If you type "adam" into your Google search, your first four choices are:
adam levine
adam lanza
adam sandler
adam lambert
Nearly everyone would know which titles match with which Adam--musician, comedian, television personality, movie star, murderer. I actually thought Lanza would be first on the list, considering the amount of media coverage surrounding the story and the Frontline that just aired. Levine being at the top of the list reminded me that middle school girls are still incredibly self-involved. But the second Adam, Adam Lanza, is the one I am thinking of today.
I'm not condoning his behaviors or making excuses. This was a horrible, tragic event. I don't know what can come from it. Other than the initial reaction of counting your blessings, it seems to have started a gun debate that, like almost everything political, has no right or wrong answers, and seemingly turns both sides into a bunch of cowards because everyone's made themselves so strident they've forgotten the concept of compromise can exist.
But it isn't the Facebook arguments or the memes that bother me the most, it's the need to assign blame. Blame the parents! Blame the sensory processing disorder! Blame the Asperger's! Blame the video games! Blame the schools for not getting him for help! Blame the shrinks! Blame the divorce! Blame! Blame! Blame! Well, the need to assign blame must be a by-product of our lawsuit happy society! Blame the lawyers! He wanted to top the death toll of that Norwegian guy who killed 77 people! Blame the media! Why are you reading about him? He's the bad guy! It's your fault!
Blame is an odd beast. It allows us to deflect our part in the humanity of others, to judge instead of attempt understand. We never have to consider our part in something when we shove the blame off on something else. The Newtown case is just a big, fat, glaring example of something we do everyday. Assigning responsibility for faults, no matter how large or minute, or judging and categorizing people are more the American pastime than baseball. This allows us to feel superior over others, but it really just makes us pawns in a game.
I'm trying to achieve a higher level of thinking when it comes to others, instead of blaming and judgment, I'm making an effort to experience the perceived fault as my own. Like it or not, many times the words or actions of others that we allow to affect us most negatively actually trip something about ourselves on which we need to work. Like I spoke about last time, this is all part of my journey of understanding.
And yes, I have blamed the dogs for farts. I'm a work in progress.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Saturday, February 16, 2013
When considering all the destruction in the world, there is none more tragic than the self-imposed. - Me
It is 3:30 in the morning and I am feeling guilty. I am warm, safe, and have a bitch on each hip. I had a good day at work. I made a pink and purple Barbie guitar cake for my buddy's daughter. I have a loving family and many friends who care for me. I have more blessings in this moment than I can share. But I am haunted.
I must talk of my blessings because that's the only way to really understand my story. I am a have. I have never had to go without. While I have been through some incredibly difficult times, I know that a big reason I no longer live as a victim is due to the support and stability of the circle around me. It's easy to act like I did it on my own, but that would just be an act. My longing to be authentic was greater than my act.
There is a streak of independence and individualism running through me. Some of it is innate and some has mellowed over the years.
My guilt?
My lack of understanding.
It's so conflicting, really. I believe wholeheartedly that we need to use positive thinking and visualization to create opportunities in our lives. I believe we get back what we put out. It's been said thousands of ways over the history of humanity, so it's not surprising that this concept is at belief status for me. And I have seen it work in my life--my Anne Frank quality. The ability to see the positive in a shitty situation. So I just assumed that anyone could put this to practice in his/her life.
My assumption failed because I forget that not everyone is blessed with a healthy mind. Maybe I am just getting to the age where The long-term mental health issues are really starring to ravage some of my friends. And I can instantly think of three friends with whom their mental health issues are also coupled with substance abuse issues. Thankfully, some of them are getting the help they need right now.
I remember the night I woke up in my bathtub, covered in puke and wishing I had choked on the vomit and died. I hadn't thought about that moment in a while. I was so sad and scared. But I like have said many times, any negative emotion is rooted in hurt. I was just a big pile of hurt, acting out self-destructively because I knew no other way. I asked the ceiling for some type of help and a wave of calm passed through me and said to just go to bed. When I woke a few hours later, I knew something had to change.
Several tries later, something started to stick. Maybe mostly because I wanted it to and my stubborn ass didn't want to be a slave to anything anymore.
It's a humbling process. It's a work in progress. And that's okay. A few years ago, I asked the Universe to teach me patience. I still regret that one sometimes, but I also feel like it's starting to stick.
My next lesson is to ask for understanding. And I think my three friends were the messengers sent to plant that request. I'm learning that recognizing and stopping self-destruction is far more difficult for someone who struggles with a mental illness. Acknowledging this is helping ease my mind.
It's late. I have stopped making sense and Alli wants to cuddle.
It is 3:30 in the morning and I am feeling guilty. I am warm, safe, and have a bitch on each hip. I had a good day at work. I made a pink and purple Barbie guitar cake for my buddy's daughter. I have a loving family and many friends who care for me. I have more blessings in this moment than I can share. But I am haunted.
I must talk of my blessings because that's the only way to really understand my story. I am a have. I have never had to go without. While I have been through some incredibly difficult times, I know that a big reason I no longer live as a victim is due to the support and stability of the circle around me. It's easy to act like I did it on my own, but that would just be an act. My longing to be authentic was greater than my act.
There is a streak of independence and individualism running through me. Some of it is innate and some has mellowed over the years.
My guilt?
My lack of understanding.
It's so conflicting, really. I believe wholeheartedly that we need to use positive thinking and visualization to create opportunities in our lives. I believe we get back what we put out. It's been said thousands of ways over the history of humanity, so it's not surprising that this concept is at belief status for me. And I have seen it work in my life--my Anne Frank quality. The ability to see the positive in a shitty situation. So I just assumed that anyone could put this to practice in his/her life.
My assumption failed because I forget that not everyone is blessed with a healthy mind. Maybe I am just getting to the age where The long-term mental health issues are really starring to ravage some of my friends. And I can instantly think of three friends with whom their mental health issues are also coupled with substance abuse issues. Thankfully, some of them are getting the help they need right now.
I remember the night I woke up in my bathtub, covered in puke and wishing I had choked on the vomit and died. I hadn't thought about that moment in a while. I was so sad and scared. But I like have said many times, any negative emotion is rooted in hurt. I was just a big pile of hurt, acting out self-destructively because I knew no other way. I asked the ceiling for some type of help and a wave of calm passed through me and said to just go to bed. When I woke a few hours later, I knew something had to change.
Several tries later, something started to stick. Maybe mostly because I wanted it to and my stubborn ass didn't want to be a slave to anything anymore.
It's a humbling process. It's a work in progress. And that's okay. A few years ago, I asked the Universe to teach me patience. I still regret that one sometimes, but I also feel like it's starting to stick.
My next lesson is to ask for understanding. And I think my three friends were the messengers sent to plant that request. I'm learning that recognizing and stopping self-destruction is far more difficult for someone who struggles with a mental illness. Acknowledging this is helping ease my mind.
It's late. I have stopped making sense and Alli wants to cuddle.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Homo Says What...
I ran in one of those really fun small town road races last weekend. I grew up in a small town and spent a lot of time wanting to be anywhere else. That was probably just a symptom of youth since the city in which I currently live isn't huge, but that's beyond the point. The point here was the race. It was a hoot. There was even a chili feed at the golf course afterwards.
I hadn't even heard about this race until a couple of weeks ago, when my friend, Formerly Known by Three Initials (FKTI), was in for lunch and mentioned she was running it with my friend, Currently Known by Three Initials (CKTI). Both of these ladies are serious runners. They talk about things like speed work. I admire that, really, I do. I think I should learn to be more like them, so I would get better times. But if I'm being honest with myself, I must admit that I have way more fun with the bitches, dodging geese and carrying bags of dog shit.
So anyway, I was intrigued enough by the thought of the Initial Girls and road race in February to sign up. The day I signed up was one of those weirdo gloriously warm days in which the sun shines and ice melts. Then the Alberta Clippers moved through and we went into a sub-zero deep freeze the week of the race. Schools were called off due to wind chill temps over -30 and below.
I was scarrrred.
I knew I would show up and suffer through it no matter what. I also know that wool socks and tights only do so much.
Thankfully, it was 16 degrees when I pulled into town the morning of the race and the wind wasn't too bad at all. I pounded a Red Bull on my way down and was jamming out to some Otis Redding, so I drove a bit faster than I should have and had plenty of time to spare before the race. This also gave me plenty of time to observe one of my favorite aspects of small town life, the Less Than A Degree of Separation aspect. Everybody knows everybody knows everybody. It's a comforting thing, really. Lots of hi and how are you-types of greetings. Talk about the last basketball game. It's pretty superficial. Nothing controversial, after all, this was a fundraiser for the school's booster club.
It was a four mile race, so we loaded up onto school buses to be driven out of town--no quitting if you gotta run back to town. So the Initial Girls and I piled on to the first bus. People were scattered all over, with an open seat here and there. We just went straight to the back of the bus and I plopped down in the single seat by the emergency door while they sat kitty corner from me.
Suddenly, a pack of dudes in matching red t-shirts were marching down the isle towards us. The stance and attire of the group screamed of a frat stereotype, but I try to be open-minded. I try.
They get to the back of the bus and the nice guy in the seat across from me scooted towards the window and said, "You can sit here, man."
He replied, "I'm WAY too homophobic for that," with a machine gun laugh.
"I'm not, so if any ladies wanna sit on my lap, get here," was out of my mouth, loudly, before I even realized what I said.
Sometimes, I'm okay with my lack of censor.
I hadn't even heard about this race until a couple of weeks ago, when my friend, Formerly Known by Three Initials (FKTI), was in for lunch and mentioned she was running it with my friend, Currently Known by Three Initials (CKTI). Both of these ladies are serious runners. They talk about things like speed work. I admire that, really, I do. I think I should learn to be more like them, so I would get better times. But if I'm being honest with myself, I must admit that I have way more fun with the bitches, dodging geese and carrying bags of dog shit.
So anyway, I was intrigued enough by the thought of the Initial Girls and road race in February to sign up. The day I signed up was one of those weirdo gloriously warm days in which the sun shines and ice melts. Then the Alberta Clippers moved through and we went into a sub-zero deep freeze the week of the race. Schools were called off due to wind chill temps over -30 and below.
I was scarrrred.
I knew I would show up and suffer through it no matter what. I also know that wool socks and tights only do so much.
Thankfully, it was 16 degrees when I pulled into town the morning of the race and the wind wasn't too bad at all. I pounded a Red Bull on my way down and was jamming out to some Otis Redding, so I drove a bit faster than I should have and had plenty of time to spare before the race. This also gave me plenty of time to observe one of my favorite aspects of small town life, the Less Than A Degree of Separation aspect. Everybody knows everybody knows everybody. It's a comforting thing, really. Lots of hi and how are you-types of greetings. Talk about the last basketball game. It's pretty superficial. Nothing controversial, after all, this was a fundraiser for the school's booster club.
It was a four mile race, so we loaded up onto school buses to be driven out of town--no quitting if you gotta run back to town. So the Initial Girls and I piled on to the first bus. People were scattered all over, with an open seat here and there. We just went straight to the back of the bus and I plopped down in the single seat by the emergency door while they sat kitty corner from me.
Suddenly, a pack of dudes in matching red t-shirts were marching down the isle towards us. The stance and attire of the group screamed of a frat stereotype, but I try to be open-minded. I try.
They get to the back of the bus and the nice guy in the seat across from me scooted towards the window and said, "You can sit here, man."
He replied, "I'm WAY too homophobic for that," with a machine gun laugh.
"I'm not, so if any ladies wanna sit on my lap, get here," was out of my mouth, loudly, before I even realized what I said.
Sometimes, I'm okay with my lack of censor.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
More Spark and Less Snark...
People are always leaving random reading materials behind at work. A stray newspaper here and there is always a good find for me. And then there’s all the little free advertising rags that get glanced at and tossed with a frequency that makes the forests weep. The other day I came across a devotional book of sorts. I shouldn’t really call it a book. It was more of a mass-produced magazine that a church must be able to order and then add their information in the front. It wasn’t anything super glossy. It wasn’t full of pictures. Since I’m the type of person who reads everything from toothpaste packaging to magazines, I had to take a look. The very first thing I landed on was intriguing, to say the least.
It was a commentary on love.
The basis was First Corinthians 13:7, from a translation called “The New Living Translation,” which said, “Love believes all things. Hopes all things. Endures all things.”
The cynic may say that sounds like a chump or a doormat. The romantic might grab the lofty wings of those words and pledge his eternally to his beloved.
I’m one of those people who believe that love is something you define personally. Love isn’t just the romantic-type of love that you think of initially. I’m sure cards and flowers can be fun from time to time, but any sort of gift or trinket is really pretty superficial if there isn’t any action behind it.
I love myself in the sense that I want to take care of my body and mind so that I am healthy and enjoy life. And the bitches taught me that I am capable of loving another creature more than I love myself. When I thought I was going to have to re-home one of them, my heart literally ached.
We’ve all felt that ache of heartbreak. Not the “We lost the big game” kind, but the “I gave him my heart and he crushed my soul” type, usually with a first love or in many cases with one that was never right to begin with or was immature. We’ve all heard the adage, “True love doesn’t have a happy ending because true love has no ending at all.”
Sure, we could get hung up on the idea that a true love is a one-on-one human connection. And maybe it is for some. But let’s push past that concept and look at true love as a manifestation of who you are. We need to enter every day with a genuine, real, and honest love for everyone with whom we come into contact, especially the ones who irritate us. Every living creature you meet, human or otherwise, gives you a chance to express love.
I’m going for more spark and less snark.
It was a commentary on love.
The basis was First Corinthians 13:7, from a translation called “The New Living Translation,” which said, “Love believes all things. Hopes all things. Endures all things.”
The cynic may say that sounds like a chump or a doormat. The romantic might grab the lofty wings of those words and pledge his eternally to his beloved.
I’m one of those people who believe that love is something you define personally. Love isn’t just the romantic-type of love that you think of initially. I’m sure cards and flowers can be fun from time to time, but any sort of gift or trinket is really pretty superficial if there isn’t any action behind it.
I love myself in the sense that I want to take care of my body and mind so that I am healthy and enjoy life. And the bitches taught me that I am capable of loving another creature more than I love myself. When I thought I was going to have to re-home one of them, my heart literally ached.
We’ve all felt that ache of heartbreak. Not the “We lost the big game” kind, but the “I gave him my heart and he crushed my soul” type, usually with a first love or in many cases with one that was never right to begin with or was immature. We’ve all heard the adage, “True love doesn’t have a happy ending because true love has no ending at all.”
Sure, we could get hung up on the idea that a true love is a one-on-one human connection. And maybe it is for some. But let’s push past that concept and look at true love as a manifestation of who you are. We need to enter every day with a genuine, real, and honest love for everyone with whom we come into contact, especially the ones who irritate us. Every living creature you meet, human or otherwise, gives you a chance to express love.
I’m going for more spark and less snark.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
I swear I've been writing things...
I've just been working. A lot. Holidays. And pissed cuz I can't be out running with the bitches. The treadmill gets me by, but the sub-freezing temps and ice patches make me long for a warmer climate. So I've been obsessed with remodeling the kitchen. Man Friend probably regrets the suggestion, since I'm always online and taking pics of things at Lowes now. Anyhoo... this is the inspiration. To months of work and dollars to be spent.
Modern Country Style: Anne Turner's Cottage Living Kitchen Before & Afte...: Hey there, sugarplum, I hope you're feeling fine and dandy. But if you're not, if the cold wintry greyness is getting you down, then I ha...
Modern Country Style: Anne Turner's Cottage Living Kitchen Before & Afte...: Hey there, sugarplum, I hope you're feeling fine and dandy. But if you're not, if the cold wintry greyness is getting you down, then I ha...
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
A List is Just a List...
Once in a great while, I decide to really clean the house. Not that the place is ever ready for a reality show or anything; the dishes are done and the laundry is maintained. You would never have to be afraid to use the bathroom here, okay? I just wouldn’t earn the Good Housekeeping seal of approval…
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
However, the past few days have been incredibly productive. Man Friend and I spent time rearranging furniture and art, you know, really setting the place up. He’s good at that stuff, he says things like, “You have the square footage, you just aren’t fully utilizing it.” Swoon. Don’t get me started about when he talks about load bearing walls.
The fantastic part is that the living room feels a lot bigger now, as well as more functional. Plus, this gorgeous entertainment center that he built, AKA “The Big Unit,” is now the hub of the area. Alli is taking her time getting used to the new configuration and Joey could care less as long as she can sleep on the couch.
I have to be honest, though. The most fun of this whole escapade was finding a bunch of notepads with weird lists I made. I love lists. I have legal pads, notepads, and sticky notes stashed everywhere. I make grocery lists, lists for my days off, lists of errands, you get the drift. If I have an important baking project or holiday dinner to prep for, I make the list in the order in which I will go through the store. I have contemplated drawing maps. If I don’t write it down, it probably won’t happen. NOTE: Let the sun rise in the morning.
Much time in my life has been spent writing lists, checking off lists, and throwing away completed lists. I love the sense of accomplishment of a completed list. Thankfully, an uncompleted list doesn’t drive me crazy. I just add what’s left to the next list…
One of the lists I found really made me giggle as it was a list of ideas for blogs:
•Dumb hippies who try too hard
•You should have to maintain a certain GPA to get gov’t loans/aid
•Bread—how dependent we’ve become
•My closet love of Nicki Minaj and Hanson.
•Why do the teabaggers claim Ayn Rand?
•Professional athletes are prostitutes
•People who think Alli is a pitbull
I know Alli guest blogged on the last topic. That was a bitch to dictate.
Another list I found was super weird, but the fact that I made said list speaks to my love of lists… anyone who lives in my area will remember there was tons of flooding a few summers ago. In my city, it was mostly limited to basement flooding, but we had a few huge rains and lots of people living near rivers lost everything.
I was fortunate enough to not have to deal with those type of issues, but we did have a neighborhood issue with the sanitary sewer system. A line broke, everything was overstressed and we were asked to not flush our toilets, run our showers, or add any water to the sanitary system during “the crisis.” On the plus side, I learned that I am not afraid to shit in a bag and that I can get completely ready with a small bottle of water, a tin bowl, and a wash cloth. Call me Half Pint.
But the point here was that along with the call to not stress the sewer, I was also in the zone where the mayor said there could be sewer backups in the basements. That meant sorting through things in the basement and deciding what needed to come upstairs just in case Poop River picked my house.
Again, I got lucky. Poop River stayed north. The big sort in the basement got me thinking and I decided that I needed to do a big pitch. I challenged myself that I would get 100 items out of the house before I could bring anything into the house, not even a gallon of milk. A regular person might have just trusted that they would ditch 100 items or maybe do a slash count. You already know what I did, with a coded system of Gave Away = ga, Goodwill = gw, Sell = s, Recycle = r, or Trash = t.
I won’t bore you with the whole list:
1-7. Underwear for doggie periods (ga)
8. Diapers for dogs (ga)
30-39. Pairs of socks (gw/t)
56. Top Hat calendar (t) (You know which one.)
84. Peppers from flowers (t)
85. Callus remover (t)
95-100. Various projectors and film shit that sat in the garage for years
101-105. Expired condiments from fridge (t: food waste/r: containers)
147. Pom poms (gw) (I had pom poms?)
148. Earmuffs (gw)
149. Cast iron skillet (gw) (Weaponry?)
I have never felt so completely weird and so completely normal simultaneously. I guess that just means I like me.
Monday, November 19, 2012
And the spirits played on...
I went through one of those existential phases in my early 20s, where I decided there couldn’t possibly be any type of spiritual afterlife or divine creative force. I was never one of the lemmings to the sea types and I doubt growing up in a Footloose-type town really helped. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to believe in something, it was more that it never made sense that I was given a brain and all sorts of interesting books, music, and people to talk to, and somehow it was all gonna be served up on a nice platter for easy consumption.
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
So after some muddling in my teens, a lot of alcohol-fueled anger and a general pissed at the world attitude said, “Done.” I decided, yes, Camille, God was an invention of Man. I think I still do believe that in a socially constructed context, but that’s a story for another day.
My ideas on spirituality and an afterlife changed for a simple reason: Ghosts. Ghosts are not quite right, since that conjures up a negative connotation. Spirits is better, as in the spirits of those who have passed. I had a few experiences with spirits, some of which I didn’t really understand at the time, and most of which was just sort of a playful, “Hey, I’m here,” like the one who would push the quarters back when I started the dryer in the basement of the Brownstone. Sometimes, they spoke to me in my dreams. Sometimes I recognized them, but most times I didn’t. One time, I was one of them in my dream, a man dying in a hospital bed. I could tell by our hands he thought there should have been more time in his life.
I didn’t want to accept the communication, because it simply was something for which there was no rational. And if I could see and feel the communication from these spirits, I certainly could no longer discount the concept of an afterlife. Okay, universe, I’m listening.
The great part of all of it was that I’ve learned to slow down and see the cues and find the lessons. The best part is when someone I know drops by to say hello.
My friend, Tim, was one of the most interesting people I have had the pleasure to know. He was kind and complex, messy and hilarious, and struggled with addiction and health issues. My favorite attributes of his were his sense of humor and his genuine ability to connect with people. He was so completely all in when it came to living. In life, he was the type who would talk to anyone. After he died, I knew he would make sure to stop by now and again; he would never let us go too long without thinking about him.
By a strange turn of events, Timmy and I ended up going to the American Idol finale a few years ago, the one where it was Kris Allen versus Adam Lambert. I must admit that I did not watch much of that season, or really any season for that matter, but knew what was going on thanks to co-workers and general media coverage. My auntie gave us two tickets in the 20th row and the buzz was that there would be amazing star performances. I certainly wasn’t going to pass that up, plus a few days in L.A. with Timmy were bound to be fun.
We were not so secretly hoping that Paula Abdul would be falling off her chair loaded. We even made a point to visit her star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame the day before and say a little selfish prayer to that effect. Ryan Seacrest was even tinier than we imagined. The Idols were brilliant. The whole night was brilliant really. We saw Jason Mraz, Black Eyed Peas, Queen Latifah, Lionel Richie, Cindi Lauper, Rod Stewart, and KISS perform. Now, seeing KISS almost put me over the edge. I was screaming like it was 1979. And then, during the commercial break, a large banner dropped and covered most of the stage. Tim and I were having a, “Oh my lord, can you believe we just saw KISS” moment and experiencing general bliss, when I saw him. I wouldn’t mistake the skinny man with the big black hair. Brian May walked on stage. I started pounding on the arm of the man sitting next to me and said something unholy about just seeing Brian effing May. Sigh. Lambert killed “We Are The Champions” with Queen. There’s no replacing Freddie, but he was pretty damned great.
Somehow in our part of the audience, we were in this little pocket of gay men. Of course, the tween female demographic was the majority of the studio audience, but we managed to fit in the gay haven. Perfect for oh so many reasons...
But the point of this part of the story is that Kris Allen won that night. Since we were in gay haven, we heard plenty of, “Oh the little kids just get on every phone in the house and vote as many times as they can.” Blah, blah. Tim’s take? “They are both really talented so it didn’t really matter who won. Now, IS there an open bar at the after party?”
I’m giggling a little just thinking about this since we ended up meeting a bunch of the Idols, having great food and drink, and dancing the night away. Since the show started at five and the party at seven, we even managed to do midnight IHOP and get to the airport by five the next morning.
It was a crazy whirlwind, three-day trip and we made a bunch of memories that I’ll never forget.
Timmy passed away earlier this year and I do miss that crazy sense of humor. I miss him stopping in to the restaurant where I work for a late dinner and a glass or three of wine. Even if I was cut for the night and ready to hit the door, I stayed to wait on him and catch up.
And as things go on for the living, I did think of him from time to time, when something made me laugh or I heard a certain song.
Last week Wednesday, I was at work, just having a normal weeknight. There was an event at the Pavilion and hunters in town, so it was fairly busy. I got a table of four twenty-something guys, who looked like artists of some sort, whether they were writers or musicians or whatever didn’t really matter to me. They were just genuinely nice people who wanted to have a good meal.
Earlier that week I had been thinking about another person who used to tell me “Faith, love, and hope were the most important things in life.” I agreed with her statement but also thought that “grace” should be on the list. So I had been thinking about grace and about times in my life when I felt like I was in a state of grace. Grace was also my maternal grandmother’s name and she was a woman who believed in faith, love, hope, and grace.
Timmy loved my Grandma Grace.
While I was answering a couple of menu questions for the four top of the artist guys, I noticed one of them had several tattoos. Clearly on the outside of his right arm was a permanent “GRACE.”
Hi Grandma.
He knew I was looking at him oddly, so I had to tell them about faith, love, hope, and grace. And they instantly understood. They didn’t look at me weirdly or question the connection, they thought it was cool and agreed that grace fits right in the mix. He also had turtle tatts like mine, so I couldn’t help but wonder if he was my long, lost brother or something.
One of my co-workers asked if the guys at the table were my friends, she said they “Look like guys you’d be friends with.” Since they were cool, I took that as a compliment and relayed the story when I was back at the table. They thought that was funny, but none of them jumped in to say exactly what they did for a living, so I figured they were unemployed bums with credit cards.
Kidding.
I overheard something about “You should do a song with him.” They were musicians. Cat’s outta the bag. I just hoped to grab a name off and credit card and then do a Google search later. God bless technology. I figured any group of musicians that humble and nice was worth checking out.
So when the meals were eaten and the checks split up, I went over to the computer to run the credit cards. And when I looked down at the cards, I felt like a chump and then had a great laugh.
The name?
Kris Allen.
Timmy, you crafty little shit. I know you and Gracie got a kick out of this one. XXXOOO
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