What Liz Said

The idea of being a mom is a lovely thought. Watching your child (or children) grow up. Their first word. Their first step. Their cute baby fuzz that passes for hair on the top of their head. Onesies with boats and ducks on them. Becoming a parent is one of life’s miracles.

Then there are times that leave me wondering whether I’d be a good mother. Being trapped on an airplane with screaming children is one of those times.

I was on a shuttle plane from Boston to Washington DC on Thanksgiving Day a few years ago. It’s common knowledge that it’s one of the craziest days to travel, but I had no options and apparently was feeling adventurous.

The flight was delayed by six hours as there was only one runway open in DC due to severe winds. I spilled coffee all over my nice white blouse that I wore since I was going straight from the airport in DC to dinner. I ended up having to blow $50 at the airport for a cheaply made ill-fitting hot pink touristy souvenir Boston sweatshirt. (It went great with my gray tweed slacks, let me tell you.) My seat just happened to be in the very last row against the back corner, next to someone who probably thought exercise was some ancient ritual that sent sinners to hell. We had turbulence the entire way from Boston until we hit the tarmac at Dulles Airport.

I was in no mood.

This one child provided a screeching wailing soundtrack the entire two hours that we were in that plane. No matter how loud I turned up my music, Paul Oakenfold was still punctuated with screams and cries.

Yes, I understand babies can’t help it. They are very sensitive to the cabin pressure changes. That still didn’t stop murderous thoughts of throwing the baby out the airplane door from flashing through my mind. No amount of cooing or “Look at the toy!” from the kid’s mother appeased him/her/Satan Spawn. In fact it just seemed to egg him on.

More thoughts passed through my head. Suffocation. Screaming back at the child. No one around me seemed to mind the shrieking, so apparently I was the bad guy. I sunk lower in my seat, as if somehow the mere two inches would be the difference between Crying Baby Hell and Blissful Silence and Tranquility.

I was wrong.

We finally landed. At Thanksgiving dinner, prior to turkey and stuffing, I had four Tylenol and a whiskey straight.

I’m sorry but itty bitty screaming babies and airplanes do not mix, especially if there is a Liz involved. I’m not a bad person, I swear! I just treasure the precious bit of sanity I do have.

My parents divorced when I was two years old, and a few months before my 14th birthday, I was sent to live with my father as my mother was deemed unfit. From the age of 14 on, I counted down the days until I could go away to college. I wanted an escape. I loved my father, but I could not stand living there. I never felt wanted. I never fit in to their grand plan.

Their life was money, first class, wine lists, fine clothing, and prestige and no matter how hard I tried I was the odd one out; I was the black sheep. I wanted to fit in, though. I wanted to belong in this fabulous lifestyle. The lifestyle where we’d go off to Nantucket or London, never have to worry about money, etc. Where everyone oozed success and greatness. The sad reality was that I never quite belonged. I erred on the side of artsy. I felt as if my ideas were always seen as impractical; I had to mold myself into someone else in order to fit in. I thrived in theater instead of sports. i was never a daughter one could brag about in social circles. My one strength was that I always put away stellar grades. I was smart. I was outgoing.

College time came around and I was thrilled. I received offers and quite a few hefty scholarship offers from all the schools I applied to and ultimately ended up at Boston University. It was everything I wanted which was pretty much one thing: Far away from Washington DC and an urban environment. I had fallen in love with Boston as it was a stopover on our way to and from Nantucket one summer.

I had a sick feeling in my stomach, however. Escape was what I had always wanted. I wanted to get away. This was what I had been waiting for all these years. Every time I had been reduced to tears just because I didn’t wash a dish properly I would remind myself that all I had to do was get through high school, and freedom would be waiting for me on the other side. It didn’t matter that I always felt ashamed or as if everything I did was wrong, I would be out of there after senior year. I could not shake the dread of impending disaster, sadly, but I just kept my head up and my focus remained forward.

To quote Ian Malcolm in Jurassic Park, “God, I hate being right all the time.”

I arrived at Boston University in September 2001, and within a month my resolve withered. I guess part of me expected that with freedom came wisdom, understanding, and direction. Instead I found confusion, lack of self-esteem, and depression. I was completely capable of doing work; not to toot my own horn, but there was a reason I got into every school I applied to. Yet I could not get it together, and like a house of cards, I fell to the ground in a heap. I self-destructed. I didn’t come to college to go to college. I went to college to get away from my problems. What I didn’t realize, however, was that I had no idea who I was and I was left aimless and without a safety net.

I slept a lot and focused on things that made me happy. Photography, writing, and movies. I felt like this shell of a human being, and my depression was only reinforced by the notion that I have finally achieved what I had fought for for years: freedom. What was I doing with it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I could hear the voice of my stepmother in my head, all the times she called me a loser (or other various names) and couldn’t help but believe she was right.

I said to myself, “This must be rock bottom.”

By the time July 2002 had rolled around, the relationships with my father and stepmother were completely demolished, although there wasn’t much there to begin with. After spending a week in self-imposed isolation in my room of our Great Falls 4 bedroom colonial I emerged. I knew I wasn’t going to be allowed to stay living with the, nor did I want to.

I wanted to move to Boston.

Photo by me.

A week later, with my whole life packed into two over-stuffed suitcases and $500, I arrived at Logan International Airport. I remember breathing this tremendous sigh of relief. I was free. Again. I arrived at my apartment in Boston, on Huntington Avenue, near Jamaica Plain. It was summer. The sun was bright and shining. I had a little fan in my baby blue room. I deliberately put away my clothes in silence, just enjoying the sounds of birds chirping set against a chorus of honking cars, the T (Boston Subway) chugging along the street, and the smell of summer wafting around me.

The years that followed were filled with strife, heartache, and lots of experience, yet it was when I feel I was born. That’s when my life started.

My life started when, for the first time, in a city of strangers and no friends, I felt at home. i don’t know what that says about myself, but it was liberating. Was I scared? Of course. I had never been on my own. I had never managed money. I had never worked a full-time job. All of a sudden I was thrust into the real world. I had been to London, New York City, and everywhere in between, and yet this was the first time I felt like I was seeing the world for what it really was: limitless options.

I was so excited. A girl with a suitcase full of dreams and clothing from the Gap in a big, bright, and bold city.

That’s when the Liz I am today started to take shape.

It amazes me to look back on the hard times in my life. Sometimes I do look back and cringe, but other times I realize that while times were tough and some situations were of my own design, I wouldn’t change any of it. It turned me into a survivor. It’s what has given me my strength.

How funny is it that what I thought was the biggest failure of my life, which was supposed to destroy my future by society’s standards, is what led me to become so damned happy.

Even the time I was homeless, but that’s a story for another day…

It’s been almost a year since the demise of my last relationship. His admission of “I just can’t do this anymore” came two months too late, as we’d spent those months in a destructive stalemate, while he “tried to figure out” whether he wanted to stay with me or not.

He was older. Not quite ten years, but close. It gave him the illusion of maturity and experience, which can be very attractive to an early twenty something. He smelled like cigarettes and cologne, which was heady and stimulating.

The relationship was a series of dramas, right from the beginning. I remember a good friend of mine commenting that I never seemed completely happy in the relationship, and he was right. We had this deep connection, though… that meant we were supposed to be together, right? I spent those two and a half years making excuses to myself and to others. We were just two dominant personalities, that’s why we fought so much. Sometimes he just gets so wrapped up in partying, he doesn’t know when to stop drinking. We get each other, that’s why we work. Etc, ad infinitum.

There were times I had contemplated leaving him over the course of the relationship. In hindsight I sometimes wonder what made me stay, and the sad reality is I think it was fear. I’m not sure what I was afraid of… maybe loneliness? Lack of security? I don’t know. Plus, I did care about him, and I was so flattered that he chose me. He dramatically chose me over others, which felt amazing. Why his opinion mattered so much, I don’t know. And we were going to get married. Eventually. It was meant to be.

The last two months of that relationship were a nightmare. The downfall was precipitated by a fight. I did something stupid which, on the surface, wasn’t too terrible. It was, however, the straw that broke the camel’s back. In the decline, I wouldn’t know who I would wake up to each day. A stranger who seemed to view me like I was an exhibit in a zoo or some semblance of the man who used to give a damn. Whether it was the former or the latter, it was never the same. He still loved me, he’d say, but each day he’d say that if he had to make the decision right then, he’d leave. It drove me crazy, and I should have walked away. I wanted to. He should have, too. The truth was neither of us had the guts to pull the trigger. We’d also spent so much time living in drama, it was just another episode of our issues manifesting themselves.

It always hurts when the person who leaves you is someone who you had a million reasons to leave yourself. It makes it worse, makes it harder… even if you don’t want them back, you analyze and over-analyze. You “want them back” even though you don’t. It’s okay for us to leave them, but it’s demoralizing when they’re the first to go. What does it say about me when someone I can’t stand doesn’t even want me?

I spent the next few months spiraling in and out of depression, numbing myself with scotch, and humiliating myself while trying to make sense of what had happened.

Looking back on it, I sometimes wonder if I ever loved him or loved the idea of loving him. I cared about him, but love? I don’t know. I never completely trusted him. I was never completely happy. While I experienced some amazing things and places, I question whether it was worth it, and not because he hurt me. To be honest, I don’t even know why we were together or how we managed to stay together as long as we did. We didn’t want the same things. I see that now. I spent the whole time compromising myself and what I wanted. Hell, it took me two months to even find him attractive. So many of my thoughts began with the phrase “Things would be perfect if only he’d…”

There are times I catch myself wishing the whole thing had never happened, and not because of “the pain” or the “heartache” resulting from the fallout. It feels like a waste. Then I remember how happy I am now. When I finally emerged from the fog of the breakup I intentionally took time to get to know myself. I had spent years trying to be some version of Liz I thought people wanted. Of course that never works. That break up snapped me out of some cycle that had been going on since I lived with my father. So I guess the relationship had some merit, even if the only merit was what the breakup caused me to do.

It feels like another lifetime. I’ve forgotten what he sounds like. The little nuances have faded with time. The inside jokes have lost their meaning. All the things that made him seem deep and complicated all smack of contrivance and vapid ego.

I was walking down Constitution Avenue on my lunch break today. The sun was shining. Things are going great. I am getting married to the man I love. We have our little family, complete with crazy pup and hamster. We’re moving to my favorite city in the whole world, and have so much fun.  We share so much, and it’s funny how it suddenly dawns on you “Oh, this is what it’s supposed to be like.  This is what love is.”

So I guess I can thank the Ex for that.

Thanks for the memories. Thanks for the experience. Thank you for showing me that no person is worth compromising yourself for. Thank you for that most of all. I may never know why I stayed so long, but if all those events got me to where I am right now, I wouldn’t trade that for anything. Alone those experiences weren’t worth the space they take up in my memory, but knowing where I am now is only possible because it caused me to wake up makes it worth it. I just wish it hadn’t taken two and a half years to figure it out.

Onward and upward, though. I have my whole life ahead of me, and I couldn’t be more thrilled.

This day, in some respects has been “One of Those Days”.  There is something about being soggy and cold all day, due to a ridiculous storm system that plowed through the DC Metro area yesterday and today.  Leave it to me to be brilliant.  Yesterday we went shopping at Target, and even though it was pouring rain outside, I apparently left my common sense at home.  At no point did I say to myself “Hey, Liz!  Since it’ll still be raining tomorrow, it might be wise to, you know, get an umbrella.”  Of course I didn’t.  Why would I do something logical?  Instead we filled our cart with spinach dip, slammin’ green Bermuda shorts, and a bunch of other stuff.

I ended up arriving at work looking like a drowned cat, which is not a good look for me.  It’s a look that works for some, but when I’m soggy and I look strung out… I just look soggy and strung out.  I did eventually snag an adorable umbrella at a hole in the wall shop in Dupont Circle while I was out on lunch, so the rest of the day was eased somewhat.

Anyway, seeing as I have zero energy left, and my feet feel like ice cubes the rest of my thoughts will be presented in pluses and minuses.

+ I just found out that on Thursday, from 10am to 10pm, Dunkin Donuts will be giving away free iced coffee.

+ While sorting through client files at work, one caught my eye.  We have all of our clients fill out a questionnaire that not only details their contact information, but also inquires after their employment as well.  One homemaker and housewife listed hers as “Domestic Goddess”.

- I had to make a zillion phone calls today, and because of this I heard about a zillion varying voicemail greeting messages.  Let me tell you something… sarcastic and “original” messages such as “Oh, who knows what assorted misdeeds are keeping me away from the phone right now, etc” are not funny.  They aren’t.  Plus usually the delivery is all wrong.  It just amazes me how hysterical people think they are, and you can hear it in their voice.  I don’t know.  It was my pet peeve for today.

+ I had a roast beef, brie, and cucumber wasabi wrap for lunch, with sweet potato chips.  It made braving the rain at lunch hour completely worth it.  I sat there for the whole hour munching away and reading the newspaper.

- I missed my green line train and then my red line connection by mere SECONDS this morning, causing me to be late.

+ Finally tried out Mario Kart Wii, and it is very fun without a doubt.  I still miss playing with the old classic controller, and Double Dash will always have a special place in my heart.

+ Finding those green shorts (above) at Target.  All the fashion pundits are crowning bright yellows as the IT color this season.  I, personally, am loving the rich grassy greens that have been hitting the stores.

I am going to relax now.  I’m tired.  Instead of having to be in at 11am tomorrow, I have to be in by 9am.  I’m going to try, for once, not to stay up until all hours of the morning.

Some say that Washington DC is not a real city like New York or Boston. Some (well, many) call DC “transient”. To others of us, none of that matters; it’s home. It’s our comfortable pair of blue jeans that always fits.

I took the above photo as we were leaving Nationals Park on Saturday evening, following a Marlins grand slam… the Nationals ended up losing 11-0, heh. It could be better from a photography standpoint, but I love this photo. You can find the rest of the photos from that night HERE. We left the game early, which makes us terrible fans, I know.

It was then that I taught Patrick the joy of being a fan of a Washington team. Washington teams will set you up just to turn around and break your heart. We’ll come back for more, though. Hoping for that winning touchdown, slam dunk, or homerun. Much like an abused child who hopes for affection from a hug-averse parent.

We spent the rest of the evening at Gallery Place/Chinatown, where apparently Ruby Tuesdays are given a makeover and resemble a swanky bar rather than a family friendly environment. I’m not kidding. I was carded to get into the restaurant. It was well worth it. Over cocktails, spicy shrimp, and some fabulous tomato and mozzarella salad, we decided two things. First, we’re moving into DC in September instead of waiting until next February. Second, we’re moving the wedding date to December 5, 2009. Why December 5th? We’ll have more money to work with, and it just happens to be our 2 year anniversary. I’m so excited to be moving early. I already have a nice cushy job in Dupont Circle. With gas prices as they are, Patrick will be so happy to get rid of his car. Plus he’s antsy to move. It was his idea to move the moving date up.

I mentioned previously that I wanted to upgrade to a Blackberry. I want the luxury of having my email at my fingertips, etc. Originally I was going to get a Blackberry 8703e, but Verizon finally released the Blackberry Curve this past Friday. That means this Friday, this baby will be mine…

I will leave you with this quote I read earlier this evening. It’s a terrifying quote from a girl who drives drunk regularly, but don’t worry, guys. It’s cool. She’s gotten very good at it.

i never think ahead. i live for now. all the time. and do what i want. death is life. i’m not scared of death anymore or the after life. is this heaven? is this hell? turn it on its head.what is heaven what is hell? who knows. i don’t believe in right and wrong unless it’s dealing with hurting people mentality/physically. i’m a good person. fuck. i’ve been feeding this baby sparrow every half hour for days now and taking it everywhere with me even though my mom said it was just gonna die and i should throw it back to my cat. i care about animals more than people or myself though. people have hurt me alot. i’ve hurt myself alot. idon’tknow. i’m fucking weird and all of the my friends are insane. welcome to the new weird america. we don’t give a shit. fuck law and rules and society.

I find myself shaking my head, wondering about today’s youth. While I know it’s not true of everyone, tragedy, ambivalence, and ennui have become hip. Or maybe they always were, and I never noticed? Either way, it’s a disturbing passage, and sadly I’ve seen many excerpts like this with increasing frequency. When did people stop caring? Apparently that’s so last season.

I never posted about last weekend. Patrick and I finally made it to the National Gallery of Art. It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and there was a slight breeze. We started by grabbing a couple of drinks and a little cup of fries, while we sat along the perimeter of the National Mall for a little while.

Our seats were next to the carousel, our table neighboring that of an elderly couple. For me, all carousel music has sounded the same. Somewhat familiar melodies set to muted light organ tones. He took her frail hand and said “I remember this song.” He then proceeded to sing lyrics speaking of long-lasting love, while rubbing the top of her hand. His voice was rich and spoke of age and experience. She laughed abashedly, and it was if nothing else existed to those two. I almost felt like an interloper by listening in to their conversation, but I couldn’t help myself. I will never listen to carousel music quite the same again.

Here are a few shots I took while we were out that day:

You can find the entire set from our May 4th National Gallery of Art excursion HERE, if you are so inclined.

One of the things I’ve been learning recently are to embrace the little things that I love, even if they’re ridiculous.

For example, I love wine glasses. I love going to the store and finding a unique but classic set. I love how delicate they feel in my fingers. I also love reading in the bathroom. I know some people don’t get it. Some people are outright annoyed by those who read in the bathroom. I am one of those people. It’s like a little porcelain haven. When no one is home, I’ll go to my “office” with a book and spend some quiet time, away from everything. Stereotypically this is a behavior reserved for males, but I enjoy a little solitude, and it’s a good little escape, even if it’s on a commode. Another thing I love is when I take the escalator up from the Metro. There’s something about that feeling when the sun first hits your face and you look around at a scene you haven’t seen before, and it all unfolds as you ride further up. Or perhaps it’s a place you’ve been many times, welcoming you back like an old friend.

I’ve spent some time examining the things that make me happy. Now if only I could ride a commode up an escalator from the Metro into the sunshine, while twirling a wineglass and reading my favorite book. One can dream!

This weekend is another busy one.  Mother’s Day celebrations on Saturday and Sunday.  The Nationals/Marlins game tomorrow night.  I’m also going to attempt to make homemade Sangria!  Should be another fun one, but I know I will still enjoy those quick quiet moments at home, even if they are few and far between over the next couple of days.

1.8 Magnitude Rattles DC Area.

My mother lived in the Bay Area of California for years. I was actually born in Oakland, though I count myself as a DC native. My father moved the family back to Washington DC (where they were from, as well) before I was two years old. I don’t remember anything about California at all. My parents always thought I’d be bitter that I was born in Oakland instead of San Francisco. Au contraire. I’m bitter that I was born in California instead of in Washington DC where I grew up and where my family grew up. This has since become the punchline of many a family joke.

I digress.

One of my mother’s major complaints was that she never felt an earthquake. Girlfriends would call her at all hours, “Judy! Did you feel that?!”

“And I’ll tell you something, Elizabeth” she’d say to me. “I didn’t feel a damn thing. Not once. Not ever. We lived on a fault line, and nothing! How is that fair?”

Well, on Tuesday my mother finally got her wish. In a zippy twist of fate, DC experienced an itty bitty quake registering 1.8 on the Richter scale. Within minutes my mother was on the phone.

“Elizabeth! Did you feel that?!”

I had, but decided to give her the moment she had been waiting for. I told her I had not.

There was a brief silence on the line. I could almost hear the edges of her mouth forming a smile. With a hint of smugness, she told me that she had. She recounted her initial confusion and sudden realization as to what was occurring. She described every shake and rumble as if it where a Wagner opera, and not the geological equivalent of a kitten purring. Well, she had been waiting, so she deserved this moment… and I let her have it.

My mom finally got her earthquake.

Dear Diary,

I now can jump on and off furniture with ease. No more whining to get off or on the sofa or bed. I am no longer at their mercy. Life as they know it is over.

Kibbles,

Horatio

This is my life right now. Not pictured is the Zyrtec. None of this is working. I’m an itchy, sneezy, runny, miserable mess. I hate allergies. I haven’t even figured out what the hell I’m allergic to, as there is no rhyme or reason when my body is going to go into meltdown mode. Inside, outside, night, day… it doesn’t matter! What’s even funnier is when I go lay outside in the grass for hours, nothing happens. I’m fine! The next day, it’s a mess.

Stupid body. I never used to have this problem. I’d walk around with a false sense of superiority during the spring time; passing all of those afflicted, juggling armloads of tissues and pills. Now I’m one of those people.  I’m the one blowing my nose until I can’t see straight, trying to tell the difference between various nasal sprays.  I’m sure that teenage girl today looking at me wallow in the midst of a sneeze attack was judging me, feeling superior just like I used to. I wanted to suffocate her with tissues and Claritin, but I knew deep down, just like me, that her uppance would come.

Oh, the hubris of the young. I’ll see you in hell.

The recent spike of violence in the District makes me nervous about the Supreme Court wondering about whether parts of the DC Gun Ban are constitutional.

With the current administration, we’ve seen our civil liberties slightly abused. I’ll find myself joking with friends in public spaces about how you can’t say words like “bomb” anymore without fear of being red-flagged. In the back of my mind, however, a little paranoid version of me looks around shiftily wondering if anyone heard that or if I’m on some list. I know, it sounds crazy, and I know deep down it’s crazy, but I don’t like living in a culture where that has become a viable fear. That isn’t right. It’s been years of people fighting for their constitutional rights.

Then the story about the recent killing surge in the District comes along, coinciding with the Supreme Court’s impending ruling… I’m nervous, but conflicted. My knee jerk reaction is “No! How could you overturn the gun ban? DC is already considered very dangerous. It doesn’t matter what the deal is, it can’t be overturned!” Then another thought comes to the forefront. The gun ban has been described by some as too broad and too general, and it in no way upholds the Constitutional right to bear arms. Just because some are scared, doesn’t mean we can’t overturn this ban, right?

We scream bloody murder over policy like the Patriot Act, but cringe at the notion of a gun ban being overturned, even if it is unconstitutional. It’s interesting how, on occasion, we can also be guilty of bending the constitution to suit our needs; or maybe it’s a lack of understanding.

I’m not proposing a solution, but I feel as if I’m in the midst of an internal stalemate, realizing the Constitution isn’t a conditional document. Even if we don’t agree all the time, rights are rights, and while you can be liberal with interpretation at times, other times it is black and white.