Inside/Outside

Inside, 195x

Outside, 2010

I'm sorry

Dear Black from Tula tomato plant,

I'm sorry I put you in a pot that's far too small to accommodate your majesty. I'm sure that's why you produced exactly one tomato. One tomato that's been growing and greening for a month now. One tomato that was just about to start turning red, and then black.

And I'm sorry that a deer ate the one fruit you worked so hard to create.

I'm going to put you out of your misery because, frankly, you depress me.

Baya

Today is my grandma Baya's 93rd birthday. I say that like I have other grandmas left, but like most adults my age, I do not. I'm extremely fortunate she's still around and that she can tell a dirty joke, and that up until just a few months ago, she's been sharp as a tack.

I talk to Baya every single day, if only just for a few minutes. We've been doing this for more than a decade; though we were always close, our relationship intensified when my grandfather passed away. In a hospital room, surrounded by his children and grandchildren and after a medium-length illness. When he took his last breath and it became clear he wasn't going to take another one, ever, my grandmother let out a wail the likes of which I hope to never hear again and fell into my arms.

They met when she was 16 years old. She'd recently lost her mother, and though she had plenty of siblings, it didn't seem like she had a friend in the world. He was on a date with a woman named Dirty-Necked Bertha and spied her at a party. Just like that. They were married for almost 60 years.

So, yes, I talk to my grandma every day. She's seen me through some tough times and I like to think I've helped her do the same. But now, when I talk to her, she's half there. She's confused. I think she knows who I am, but I'm not positive, and I don't test her. Sometimes she tells me she's been out shopping (she can't leave the house). Sometimes she asks where my grandfather is (she forgets he's gone). She still calls me Dolly. It's heartbreaking for me. I feel like I've lost my best friend, but she's still here, breathing.

For her, I hope it's not heartbreaking. I hope she continues to think she's going shopping, and going out to restaurants and affairs, and playing poker, and waiting for my Papa to get home from golfing so she can start dinner.

Happy birthday, Grandma. I love you. So much.

Lucky Me

Want

A few years ago, Esalen had a slackline set up on the lawn outside the lodge. It was only a few feet off the ground, and the people who were walking it made it look easy and fun. So I gave it a try:

More humbling than it looks.

Hey! Looks like I'm doing pretty good here! I'm not clutching my cohorts' hands! I'm not off-center! I'm on one foot!

For about a second and a half.

The nylon line really quickly started to vibrate and swing back and forth. I pitched off, propelled and twangy and grassy.

My man just now sent me a link to Phillippe Petit's new classes in NY. Considering the slackline I tried was pretty much two-dimensional and still as hard as hell to stay upright on, I just can't imagine walking a metal rope that vibrates and twists. But damn, do I want to learn.

Just as easy as it looks.

And counting...

One of my favorite things about having my bff here is that we can have conversations that go like this:

"That's like that one dress you had, remember?"
"Totally."
"Is True Blood on yet?"
"Sookie!"

Well, that's kind of a combo convo, but the point is that it's really great to have someone around who remembers that one dress I had 20 years ago that looks kinda like this one awesome dress I have now that just needs a couple of alterations to become perfect.

And now I'm kind of lonely.