December

What's left to say that hasn't been said?

I worked hard in December and asserted myself rather than holding onto resentments; I made time for family and friends and romance; I tried to be kind to myself and others and celebrate the season without stressing out over it too much. In early December, preparing for a parade of holiday visitors and recognizing an abundance of blessings, I pledged to document. (And, gratefully, have come to an end.)

I'm saying goodbye to 2011 and hello to 2012 surrounded by people I love. And, even if it were just me and the cat and a prayer, I think that I have the tools I need to make it ok. 

Peace and love and cheers and a very happy new year to you!

November

I spent the first week of November in Memphis for a work conference. I had been there once before, also for work, and saw nothing but the inside of my hotel room and the Rhodes Career Center. This time around I got to see a bit more of the city, including the Civil Rights Museum where MLK Jr. was shot. And I spent three days with coworkers from all across the country, some known and many new. This coming off the heels of an announcement that my current manager would be leaving her position at the end of December, with the possibility of a long vacancy.

In the midst of this excitement, I lost my temper, hard, twice. The first time was in the security line at the Houston airport. I told the TSA agent waving me through that I was going to opt out of the scanner. He said, "no, this isn't what you think it is, it's fine," like I was some sort of confused child, and I snapped. He made me wait unnecessarily long for the pat-down and I glared at him the entire time, fuming. The second time was in a Memphis restaurant. I just asked if I could substitute something, anything, for the coleslaw, and it turned into a fiasco. I did not want a fiasco. I didn't even care that much about the stupid coleslaw. But when I saw the fiasco coming and tried to reverse course ("nevermind nevermind!"), it was too late: "So, lady, what do you WANT?"

On the plane ride home, I wrote a few reminders to myself about the resources at my disposal. On changes and choices, I wrote: "Don't decide. Don't even think about it. Pray, wait, stall, stall, stall, stall, ask for help, wait, and do the next right thing."

I celebrated Thanksgiving in San Francisco with Josh, where we were blessed to spend some time with friends, including those who drove up from LA to spend time with us. Sitting around the table with this group of old and new loved ones I found myself thinking again: stall, stall, stall, don't decide, don't DO anything, just sit in this moment for today and drink it up.

And I've been thinking a lot about how to reply to people who ask me in all the different forms: "SOOOOOO what's next??? What are you going to do? Where are you going to live? Who's moving where? When are you going to decide?" Maybe they are just being polite and maybe also people want to know what to expect, and they think that you should, too. What's the plan, lady? What are you having?

I don't know, is generally my reply. Something great, somewhere, yes, and I'm not in any hurry.

October

I want to be so careful with October and the months that follow. Having found the thing I was waiting for, I have to treat it differently. It's like when the cat does something really adorable and you're caught between "I want to go grab my camera but if I move she's going to change position." Or, a more appropriate analogy, caring for an orchid. Orchids require special soil and a certain light and juuuuuust so much water* and a lot of patience, and the payoff is breathtaking.

Breath taking away is actually a good way to describe all of October. At the beginning, it was the mad rush to the big event at work and I was done with being calm and had moved on to a morning prayer that consisted of: "Dear God, please help me remember to breathe today and to be nice and not yell a lot so that I may be of better service to others, amen." The gala came and went and everyone says it was a great success and I believe them, because I was there, but I don't remember much from the actual evening.

(Breathe, Mary)

And after, a long nap? Not hardly; work remained a mad dash and has sustained that pace through all of quarter 1. In the middle of it, Josh came back and stayed with me for a week while conducting some work in Houston. That initial connection sustained across time zones was already starting to take deeper roots; it was real and immediate and here in person in front of me: living and working and loving and making plans and delivering my lunch to the office on a busy day when I forgot to bring it.

(Breathe)

It rained in October. The first time all summer, it seemed. Two weeks later, the city was hit with a massive mosquito attack the likes of which I had never experienced before. Thick clouds of mosquitoes hovered on the back deck waiting for a warm victim. Despite our collective best efforts, they got inside the houses, the restaurants, stores, offices, cars--the mosquitoes were everywhere and making up for lost time. Cause (rain) and effect (mosquitoes).

Josh had to leave, of course, but not before I bought a ticket to visit for Thanksgiving. The cost of my ticket with airline miles: $5. The thought of that visit sustained me through the mosquito swatting, through multi-hour calls on Pacific time, through the nights I went to sleep and woke up alone, and into the morning prayer: Lord, whatever your end may be, accept my amazement.** 

And in a twist none of us would have seen coming in April, it was back to California for the second time in 2011. 

*Unless it is a really high-quality fake, in which case, do not water it.

**John Berryman, "Eleven Addresses"

September

Some stuff happened in early September and it seemed noteworthy at the time* but who am I kidding let's just jump to the 16th when I got an email from Lana saying "Mary, meet Josh. Josh is in town this weekend and you guys should hang."

I thought it was a friend date so I had no stress or fancy outfit going into dinner; I was actually wearing pants a size too big for me because over the last two months I'd started losing weight. So in walks this sharp-looking, handsome, bespectacled guy who looks way too cool for Houston and I'm like, hi, I'm Mary, and we get to talking and it's like HUH, you are also smart, and well read too, and sincere, with interesting life pursuits and you are so so easy to talk to. None of this was surprising given the mutual friend connection but it did make me sigh a little and think "my chances of finding true love would be SO MUCH BETTER in San Francisco, seriously."

After, on the phone with my friend, I asked, Lana, why am I settling? This is the type of person I want to be with. If not this person exactly then someone very very close to him. And her response was, "Really? Because he thinks you're a dreambabe."

Armed with this "he likes you oh she likes you too" knowledge we arranged to meet up the next day and spent the next twelve hours together until he had to get on a plane back to San Francisco. In parting, we agreed on three things: 1) This was really special. 2) A long distance relationship probably doesn't make sense. 3) Yeah, about #2....

So it began that over the next two weeks my cell phone was constantly running on low battery due to the calls and the texts and the tweets and the emails. As we approached the big dinner my coworkers reiterated, "No, really Mary, it's two weeks away, you're not stressed?" and I was like, we've done all we can, we're all competent professionals, it will be fine... does anyone have a charger I can borrow?

And when Josh said "there is a chance I could be back in Houston in October; is that something you would be interested in?" I said YES.


*I met Michael Ondaatje! I saw the Weepies! I went tubing in the middle of a drought! I am sorry you got eclipsed, September stuff... but not all that sorry.

August

Having admitted that the bus I was driving was headed nowhere good, fast, I stopped driving and spent the rest of July and most of August as a passenger, doing what other people told me to do. I found meetings for people who have chosen to abstain from alcohol, and I went to those meetings every day. I joined a running group and ran when and where they told me to run. I closed down the dating shop. 

And I spent a lot of time thinking about God, gratitude, and humility. When I prayed for serenity and stopped trying to control everyone and everything, it often found me. And you will not believe this but also the world went along just as before. Faced with my own relative unimportance, I tried to conscientiously focus on "how can I be of service to someone today" rather than "how am I going to get that thing I want." Sometimes that worked.


By August, we were just two months away from the biggest fundraising dinner of the year, and more than one concerned colleague confronted me to ask why was I so calm, why wasn't I freaking out, what were we missing because this didn't feel normal. Some things, of course, did not change--I discovered this as I pulled the  pen labelled DO NOT TAKE out of my purse and then proudly displayed my inadvertent theft for the rest of the month.

By mid-August I was back online and sort of peeking through the windows of the dating shop, curiosity mostly, what sort of match might be out there for me now: which is how I wound up hanging out with the vegan heavy metal accountant.

July

Twelve months is a lot to write through.

You may be thinking what I would probably be thinking: This is over-dramatic and self-centered. I hope she doesn't plan to do this every year.

Well, yes. And also: a year ago at this time I thought--well, I didn't think my life was over, but I sure didn't know where it was going. I lost a four year relationship and a roommate. I found myself tied via property to a city where I no longer had a vested long-term interest. In love, I realized: I am 30. Anyone I marry at this point, barring any rekindled past relationships, will only know me as a 30 year old. I felt sad for those lost years, grateful for another opportunity at happiness, and completely out of my element.

By the grace of God and kindness of strangers, I'm here to write about what I learned in a year and how things changed for me. Maybe other, future years will get the same treatment, maybe not. And, yes, maybe that's self-indulgent. Maybe these problems are first world problems. Let us sit in that discomfort for a minute and then move on.

July.

The beginning of July found me in Portland, OR where I met up with my mom, her sister and my cousin. I had a very elaborate guide of bookstores and other places to visit that the poet had generously written for me before I drunk-texted him one night listing out all his faults and had to cut off communication after. I wasn't very interested in the conference in town (except to occasionally make fun of the geniuses and rescue my family from eating conference breakfast in the parking garage, insisting that we go out into the sunshine and find a coffee shop instead), but I was interested in exploring, having perfected the walk-a-bout while in Los Angeles.

Portland is home to the mecca of bookstores and I went every day. There are also bridges and gardens and trolleys and food carts and, that weekend, a blues festival. With Lucinda Williams! And 4th of July fireworks!

I had given up the vague hope of finding an attractive single 30something MENSA genius with social skills when from out of nowhere, one bummed a cigarette off of me. I didn't realize what was happening until the middle of unexpected and effortless banter when we both realized, wait, YOU'RE here for the conference? In the span of maybe three minutes, tops, I gave him my number with a "you seem like my kind of people, we should hang out this weekend."

And we did hang out. Dinner, no more. After, I wrote: "Surprise dates with a stranger. All the sweeter for their lack of script and narrative. I am for the moment a safe ear to whisper in: This is really personal..."

I left Portland feeling alive, empowered, and connected to the people and places I had visited.

And so I boldly re-entered Houston with an invitation to go see my crush play a show. An invitation I accepted after drinking all the beer left in the fridge. On an empty stomach. After waking up at 3am to catch a flight. And the next morning everything was a blur, and I didn't hear from him again, and two days later, on July 9, I stopped drinking altogether.

June

I don't really want to talk about June, because June was pretty manic. What I'm telling you about my bustling spring season is what most people saw and heard: a busy Mary, probably with a funny story about some recent date or weekend outing, working irregular hours due to after work commitments and frequent offsite meetings. I'm not telling you about the spaces in between, about the alcohol I regularly consumed at the end of a long day, or at the start of a rare obligation-free weekend. In June, with all the outdoor festivals and their focus on drinking in the streets, those private spaces started seeping into public view--enough to scare and shame me but not enough to make me slow down.

Other people achieved some notable things this month. My best friend Heather had a baby. On sadness, Lana's advice was: "more mango: fruit and color" and also to take an exercise class with a murderous ballerina. I did the mango part.

Coming off a couple months with no real romantic interest I developed an all-consuming, idealistic crush on someone I had met through work. Combining the shared interests and resources of our respective organizations was not enough for me (although I remain proud of that budding partnership to this day) -- ALSO we were going to fall head over heels for each other via a shared passion for social justice and I was going to tell all the internet dating sites to shove off. It Was Thus Destined. At work I started referring to this poor boy as My Future Boyfriend and when my colleagues tried to warn me about putting the horse before the carriage (or is it the carriage before the horse?) I brushed off all perfectly rationale arguments and dove into hawk-like pursuit, determined to turn this work relationship personal.

And it worked, because I get what I want.

We were right at that stage where I'd integrated him into the work/social happy hour hybrid (having exchanged cell phone numbers and texts in the process--do you see how this works, this is all very calculated) and I had learned enough to want to know more.

And then I went to Portland.

Buyer's Remorse

me: can I tell you something
about myself?

Josh: always

me: ok
I paid $1 for an application called Catculator
it is a calculator
that meows

Josh: ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
that is awesome and good and basically what smart phones are for so good job.

May

Mayday: I had a lot of expectations for my date scheduled for the first of May; how could I not, coming off of The Month That Ate All Other Months? I had a nice time, but I asked the wrong questions and got very long answers. And when he asked me, 45 minutes into sharing a pot of tea, "so, tell me something about YOU," I couldn't think of anything I wanted to say. The sharing window had passed. He asked, was I doing anything after this, would I maybe like to go to the zoo, and I said perhaps some other time.*

*This is a pet peeve of mine: the afternoon beverage that could presumably turn into an invitation for an evening date. I have places to be, people. And even when I don't: I'm planning to go home and recover from the stress (good or bad) of this first date. It's booked. No fair springing a new invitation when I've pumped myself up enough only for the time we have planned. I'm going to say no whether I like you or not: why put me in that position at our first meeting?

There were some other beverages and chats that went nowhere productive, and I didn't mind so much because the calendar was still thick with activity. I wrote at the time: "I am getting choosier. I no longer feel the drive to date solely for the hell of it, to see what happens, and to 'get myself out of the house.' I've found a better balance of calling on my friends, and work has just been crazy with events. When I have free time, I like spending it on my own these days."

On my own I raided the annual friends of the public library booksale, scoring some sweet panoramic photos of Houston in the early 1980s. I tore through three seasons of Parks and Rec on Netflix. And I jinxed a horse at the Kentucky Derby. At work, I wore heels well into the evenings: guest lecturers and fundraisers and various spring networky type events.

By the end of the month I was seeing a lawyer with some regularity. And even in the thick of that, I felt sad. I knew we weren't communicating very well about feeeeelings and I thought that was probably ok because I wasn't really having any feelings anyway. I thought: keep it light, go through the process, etc. etc. I thought that maybe we would be able to talk and draw each other out of our shells, if and when it became necessary. And that's how I learned about The Disappearing Act.

April

I spent a lot of time and energy convincing the world what a great trip/time/month I was having in April. Which is not to say that it wasn't genuinely amazing and well timed to finally visit California and see a bevy of beautiful ladyfriends and sing songs at the Pacific Ocean and jump out of big trees and to go on a bonafide hike (this was billed to me as a "walk" through Muir Woods and then we climbed approximately 10,000 stairs). I started to feel like myself again after having spent a long time away.

Who then was I trying so hard to impress with all my yakking and picture posting?

On April 1st I flew into Los Angeles where I stayed with Lana and Kevin. Having been talked out of the Drive The Coast Find Thyself option (9 hours, really? Without breaks?) I then hopped on a plane to San Francisco where I stayed with Caroline and later Andrea. We met up with my college roommate Mindy and went ziplining through redwood trees, an adventure I first read about on Mighty Girl (I will repeat her advice and say: you should do this!). With Caroline, I pledged to "put holes in the walls" and we made a five year plan. One that strives toward graduate school, and books, a potential relocation and focusing on family (existing and future).

When I got back to Houston there were more lady and boyfriends to visit; my calendar was bulging with Debi's visit and Raveonettes and Bunnies on the Bayou and some feel-good education events and bingo and I of course told everyone about it. If I was trying to impress the poet, it didn't work, and he missed the memo about being the end of my dating line. No matter, I thought. Life is wonderful and people are great and my job is fantastic and how much fun can one person have in a month--this seems disproportionately AWESOME and it won't last.

It didn't, of course, but then I didn't expect it to. Thanks to a surprise layover travel voucher and an invitation from the airline that set me up with fancy travel status for two years (O why can't every month be like you, April?), I knew there would be more "just for fun" travel in store, and I resolved to stop neglecting it as an ongoing part of my life.

March

We pause for a note on memoir. I'm not telling you the whole story. What I'm shooting for, instead, is something close to but not exactly the true story. In the retelling, certain names and details may be omitted via author's privilege. That argument, that slip-up, that boy who didn't call, they don't fit the narrative. No matter. Years from now, I'll remember the retelling with more clarity than the parts that got cut from the page. Such is the power of memoir, how we shape our memories. What we include and what we leave out.

That said, some of this narrative gets uncomfortable.

In March I discovered okcupid and all Hell broke loose. I started seeing a therapist, by which I mean that I started dating a therapist, and we had--surprise--a lot of long talks about feelings. One of those talks, according to my phone log, lasted four and a half hours. When your phone shows an outgoing call at 1:21am for 36 minutes, and you don't remember the contents of that conversation, that's a scary thing. Worse are the alcohol soaked online chats with strangers that get recorded, like it or not, for your viewing pleasure the next morning (delete, delete).

Outside of that chaos, I saw some nice films about space under a big full moon, I went to a (mostly ineffective) rally to preserve Texas education funding, some of my worlds collided at an intimate house show with Owen, and I brought home a new Empty Bowl. I don't really remember what I was doing at work but I do remember accepting a couple big checks and going to an event where I was asked to talk on camera (surprise!), so I must have been showing up and earning my salary.

I had cut things off with the therapist and closed all the open loops except one: I agreed to meet up with an attractive poetry phD candidate for coffee and a reading the night before I left for CALIFORNIA. Just this one, I thought, and everything else goes on hold while I take a break and re-evaluate. The poet did not disappoint, and later we texted throughout my whole trip. This is it, I thought. This is what this whole process has been leading up to. I was meant to be a muse! And on April Fool's Day I woke up very early and practically floated onto a plane to Los Angeles.

February

In February I tried very hard to dance on my own, thankyouverymuch, but I kept getting thwarted. On the 11th, my entire office picked up and got on a plane to Washington DC for acronym's 20th Anniversary celebration. One of my favorite moments was waiting in the security line (what a strange way to begin a sentence) and all around me, seeing people that I knew. There were co-workers, of course, but also a few supporters -- some on their way to the summit; others there by coincidence. In general air travel has felt like a solitary activity for me, and I was glad for their company: glad to feel included, a part of something.

I spent Valentine's Day at a poetry reading with Major Jackson and Alicia Ostriker, and I cried when she read this poem about insomnia: But it's really fear you want to talk about. I planned to spend my birthday alone, but some friends intervened, put a bird on it, and fed me cake. I was glad that February was a short month, and happy to get away from memories and milestones that made me sad. Instead I looked forward to April, and the trip I had booked to CALIFORNIA. I imagined driving up Pacific Highway 1 in a rented convertible, hair streaming behind me as I Found Myself on a coast very far from here. CALIFORNIA (in caps), I knew, would Fix Everything.

Two competing truths made themselves very clear this month: 1) I had little left tying me to Houston, and great uncertainty about the road ahead; and 2) good people and good work surrounded me in abundance, both in the city and a phone call away, and it was up to me to reach out. Except I wasn't reaching out. In the words of Melanie, a first grade student, "Somebody can help you if you tell them. They can't help you if you do not tell them."

January

My year started with a midnight kiss with a guy I'd been seeing for a couple weeks, some dancing and a lot of hipsters. Do you want to go to the Warpaint show on New Years Eve, he had asked. I don't know, was my response. It's a day fraught with symbolism. Maybe we shouldn't. Later I recanted: Ok, I will go to the Warpaint show with you on FRIDAY.

A few days later it was back to work after two weeks of mucking about, staying up too late, and trying to get comfortable with myself in a home that felt newly foreign to me. I did not handle the transition back well at all. Work felt like something to "get through" while my attention was elsewhere, saying yes to dates and stalking the arts calendars for things to get me out of the house. It was a cold January and that did not help things, dragging all the plants inside and clumsily wrapping the pipes. So I said yes instead to dinners and Aeros games and pie and films about Alan Ginsberg and painting with pinot and supersized Jenga and dark animations.

By the end of the month that boy I'd been seeing called me out for dating multiple people: It's ok, he said, I understand and I don't blame you; but I thought about it and I'm not really ok with it. "And then I realized that the idea of not seeing you didn't really bother me that much." I remember sitting and letting this statement sink in, and realizing that I felt the same way. Huh, I said. Yeah. And then probably: "I feel like a jerk."

January was a month of saying yes. Not always to the right things and not always for the right reasons, but I started saying it, and I said it over and over. Eventually I realized that I didn't need a date to go out and do the things I wanted to do, and by the time February hit I was dating no people.

Annual Report to Stakeholders

Gentle readers,

It's been a quiet fourth quarter on this site, with lots happening on the homefront. Recently I have been reflecting on what an amazing year it has been -- one of the best in recent memory and possibly in the last decade. Like a Phoenix who rose from the ashes, set herself on fire, and rose again, 2011 was a defining year. In the coming days, I'd like to share a year in review with you. A lot of what happened was too fresh to write about at the time, but time and space has made it more dear to me, and I'd like to document that.

I hope your year was a banner year, too. And if not, remember that just like you can start your day over at any time, I think you can also start your year over. Like, from today. These things are circular, we might as well take advantage of them.

I hope you will continue to invest in Fruitcake at Rest (get it--we go from Fruitcake Redux to Fruitcake at Rest--Updike reference anyone?) and trust that your attention and time are well spent, and appreciated, and will be returned to you tenfold to the best of my ability even if its just a long overdue post saying hey, thanks for reading, it means a lot to me.

So, thank you.

Love,
Mary

I do not think it is a coincidence

that Continental upgrades me to Elite status and in that same year I develop an inexplicable urge to visit the West Coast more often.

Nosir.