howling at the moon

wolves howl at the moon. we, however, fill up hospital delivery rooms, commit petty crimes, toss and turn, and, generally, behave strangely. Cynics and logical, rational people may call me crazy for associating the cycles of the moon with any human behavior (Scott you know if I say the word "energy" one more time you'll do something rash) but, please, consider for a moment that if that same moon overhead can control the tides of the ocean, why wouldn't we, made so much of water, not also be similarly moved?

The weekend began on a high note. We'd just celebrated my birthday over dinner at the Ravenous Pig. Whisper-thin proscuitto. Sashimi tuna over warm mushrooms, an odd-sounding pairing that was, in fact, divine. Steak frites medium rare. Long, thin, perfectly crispy fries cooked in truffle oil and served in a pint glass. The heavenliest pig they should call it. We never overeat there so "ravenous" is not the word for us. It's more about this gentle, yet sensual, flavor rapture (that's as religious as I get). And the only heavy thing is really their privately brewed, in perfect small batches, chocolately dark porter.

Later, at home, he sang to me "Happy Birthday dear Pumpkiny, Happy Birthday to you" and then, melting into a bit of emotional sap and Publix cupcake, wrapped me in his arms tight and sang "Happy Birthday Jess" before I blew out my solitary candle and made three wishes into one big one. I am convinced if I make my wish by blending it into one run-on sentence of requests that all will be granted. The wishes I made when we were apart---at any given opportunity to make a wish: eyelash, penny in fountain, necklace clasp touching pendant, another eyelash---those wishes I made about him, and about us, well, they all came true. So like the moon, wishes have some merit for me. Making them. Believing in them.

We went to a party way, way inconveniently far from home which is not something we do. We tend to stick to our stomping grounds, probably out of laziness and also because we don't need to go anywhere special to have a good time. It's usually the same places, or home, out back, a couple of beers and some meat on the grill, just us. But we went to the party to say happy birthday to my friend who shares the same birthday as I do. We got there and felt this disjointed feeling of who's that? Do I even want to talk to that person? Why are we here? How long do we have to stay in order to not be rude? My friend was tired and even she didn't seem to be in a party mood. We really didn't know anyone so at this point in the evening, oh about 8:45pm, we planted ourselves in the kitchen and snuck in kisses by the sink and, like partners in crime, agreed an hour was good enough and then maybe we'd hit Scruffy's for a beer on the way home.

By the time we left at 1:15am, we had found ourselves enjoying the evening far more than we ever could have imagined. Why is it always the simplest times, the ones standing around someone's well-lit kitchen over beers and a little too much headachy red wine, that you meet the best people? Well, this one was of those nights. A pleasant surprise. Our polite hour had turned, happily, into our entire evening. Where did the time go? It didn't matter. And we went home and fell into bed, glad we'd made the trek out of our way only to meet others who'd made the same journey. So refreshing and needed, really. People of high-intelligence, wit, music, car enthusiasm, religion and political similiarities. It can get so wearying to conceal my true feelings around so many of the people I meet who assume I'm a church-goer. You go ahead and spend your Sunday wearing that and listening to that. I'd rather get outside, dig in the dirt, mow the weeds (there is no lawn, sadly, just green weeds), trim the hedge (there is a nice hedge which flanks the driveway nicely, though). I'd rather be out there connecting with the Earth than thinking about connecting with some religious figure. You do your thing, I'll do mine and we'll all be happy. I think, maybe, where I'm from, that people just don't talk about their religion or their church-going like they do here. They're more private about it or something. I'm not sure. I haven't figured that out yet. I like it being private. And if my spirituality is digging in the dirt, let me be. I also honor my little Buddha in my kitchen who I've put above eye-level (Scott's too) so he can guard over us. We also have a winged gargoyle in the front of the house warding off danger. Dirt. Buddhas. Gargoyles. It works for me.

Halloween, I dressed as a roughed up, black-eye, bruises, bloodied dress and bloody hand print on my chest, girl in an off white slip dress. A tad old to be a prom queen, I was still going for "Carrie." For one really weird moment (yet even weirder that it didn't upset me or seem improbable) I pondered whether Publix would sell me a bucket of blood so I could pour it over my head for full on Stephen King authenticity. We went to a neighbor's party. It was a crappy humid and soggy time of bad keg beer, a luge and all around douche baggery where a guy I kinda-sorta-not-really dated was a real condescending creep to Scott. We hightailed it outta there fast. And ended up having one of those overly emotional nights of needless drama and questioning. It was good we weren't really drinking. I swear it was that damn moon. We ended up curled up on the bed in the half-light (of that damn moon) both saying we'd never wanted to give this much to anyone or work this hard for a relationship. I will say, of one night out of five months since we've been back together, a little moon-induced drama on Halloween night was really not that big of a deal.

Yesterday, we got a flat screen TV. A 42-inch Samsung plasma which, to our welcome and joyous surprise, was marked suddenly down to $593 at Best Buy. We tossed it in the back of my car, securing the boot down with an Ipod wire and crawled home on Colonial. What a difference a day makes. The moon behind us, the Bears in our midst in crystal-clear, mind-numbingly (did we get it too big do you think?) jaw-droppingly (is this too many adjectives?) perfect vision. I commented on fingernail length. "You'd never see that on the 27-inch Sony tube TV." Really! Wow. What a fun day. We decided we'd make roast chicken, with red skin and roasted red pepper mashed potatoes and broccoli for dinner and just have a nice easy night in together. I decided to go out for a quick run to get some oxygen in my blood and some endorphins pumping. Just a short run, that's all. Scott said "just run a mile and come back."

I wish I had. My new Saucony Pro Grids that were my most-wanted birthday gift last week make running into a marshmallow ease of delightful whip-stepping. It could be a lot in my head but there's a lotta cushioning in there and that makes the pavement-pounding ever so palatable. I ran to Lake Eola, around just once and back again. Probably no more than 3 miles. As I made my way back down Livingston, I passed people on their porches and attarctive women walking their pooches. I felt reasonably safe listening to my iPod and ready to be home. At this last stretch of my short run, I saw walking my way a man, a rather tall black one. He was wearing a red hoodie and dark jeans, appeared to be in his 20s. My first instinct was to run to the other side of the street but something stopped me. That's racist, Jess, don't think that way. Just keep running.

The quietness of that block on that street. That man walking slowly, me running. It wasn't about him being black. No. It was all about him being a man. Why didn't I just cross that street? I was more concerned with offending a stranger than with my own feelings of security. When I don't listen to my instincts, I always wonder why I didn't. Because, 99% of the time, my gut is dead on.

All I can say is, I knew what he was going to do before he did it.

I just knew.

As I ran past, he whipped out his junk and just stood there waiting for me to react.

When I saw that, I ran faster than I've ever run in my life to the light at Mills. But he just ambled on. And what would my running fast have done anyway? If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have. Easily. I would have been no match for him.

Today all I can think is: why does it have to be so hard to be a woman? Why can't I run on the streets of my own neighborhood and feel safe? It wasn't dark. There were people around. But maybe not enough people. And today I feel angry at myself for not crossing that street. And today I am relieved, so grateful and relieved, that nothing else happened, that I wasn't hurt.

And today I feel scared and vulnerable and afraid to run outside anymore.

When I got to Mills, in the safety of traffic lights and activity and other runners, running obliviously by, happily immersed in their iPod mixes, I felt like I wanted to vomit or cry, or both. I ran across the street to the YMCA and asked the girl at the front desk to call the police. Which she did. I asked them to get out and drive down Livingston, see if they could find this guy. I left my name and number and had the Wellness Director walk me to safety because, at this point, it was dark out. When I got home, I told my boyfriend who was busy making delicious roast chicken and mashed potatoes and enjoying the early evening. He kept asking me if I was alright.

You okay baby?

Yeah.

The police called me back about a half hour later. Everybody downtown was "busy" so they dispatched a guy from Pine Hills. Of course they didn't find him. Of course the flasher on Livingston was long gone by then. Where are the police when you need them? Where are they when you need them to go catch a creep?

Full moon. Howling at it. Tides turning. Watch your back. So much goodness in the world. So much creepiness, too. Protect. Find protection. Be safe. I want not to worry but I can't help it now.