Happy Happy Joy Joy

A few weeks ago, I escaped on an overnight to Atlanta with a good friend. She had an appointment down there, 4.5 hours south of Nashville and I basically invited myself.

The plan was to eat and shop…and we did, though I did not score anything much. I do not count the $39 Ikea blanket as a fabulous score, despite the reasonable price. I marked it as “necessity.” I got one cool dress, but my goodness, there was disappoint to discover II can’t even score big with the clothes in Atlanta. Something is wrong with me and I think it is a combination of age 44 and extreme cheapness.

However, success was found in solitude, in the disconnect from the daily routine — the lunch-making, the car-line, the working, the cooking, the dog walking. I know you know.

When my girlfriend left for her appointment early in the morning, I was left in a hotel room all by myself for five hours.

I had coffee, watched the morning shows — which I rarely ever do — I read the free newspaper in bed. I went to the gym and worked up a sweat. I took a long shower. I sat at the desk, fiddled with Twitter and Facebook, jotted down writing ideas, read about Angelina in Vanity Fair. I wore fuzzy socks.

In my college world religions class, I learned about a culture who believes that when we die, our soul travels up to the top of the Universe and is suspended for all eternity in its own Bubble of Bliss. There are others in their own Bubbles of Bliss all around you, but you don’t know it, and if you did, you wouldn’t care anyway, because you’re in your own Forever Bubble.

Hotel rooms are my own Bubble of Bliss.

I didn’t think about this much until I started attending blogging conferences. For as much as connecting with my tribe is wonderful, heading back to a hotel room alone is just about as sweet.

Writing down all this hotel love, I am struck at the memory of thinking a friend of mine odd for her hotel habit. She told me about it maybe seven years ago, or so (Our daughters are the same age). Every once in a while, when she needs to disconnect, to recharge, she leaves the husband and kids at home and checks into a local hotel. I remember her telling me that she sleeps well, she reads, she watches movies.

I don’t think I got it then, but I so get it now. (The woman is genius, really.)

As the Atlanta escape ended and my girlfriend and I got back in her Mama Fab Van and headed north to Nashvegas, I was recharged (an a little high on free hotel coffee).

And a recharged me means I connect better with my family and the creative goods flow better in my work.

And well plus, I’m always happier when someone else makes the beds.

“Mama, her voice sounds kind of funny,” she said nodding toward the stereo.

The voice she heard belongs to a pop singer without much range, a young woman who once melted down publicly and is attempting to come back. The voice on her latest single is most definitely not completely human.

I explained that some popular singers aren’t really great singers. They get some, or a lot, of help in the studio. They’re famous anyway because, well, maybe they’re good performers.

I didn’t tell her that we really don’t know why on earth some people get famous and rich with little, or no, talent. (Have you heard of this girl/woman? Horrifying!)

The conversation left me with a strange feeling. Like, I’ve cracked into her childhood a little bit and taken away from some of the truths we are teaching her. Like, do good work and you are rewarded. But, now she kind of knows: Hey, you can’t sing (or act) you can still get on the radio.

She now knows that what you see and hear isn’t always authentic, and I guess that is good.

Maybe I am bothered by her new awareness because it seems like some trust and innocence is lost.

Now she makes a habit of commenting on the singers’ voices.

“Mama, do you think her voice is real?”

“Mama, I think his voice was good and really his.”

“Mama, I think they put her voice through a machine.”

“When I grow up and become a singer, I won’t need auto-tune.”

Here’s to praying she’s always authentic.

Hallmark came to Nashville last week and I snagged an invite to a small gathering they had with local bloggers.

It was mostly conversation about celebrating the little things in life, and getting to know a little bit more about how they go about creating the cards and products that help us express words and feelings.

I learned some of them have titles such as “emotioneer” and I would love to be a Hallmark “font specialist,” as I have a thing for fonts. I love how they evoke emotion by the very simple point of whether there is a serif or not, whether it is curly or long or not. Anyway, I can’t design a lick, so that is out. I have to stick to writing.

Quickie disclosure: I am working with Hallmark over on the Tiki Tiki on the Life is a Special Occasion campaign, which means they sponsor essays in the ‘del alma” section. (Here’s the last post on “dichos of encouragement.”)

OK, one of the things we did during our gathering in Nashville was to announce what is a most special occasion in our lives. Hallmark gave us a t-shirt and a purple Sharpie.

See what I wrote: “Singing in Spanglish with my Daughter…is a Special Occasion.”

I explained I often have to trick Maria into speaking Spanish with me via games and song. And when she sings along with me to anything from Julio Iglesias to Marc Anthony to In the Heights, I am delighted, elated, overjoyed, proud.

This super cool tee — a blank one — and other cool Hallmark stuff will be given away soon on the Tiki Tiki. Watchea for it.

And, if you want to see the beautiful and talented Nashville crowd — the Center of the Blogging Universe — and what they wrote, check out the photo gallery.  (The photo of me was taken by the talented Kevin Cozad, a Hallmark photographer. Imagine that job! Wepa!)

Now, tell me:

What makes a Special Occasion for You?

Ha! What the hell do experts know? And, certainly, those shoulder-pad, big-hair wearing experts of 1989 did not know about the Internet, where the Mean can be Queen. (They also didn’t foresee greedy, bailed-out Wall Streeters).

I have been reading the round-ups for the decade that was the 2000s, and predictions for the 2010s. I am doubtful of predictions beyond the ones that say we’re going to be more and more and more wired. (I add that we’ll also be more and more and more exhausted).

And, while I too got scabs in the 2000s, and suffered the collective sadness brought on by everything from 9-11 to the darkness of the recession, I took my own inventory and it wasn’t so damned bad. Gracias a Dios.

The 2000s were the decade of my Putting on My Big Girl Panties — the decade I had to put into practice what I learned in the Therapy of the 1990s.

A personal synopsis: The decade opened with my marriage on the correction from a skid. We moved from our gentrified, hipster hood smack in the middle of the city to a house in the wooded Boonies.

We then went headlong into infertility treatment — from 2001 to 2003. I cried a lot in 2002.

I was face down on the bed, passed out like a drooling drunk, in March 2003 — my first trimester — when my editor called to give me the next day’s assignment.

“We’ve gone to war,” she said.
“Shit,” I said, and rolled over to sleep some more.

So, in this decade of turmoil, I became a mother. My heart expanded by a million times. As our country has divided and contracted, I have been watching someone grow and bloom. A blessing and a perfect pill for purposely shutting out the cold, hard stuff.

And, for sure, this decade will forever remind me my mettle was tested by early motherhood — long ass labor, bad latch, round-the-clock expelling of breast milk with a very big machine, sleepless teething, hiring of nannies, the guilt, sadness and exhaustion of being a work-outside-the-casa-Mami.

Smack in the middle of the decade, I quit my full-time reporting job, launched a business and began to work at home — everything from freelance to dinner to vacuuming to potty training. (I longed for my downtown cubicle sometimes.)

So, the second half of the decade is a blur of mom’s groups, Pollitos pitching, toddler hell, wondering why I can’t seem to get those baby albums finished. I launched the Boonie blog (2006), sent child to school full-time. Turned 40! Husband survived a few rounds of buy-outs and lay-offs.

In the shadow of recession, started a second business — the PR and copy writing one — wrote freelance again, added Chichi&Flaco, launched a second blog, started and stopped and started and stopped writing a novel — the same one I started and stopped in the 1990s. My metabolism slowed. Chin hair sprouted.

On the family front, my brother fell in love, got married, had two beautiful, healthy babies. My parents both survived cancer. Friends who should not have died, did. Others had babies, moved to new cities, lost their jobs, launched businesses.

In this decade, I also severed ties with some and reconnected with others. Used a big stick when I needed it. Let go when it was time. No regrets. The mantra has been “Next right thing.” In Big Girl Panties, of course.

In the next decade, my daughter will enter puberty and I likely will enter menopause. When the decade is over, she will be 16 and I will be 52. My husband likely will be retired.

While these last ten years have been both invigorating and exhausting, let me tell you, amigo, I can easily predict that the next ten in this Boonie household — full of hormones out of whack and drama-loving Cuban-Americans — will be as scary as riding a roller coaster without a seatbelt.

So, I’m bringing the Big Girl Panties into the next decade. And, getting Maria her own pair.

And how was your decade?

Happy 2010! Now, go mop your house!

A perfect snapshot of Modern Living, I think.

***

Do you read the newspaper? Seriously, you should. Wonderful nuggets.
I cannot stop thinking about the woman who baked more than 4,000 cookies for Christmas. Why?
And, from the obits, I learned of an 83-year-old man named Finis. He was the last of his mother’s 15 births (10 children lived), hence a name that meant “The End.”
I would have liked to have met his mom.

***

I left the door between the guinea house and the enclosed pen open one night. On that night, something — bobcat, fox, wolf, raccoon, who knows — pried open the pen door, got into the coop and walked out with one of the guineas.

The surviving birds were outside the coop, in the rain, making a racket when I woke. It’s how I learned of the kidnapping. I found no remains.

Fast forward a few days. Maria and I, and a 6-year-old friend, went for a walk in our woods. Just off the trail, about a five minute walk from the coop, there’s a spot in the brown leaves that looks as if someone has shaken a down pillow. I let the girls walk ahead of me a bit and go look.

Nothing but feathers.

I am in awe. Amazed by the destruction and the eerie scene. I wish I knew a CSI to help me discover the culprit, a determined beast who has pried open the pen door every night since. Frustrated no doubt, because now I always close the wooden coop door.

***

Christmas morning Maria was pleased to hand me the envelope she decorated with pictures of us both, plus trees and curly lines. Inside was a gift certificate to a skin-care salon, a gift from my husband and my daughter.

“Mommy, it is so you can go get your skin back to your younger days.”
I glance sideways at my husband.
His palms are up in defense.
“I swear I only told her it was for a facial.”

Honestly, I am just glad my 6-year-old daughter realizes I, indeed, had younger days.

Future Me

So, I have been playing hookie un poco. It’s why there hasn’t been much action around here.

Around mid-day — when I already have put in at least six hours at the computer — I think about all that I still could do, and I say: “Pal’ carajo.”

I head to the pool. The water is 87 degrees. The temperature outside has been in the 40s.

I jump around for nearly an hour by myself, singing old dance songs — “I Will Survive!” — to myself to keep motivated while I “jog” and frog jump and cowboy kick my way back to feeling spritely again. Sometimes, I take the water aerobics class with the old folks, who are so cranky they are a blast.

The old ladies who hang at the back of the pool mutter under their breath, talking trash about the young instructor they refuse to get used to. They miss the old instructor. And, truth is, the young one does have a few things to learn.

“You can’t do that if you have a hip replacement,” one old lady hisses, looking around at her cohorts, who nod in agreement and keep bouncing.

I love them. They make me feel young and positive and help me remember the reason I am playing hookie — to keep myself feeling young and positive.

I’ve been a little cranky lately. Tired and cranky. And my hips have hurt from so much sitting. And, you know what gets wider when you sit too much, si?

So, I took a personal inventory and realized I am out of balance. I need to work smarter, have more fun. And, driving Maria to birthday parties does not count as leisure and fun.

In the past, I made time for Zumba, belly dance and the treadmill, but early this Fall, I hurt my knee. I was sprinting on a river trail. It is something I had absolutely no business doing. I don’t run. But, it was a gorgeous Fall morning and I got all inspired — and desperate. The injury assessment guy said I could have a torn meniscus and likely would need an MRI, and possibly surgery. That’s when I headed to the pool. It is only in the last week or so that my knee feels better. It likely was a sprain and not worse.

But everything happens for a reason, right?

It took some overwork, some major cranky, and the knee injury, to remind me to get off my ass. And it isn’t just about exercise. I like playing house. I like baking bread and playing with scrap booking supplies. Hell, I even like mopping.

Since I started doing the aqua thing, and taking the time for myself (I have baked three loaves of bread in two days!), I am working smarter and I am so much more damned cheerful. And you know, when Mami is happy, everybody is happy.

So, if I am not around here much, now you know why. I’m doing underwater grapevine with the viejos.

What are you doing for yourself?
Need inspiration. Check out this Tiki Tiki post.

*photo from Flickr by Mike Fischer.

We took to the woods yesterday. Maria, the cat, the guineas and me. I brought the Flip and as you will see by her expression at the end, she was not happy about my messing with the spiritual experience she was having. The song she is singing is a Taize meditation song, Veni Sancte Spiritus, which I had played over and over again yesterday morning. It was just that kind of morning. It was so beautiful out, it was an act of worship to record it.

This is usually my season of bitching.

It starts the minute the thermometer begins to regularly dip below 65. It has been raining a lot here, so the bitching started earlier than usual.

“You’re cold? Why?” my husband asks.

What do you mean, why? I just am.

He’s never cold. He has Pioneer blood. Me, I have “Mix me up another Mojito out by the 98 degree pool”’ blood.

And yet, I welcome the Fall. It is beautiful here. You can see evidence of the glory that is a Tennessee fall if you click over to the posts page and watch the short photo slide of what sits outside my windows.

On Sunday, I spent a few hours on a lawn chair set next to my friend’s creek. We basked in the sunshine, drank tea and chatted while the water “talked to itself,” as Laura Ingalls Wilder likes to say about flowing creeks. It was nourishing and a full-on reminder of why I love my Boonies.

And because I am old enough to recognize the patterns in my life, I realized a few years ago that good things tend to happen to me in the Fall. I had my kid, for one. And many others that would just bore you. I am waiting for this year’s extra good thing. (I hope it entails the loss of a few pounds.)

As I write this, it is golden outside again. It is in the 60s, which I can manage without one complaint. But, I am inside. Answering e-mails, getting ready for a work phone call, checking orders, putting off laundry, putting off sitting down to write my day’s worth of words for NaNoWriMo. I need to get outside in this because soon, no amount of fleece will make me go out there unless I have to.

While the bitching goes on in my head, I battle it with thoughts of good things that Fall usually brings, and something so wise and fabulous my acupuncturist told me one dark October day years and years and years ago.

“Nature is getting ready to rest. We are a part of nature, so now, we must rest.”

That sage advice has carried me through dark winters for a long time. It has allowed me to say no to extra work and holiday social invitations, to focus inward and keep my spiritual and physical hearth stoked.

But, today as I think about the darkness and cold that awaits, I am wishing I could spend winter days resting at an unseasonably warm, sunny beach. Mojito in hand.

Even if it is so damned pretty out there right now.