end of the season

beach season is over and so is our vacation. this is the last day of waking up in a four-story condo, and trekking down to the sea whenever the mood strikes, and of heading down to the outlets to get good deals a la end of season sales (in the land of no sales tax).

the encroaching chill in the air means fall. and while i am glad to pack up my things and head back to the city i love--the city in which i chronicle my life--i am a little wistful, too.

can i do all the things i have to do? will i be able to bear the cold?

Nor'Easter

our small beach town is drenched. sarah's mom (her parents, as planned, came to join us yesterday) is preparing dinner while sarah does homework and i blog. we're past cocktail hour, so an ambient buzz and my fall 2008 mix are the muses behind this blog post.

today's big activity? soggy shopping (more outlets).

the Internet has been dicey for the last day and a half, so now i'm riding the coattails of some unsecured something or other that is worst than an inconsistent lover. you just can't get it when you want it.

i've been checking in with work e-mail here and there. no catastrophes, thankfully.

here's the truth i'm hugging tonight: getting what you want means you can't play it safe.

where's the line between what is true and what could be true?

Shanty: Goin’ Downy Ocean

Like many Marylanders, I grew up going to Ocean City. We didn't "summer" there yearly, but I've been more times than I can count. That being said, when I think of beaches, I think of kitschy boardwalk attractions, bright pink t-shirts with airbrush designs, and white people sporting mullets who may also be wearing t-shirts that brag their love of the confederate flag/being a redneck. Throw in some seagulls and Thrashers fries and you have Ocean city. It informed my concept of "going to the beach."

Sarah and I drove down there today because she had never been. Nothing has changed.

Rehoboth, where we are staying, is upscale by contrast. Still beachy, but clean. All the usual suspects—The Candy Kitchen, Kohr Bros., etc. are present and accounted for—but they've thrown in a legitimate British Fish & Chips spot, cafes, bookstores, and sushi, all while paying legitimate attention to the overall design of the store fronts. There are a variety of accessible, appealing sit-down restaurants; there are a good number of less casual dining options, and enticing beach hut establishments, too. There's also a boardwalk (not as long as OC's), so you do get the full beach experience. But I didn't expect to be charmed, to find it devoid of every less than desirable element I listed above. Hell, I haven't even seen those scavenger birds about…

I don't know if this has always been the vibe at Rehoboth—I've only been one other time in my life—but the town has stayed ahead of the money curve. Fresh, modern rental properties are going to draw better-heeled summer tenants, I suppose. Better-heeled renters and summer residents will mean the town has the means to pay better attention…

But, it's not like Ocean City is any less expensive. I'm sure those ramshackle motels built circa 1940 go for hundreds a night during high season, but may or may not be air conditioned and may or may not smell like mildew. Sure, I saw some newer looking places, but not enough. That strip of highway that leads "downy ocean" as Baltimoreans say, is stuck somewhere in 1970. The view from my car window looked just like it did when I was 10. And it already looked sad then.

Gambling & Outlets: Moneyletting

When Sarah and i originally conceived this vacation, we thought we'd take one of our days and ferry it to Atlantic City for a day at the Tropicana. Expensive boarding fares forced us to reconsider. We drove to Dover Downs instead. Our rule: Spend a total of a hundred dollars between us. If we won anything close to a thousdand dollars, we'd pocket 900 and keep rolling with the other hundred. If we approached 10,000 (i know. i know. you can stop laughing anytime now.), we'd be out of there, no questions asked.

Everything at Dover is electronic, so that was a bit of a bummer. Here's what was striking. It was Monday morning (obviously) and the place was packed. I know some people must have been on vacation (like us), but some were clearly just having a typical beginning of the week gamble fest. Like a "using my unemployment check to make a miracle" kind of thing.

Here's what I learned/confirmed: I'm better at games of chance than those that require strategy. I won 30 bucks on the Lotto Machine (and lost it at the Penny Slots). Sarah won all our money back (we were playing together) at Black Jack (then lost it). We made a comeback at the Roulette Machine, before we proceeded to suck.

all in all, we lost 110.00 (we made a last ditch effort with some slots).

So, after you lose your money to the devil, there's nothing better than retail therapy. no, in all seriousness, we planned to take in the outlets because you get so much more bang for your buck. i got some fun stuff, some necessary stuff (like frying pans from Le Gourmet Chef), and some literary stuff ( The Boy Detective Fails).

In other news, i began thinking through the concept for my Fall 2008 mix. It's trippy. It doesn't care what you think about it, which will make you want it.

We're opening a bottle of wine now. Perhaps, The Black Chook.

Vacation, all i ever wanted

Vacation, for me, has never meant leaving behind my connection to home. in these days of encroachingly encroaching technology, it certainly doesn't mean putting my phone on mute or refusing to check my e-mail. the sweet spot is staying plugged in, yet totally disconnecting. Sarah and i are both grad students, so the laptops are out and powered up--but even if we weren't, we're both techies, so... and hey, now we've both got these phones that check any number of e-mail accounts you want, all day long.

this morning, while i made coffee, the sarah-one (as shown above) was hard at work keeping her blog updated so you'll know what she's (and I am) up to.

i relax more when i have the option of checking in with the world as i know it.

Vacation, for me, is about the comforts of home. It's about having home with me, wherever i am.

it's hazelnut creme coffee first thing; it's pictures of the people and the dog i love; it's my iPod faithfully streaming the playlists i've created for every mood.

that's why renting someone else's home in a strange place appeals. during the day, i go out and explore what i don't know while having the familiar niches of my own life. Vacation is a context in which to more fully experience what i know and to puzzle out what i don't.

the city, late september, at night

We saw him while we sat on the corner of St. Paul and Eager; he was headed to the City Café to meet us. He seemed to be looking at the car, but we couldn’t be sure. He seemed to recognize us, but again, I couldn’t be certain.

Crystal dropped me off in front of the restaurant and went to find parking. I was standing there in what is arguably the most flattering shirt and the most flattering black, flare-legged pair of pants I own (they create the illusion of a longer, more lithe look on me), cutting a striking figure.

Once it was established that sitting outside was not going to happen (who can resist sitting outside on these gorgeous, fading summer days?), we settled at our table and put in an order of Calamari and a bottle of Australian Shiraz. I noticed him admiring the shirt and that was it right there. All the payoff I’d ever need. For the rest of my life, whatever else happens, I’ll know that I made the right decision about that blouse.

Not having seen him since the last real day of August, I was just a bit nervous, and there were one or two moments of not having much to say, because the only thing to say, really, is: I want you. Do you want me?

And I wouldn’t have said that, because there are a few conversational footbridges between where we are and that declarative/interrogative.

Lovely buffer and all around charmer that she is, my sister breezed in and regaled us with tales of all the men that hit on her yesterday—all owing to the classic red scoop neck sweater of mine she borrowed. Once the Shiraz was uncapped, there were no more slight snags. I had to remember to keep my hands to myself, not touch his arm to punctuate too many sentences. At the same time, it was important to not be so over vigilant that I came across stony. The goal was to be real and keep it real, but to never let that make me sloppy with desperate energy.

So. When our legs touched briefly under the table, I didn’t fight it. And I allowed myself one unapologetic arm touch.

The appetizer and wine portion of the program was smashing. To keep our progressive dinner progressive, we made quick work of the check, and headed across the street to Sushi at Minato.

During this briefest of jaunts, he complimented me on the wine selection and touched my arm/back as he did. There was such a current.

I should mention here that C kept pointing out how lovely I looked, kept asking Mr. Close Encounters if he liked my hair cut, and didn’t he love my shirt. At one point, I said “She gave me this shirt for my birthday.” He smiled, understood her compliments of me in the context of her own self-perceived fashion genius. Actually, he didn't smile. He laughed generously.

I knew I wanted a Zentini (green tea martini), so I ordered one promptly. C and Mr. CE shared sake, but he thoughtfully asked our server to bring a third cup in case I decided to join them. I did, eventually, and it was so much sweeter than the last time I had some.

He seemed amused, happy to be there.

As we reached the car, the lingering hug I’ve come to anticipate from him began on cue. A friendly kiss on the mouth, then he folded C into our embrace. And we didn’t let go for a long time…

Oh, Mr. Bra and Panties, how you do go on!

i'm keeping this bastard around, i've decided, because he is literature fodder. More IMs today. More invitations to have sex with him (after a cultural outing to a museum, naturally). Poor slob. My favourite was the admission (after I'd asked him what his glitch is) "I dunno. I'm a mess."

Oh. He also wants me to edit his book pro bono. Apparently, there's a new trend in my life whre this kind of thing is concerned. I informed him that I'd be needing cash if he wants a copyedit, that fact-checking is extra, and that no, being "immortalized" in his book by way of some flimsy acknowledgment does not count. He then suggested that he might perform a... um... "service" for me on the regular as payment. I informed him that as I am not a whore, I have a different pay scale than that.

Wednesday night's outing was okay. I knew the conversation would be good, but as I suspected I would, I remain unmoved. If he'd be up for just being friends, I could do that, but that's just the kind of bait-and-switch maneuver I'd hate if someone tried to pull it on me.

I've decided to really buckle down this weekend and do my homework. i need to buy a sketchbook for my creativity class. and finish reading a couple of books and tweak this essay that's due next week.

this weekend the dog will be arriving and staying for the foreseeable future. next week, in addition to being the one before my vacation will be one of major adjustment.

eating the last of my birthday cake

tomorrow is my middle sister's 25th birthday, which means that it is officially no longer my birthday. so, i have yet to wrap her presents or do some of my homework, even, because i am overcome with some weird lethargy. it is exacerbated by the fact that i have social plans that i feel ambivalent, at best, about.

a few weeks ago, i went speed dating, as all of you know. oh! before I forget, The Litigator from said speed dating outing IM'd me today with the following lead-in: Hi babe!

Que?

that's his thing now. IM'ing me sporadically and asking weird, one-off questions and then getting off line. My nonchalant reply to his brush off worked. Mental note: Try this on a boy I actually care about sometime.

anyway, i have plans tonight with the other attorney i met at this venture. i remember distinctly following up with both of them because i was trying to stay engaged. now i feel that the moment has kind of passed and whatever. perhaps i'll perk up when that martini hits my blood.

confidential to my cyberstalker: You are on here too much and should heed my warning. You know who you are and you know what I'm talking about.

thirty five years

so, i write to you from what is almost the other side of 34 years of existence. the day i was born "Let's Get It On" was No. 1 on the Billboard charts. this fact confirms something fundamental about my life, though i can't exactly say what. all i can tell you is that i've come out on the other side of some stuff, am still wading through some other stuff, and am trying to embrace stuff other than that.

here's what i know: i've found more strength when i've embraced my femininity than when i've tried to wear a cloak of masculine detachment; i'm happiest when i'm not hiding my light under a bushel; i like to take care of people i love; my right side is my good side; i still love words so much--they are still my doorway into the heart of things; and having a problematic relationship with my dad robbed me of some things. Forgiving him before he died healed some things.

i like being in that place between buzzed and drunk and more than anything, i want to collapse into the right man's arms...

In Progress

Mr. Close Encounters came to pick up his edited manuscript on Saturday afternoon. C and I spent the morning in Hampden after dropping by my office briefly so I could drop off my laptop (I worked from home on Friday), and then came back to the apartment to drink mimosas until Catchka's Johnny Depp Movie & Tacos night (affectionately referred to as "Depp and Tacos").

I'd e-mailed him on Friday evening to let him know I'd finally finished, but as we were on the cusp of the long weekend, I thought it entirely possible that I wouldn't get a response until today. I knew he was getting anxious, though, so when he called on Saturday after reading my note, it made sense.

The last time I saw him was at the then new Starbucks in Mt. Vernon. This was back in January and I was 30 pounds lighter than the last time he'd seen me. I hadn't yet gotten into the MFA program, the big, consuming project at work wasn't yet over, and I was so rigid during our interaction because it was about me feeling like I had some control, me letting him know that I'd be the one walking away this time. And for as much as I walked away with some semblance of my lost dignity back, I also knew he knew I couldn't sustain eye contact with him. And I knew he knew why.

This time, the distance of months and the process of having read his book smoothed my sharp edges and it was easier being caught up in his prolonged hug, easier to look at him.

I made him a mimosa, sat beside him on the couch, and we hung out with C, watching a movie for the better part of an hour. When time dictated an organic end, he stood up. So I stood up and handed him the box that contained the pages that dominated my life for nearly a month. I dreamed in its narrative; I weighed every word.

Just before he walked back out of the gate of my apartment building, I was caught up again in his embrace. I must have tried to pull away, knowing me (I always try to end things first), but he held on longer. Then he took my hand. He looked me right in the face.

This morning, he wrote to tell me he'd immediately read the more lengthy edits and grew "on the spot" because of them. He called my effort an "incredible tool"--one that he's already started to wield to the end of satisfactory revision results.

I told you once that you can't always guess who the hero of the story's going to be.