Tshirts?
Did you want a Tshirt? I’m taking a headcount. I need to know if you want a long-sleeved white shirt or black shirt or tank top and the size. And would you want it to say Flawed But Authentic or You Read Me Like A Blog?
This is all preliminary, mind you. No actual orders or money is exchanging hands at this time. But if you COULD get one, WOULD you is kind of the question.
You Read Me Like A Blog
You might notice a new tagline in the November header. That is because this header is the last one to carry the Flawed But Authentic tagline. I guess this month my header is kind of sharing them both.
In a few days I’ll be announcing a new project. (I know, right? You can’t even believe it.)
See you then.
xo
Dating In Your Thirties
Joe and I don’t go on many dates. I mean the kind where you have a destination, like the opera, and you spend time primping yourself and curling your hair and wear lipstick. Our dates usually consist of jumping in the car and spending time getting ready by taking a shower, if we feel like getting really crazy.
This is fine. I’m not one for exerting all that energy too often to look a certain way. I prefer my jeans and a sweatshirt while we drive around and talk. Sometimes we stop and get a coffee. Sometimes we don’t. This is not to say that I don’t enjoy a nice dinner out with friends or something, because I do. Just not every week.
This short recipe for our dates is one of my favorite parts of our week. So much time is already taken with day jobs and freelance work. With mundane things like grocery shopping and the post office. And trying to plan some elaborate date for Friday night was just not happening. So somewhere along the line, we instituted The Drive.
“Wanna go for a drive?” Joe will ask. I’ll smile and say, “Sure.” And we grab the keys and go. And for the next hour, all the things that we haven’t found time to talk about for the last few days will come tumbling out, possibly out of order, but the jumbled nature doesn’t matter. We talk. And we talk a lot while we hold hands and listen to jazz on the radio in the dark.
Last night, as we drove around all the parts of our town and never reached any burned or charred fields or scarred skeletons of where a home used to stand, I felt so incredibly lucky. So fortunate. My heart aches for all those families that have found themselves homeless and who are hoping for the best case scenario to be that they had good insurance that will actually cover the fire damage, although so many things were lost that can never be replaced. I hope along with them. And I was thankful that we had a car and a bed at home. And that the air was clear and we could roll down the windows and not choke on scorched wind while we drove around and counted neon signs that were broken and missing letters.
By the time we’re done talking, the road will bring us home and scoot us into the driveway. We’ll kiss and grab the trash and head into the house. Dating in your thirties might not be the same as dating in your twenties. There is definitely less hairspray. But I like it.
Good Times Again
Left to right: Alison, Sheep, Joe, Margot and Matt a.k.a. Little Piggy
Always Me
I feel the need to rove. To travel. To roam the planet. I’ve had these feelings before and I’m sure I’ll get them again. Over and over again. It’s an itch under my skin that I just can’t get to because my fingernails are too short or my arms aren’t long enough to reach.
I want to go to Paris. Or down the street. Back to see my parents or my sister. I want to go to the beach and the movies and walk the rows at Target.
Remember when you used to drive down the freeway with the radio turned up and your favorite song playing and you’d look out the window and see miles of glittery dark and twisted tape? Someone had thrown it out the window – what was maybe their favorite tape or maybe their most unfavorite – and the wind had blown it into one very long glittery streamer. And you saw it out of the corner of your eye and wondered for a fleeting moment what tape it was. Country? Pop? Chicago 17? But the Patsy Cline playing in your car was so much better than anything out there on the ground that you let it go and went back to munching on sunflower seeds and drinking Dr. Pepper and singing along at the top of your lungs even though you aren’t that great of a singer.
If I go to Target and wander the rows I’ll end up spending money. I don’t want to do that. If I get a plane ticket I’ll spend money and I don’t want to do that. If I drive up the coast I’ll need gas and a place to stay and that costs money and I don’t want to do that.
The video interviews had much more to do with this than anything else I think. Now, after realizing I won’t be doing them, I can see that. Yes, I sincerely wanted to document a part of history and maybe I still will, but, the getting out and away and going somewhere and doing something…..that isn’t here where I am…..that is the thing that I crave.
I take myself everywhere with me, wherever I go. It doesn’t matter how far I ‘get away.’ And I do know that. But I also know that it takes a few days for me to catch up with me and in the meantime? I feel productive and worthwhile. I feel like a real person, whatever that is. And I’m happy.
When I come home, it’s all hot chocolate or a glass of wine on the front stoop and a happy hug to see me. It’s catching up on the news and sifting through the mail and feeling comfortable in my own skin wearing my comfy jeans and a sweatshirt with paint on it. And it all feels so great. The promise of what new projects might happen, as they loom on the horizon.
A few days later it hits me – I’m just me. And I’m home. And I’m always going to be me and things are never going to change. And living in that world of absolutes is what home turns into and I fight it and try not to obsess about it until it becomes so tight, this second skin, so tight. And I just want out. Someplace to go. Some people to see and talk to. Away from me. Before the darkness swallows me up again.
In No Particular Order
>We have friends coming this weekend. Yippee!
>I hope everyone knows how much I love my kids and my last entry was not supposed to mean otherwise.
>My ex did mention he was looking for work to me before my son mentioned it. It was the ‘far away’ part and the ‘back where I used to live’ part that got to me.
>Need some design work done? Ask me.
>I vote the weekend starts tonight.
>The word ‘autumnal’ makes me very happy. I say it over and over like a mantra.
>The Crazy is ebbing and flowing.
>I feel confined in a box. A smaller box than I used to be in. The highs are less high and the lows are less low. I dream about feeling the highs. I suppose some part of me misses it.
>I also dream about chain smoking and self-harming and eating disorders. So far not much of that has made it to the daytime hours.
>I’m sleeping better and longer than I have in years.
>I’m waking up at 7am every morning. Sleeping in is a thing of the past.
>I’m thinking mostly in lists and the rest of the time in ‘writing conversation’ style in my head. Pretty much all the time. Like right now.
>I would like to invite you over for a cup of coffee and crochet. I promise to talk in complete sentences. Mostly.
>If you are one of the people that couldn’t find me after I redesigned my homepage: sorry and I added a link now. Future employers will just have to be won over by my brilliant smile and critique me on my writing style more than content.
Fruit Salad
I sat at the table opposite my son and wondered not only at his ability to sound just like his father, but also to eat an entire bowl of fruit salad. A bowl that held at least 9 different fruits in their entirety and while I supposed the bite-sized chunks didn’t mind being nestled amongst each other in the plastic bowl, I did suppose they minded being inhaled without a second thought.
“And if Dad moves for his new job, it might be as far as Norway or something. We might spend six months abroad.” He chomped and fiddled his fork into another piece of papaya.
“Norway?” I blinked my eyes a few times. No words were readily available.
“Well, that’s just one idea. He’s also looking for jobs California.”
All the nights I planned with Joe the best way to move here. All the days spent telling ourselves that the sacrifices were worth it – living in this area we can’t afford – because it was close to them. And they needed me close to them. We were so wrong. Even more wrong than I knew last month. Last week. Five minutes ago. But those words weren’t ready to be spoken. So I stared at his jaw, chewing, and said only, “Wow.”
“It might be fun. And even if his new job is in San Diego, the football is great there.” Always thinking about football. It’s important. More important than me to a fifteen-year-old boy. Normal.
“I think what I’m wondering,” I said, “Is why you’re so ready to move after your dad telling me for the past 5 years how important it is for you to be here, in this particular spot, for the schools and the football.”
“Like I said,” he said casually, piercing a strawberry, “they have great schools and football there.”
“Where I used to live.” I stated. “Before I moved here. To be with you.”
“Uh, yes.” And he looked up and met my eyes, for the first time registering what I was getting at.
I maintained eye contact, holding him with my gaze for a moment before dropping it out of kindness. My goal, after all, is not to skewer him like fruit on a fork. “And you never thought of me as a viable home? If your dad moves, you could stay with me and finish high school – that didn’t cross your mind? To stay at this very important school? And football team? With me?”
The squirming was almost invisible, but it was there. He stared at a green grape and pushed it around with the tip of the tine, slowly, in the nearly empty bowl. “No.” And then his eyes met mine and he stared. ‘It didn’t. I don’t know why.” His eyes were slightly shocked and a little wary. And sad. And tired.
“But the football and the schools are great in San Diego, too.” I said quietly and quickly, taking his point of view. To save …what….? The moment? His feelings? “And it might be fun to move. It’s been a while since you have.”
“Ya, it’s kind of like starting over. It might be fun.” And with gusto, he took in the last bite.
Crazy 2.0
When I wrote my oh-so-very desperate and angsty entry a few weeks back, it would be fair to say that my mind was not functioning on all cylinders. It would also be fair to say that today I’m functioning on a little more than half and that is a nice improvement.
I wasn’t thinking beyond anything when I wrote it. What I mean to say is, whatever aftermath might occur was not even on my mind a tiny bit. Within 24 hours, I realized that there might be some kind of backlash, and that realization was mostly due to my husband bringing up the possibility. But I decided to not remove it or change it because up until that point, I don’t think I’ve ever removed a post and I didn’t want to start then. It feels like messing with history.
A few months ago, someone I follow online wrote on Twitter that they were considering suicide. I immediately unfriended them on Twitter. I didn’t even think about it. I think it was a physical/mental reaction to The Crazy. I wanted to be a little more removed from it. Especially as I was feeling myself getting sucked down as it was, all on my own. I didn’t feel strong enough to help someone else so I removed the relationship. I still read this person’s blog, however, because I didn’t want to lose contact all together.
I bring this up because I’ve noticed that since that post, approximately half my daily visitors have left, about a third of my daily subscribers have dropped me and I’ve had only 2 advertisers. I’m not shocked. I’m just noticing.
I suppose it’s not much different than when you walk down the sidewalk in the city, busy going someplace from someplace and you see that homeless person asking for change or the couple loudly fighting or the parent yanking their kid too hard by the arm – you just keep walking and look the other way, quickly considering whether you would be better served crossing the street to get by them or if you just plow ahead, eyes looking straight. You might even wonder for a split second if there is possibly something you could do or say that might help the situation but in the same second decide no, there really probably isn’t. You’re just going to have to feel uncomfortable for as long as you are around that element.
The web brings us so much closer together but I don’t know if anything has really changed. We’re a few keystrokes away but just as far emotionally if we want or need to be. It was sad to see some people that I considered friends drop me from friend lists but I can totally understand it. Now that the initial sting has worn off, I’m not pining away for the readers who left Leahpeah any more than I’m beating myself up for writing what I wrote. It happened. And that’s pretty much it. I have to use this medium to write what I need to write. Otherwise, there is no point to this personal blogging thing. But I am glad to have RealMental as a place to put some of the deeper mental issues.
Throat Condition
Regarding the song I Wear My Sunglasses At Night: what the heck is Corey saying during the chorus? It sounds like:
Don’t mess aBLEEECH a-da-BLEEECHaBLECHaBLEEEEEEEECH
I’ve pretty much always hated this song because of his odd throat condition.
Going Home
This trip home was by far one of the best ever. I think not having the kids created a different dynamic and even though I’ve learned in past years to appreciate my parents on an adult level, this was the only time I can remember going and having it be that way the entire time.
I’m working on a family recipe book for Christmas and I was hoping to add some old photos of our family. I asked my mom to help me look, which is kind of like asking someone casually if they’d like to climb Mt. Everest with you in about an hour. These kinds of things take preparations and it was hugely kind of my mom to just dig in and help me look through things in all the boxes. Isn’t she beautiful? Isn’t that quite a mess?
Here is one of my favorite family photos from the mid seventies. My hand is on my dad’s hand and I’m genuinely happy looking. I used to go back and look at it from time to time during some really hard years and wonder what happened to me.
To further spread this wicked rumor that I love lists, here is one from the early eighties. It’s aptly named The Roberts’ Recommended Reading list because if you are a young Mormon in the eighties, there is no such thing as too much Jack Weyland or Lee Nelson. If you look closely, I’ve even assigned which age groups will be approrpiate for which books. I knew a lot at age 9.
And this last list, this grocery list, I think is from the same time period. My mom would sometimes look through the cupboards and yell out what we needed from the store and then whomever was close, me in this case, would write it on the awesome fancy list holder thingy. As you can see, I got a little carried away including a pet hamster near the end and his grain ‘for chewey’ as the last item. Oh, I was a cut-up, I was.
But, this last picture is forever burned into my brain in a good way. This is how I imagine my parents were and are when no one is around and when they don’t have a zillion things weighing them down. My mom is giggling about how people will see this photo and think that they come out and swing all the time and my dad is laughing with her. It is definitely in my top 10 favorite images.
Thanks for a great week, Mom and Dad. xoxo
The North Garden
By the way, I’m in Utah. Here is the beautiful North Garden. It’s on the, uh, north side of the house.
It’s been a relief to be here because my mom is a list maker, too. We make lists together and we both feel awesome about it. I can feel my brain getting straightened out with all our list-making. Like, every second. Here is a glimpse into just how much I love lists. And this is just one from one day. And it’s from the morning. You don’t even want to know what it looks like now. It’s bad enough that the one I’m showing you tells you what foods we are eating and when.
Hurry! Look at this Fig tree so you forget how odd I am.
And, last but not least, here are the old grapevines that we love and that still kick it pretty nice. My mom is mad at the new ones because they have seeds even though they aren’t supposed to. Stupid new grapevines.
So, You Want To Make A Podcast
And I did. Now you can get both (ALL TWO of them) of the old columns in a podcast feed, thanks to Joe. Go ahead and subscribe. You know you want to. If you just want the MP3 file, click here. The song at the end of this one is called Chicken Bone Pizza, written by my sister Celia and sung by the very same Nate as last time. Man, I come from a talented family.
I What?
Because I love the sound of my own voice (false) I made the first of what I hope to be the entire series of old columns in MP3 form. You can listen to me drone on and on about the planets in Lucky Stars, Bad Signs and Planets in Retrograde. Text version here. The awesome music you hear in the intro is a sample from a song two of my brothers did for my sister on her birthday some years back. The end song, which I included in its entirety just for the fun of it, is my brother, Nato, singing a song that us younger kids sang growing up called I Like You. I believe my sister Rhoda made it up one day as we walked to the swimming pool on a hot summer afternoon and we all started singing different parts to harmonize. In this version, Nate is doing all the parts himself. Kind of talented, isn’t he?
I have a little bit of a cold but I hope that makes me sound sexy, not drunk and sleepy.
New Store
To keep away the crazy I’ve been busy crocheting many hats. You can see two of them on those casual male models just above. And painting. And sewing. I needed a place to put all this stuff, so now I have a store. You can order custom products or buy what’s shown. There will be some paintings showing up by mid-week. Along with more hats. Always more hats. I’m thinking about adding prints and patterns and whatever else I spend all day doing. And the T-shirts. I’m going to get them back up soon.
I also redid my website. I am trying for warm, inviting, creative and visually interesting. Getting all the little do-dads to show when I wanted them to kept me quite busy. There is still some work left to do, but I like it.
What’s next?
