facing fears

I stood, in blue gym shorts and the pale t-shirt, featuring the Clarke Middle School owl, on the grassy field that was, in 1982, the spot for gym class volleyball. Mrs. Cook had imparted all that she could to us--the way to hold your fist when serving the ball, how to bump, how to set, how to keep score. Now all that was left was actually playing. There were enough girls lining the court that it was a fairly safe bet that I wouldn't have to actually hit the ball, that if it came towards me, I could duck out of the way and let the more athletically inclined girls do the heavy hitting.

Dodging the ball, steering clear of it's fast descent into my personal space, was a skill I developed. And while I could usually serve the ball and even get it over the net on occasion, volleyball, like so many other sports in my life, stood as an icon of fear. Because unlike mini-golf, where failure to hit the ball where it belongs only impacts me, team sports such as volleyball, impact other people--people who have hopes and expectations that revolve around the concept of my being able to return a serve or get a ball over the net. And perhaps even worse, is that in volleyball, once the opposing team discovers that I suck, I become a target. Hit the ball to the pudgy one in pigtales--she can't hit it back they say. And suddenly ball, after ball, after ball comes flying over the net, right into my little corner of the world, while I stand, helplessly ducking.

You'd think I'd have remembered all this when I said yes. You'd think it would've stopped me. But when two of my favorite boys on the planet suggested that I join their beach volleyball team, I said yes before the floodgate of memories had the chance to surface. I paid for my team insurance and Ms. Cook's class never crossed my mind. I loaded up on tacos at our team fiesta before the start of the season and only noticed how great the team shirts were. No, memories of the 6th grade volleyball experience were buried deep in my unconscious...until yesterday.

Yesterday, I donned a new uniform--black sweats and a red t-shirt with a new logo: the Deviled Eggs. And I took my bare feet down to the beach and in the Chicago cold of May found myself playing volleyball. And I missed a lot of balls. And the boys on one team--they did target me. But this time it was different. Because my teammates cheered when I hit the ball, even when it went flying off the court. And because I served 5 serves that they couldn't return. And earned us a total of 6 points. Take that Clarke Middle School!

In the end, the Deviled Eggs won all 4 games we played. (Take that boys who targeted me!) And it was great fun. And I was still scared shitless. But I did it. And next Friday I'll do it again. And step by step, volley by volley, those old voices, those old fears, grow quieter and move farther and farther away. Step by step, volley by volley, I find I'm less inclined to duck.

you can't go home again

Hi. I'm still here. A little ashamed as I've been gone for such a long time. My apologies. I'll try not to let it happen again...

About the last post--the Julia Child meets the Great 50 Days of Easter project--it bombed. I spent a lot of time with the cookbook at Barnes and Noble and realized it's just not the kind of food I want to invest my time in right now. While the classics are undoubtedly classics, the temptation to make pea salads circa 1970 is just too high, so I had to take a pass on that. I'm looking for another project. I'll let you know when I find it.

So that's the business I needed to take care of.
Here's the story I want to tell you...

I've written before about my friends AJS, CA & SWD. They're good enough friends that they deserve cute bloggy names, so I'm re-naming them now. AJS becomes St. Mochta, the non-existent but good candidate for Patron Saint of Weight Watchers. The internet oh-so-reliably tells me that St. Mochta never ate a bite of fat (yes, I am aware that is not the key to healthy weight loss. I still think the name is clever) . Based on nothing more than that tidbit, I'll offer that name to my friend. She's the rock star of Weight Watchers (over 70 pounds in less than a fricking year). And I hereby give CA, my motorcycle riding friend, the name Miss Ezekiel. Why Ezekiel? From the first chapter: And when the living creatures went, the wheels went by them: and when the living creatures were lifted up from the earth, the wheels were lifted up... for the spirit of the living creature was in the wheels. And lastly, SWD becomes Hot Chip. Because she loves the band. And it fits her.

So, St. Mochta, Miss Ezekiel and Hot Chip were part of a writing class I took many moons ago. In the class I worked on my fiction skills, played with words, crafted a story line or two and it was all good. But at the end of the class, something miraculous happened. I got asked out for drinks. Okay, in truth the entire class was invited, but only 4 of us ended up going out. I almost declined but I figured I had nothing to lose, so off I went. That night a friendship was born and the four of us began to meet weekly. Although we remain in touch, Hot Chip has since moved away. This year she sent me for Christmas the autobiography of Andy Taylor from Duran Duran. I will forever love this woman. And those of us left behind in Chicago, St. Mochta & Miss Ezekiel & me, we continue to go out for dinner, drinks (we've pretty much ditched writing, which was our original reason to meet) and I consider them some of my dearest friends.

Of late Miss Ezekiel, St. Mochta & I have taken to going out for Trivia Night. Someday, dear reader, I will be brave enough to relive the story of the Hell Burger I tried to eat during Trivia Night. But not today. Today is a story about trying to go back to the old things. This week we decided to go back to where it all started for us, our little artsy-restaurant-bar-oasis where we first drank wine and told stories. It's been over a year since we've been there, our once weekly meeting place. All week I had waited for their Ambrosia, a strange but delicious mix of vegetables and capers, balsamic vinegar, bread and cheese (sounds weird but so good). But moreover I was looking forward to sitting in the familiar space catching up with friends, telling stories.

There was a band playing, and they came around to the table (after we had ordered) and told us to pony up $7 each for cover. I knew it was coming and didn't mind (much). Our waitress smelled like Love's Baby Soft and pushed cocktails rather than devulge stories of travels and adventures as previous servers had. And then the Ambrosia came out. And it was just wrong. All wrong. No capers, no punch, no bite. Just blah. But even so, it was okay. Until the owner came in. After the inital "how wonderful to see you again"s, she went outside for her obligitory smoke. Walking in, before the door even closed, she turned to us and shhhed us, telling us to be quiet for the show. I know I'm loud, but the floor wasn't mine and we weren't loud and it just felt odd. This place that had so been a haven wasn't mine, wasn't ours anymore. It was different. It felt wrong. We were out of place in what had felt like home. And there's no one to blame but us--we are the ones who left, but it felt strange and I was irritated. And so we paid our check and got up to leave, people around us being much louder with no librarian-esqe fussing. And headed out into the (not so) cold.

We planned for coffee but then we saw it. I imagine it must have been akin to what Lucy felt when she first felt the snow crunch under her feet as the wardrobe turned into the land of Narnia. Disbelief mixed with delight as this oasis on Irving Park appeared. Into the woods we went, this small, strange hole in the wall lounge with Hockey on the big screen and girly but delicous martinis made of pear and vodka. It was the perfect spot--the place to talk over drinks, keep up with important scores and meet the characters that will make it into the novels you'll never write.

The bartender, Latkia (name modified to protect the truth), pours this martini that's like heaven in a glass (and at $15 a drink, well it should be). But better than the drinks are the stories she tells--tales of crappy customers who don't appreciate the art of her wares, the stories of creation and inspiration that take the form of pear, of bananna (really), of chocolate martinis. They really were different from what you'll find at most bars--cleaner, all alcohol and she swears that if you don't drink before or after you leave, you will never get a hangover from her drinks. Latkia didn't care if we talked loudly or cheered when the non-Chicago team won. Latkia just wanted to make art in liquid form and share the art with her eagar "art" patrons. We were, of course, happy to oblige.

So you can't go home again, but you can always make a new one.