

is all I will be doing for the next 48 hours. Wish me luck.

No blogging and not much of anything else either till I'm done!

Till later!

w

The Meta-Post

Sometimes a post is more than a post. The one I just wrote induced an epiphany.

But first, before I write about that, an apology is in order, I know: to myself, to my readers, and to the writing gods for breaking my must-post-everyday rule. I am learning (again) that I must write in the morning, or it's way too easy to put it aside. I am re-determined to do the everyday thing.

On to the epiphany. The post I just wrote, despite all its flaws - and despite how darn long it took me to write it - was the most focused, satisfying work I have done in a long freakin time. It feels important to acknowledge that and also to acknowledge why.

As a grownup, single, never-married, childless and non-childbearing (hysterectomy due to health reasons 5 years ago), bisexual female who is sometimes sexually active, I don't quite fit a conventional mold. And neither does my social life, which includes whatever sexual or romantic life I may have. It is easy to be afraid of this - or at least of being publicly honest about it - which really, are pretty much the same thing, since what we are afraid to tell others often becomes what we are afraid to face / affirm / allow in ourselves. And vice versa.

It's especially risky to write about the parts of me and my life that I actually find most interesting in a highly public forum like this one, when all a potential employer (or friend, or date, or my mom - hi mom!) has to do is google my name and Read All About me. I don't have the veil of fiction to hide behind the way I would if I were writing a poem, a short story, a play. But therein lies the crux of the issue: I don't want my writing to be a veil. No matter what genre I'm writing in - whether it draws on my own life or not - I want it to be compelling of its own accord, not motivated by my own need to legitimize my life through Literature, to create a pretty, well-crafted form and say, "Look at this very nice thing I made. Doesn't it justify my existence? Pay no attention to the woman behind the sestina..."

I have nothing against pretty, well-crafted forms, as long as they come from an honest place. And if - like my Valentine's Day ritual, which I still haven't done because I've been writing about my dumb date last night - that sounds a little too New Age, tough shit. :)

I hid behind children's theatre for years. Not that I didn't love writing for children; I did, and still do. (Or I would, were I writing for children right now. But I know I would like to do it again, so it feels right to say "I still do".) The one play "for grownups" that I wrote and had produced after grad school was eviscerated in the local press because it sugarcoated its subject. The last play I wrote, 5 years ago, was a children's theatre commission that never reached its potential, partly because I didn't know how to stand up for my own vision. Others described the script as "too dark", and I let myself get persuaded that I had to clean/lighten it up...only to find myself gutting its meaning and distancing myself from the work. Not a recipe for success, I found out too late, about the time I realized that my own shame around my less-than-conventional relationship life had contributed to my fear of standing up for my work. I won't repeat the mistakes of that life, but I also won't allow myself to deal in shame anymore, no matter what kind of life I may live.

And so. All this is just to say that I'm going to reveal myself in this blog. As much as I want to, without any fear. My writing needs it. So does my mental health. And I think the world might benefit.

Potential employers, please take note: I am responsible, hardworking, intelligent person, a skilled writer and a strategic thinker with an eye for detail who also possesses strong organizational and interpersonal skills, as well as a high degree of proficiency in Word, Excel, Access, and Raiser's Edge. All of that is true, and will continue to be, no matter what I write in this blog.

And Mom, if you ever read this: I love you so much, and I'm grateful to you for everything you have given me. Including the confidence to move forward and create a life that makes sense to me. This blog is part of that process. Enjoy.

And Happy Valentine's Day!

For Saints Have Hands

"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is palmers' holy kiss."

- Romeo & Juliet

Saturday night. The night before Valentine's Day.

I'm already late for my blind-except-for-the-photos-he-sent-over-email date, when my friend returns my call about Sunday. She is stressed and frazzled, having done things for other people all day when she should be studying for her GRE. I commiserate for as long as I can, but my belly is hungry and my brain is buzzing and my lashes are devoid of mascara, so I interrupt and tell her, ok, long story, but I'm going to go meet this guy at a bar. She congratulates me for my chutzpah, then says, "Do you want an out? Should I call you in an hour in case you don't want to stay?"

I tell her, no, he's cool, or I wouldn't be going. If I'm not into it I'll just let him know. My only stress is the time I'll be spending, time I could be writing or moving or revising my resume one more time or catching up on the blog I've neglected, or more importantly, really, PACKING my entire life into boxes and bins since, hello, I am moving in a WEEK. But.

I made a decision the night before, the Friday night before Valentine's Day, that I was going to have some sex in my life. So, later Friday night, I put out an ad, with no photos and no physical description, but a very direct, specific ad, with numbered sentences, 1, 2, 3, an ad that sounded for all the world like an action plan or a football play: in other words, like a man had written it. I figured most guys would think it was fake or be turned off by the directness. But wow. The emails came flying in. About 25 in about 7 minutes. Most of them not even worth reading, but still. It was something.

In about an hour, I had a date. A Friday night date who showed up at my door. And this date, I'll admit, was a catch, a prize, not exactly my type, way to metro for me, but, perfect, objectively speaking. And fun. And open. And young. And easy. And fun. I was terribly, terribly grateful for this, and emailed him the next day, and told him so. He wrote back: "Le plaisir est le mien." He's taking French while he studies to be a nurse. Supports himself by working bachelorette parties: cop uniform, lap dances, thong, the whole deal. It's hard to write about that without laughing, but yeah, no question: the kid is a prize. And he made me feel like a champ. Thanks kid.

You'd think I might have been happy with that. Quit while I was ahead, you know. Yet something was missing from our little tryst. An element of - how you say? - passion. The inexplicable bolt of attraction that makes you want to do something we didn't: slide into each others arms, and kiss.

So cue back up to the next afternoon, the Saturday before Valentine's Day. I call up bachelor #2, whom I'd almost picked from the Friday-night passel, but young #1 beat him to the punch. He's a bit older, a bit more my type (at least from the picture), and he says, a good kisser. Bingo. Will he be my Saturday date?

Sure, he says. He's up for anything. Sort of. In that you-come-up-with-all-the-ideas, I'll say "huh, cool..." to some, and groan at the others, slightly passive-aggressive way. That's ok. I have lots of ideas. I mention the dirty show (www.dirtyshow.org), an international erotic art event that happens here twice a year - he's never heard of it, he's lukewarm. What about an "alternative bar" or a strip club, he asks? Oh yeah, and he never ever comes into Detroit. He wants to go to a dark little dive, but he wants it to be in the suburbs. Huh.

I tell him I'm suburb-phobic ("You're what?"), my inner-ring suburb is as 'burb as I get, and anyway I was just way out in his hood 2 nights ago at that big (boring) pub. So why don't we go to this ancient dive in the Cass Corridor, how bout that? No. Too scary for him. Alright. We'll compromise. We'll meet in Ferndale, my suburb - it's still North of 8 Mile - at the New Way, a scrappy rock & roll bar where I've never been but have googled, read about, and assessed to be to his taste, in the spaces between his "huh, cool..."'s and "ughs".

(Did I mention this guy is a personal trainer and self-described very good kisser with a warm, witty phone manner and sexy voice? If you were wondering, dear reader, why I stuck with it: it was not desperation or boredom, no, but lingering interest in these attributes.)

The closer it gets to our meeting time, the more I really want to back out. I text him, "Let's make out at the bar," but I know I have way too much to do, and I had a sexy Friday night date, but the thought of good kissing pushes me on, to squeeze into lingerie, smear on eye glitter, and drive myself to the New Way bar, a white concrete block building with a dirty red awning where a cute scruffy 5-man band throws down on a tiny stage.

A tall blonde bouncer in black jeans and grey leather, vintage glasses, and Bettie Page bangs, takes my five bucks and asks to see my ID. "I love you!" I tell her. Of course she laughs. "Hey girl, I get carded too - and I bet I'm older than you." She checks my ID and throws her head back. "Uh-huh! I knew it! Two years older than you! Well get in there girl, show 'em how it's done."

Bachelor #2 sits at the bar, smoking patiently, staring at the tv. Yeah, I was late - I called and texted, but still, I was late. At least he had the olympics to watch. I walk up, say hello, apologize again, then have a moment of panic: what if that's not him, but some other cute bald dude with square glasses? Shit. Only one way to test it: "I'm here to meet this guy I met online, but I'm late, so I think he might've left...you're pretty cute though. Wanna hang out?" He laughs, says "That's hilarious," a word he used a lot on the phone when he didn't know what else to say. Yep. It's him.

He's got a tequila. I buy one for myself. We sit at a table across from the bar. We do our best to talk over the band, but he's not talking much. I say, "Well, it's loud here, and there are no strippers - do you want to leave and go to a club?" "Yeah, we could," he says noncommittally. Reminder: the strip club was his idea. Whoever pegged men as the decisive, assertive, action-bound sex has never sat across from one on a date.

So. I talk, as loud as I can without shouting, and embellish my points with gestures and smiles. It turns into one of those bizarre moments when you start to become a different self, co-created by the gaze of another. You feel the self taking shape as you tilt your chin, roll your eyes, tell a story. You imagine the shape this self will take later, in an email, a text, or a blog. Will you become "the one with the tits"? Or the one with the funny stories? The one with the lipstick who talked with her hands, the one who's "dramatic," "expressive," "arty," or worse yet, "artsy"?

(In the 13 months I've spent in Detroit, I've been called this more times than I care to count. Do people not get that it sounds patronizing? What if I called them "blue collarsy" or "engineeresque"?)

Under the inscrutable gaze of my date, I forge on like an actor who studied with Blanche DuBois, taking up her technique from A Streetcar Named Desire. As she explains to her dull date, mama's boy Mitch: "The lady must entertain the gentleman...or no dice!" (Moments later in the play, right after Blanche hangs a paper shade on the room's bare light bulb and says, "Look! We've created enchantment!" Mitch makes an aggressive pass at Blanche. Blanche is insulted. It doesn't go well.)

Our scene is interrupted when Bachelor #2 looks, then frowns, at his iphone. "Oh no." He speaks! I wait, intrigued. "This guy wants me to train him at 6 in the morning." Hey! Something we can talk about! I ask the bachelor about his work. He makes $80 an hour training bigwigs like this guy, who have to jet off for business on a moment's notice and who are hard-core enough about their deep-knee bends - but dependent enough on a trainer to make them do them - to send such requests at 12:45 AM and expect that their trainer will say yes.

"Can you train him on 2 hours sleep?" I ask, smiling. He avoids the question, but he's talking at least, so I ask him more - about his dream to own a business like the bar he might buy down in Wyandotte (Wyandotte! Help me!). Predictably, I tell him to buy a bar in Detroit, or to take over the excellent Mercury coffee shop in Corktown (he doesn't know where that is) that closed 2 months after it opened last year but is sitting there, all sleek and chic, in the shadow of the abandoned train station, across the street from Slow's, that barbecue place I told him about...He smiles, he says, huh, yeah, really, wow. I'm overwhelming the poor guy. Oh well.

The alleged client emails again, allegedly offers $200 an hour if my date will say yes to the 6am gig. Part of me thinks, wow. Rich people really DO that shit, and not just with prostitutes either. Part of me thinks, yeahwhateverright. My date's friend is just giving him an out.

Date goes outside, makes a call, comes back in. This guy is a 3-year client, and he's not taking no for an answer. Date's gonna be throwing medicine balls at this guy in just over 5 hours, so he needs to go. He's sorry. All of it actually seems very real. But of course I'm starting to suspect he's an actor who studied with Tiger Woods.

Just then, the heretofore serious white-boy band band breaks out the funk. It's the Young MC classic, "Bust a Move." The keyboardist, who I swear eyed me when I walked in, is on the mic, throwing down the late-'80s lyrics with equal parts passion and irony: "You're on a mission / and you're wishin' / something could cure your lonely condition / lookin for love in all the wrong places / no fine women, just ugly faces." I once knew every word to this song. I used it as the warm-up exercise for children's theatre rehearsals in college (the actors were college students, not children). I say, "OK. We have to stay for this." The blonde bouncer joins us - "We're old enough to remember this song!" she says, high-fiving me, and to my bemused, quiet date: "I bet you're too young!"

My date is 37. But he thinks I'm 34. That's the age I listed in my ad, and it is, on some level, accurate: a legitimate reflection of the way I feel inside, as is, sometimes, 29, 50, 14, or 5. But I know most people think of age as a literal, chronological, consistent kind of thing, so I shout over the scrambled guitars and AAABB rhyme scheme, "How old did I say I was in my ad? 34? Yeah. I'm actually 40". My date looks at me. "Wow. You don't look 40," he says. And he seems to mean it. He smiles. I smile back. "Well. Thank you."

But really, he has to go, and I'm cool with that. I really am. But I can't help saying, in a gracious way, "Hey, if this is just a ploy - that's ok too. I mean, if you're not into it, let me know. I'm fine with it. Really." No, he insists, he wants to hang out. He really does, tomorrow night. The Dirty Show's still on, right? Let's go to that. Sure, I say, I'm planning to go with a friend, but yeah, come along, and let's hang out after. Cool, he says, where's your car? Right here, smack-dab in front of the bar. His is the down the block. We hug goodnight. He walks away.

Wait, what was that thing about kissing?

I climb into my car, cursing my fishnets: not warm enough for a night like this. I crank the heat and review my options: 1) Go home like a good girl (and waste a good makeup job?); 2) Head back into the bar, hit on the cute keyboardist (and risk 2 disappointments in the very same venue?); 3) Venture out and find a bit of fun elsewhere to redeem the anticlimactic night.

I choose option #3 and cruise (yes, just indulge me, ok, I cruise!) south on Woodward, text my friends who are out at a real Detroit dive, the Apex, but they've headed home. Home? It's only 1 in the morning! There are plenty of interesting places to go. Motor City Casino, the MGM Grand (never been to either, here's my chance), Honest John's, the Comet, The Old Miami, The Bronx, Cass Cafe, the Park Bar, MOCAD, The Centaur...I poke at my curiosity. It just yawns and rolls right back over.

So. I take myself at the Northern Lights Lounge. It's on my way home and I know the scene. But it's the Valentine's Dance tonight, $5.00 cover. Another $5.00. Still I let Tank, the chubby, sweet black bouncer in camo sweats, persuade me it's worth it for just one more hour. It's not. It's crowded as hell, and loud, and I'm the lonely old girl at the bar, drinking Pinot and smoking a Marlboro Light while young-girl laughter cackles around me and big white wanna-be rock star guys slam down shots, yelling "Aw-RIGHT!"

I watch Naomi Watts and King Kong on TV for as long as I can, wait patiently for the bartender's attention, spend $6.50 that I could've sent to Haiti, and start to walk out the door, when Tank takes my hand. "Hey." he says. "Did you have a good time?"

I stop. I don't know what to say.

My hand is in his hand. His soft, strong hand, twice the size of mine. His pale brown flesh wraps around my white little fist.

He is giving my hand a place to be.

It only lasts a matter of seconds. And of course I know Tank is just doing his job.

But whether or not he knows it, of course, Tank is doing something else too. Like his blonde counterpart at the New Way Bar, he is tending to a traveling soul about to cross his threshhold. He is making my pilgrimage worthwhile, justifying my black bustier, my satiny top, my fishnets, eyeshadow, lipstick, mascara. He is giving me the one thing I wanted tonight.

He is giving me my Valentine's kiss.

For an instant, we are palm to palm. For an instant, the night seems almost worthwhile.

Thank you, Tank.

You're a saint.

Happy Valentine's Day.

sorry baby, not tonight

i have a headache.

please don't take it personally...

i'll come home earlier tomorrow night

and we can take it nice and slow

and i'll pay all kinds of attention to you

then, ok?

promise.

xx.

goodnight.

mouth-breathing through the to-do lists

there's a pretty white blanket of snow outside and flakes are still falling. the street is quiet on quiet. finally, something to show for the cold and white skies of winter. i am grateful for that beauty as i am for the time i have now, post-coffeeshop job, to get myself together for the move. i am grateful to be making the move, and to have the company of an excellent friend who will be flying up to help, and to be winter-road-tripping with her to visit another excellent friend who is living in the north of the state, before loading up the truck and heading down to NC.

i am grateful for all these things, and for my valentine's day plan, which emerged when i talked to a friend tonight. i'm gonna sit at my altar, light a candle, mediate, and envision the kind of love and beauty and sweet desire i want to create/welcome into my life. i'm excited about it.

you may think that sounds all new age-y and woo woo. well tough shit. i'm gonna do it anyway. :)

but right now my head is full of a cold that i was sure i could shake off in 24 hours but that hasn't subsided since yesterday morning. i have done nothing but cough, blow my nose, drink tea, eat soup, tie up loose ends here, and plan the move for the last 48 hours and i am utterly flippin completely worn out. over-logisticized. hyper-scheduled. uber-budgetized and excel spreadsheetified. and i am going, dear reader, to sleep.

to sleep!

buy my car my car buy my car buy my car

mmm you know you want it! c'mon. as the billboards (used to?) say, Rock the Box.

seriously: i know this is a cop-out post because i posted the same darn note on both facebook and kijijii.com tonight. but i am exhausted and have a cold and am moving in 10 days. plus: i really need to sell my car. so please. think about it. haven't you always wanted rad blue leather seats?

xx

w

2006 Silver Scion XB, rad blue leather seats, great condition, great mileage.

Only reason I'm giving it up is cause I'm moving to NYC and don't need it (and can really use the extra $ I'm currently dishing out for insurance).

The good stuff:
- 28-32 miles/gallon
- Only one owner (that's me)
- Just over 48,000 miles
- Automatic transmission
- Leather seats (in a beautiful shade of blue)
- Power windows & doors
- Excellent A/C & Heat
- Airbags on front passenger side
- CD player - also has a place where you can plug in an ipod or other MP3 player
- Back seats fold down to create good space for toting dogs around, hauling furniture, etc.
- All tires replaced within the last 12-18 months and have good tread

Some small cosmetic flaws - missing hubcap, scratches/scrapes on front & back bumpers (but no rust), small tears in seat leather, and 1 plastic knob missing on back seat (but it can still be folded up or down)

The Kelley Blue Book site lists the price of an owner-sold 2006 Scion XB in Good condition at $9,825. I'm pricing it at $9,500 and am willing to negotiate for the right buyer.

You do NOT have to live in the Detroit area to buy this car! If I haven't sold it by Sat Feb. 20, I will be driving it out of Detroit, accompanied by a friend in a moving truck.

And So...

- If you live anywhere along or near the I-75 or I-77 corridor between Detroit and Bakersville NC, I can drive it to your door on Feb. 20-21.

- Similarly, if you live anywhere along or near the I-81 corridor between Asheville NC and New York City (or for that matter, IN NYC or Jersey), I can drive it to your door on Feb. 27-28.

- AND, if you live anywhere in the state of North Carolina, or the nearby surrounding states (whassup Tennessee!), you could pick it up in Bakersville NC in March. (I'll be leaving it at my mom's if I don't sell it before I move.)

Feel free to pass this along to all trustworthy & potentially interested people you know.
wesleymiddleton@gmail.com, 828.467.3780. Thank you!

Here's the link to the Blue Book listing:
http://www.kbb.com/KBB/UsedCars/PricingReport.aspx?YearId=2006&Mileage=49917&VehicleClass=UsedCar&ManufacturerId=45&ModelId=269&PriceType=Private+Party&VehicleId=1474&SelectionHistory=1474%7c32177%7c48220%7c0%7c0%7c57436%7ctrue%7c57520%7cfalse%7c57532%7ctrue&Condition=Good&QuizConditions=