Originally published September 18, 2007

last night i bought roller skates (and the required knee/elbow pads to accompany them).  i was excited — bouncy even.  i couldn’t wait to get home, slap them on and re-teach myself to skate.  in my head i imagined myself, next spring, decked out in striped tube socks, skates and cutie-pie shorts zipping around piedmont park feeling the wind in my face.

good thing my imagination gave me until next spring because in reality i wobbled down the stairs and made it almost halfway down my walk before my feet came out from under me and i found myself flat on my ass, glasses several feet away in the grass, swearing loudly into my phone (yes, one of my best friends did insist on staying on the phone to observe/call 911 if necessary), and thanking god that i listened to my mom and bought elbow pads.

somehow between when i left my house to purchase said skates and arrived back, skates-in-hand, the “flat” parking lot in front of my building had magically turned into a hill.  i wobbled through the grass to another parking lot (next to the laundry, no less, so i had an audience) and proceeded to shuffle around in a medium sized circle for 15 minutes, all the while having a highly inappropriate-in-public conversation.

once tracye trusted that she would not, after all, need to call 911 we hung up the phone and i discovered that it is WAY easier to balance when using both hands — shocking, i know.  I skated about, poorly, for another 15 minutes feeling like a total spazz, but having a good time none-the-less.  i am now resolved to finding a tennis court near me on which to practice.  i am determined to become, by spring, that lithe roller-skater i see in my head.

Originally published August 17, 2007

some people turn out to be more than you ever imagined; others are so much less than you hoped; and then there are those people who are exactly as you see them to be.  i have experienced all three this week.  add to that the truths and patterns i have learned about myself, or been shown, and i am overwhelmed.  all of my energy seems to be slipping right through my fingers and i’ve no idea how to close the gap.

where’s the little dutch boy* when i need him?

(for an explanation of that reference see:  http://www.poetry-archive.com/c/the_leak_in_the_dike.html)

Originally Posted June 6, 2007

After twenty-four hours of travel (and a maze of four airports) Mom, Tracye, Nina (Tracye’s mom) and I finally arrived in Malaga.  We headed to our rental car, whipped out the directions hotels.com had provided us from the airport to the hotel, and proceeded to get lost for two hours.  The upside of this was that mom and Nina got to flirt with two hot Spanish cops (the benefits of being a MILF).  The downside was when Tracye backed up in a one way street in full view of another cop…who strangely didn’t seem to care…welcome to the world of Spanish driving.

Once we found our hotel, checked in, and freshened up we headed to a neighborhood restaurant (the only thing open that we could find on a Sunday afternoon) for some much needed beer and food.  Our barely-there Spanish (the few words that were the same in Mexican Spanish and Spain Spanish) worked wonders.

We explored the town a bit on foot that afternoon and found that it was quite beautiful (even though we were dragging from not having slept in 30+ hours).  Around seven pm we headed out to a pub hoping that several beers would help us stay awake until a suitable time.  They did – and how.  A bit tipsy, we stumbled back to our hotel around nine.  The mom’s bunked together (early risers and all) and Tracye and I headed to our room under the (completely wrong) assumption that we would have a quick nap and head back out to see what kind of nightlife we could discover.  Yeah.  We woke up the next morning when our moms knocked on the bedroom door bearing café con leche (I’m now in a support group for withdrawal from said delicious beverage)

After breakfast we walked around Malaga a bit longer – exploring the harbor area, gardens and old town.  You can see my photos from Malaga at: http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWMb

Around noon, we left Malaga and headed for Ronda (about 1.5 hours inland).  This time, we only got lost for a half hour or so.  Thank (insert deity of choice here) Tracye has an overdeveloped sense of direction.  I was, of course, useless.

We arrived in Ronda and it was one of the most beautiful towns I have ever seen.  We walked around for a while, had some café con leche (Tracye and I) and sangria (the mom’s – now you know where we got our tendencies to drink), and decided to stay the night.  After inquiring at a few hotels, we found one that suited us, deposited our luggage and continued to explore the town.  Ronda has a beautiful (and famous) triple-arched bridge overlooking a deep gorge.  We thought it would be a good idea to hike down it (at 7 pm).  It was.  What a beautiful evening.  The view was incredible.  The hike back up at 9 (still daylight) was killer – but worth every minute.  After that, we figured we owed our body some more beer and went in search of an appropriate place to indulge.  As we bar-hopped we learned that a rum and coke (mom’s drink of choice) in Spain is 3/4 of a Tom Collins glass filled with rum and a tiny bottle of coke on the side.  Needless to say we were all tipsy again.

When Tracye and I got back to our room, we noticed an orange tree outside our balcony.  What would be better than for one drunk girl (Tracye) to climb over the balcony and pick an orange while the other drunk girl (yours truly) holds onto her waistband?  Well, I’ll tell you – had the orange been edible, that would have been better.  We popped our bravely (brave = stupid) gotten orange segments into our mouths only to spit them directly back into our hands – sour!

The next day we did a bit of shopping, had a bit of breakfast (the daughters bringing the mom’s coffee this time) and headed out.  You can see my photos from Ronda at: http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWMo

Our next stop was Tarifa.

To give you a bit of background – this trip started because my friend from university, Nicole, lives in Spain and was getting married in Tarifa.  As such, Tarifa was our ultimate destination.  We would use Tarifa as our jumping off point for several adventures.  It is a busy little surfing town located on the very bottom tip of Spain – white sandy beaches, blue as blue can be ocean, surfers, pizzerias, cafés, tourist shops, over-priced imported surf wear from California and yet somehow it is still utterly charming.

We actually didn’t get lost this time.  Now, that doesn’t mean that we went the way Mapquest said.  It just means that we didn’t get lost.  This drive wound us down some incredibly beautiful mountains – I think the vastness of the view kept us all from getting carsick on those curvy roads (that and Tracye’s award-winning driving).  Just as we reach the bottom of the mountains what do we see on the horizon but the beautifully blue Mediterranean.  We drove along the coast for a bit and arrived in Tarifa.

The first day we checked in to our spaciously basic room (4 single beds and a bathroom – no frills, no phone, but two cans of bug spray), changed into our swimsuits and headed across the street to check out the beach.  Brrrrr.  Did I mention Tarifa is the windsurfing capitol of the world?  Well – windy it is.  The beach is quite enjoyable when wearing a sweater (or a wetsuit as all of the kite surfers were sporting), but not the place to lie in a bikini and soak up the sun.  It was, however, intensely beautiful.

Some highlights from Tarifa were a two hour horseback ride through the mountains and the beach, many an alcohol-fueled conversation at the hotel bar, an afternoon or two in the sun by the pool drowsing and enjoying life, a forbidden poolside picnic, hilarity with the adorable children in the neighboring cabana, countless cups of café con leche, topless sunbathing “pin-up” photos by the pool…ask Tracye or I for more details on any of this.

You can see my photos of Tarifa (no, not the pin-up photos) at:  http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWM5

On Wednesday we headed into Gibraltar.  From the internet, we thought we needed to take a ferry to get there.  So, we went to the port and drove around looking for it.  After a bit, we stopped at a bar and Tracye and her mom went in to ask.  It made the day of the all male clientele of the bar.  We headed further down the road, took the Gibraltar exit and lo and behold suddenly we were driving through passport control – ah ha!  You can drive to Gibraltar.  We arrived just in the nick of time to meet Nicole for lunch and a stroll.  It was lovely to see her (it had been six years).  We decided to come back on Saturday afternoon so that we could do a tour of the Rock and see the monkeys.  It was just amazing.  I now know why monkeys so fascinate men.  I think I took at least 50 monkey photos, but don’t worry, I didn’t post them all.  Check out my Gibraltar photos at: http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWNO

Friday had us heading to the harbor in Tarifa to catch a ferry to Tanger, Morocco.  Here are some photos from the ferry journey (35 minutes in open water, eyes drinking in the sea):  http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWNs

We arrived in Tanger, Morocco a bit windblown, not quite knowing what to expect, but every one of us eager for an adventure.  We declined to take the first tour offered to us – something just didn’t feel right about the guide.  Then we met “Jim” – a sweet Moroccan guide who was incredibly knowledgeable about the city and who won me over when he stopped and bought a triangle of cheese about two seconds after I squealed “kitty!” when I saw a stray in the street.  I know, I know, I’m a sucker for kitties.  He doubled my faith in him when he yelled across the square for the showmen to put the cobra away so that we could walk past after learning of my “big fear” – quite the gentleman.  We explored the old town, rug shops, and an apothecary and then had lunch in a typical restaurant.  It was, by far, the best food we had during the entire trip.  You can see my photos from Tanger at:  http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8Aasmzhy4YtWN9

Saturday night, mom and I headed over to Nicole’s wedding where I finally met her husband.  He was one of the warmest, loveliest men I have ever met.  Well done, Nicole.  We ate, drank, danced and made new friends (the hottest guy at the party spent about an hour hitting on mom) until midnight when we headed back to the hotel to pack for our 6 am departure the next day.  Twenty-four hours later had us arriving, grumpy and bedraggled into Atlanta where my dad (prince of men that he is) met us with a cooler full of beer in the car.

Sorry that was so long.  I still feel like I barely gave the highlights, but I’m sure you’ll all be hearing stories for months.  We had a really wonderful time and I missed all of you guys.

B

P.S. These are just a few photos. I have around 300 good ones, so if you want more, ask and I will bore you to death, I am sure.

Originally posted January 5, 2007

this is belated, but last friday afternoon was amazing.  i was pretty down for a variety of unmentionable reasons and tracye (aka my heterosexual life partner) devised a plan to turn my frown upside down.

i traded in my perimeter for athens, and tracye and i hit pain and wonder so that i could finally get that new tattoo i’ve been wanting.  i felt better just walking in the door and after a half hour or so under mike’s needle i was all smiles.  from there, we headed over to the globe to relax with a beer (mmm, belhaven) and snack on some globe chips (homemade potato chips covered in blue cheese).

i believe that’s what they call a perfect afternoon.  it certainly cured my blues.

thanks, tracye.

Originally published Decmeber, 17 2006

i’m not the most coordinated of beings, we all know this, but this morning’s debacle makes it to number 2 on my “you did what?” list of klutzy accidents (no. 1 is cutting my finger, deep enough to cause some nerve damage, on a smoothie).

normally, i’m not a hair drying kind of girl, but it’s cold outside and i am sick, so this morning i figured it’d be in my best interest not to leave the house with a wet head.  so, i pull out the hair dryer, dust it off and proceed to dry my hair.  all is going well.  now, i’m not 100% awake yet (due to the fact that it’s a) morning and b) i’m sick) and it’s all steamy in the bathroom and water has condensed on the hair dryer making it slippery and I, naturally, drop it.

in the scramble to catch the hairdryer before it hits the ground and breaks into a million pieces all over the floor the hot, metal blowy part ends up smashed up against my stomach.  so today, i’m sporting some low cut pants because i can’t tolerate anything rubbing on the huge, hair dryer shaped red welts on my tummy

moral of the story:  don’t let beth near electrical appliances before ten a.m.

Originally published November 20, 2006

..is it a little messed up that my family has a healthy % of cherokee ancestors, yet we celebrate thanksgiving…um, yay for the half of my ancestors who forced to other half to walk the trail of tears and handed out small pox wrapped in a blanket as if it were a gift??? yeah…

seriously, though, i guess was just wondering if anyone other than me had some mixed feelings about things this week…i mean, aside from the above, we shoot turkeys so full of hormones that their chests are overly enlarged to the point where they can hardly walk; we glut ourselves on food while others have nothing; we are more excited about the “day after thanksgiving” sales than we are grateful for the over-abundance of people with whom and things with which our life is already blessed; we teach our children that thanksgiving is about a day of harmony between two cultures, but we practice bigotry and intolerance in our everyday lives…

…the only redeeming value i can find for thanksgiving is that it does — as much as it can in it’s plasticized, overly commercial way — remind us that we should be thankful…

…and so this year i am thankful for awareness; for each opportunity to open someone’s mind, however gently; and for each and every one of you who have made this last year – which could have been so much worse — just a little bit brighter.

Originally posted September 27, 2006

is there anything that rolling a little maker’s mark across your tongue can’t cure?

whiskey and i first met around the time i started teething.  gums hurt cause you’re cutting teeth? rub a little on. fussy baby? dip her pacifier in a little whiskey-coke and she shuts right up

we continued our acquaintance throughout my childhood years–let’s just say i could make a whiskey-coke before i could make a pb&j.

during adolescence we were strangers (because please, against what did i need to rebel?).

but we picked right back up in college and became good timin’ pals

now, whiskey and i are old friends.  that comfortable pal you tell your troubles to and who wraps you in a warm, fuzzy glow.

my experiments thus far lead me to believe that whiskey is, indeed, a cure all.

Originally posted on September 23, 2006

“To be obliterated, destroyed, completely demolished until my soul and all that I know of myself are reduced to rubble and ash is all that I ask of you. I give you the power to grind me into dust so that I can have the divine experience of making myself anew; of becoming a truer, stronger, more indestructible version of myself. To lose myself, to drown, to be sanctified by unholy fire; this is my wish, my desire — to rise like a phoenix from the ashes and shine for all eternity.”

inspired by Anselm Kiefer’s Drache (go see it at the high already, top floor, new wing)

Originally published on June 23, 2006

do you ever hear something and are just as shocked by your reaction to it as you are by the thing itself?

when i was growing up there was a man who owned a convenience store at the end of my road and every time i went in there he would give me candy.  this probably started when i was a blonde-ringleted five year old and continued until i graduated high school and moved away. as childhood things will, this man and this place have always been frozen in time in my memory — one of those simple pleasant places in your mind that you never question and always believe will exist.

and then today i hear that this man, this frozen-in-time, dispenser of joy-in-the-form-of-sweets died last night.  i am shocked at its suddenness  and sad for his family. and i am surprised at how sad i am personally — sad that this once solid, stationary part of the fabric of my memory has ceased to exist. sad that this person, who i knew only superficially, but for so long, is no longer around.

i wonder if he knew he was a childhood icon to the little girl down the street who is not so grown up as one might think?

Originally posted May 18, 2006

why is it that some words echo in your head for days?  someone can tell you a dozen nice things and then use one word, even if they mean it in a nice way, that holds a particular meaning for you, and awaken the specter of self-scrutiny that you have painstakingly been singing to sleep.

but that’s one of the more interesting (and fucked up) things about language, isn’t it?  even when we speak the same language, we often don’t speak the same language.  conotation and personal association have so much infulence on our interpretation of every day words that you never really know if someone hears what you are saying as you intended it.

is learning someone’s personal language what we really mean by “getting to know someone”?  are one’s friends (and here i mean real, true friends) the people who can interpret you and who you, in turn, can interpret?