Boozey Brunches

Once upon a time there was a lazy Sunday in May, seventy-eight degrees, a carrot-infused  bloody mary, a roasted beet and honey salad, lavender scones, and three perfect hours with my childhood best friend.

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Then there was a closet shelf of just the perfect size to become a shrine to Chanel … the perfect pumps with the baby soft lambskin soles in nearly perfect condition.

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And there were bacon jam samples at the deli where I stopped to pick up frommage D’affinois.

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My family was healthy.

My heart was full.

And for that day, life was better than I even dare to hope for.

A Code No One Understands

Sitting in a noisy corner of a quiet bar there’s a story tickling the corners of my mind,
a song of Pirates, Cowboys, and runaway mothers on spring break
– abandoned in a forbidden and foreign place.

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There are lying lies, and the damn liars who tell them
covetous addicts, and drunks,
Telling stories without telling the story of the story teller.
And there are writers, who hide a lie behind the truth,
writing in a code no one understands,
yet hoping that one person will.

There sits a bottle, half finished,
whether full or empty depends on the audience,
and one’s perception of sitting alone to enjoy half a bottle of Seminyak Semillon.

There were fears not realized, and there are promises not kept,
and apologies that didn’t convey remorse
… I’m sorry if you thought that, but not sorry that was what I did. 

There was a happily ever after, that followed a prologue.
There was an almost, a never was, and a maybe-one-day
all preceded by an unsatisfying epilogue.
But, only the most trite of stories has an ending that offers closure.

Instead there’s the code: of silence, of expectations,
of conduct for adult behavior in adult situations,
that meets at the intersection of  once-upon-a-time and happily-ever-after
in a delightfully roundabout sort of way.

The Autumn Metronome

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Summer begins its slow fade into autumn, and our harvest reminds me of my abundance.

My apple trees are heavy, peaches overwhelm every inch of counter space, and every meal I make.
Fat heirloom tomatoes can be eaten at the peak of ripeness with only salt and pepper.
And, my well-earned tan lines will begin to blend into the freckled skin of my shoulders.
And, my life is full of health and laughter – more bounty than I could ever dare to ask for.

Autumn nostalgia sweeps over every corner of my home …
Boys going back to school
Jackets coming off their storage hooks
Down comforters aired-out off linen closet shelves.
And, one more mark against the stairwell door,
Six inches! No wonder I can’t keep you in shoes.

This morning was chilly; that soft bite of September that still warms up by noon.
This evening will be busy: homework, football practice, back-to-school night.

Autumn becomes the metronome by which the rhythm of family life moves.
Until Christmas break, and Easter’s flirtatious Spring, and lazy summer comes again.

Delightfully Chaotic

“She is delightfully chaotic;
A beautiful mess.
Loving her is a splendid adventure.”

– Steve Maraboli

A colleague once introduced me as “the most fascinating whirling dirvish” she’d ever met.

It was one of the greatest compliments I have ever received.

Although, perhaps what she meant was, “She’s a chaotic mess, but at least she’s interesting.”

If I were a perfumer, Chaos would be my signature scent, wrapped in a cerulean paper of make-do, and tied with a ribbon of figure-it-out-as-we-go.

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Chance and I are longtime friends. The abundance of the universe, combined with trusting my intuition, and a compulsive need to overachieve has never done me wrong, though it has lead to naive hubris a time or two … the limousine with the Irish beer execs, the spur of the moment trip to Calgary, a midnight stroll through Shanghai, even my 18th birthday impulse tattoo all turned out to be charming anecdotes rather than cautionary tales.

Your results may vary, read all labels before beginning any Irish Beer Drinking Tattoo Binges, and if it lasts longer than four hours, call your Doctor.

The Playlist

I stumbled across your playlist the other day,
it took my breath for a moment.

Strange, to remember a time when those songs fed such angst,
that same old scene is always coming to me.

Before a love song, you have to fall in love;
and so, that’s where the playlist takes me first.

Then there’s a passion, turmoil, and four-four time,
were all of these songs fraught with meaning to me once,
in that place where a tornado meets a volcano?

It seems so long ago now, a confused memory of fights and forgiveness,
back when you said I was too sensitive, and you too much the opposite,
but you don’t hurt me anymore.

Now, then, is just a memory, and the playlist says it all,
the story of who we were, and who we are now,
that old familiar feeling.

That Kind of Morning

It’s that kind of Tuesday morning which really should be a Sunday.

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It rained all night and now the valley smells rich and mossy.
My sheets are freshly washed and perfectly crisp, beconing me back to bed.
The pot is brewing with more coffee than I can drink in my hectic scramble to get out the door, and pancakes are browning on the griddle.

The sun is a perfect shade of August, with a caressing breeze teasing and toying across my sunny porch.
Best not to ignore signs like this.

Clearly the calendars got it wrong.
Today is Sunday, I’m calling in.
I’ll go back to Wednesday tomorrow.

Nostalgic Summer Days

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When the sun hits the horizon in just that way
Or a rumbling motor passes, low and commanding
I think of Main Street, lazy days, and warm July nights,
and I remember that time ..
the first time you kissed me,
back when the feeling was new.
I remember a cold Cutthroat Beer, the stereo echoing off hardwood floors,
and that one summer,
once upon a time.