Good News and Bad News
There are a couple of updates I’ve been holding back from you guys — two awesome and one awful.
Let’s start with the good stuff. First of all, I finished my Bird of the Rings drawing for my friend Kim: a female cardinal saying Eowyn’s line, “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman.” She wrote a lovely article about it and posted a picture of her BoTR. Check it out here.
Also, after a few months of trivia hiatus, I am now part of a new trivia team that is absolutely dominating. It started off as an impromptu gathering two weeks ago at the Highball, where my friends Gayatri and Sandeep announced that they’re expecting their first child (congrats again, G and S!). But the place was so crowded, overheated, and raucous that I insisted we go to Mister Tramps the next week, so I could show ‘em how it’s really done.
So we did. And our team, “It’s A Unix System. We Know This”, got second place.
Then this week, with the team name Teamocil, we got first place. FIRST PLACE. At this rate, next week we may receive sainthood.
So that was awesome, even though the pictures from the events (see links above) demonstrate that it’s impossible to photograph me looking like a normal person.
That’s the good news.
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Last Friday, just as I was leaving work (literally, I had just walked outside and was staring at the fish in the koi pond, thinking about how cute they are), my mother called. My grandmother — who had been put into hospice care the week before that — had taken a turn for the worse. The hospice had called my mom that day, saying my grandmother probably had about a week left.
I asked if I should come home. She said not to, since I’d seen her at my cousin’s wedding in November — and besides, I’d just have to turn around and go back for the funeral.
My grandmother developed Alzheimer’s just over a year ago. She hasn’t wanted to eat in almost as long. A lifelong smoker, now she’s struggling to breathe.
On Saturday, I e-mailed my mom a letter to my grandmother. In it, I briefly reminisced about some of our fun trips together, and about my favorite memories of her. I essentially said good-bye without actually saying good-bye.
Minutes after hitting the send button, my mother called me. She was visiting my grandmother when she got the letter, and had read it to her. Then she told me she was going to put my grandmother on the phone.
Her voice was so hoarse. Only a faint sliver of familiarity was buried in it. She asked about the weather. I told her it was warm, really nice; and that it gave me hope our plants would survive until summer. She laughed. She said she was feeling much better. Then she asked about the weather again. I told her it was lovely.
“I love you, mi hijita,” she said. She rarely says, “I love you.”
I told her that both David and I love her, too.
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*******
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No one lives forever. I’m lucky that I’ve known my grandmother — the woman I’m named after — for this long. But even having 34 years to spend with someone doesn’t make their imminent loss any easier.
Two weeks after I was born, my father left my mother. My grandmother practically helped raise me. I saw her all the time as a kid. I loved her for so many reasons, and not just her fabulous gravity-defying hair. She wasn’t nice to everyone, but she was always incredibly nice to me. She spoke to me as if I was a grown-up. I really appreciated it, since I hated being treated like a kid. I didn’t even like being around other kids.
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My grandmother spent most of her life with my grandfather sticking a camera in her face. I can just hear her telling him immediately after he snapped this picture, "Mario, will you please put the camera down so I can have a moment with my granddaughter! Hijole!"
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While I loved seeing my grandparents all the time as a kid, I know it must’ve been bittersweet for my mother. I can’t imagine how humiliating her life must have been after I was born, suddenly single with a baby. At the time, she was the only divorced member of a devout Catholic family. I know it must’ve been painful for her to ask her parents for help, but I don’t know what we would’ve done without them.
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But when it comes down to it, few people were kind to me when I was young. My grandmother was one of them. I will never forget that.
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I moved back to Texas in 2001 — 6 years after leaving the state for college and work — so I could be near my family, including my grandparents. And though I gave up some good opportunities when I moved back, I don’t regret it. I would’ve regretted far more living my adulthood away from them.
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The next few weeks are going to be really brutal.
I don’t know what else to say, so I’ll just encourage you to read this post I wrote when I visited my grandparents last February. It explains what’s going on in my head a lot better than I can tonight.
Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
Everything Old Is New Again
My love of retro things is no secret. I have a closet half-full of vintage dresses. Enid Collins purses cover my bookshelves. (Don’t believe me? Look at my Twitter page background.) When I got engaged, I registered for a mixer that was the closest thing possible to avocado green, the color of my mother’s appliances when I was growing up.
And I’m certainly not the only retronaut. It seems like everyone lurves mid-century modern, even before “Mad Men” made it trendy. Vintage and vintage reproduction clothing is all over the place. Every wedding photographer’s website I’ve seen lately at work is chock-full of washed-out photos, making them look like they’ve been sitting in my mother’s photo albums for 20 years. My Facebook and Twitter friends use Instagram and Hipstamatic.
As much as I love crinolines (I’ve worn them to 3 recent events), I do wonder what this I-Heart-The-Past trend means for the future. Will my friends’ kids grow up nostalgic for their parents’ digital Instagram pictures? Will hipster mustaches and worn-out ironic t-shirts make them think of their fathers? Oh Jesus, will the brass accents and teal-and-pink flower patterns in 80s decor make a comeback?!?
I expressed my concern with David via chat a couple of days ago. He wasn’t as interested in the conversation as I was.
me: Do you ever worry that our generation’s obsession with retro / vintage looks prevents us from creating our own — looks that are new and that will define us?
David: No I do not.
me: I was just wondering and didn’t know who else to ask.
David: But that’s because those sorts of things don’t naturally occur to me.
Although, I prefer today’s look to Hypercolor and parachute pants.me: Word.
I saw this dj’s website earlier today. He insists on playing only vinyl and not playing what everyone wants to hear — yes, at people’s weddings — which is a whole separate genre of annoying. Then I saw a link to a “mid-century modern rentals” company. And I wonder if our obsession with old looks renders us incapable of creating our own.
Has every generation been so nostalgic?
David: I don’t honestly know.
me: I don’t think so because no other generation has had the opportunity to repurchase their childhood.
David: “On the skins, Mr. Milton Banana.”
“On the bass guitar, the Guy From Ipanema.”
me: While that is awesome, that is different.
Look at what the hipsters are wearing.
Everything old is hot again.
David: It just came on Pandora.
So that was useful.
What do you guys think? Are we really the first generation that’s been able to buy their childhood back? Do you think we celebrate the look of the past too much? Do you insist on playing vinyl because of its “pure” sound, or do you play records because you secretly long to return to your youth? Or would you, like David, rather not think about this and listen to “Rush in Rio” instead?
Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
After A Fashion
“When I start freelancing, I’m still going to dress up,” I told my friends. “I’m going to put make-up on and wear my black pants and everything. I might not curl my hair, but I’m still going to look like I’m going to work.”
Shockingly, that plan did not last long.
While I am wearing make-up regularly again (mostly so I don’t scare the people at my part-time job), I pretty much live in jeans and silly t-shirts these days. For the first time in my life, I have jeans that actually fit (Old Navy’s the Dreamer jeans; alas, I can’t recommend them now since they’re cut differently than they were a year ago). I’ve stocked up on shirts from Shirt.Woot and Glennz Tees. I even bought a few hoodies, which I’ve never owned before. I don’t look that professional, but I’m saving a ton in dry cleaning bills.
At first, though, I feared that dressing what I call “business really casual” meant I was regressing into my younger, more immature years. God knows I didn’t want to be the clueless, fashion-illiterate slob I was in high school; nor did I want to look like I did during the post-grad school Lost Years (though most of my fashion problems during that era stemmed from a massive, medication-related weight gain).
But how could I be regressing? I’m finally living my dream. I’m more content than I’ve ever been. Except, you know, for that brief period when I had a career trajectory, when I felt in control and confident and happy. But that wasn’t really me, right? This life — writing — this is the real me, right?
Then I found this picture, taken four years ago at my bridal shower. It was at the height of my professional awesomeness. It was before I saw the treacheries of middle management at that organization: being squeezed between the needs of the people below you, and the orders of the people above you. And before the stress of being on-call 24 hours a day broke me, forcing me to leave that job and take one with fewer responsibilities and (ironically) far more stress. I was still optimistic. I was still in charge. And man, my arms still looked great.
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Straight shooter with upper management written all over her.
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I look at that picture. And I suddenly feel very, very sloppy. Like a mess. Like a failure.
But, I told myself, it’s not like my life was perfect back then. At the time, I felt like I was putting on a show, like I was wearing someone else’s suits and heels as a costume — dressing like a successful person rather than actually being one. It was just a disguise. Not like now, when I wear awesome shirts that demonstrate my charming sense of humor and who I really am.
So if I’m being true to myself now, why does it feel like such a struggle most days?
I think it’s because I miss external validation waaaaaay too much. What I really loved during that era (other than helping people) wasn’t power. It wasn’t responsibility. It wasn’t wearing a suit, and it definitely wasn’t attending meeting after meeting (except the ones in the state’s bunker, because that place is just awesome). What I loved most of all was praise.
One of my biggest hurdles in writing is feeling confident enough about my work to keep going. It’s saying, “This is good enough for today, and tomorrow I will keep making it better.” It’s honestly and sincerely telling myself, “I think you’re doing a great job.” When someone tells me they like what I’ve written, I won’t lie — it’s like getting a drink of water after a long thirst. But I let few people see my fiction, and most of my work remains (thankfully) unread by anyone but myself. Yet I still have to find enough confidence within myself to keep writing.
Recently, I discovered a quick way to get that confidence, if only briefly. Inspired partially by the Bloggess’ traveling red dress project (though I’m far too selfish to share my clothes), I decided to get a fabulous red dress of my own. I spotted this garment online and — even though I didn’t have any special events coming up — I bought it anyway. Surely something would come up; and if it didn’t, I’d make something happen.
As serendipity would have it, the dress arrived two days before a dinner party with some friends — and it fit perfectly. As soon as I put it on, I felt confident again. I felt in control again. So when David came home, I greeted him and spun around the living room. It was delightful. It was unexpected. And it wouldn’t have happened, had I not been brave enough to think, “Sure, I can pull off that bad-ass dress.”
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Impromptu portrait by David. Dress by Unique-Vintage.com. Awesomeness by me.
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I know that, ultimately, it doesn’t matter whether I wear suits or silly t-shirts to write every day. What really matters is whether or not I believe in myself. But for me, it’s far easier to feel like a bad-ass in a glamorous red dress than it is in t-shirts and jeans.
But that’s life, isn’t it? We have to find ways to feel bad-ass and awesome, no matter what we look like on the outside. And sometimes we have to summon the will to tell ourselves, honestly and sincerely, “I think you’re doing a great job.” And we have to believe it. Because then, and only then, can the awesomeness inside find a way out and make that praise come true.
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(Also, since I totally forgot to mention it in my last post: I have another blog post up at WriteByNight’s blog. The topic: The worst writing advice I’ve ever heard. Stop by and comment on the least useful writing advice you’ve ever received!)
Copyright 2012, Sarah Rodriguez Pratt. All rights reserved.
Writing Group: My Friend the Fire Hydrant
You know how, when you come back from a really stressful trip, you look around your messy apartment or house and don’t even know where to start? How you’re just overwhelmed with the clutter and you’re so tired from your trip? How you ultimately surrender and just watch TV while eating junk food? That’s kind of how the past month has been for my writing. After finishing the latest draft of my novel at the start of December, I meant to take just a few days off. Then days turned into weeks. I got my second tattoo; then there was Christmas; then New Years’ Eve. Time crept by with a disturbingly stealthy speed. And every day I didn’t write, the pressure to start again grew greater and more painful.
So…yeah.
I really wanted to start working on the outline to my novel’s sequel, but unfortunately, I didn’t start before I lost my writing momentum; and now I’d need to review the book again before starting that project. (I know, I know — it’s not daunting and overwhelming me; I’m just letting it daunt and overwhelm me.) Nonetheless, for now, I’m working on a story I started in the fall of 2010. It sucks, but I think there are some great salvageable bits in it.
Plus, I went to my writing group last night, which almost always leads to inspiration and confidence rebuilding. So, even though I’m still working on a different blog post, I wanted to get a new post up as soon as possible; and I thought this writing group entry was worth sharing. The prompt was, “When I was a child, I had big plans.” I morphed that into “When I was a child, I had a big imagination.” Here are the results.
When I was little, I spoke to fire hydrants. That’s not a metaphor. The neighbors would call my mother, telling her that her child was at the end of the street, attempting to converse with city equipment. I talked to fire hydrants. Or electric converter boxes. Or small, light green towers with the Southwestern Bell logo.
I remember being very sad when the backyard fence was built, because it meant I couldn’t visit my friend — the large green electric converter box behind our house — anymore. I cried. I even hugged the box good-bye. My mom was surprisingly sympathetic. Then, one day, she was not. She went from pretending to believe me to telling me, “Sarah, you need to stop it or people are going to think you’re weird.” Like flipping a light switch. Are all parents like that? Do some phase in the introduction of the real world more gradually? It started happening after she had gotten remarried and was pregnant; was she worried about having to handle both a new baby and a delusional small child?
Today, I am constantly vigilant about my transgressions — recent and ancient — because I know they could be used against me at any time. It’s exhausting, though, to have to remember all the stupid shit I’ve ever done and said. There’s only so much room in my memory; and lately, it’s been taking up all the available space.
“Tell me about something fun that happened to you during childhood,” my friend Stephannie asked recently. And I replied, honestly and somewhat aghast, “I can’t remember anything fun. I only remember the bad parts.”
I really want to shake off that yoke of guilt and remembering. I want to, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to spin around and do cartwheels through a field, then come up with a snappy and charming retort for whoever runs up to me asking why I talk to fire hydrants.
Sometimes, I don’t think the Adam and Eve story involved fruit. I think what really happened was a little kid used to talk to a tree. And, one day, some snake slithered by and said, “Stop talking to trees! People are going to think you’re weird.” And the kid suddenly knew shame, a feeling so painful that he didn’t even stop to think, “Hey! That was a talking snake! Cool!”
Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.
A Sobering Holiday
This holiday season, I decided not to drink at all. My reasons were numerous and, I think, pretty valid:
- I love eating cookies, cakes, and pretty much anything with refined sugar; and I told myself that if I cut back on booze, that meant I could eat more sugar.
- David and I always squabble about who has to be the designated driver. My taking over the driving duties so he could drink (responsibly, of course) was a small gift to him, but a gift nonetheless.
- It’s pretty damn funny to watch other people get drunk. Well, sometimes it’s sad. But it’s mostly funny.
- The last time I had a drink at a social event, I saw my dead father’s ghost. That alone almost scared me away from alcohol forever.
- Social events freak me out. Wine helps — initially. Then I have one glass too many and get paranoid the next day that I’ve annoyed my new best friends. Cutting that off at the pass was a welcome relief, even if it meant I had to be Socially Awkward Penguin all night.
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I learned two important lessons during these sobering events:
- If you’re a woman and you’re married and you’re not drinking at a party, people instantly get these weird smiles on their faces and look at your gut. I hate this. I hate that almost everyone’s default reasoning for my abstaining from alcohol involves babies, as if that’s the only reason I would pull myself away from booze during the holiday season. But, rather than telling near-strangers that no, I’m not pregnant, and in fact David and I are choosing not to have children (always a great icebreaker), I instead talk really loudly and pointedly about the tattoo I just got. That pretty much says, “I am not with child” loudly and clearly, and often starts a very different and more interesting conversation.
- I also learned the value of existing in the moment, because I had no other choice. I can panic, start looking around for a place to sit away from the crowd, curse myself for wearing a dress with a crinoline (seriously? I want to blend in and not attract attention, so I wear a dress with a diameter at the bottom?!?), pretend to mess with my cell phone; but it doesn’t matter. I can’t hide. I’m still there, in full view of people looking at my face twitches and nervous glances around. So I take slow deep breaths and focus on that exact moment — how I’m sitting or standing, the expression on my face, what I’m holding or clinging to. I don’t judge myself; I just focus. And I relax. Then I focus on the people around me — on what their body language is saying and how they’re probably a little bit anxious, too. And I relax more. And I just keep doing this, over and over, until the uncomfortable moment passes and I’m talking to David, or feeling brave enough to strike up a conversation with a stranger, or drawn into a chat with a friend. All without drinking. And slowly, everything becomes okay. More than okay, in fact.
Unfortunately, I caved last night and opened up a bottle of wine. I told myself it was because I’d just gotten some stressful news from the vet about my dog Zelda’s ongoing health issues. (Grossness alert: she has an infection in her anal gland. Hey, I said it was gross.)
But, as I sipped a glass of 2010 Decoy Sauvignon blanc, I looked at the small dog who had been snoozing on the couch all day. And I realized that, although she’s still sick, the visit had made her feel temporarily better. Plus, there’s hope that this medicine will cure her problem; and if it doesn’t, at least there are treatment options. And I thought about how lucky David and I am to have a veterinarian who’s genuinely compassionate as well as knowledgable (their services can be expensive, but they do great things like work with rescue groups). I’ve been lucky with a lot of things this year, in fact. I finished a novel — again. I got an awesome part-time job, and I still have a few great freelance clients. I made some new friends. David still has a job, and he still loves it. And at least one of our dogs is healthy.
The sad thing is, I feel kind of guilty for all of this. But considering that I’ve had plenty of craptacular years, I guess it’s okay to celebrate, to be happy, to be content, to be grateful and thankful. To be in the moment, and to be okay with that.
I thought about all this as I finished the glass of wine. And though I usually crave another, I didn’t that night.
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So I only made it through 4 of the 5 major seasonal holidays without drinking. (Since I went to parties for both, I totally count Hanukkah and Festivus.) I still think it was a great idea. And I’m seriously considering doing it next year, too.
I feel like I should end this post with a list of resolutions, goals, stuff I want to do in 2012. But I’d rather just focus on the moment. I’d rather focus on how Zelda’s finally eating for the first time today, on how my job went well today, on how much fun I had going walking with a friend tonight, on how much David made me laugh tonight. I don’t want to look toward 2012 and panic about everything I want to accomplish. And I don’t want to think about how much I haven’t accomplished over the past year, and the year before that, and all the years before that. For tonight, at least, I’m just going to be in the moment. And that’s okay.
More than okay, in fact.
(In lieu of new year’s resolutions, I present to you “Shake It Out” by Florence and the Machine, performed on “Saturday Night Live.” This song describes the kind of person I want to become in 2012 and beyond far better than I could.)
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Copyright 2011, Sarah at ThatsAGirlsCar.com and TotesMcGoat.com. All rights reserved.
