Spontaneity

Sometimes the best things are unplanned. Like tonight.

I knew my friend Nancy and her daughter were in town from Michigan. I knew they had a family event in the afternoon, (to which I was invited, but scheduled to work). I knew I had no plans for the evening.

When I got home from work after 8 pm, I dove into the leftover pizza from last night. It was Nancy’s fault we even had pizza last night. She had posted a picture earlier in the day of a slab of pizza from Espresso, the pizza joint we grew up with. And once I saw it, it was all I could think about.

When I got home from work and Mom commented that she didn’t know what we’d do for supper, I said, “Nancy posted a picture of Espresso pizza today, and it’s all I have been able to think about.” The next thing I knew, I was across town picking up my niece to stay overnight and swinging by Espresso to pick up a pizza order that Mom called in. Espresso for the win! And thank you Nancy.

Because there only three of us for the pizza supper, there were a couple slices left over. And because I love pizza, and especially pizza from Espresso, there was nothing else on my mind all day today at work. When I got home, I took off my coat and headed straight for the fridge and the pizza.

As I dove into my microwave reheated pizza slabs, I received a text from the pizza inspiration herself, asking if I was free to meet up. As a matter of fact, hell yes! Within 30 minutes we were convened at the Boulder Cafe, a classic local watering hole since my grandmother’s days. And it was good. Unplanned. Fun. And good. Sometimes things just work out perfectly, even without the benefit of plans.

Amused Girls

It's not very often that I am jealous of a kid, but it has happened. It was during a summer vacation in York, Maine.

York, Maine is a place of many memories for me. When I was a kid, my family camped there for a week every year for many years. We had a large tent, bunk bed cots, and almost enough room for the five of us. I remember hating the whole idea of it -- leaving our solid house to go live in a cloth dwelling like a family of gypsies. Having to plan clothing for an entire week. It was hell.

We would leave after Dad got home from work, and arrive at the campground in near-dark (best case scenario) or pitch dark (usual scenario), often getting the only available, least desirable site in the tent park. It seemed like it always rained, and Dad would often have to dig a trench around the tent, which leaked if we left something (like the cooler) touching the fabric. It was also cold and I never had warm enough clothes, but anything less than 88 degrees was (and still is) cold to me.

My camping memories include such delights as being awoken from a solid sleep by the train that passed through the area at around 3  a.m. or some other ungodly hour, so close to our tent that it seemed it was coming through the tent and we would all be killed. I'm sure this heart pounding feature explains  why it was the last site available. One summer my brother accidentally dropped a large rock on my sister's hand, requiring a trip to the ER and a wrist brace she was horrified to wear.

There were comical camping moments involving wildlife, like the goat trying to eat my sister's shirt, a llama chasing my brother, and a duck harassing my Dad on separate visits to the York Wild Animal Kingdom and Amusement Park. There was once a red fox that lept over our campfire.  There were mosquitoes the size of  personal jets.

On a more recent visit to York, we visited the amusement park, where I was the only adult willing to go on the rides with my nieces. The idea that I am actually an adult is laughable to me, but I guess I have lightened up in my old age. I was more of a stuffy old person at age 11 than I am now, which stunk for the young me, but at least I can have fun now.  Anyway. My nieces, aged 15, 11 and 9, and I had a blast on the spinning rides, Ferris wheel, fun house, and bumper cars.

During the day at the park, my nieces saw two girls they knew from home. In both cases, the girls were traversing the park and going on rides alone. ALONE. Unaccompanied. Carefree. One girl was solo and laughing on the Scrambler. The other bold little thrill seeker kept riding the ride where you are strapped standing in a cage that spins like a centrifuge. I watched these girls of approximately 10 years old, each on her own, having fun, alone, without an ounce of self consciousness. I admired what I decided was bravado. I love their carefree spirit. And I was jealous. Jealous of two tweens.

When I was 10, the only solo activity I was comfortable with was visiting the library, where I would routinely check out piles of books to hole up in my room and read. If my friends weren't available to accompany me to something, I didn't do it. I was 36 before I sucked it up and ate alone in a restaurant, instead of hunkering down alone with takeout.

Seeing the two girls in the amusement park, I wished when I was their age that I was as independent and happy as they appeared to be. Hell, let's be real. I wished at my current age that I was as happy and carefree as they appeared to me that day. Maybe someday.

Nodding Off

The long nights of winter, which seem to start when the clocks "fall back" by one hour in October, take on a life of their own. When it's dark at 6, it feels like midnight and I am often nodding off at 7:30. Good times. Maybe it's more accurate to say it's a total lack of life.

One remedy for delaying sleep so early in the evening may be to drink coffee in the afternoon. The problem is, coffee at 1 pm often means I'm still wide awake at 1 am. And by wide awake I mean dead tired but still too keyed up to sleep.

Other remedies surely exist, but I don't know what they are just now.  I'm too tired to think. It's 9:45 pm and I've been fighting sleep for two hours. 

Fortunately, in late December, the days start to grow longer again, so it's only five or six or eight (long) weeks in the dark doldrums. My energy level returns with the daylight. Thank goodness. I'm afraid I'll get whiplash from the nodding off.

Live Pain

I feel like I'm getting my ass kicked. Or like I've been run over by a truck. 

There was a three year spell without chiropractic visits due to a variety of reasons including a broken leg and a life put on hold. 

There were recent months of stepping on one pant leg under the bottom of my shoe. Same pant leg, different pants. Every day. Dozens of times. My extensive, self-taught and just enough to be very dangerous medical education, gleaned from years of previous chiropractic treatments and hours on webmd.com and google, led me to conclude my hips are out of alignment.

After pulling a muscle in my upper back reaching for a bathrobe and spending four weeks resting it, avoiding the gym, and obsessing over it, it was finally time to call a chiropractor. 

I knew it would take some work getting myself straight again. I guess I forgot about the ongoing discomfort during the process. Or maybe in my younger days I snapped back a lot quicker. Or maybe I am now so old now that I forgot how things actually work. 

A week into treatments my sternum felt like it had been hit with a battering ram. The knotted muscle in my neck and shoulder continues in misery four weeks in, but only if I move my head in certain useful and not always avoidable ways. For instance, looking to the right. Or up.

The pad of the thumb on my dominant hand is newly numb. The three years of numbness from the broken leg is currently supplemented by nightly spasms in my shin, foot, and toes.

A new hyper awareness about posture snaps me out of the slouch I developed through laziness and improperly laid out work stations. At least momentarily.

On the bright side, discomfort (and let's not forget pain) has always served to remind me I am alive. The quest now is for the days to come when the sensation of being healthy and energized is what makes me feel alive. Soon, I hope.

This Girl's Nature

While growing up in a New England city, nature wasn't really my thing. I generally didn't like to be outdoors -- breezes would tangle my hair and blow it into my face and mouth and bugs were gross and seemed to be everywhere. It seemed like every time I made an effort (or was forced) to be outside, something unpleasant happened that made me retreat to my bedroom and the comfort of a book. Like the time when I was maybe six, picking up the green flowery things that fell into the driveway from the trees and making little bouquets, and ants crawled up my bare arms. Once, when I was eight or nine years old, my mom sent me outside to bring my bike in from the yard before it rained, and a bird pooped directly onto my head. The summer when I was around 10 and walking barefoot in the back yard, there was the horrific incident of stepping in dog poo which subsequently squished between my toes, causing me to swear off going barefoot everywhere except the beach and quite possibly launching my longstanding love affair with footwear.

Sometimes, the outdoor unpleasantness happened to someone else and was gratefully embraced as a cautionary tale and excuse for me to stay inside. This was the case when my brother and the other neighborhood boys were building a fort in the woods, and he stepped on a nail that went through the sole of his sneaker and into his foot. His trip to the ER and the resultant tetanus shot were enough inspiration for me to avoid the dangers of the outdoors in general and anything construction related in particular. Shoe-clad concrete paved trips to the air-conditioned comfort of the public library were perfect for me. Others could endure the messiness outside while I was inside reading about it. The fifteen minute walk to the library and time spent outside while shopping downtown was as much of the great outdoors as I could handle.

Family tent camping trips were the ultimate outdoor torture. To my inwardly-focused, pre-teen mind, our family vacations spent in a fabric dwelling for a week at a time were specifically designed by my parents for the sole purpose of torturing me. They might have claimed we didn't take vacations in proper buildings such as hotels like normal families because we couldn't afford it, but I thought that was just a flimsy cover story for their sadistic plots. Thankfully, my aversion to the outdoors did not include the beach, which I loved. The coast of southern Maine was the payoff for enduring the horrors of family camping and the central shower and bathroom building. The beach was an entirely different world. Of course, while there, I mostly laid on our woolen US Army blanket and read a book, so even that version of "outdoors" bore a marked similarity to the comfort of laying on my bed at home, reading a book.

A family trip to New York City during April school vacation when I was in high school (and during which we actually stayed in a hotel!) helped launch my version of my 'dream home' -- a glass coated high-rise apartment in an energetic city where everything I didn't yet know I needed was attainable with a quick walk or ride by taxi or subway. When I bothered to think about the future (which was not often as I was usually too busy suffering through the tortures of the current day) it was the opposite of the "American Dream" single family detached house with white picket fence, 2.5 children, a dog, a cat and a four door family vehicle. Maturity, reality, and self-imposed limitations led to a scaled down Plan B version featuring an exposed brick and beam apartment in Boston or its often overlooked stepsister, Worcester, Massachusetts.

Somewhere along the everchanging path of life, even the small-city localized version of my concrete jungle high-rise fantasy was further scaled, altered and eventually reworked, redirected, and expanded to include an appreciation for the outdoors. Instead of screaming like the stereotypical character in a horror movie upon seeing a spider weaving a web, I now pause and enjoy the work, marvel at the intricacy, and if a camera is available, attempt to capture it in pixels.

Some of the credit for the transition goes to X-Man. He had said he dreamed of being a mountain man, which, at the time, I thought was a more poetic expression. Later, it turned out he really did want to live away from civilization in a remote mountain cave. We spent time walking in the woods, where he taught me how to identify the tracks and droppings of various animals (deer poop is tiny!). We looked at trees and smelled nature. We drove to parks after a snowfall to walk in the quiet woods. We drove around Fort Campbell looking for deer and turkey.

Now, from my little brick ranch at the edge of the woods, not too far from the cave, nature is all around me and I don't even have to try to find it. One of the streets where the dogs and I walk reminds me of those early camping days, but with fondness now, as my previous distaste for it has abated. Most days, flocks of turkeys gather in various yards in the neighborhood and roost in the woods behind my house. Doe and their offspring meander down the driveway en route to nearby yards and a red fox makes its own rounds of visitation. An owl surveys the neighborhood from a branch in an ancient tree, sometimes even in daylight hours.

Pileated Woodpeckers!

In a single Sunday morning, from the comfort of a couch deliberately placed to face the living room picture window, I saw an eight-point buck stroll across the front of the house. He made three passes back and forth through the yard, almost like he was parading for me or looking for something -- possibly the doe that are usually in the area. Meanwhile, inside the house, I was racing from window to window, camera in hand, trying to get a photo of his masculine majesty as the dogs ran back and forth, barking like we were under attack. Two hours later, the massive old tree up near the edge of the road was visited by two of the largest Pileated Woodpeckers I've ever seen, and the first two I've ever seen in my own yard. They circled the tree pecking, as I ran through the house trying to find the bigger zoom lens for the Nikon.

This late-blooming nature girl will miss the deer, turkeys, fox, woodpeckers and owl when the house sells and it's time to move. Hopefully, I can at least get some decent photos of my woodsy cohabitants first.

Dating Revelation

It occurred to me recently that I have been in a dating relationship! This revelation is based on the Merriam-Webster definition of “date” (entry 4a at merriam-webster.com): 

"an appointment to meet at a specified time; especially : a social engagement between two persons that often has a romantic character"

I was feeling a bit embarrassed I actually had to look up the definition of "date" but the social landscape has changed so much in recent years that it is all very confusing. I have been asked by men to "hook up," which I first thought (naively) to mean, "Hey, let’s meet for coffee and conversation" and it turned out the gentleman (and I use the term loosely) meant something more like "Hey, even though we don’t know each others' last names, how about a quick romp in the sack?" It took me a bit of time to catch on that when a male wants to "hang out" it is totally different than hanging out with my girlfriends. With the gal pals, it means we gather somewhere to talk, maybe involving food and/or drink. The male version seems to mean the male does everything possible to get the female naked as quickly as possible, including flat-out saying, "So, you wanna get naked?"

I guess the new terrain is why it took me so long to realize my own relationship. Granted, it's somewhat on-again off-again, depending upon the season, but overall, it’s been a pretty regular  Saturday night thing for the past four years or so. The night, which I always look forward to with great anticipation, might include dinner or drinks, but most often it's just enjoyable, dedicated time together. Sometimes it’s a very late night thing and occasionally there are amazing weekend marathons that send me totally over the moon. 

I can’t wait to tell my mother and my sister about my relationship. I think they have been concerned about the fact that I hadn’t even mentioned a guy in my life for almost three years. Now that I’ve realized the truth,  and based on the criteria of "specified time" and the enduring nature of my relationship, I can’t wait to tell them I’m dating a doctor.  And it’s not just A doctor, it’s THE Doctor. The fact that it has gone on for a period of years means basically, I’m in a long-term dating relationship with Doctor Who and it's one of the most stable relationships of my adult life.

Smellin' Money

We get business and banking trade magazines at work, which are circulated throughout the office. Titles including Nashville Business Journal, Nashville Post, ABA Bank Marketing Magazine and Independent Banker routinely land on my desk and I actually read them. Sometimes they are a little beyond my scope of work or interest, but there is almost always something in each magazine to catch my eye.

Oftentimes, the articles I enjoy are about using social media to promote business, new businesses opening, customer relationship management or successful bank marketing campaigns from around the country. I always scan the photos and mentally critique the men in them. Once in a great while, the critique is along the line of “Dang, he’s hot. That beautifully tailored suit really brings out his gray hair. Oh, crap, he’s wearing a wedding ring.” Unfortunately, it’s more like “Eww.... did this guy not know he was having his picture taken for this article? What’s with the clown hair?”  Yes, I know ... I probably shouldn’t be reading a business magazine like it’s the match.com listings, but hey, I’m single and drowning in a sea of couples. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just as New Yorkers were reported to read the obituaries looking for apartment openings and I read them in search of new job openings, this is just a natural, less morbid extension of the process.

In my overactive inner life, if and when I see a photo of a hot businessman or banker in a nicely tailored suit and it’s not mentioned that he’s married, I would drop him a brief, professional note commenting on his brilliant quote in the article, we begin corresponding, and soon, we live happily ever after. It could happen! I had a coworker once who met her handsome and amazing husband when he was an expert witness in a case she was trying. My cousin made a wish on her birthday cake and that very same night her wish was granted when she literally bumped into the handsome Scotsman who would become her husband! See! Real life examples of happily ever after. Unfortunately, in six years of reading the magazines at work, I’ve not yet seen one banker or businessman I found attractive enough to take out my pen and get busy, so I can’t even execute the first step of my fantastical plan. But it doesn’t stop me from hoping.

Today, there was something in the ABA Bank Marketing Magazine that caught my eye. Two things actually. One was  an article by Robert Hall on relationships in our increasingly technology driven world that fosters fewer reasons to leave the house (I need the book -- “This Land of Strangers”). The other was a brief article about a new cologne. Yes, cologne. In a banking magazine. It’s a cologne called Money, comes in His and Her versions, packed in a box with shredded US currency. It claims to smell like freshly minted cash. So, it’s possible to look like money, smell like money and really and truly be SO MONEY! Even the website name is inspiring ... www.liquidmoney.com.

I want this. I need this. I couldn’t wait to get home and check how much money it takes to smell like money (just $42.50! Subtle hint ... my birthday is in one month). This could kickstart the other fantasy that runs through my head ... the one where I meet my personalized version of Prince Charming Mr. Right in the seat next to me on an airplane, while standing in line at a coffee shop or when reaching for the perfect avocado in the produce department of the local grocery store. This fantasy is the reason I rarely leave the house without makeup. One never knows. I already told you about two real life instances of which I am personally acquainted.

Smelling like Money!!! Maybe that’s the golden ticket to attracting a guy who at least owns a nice suit, but more likely, I will attract the panhandler on the street who is in desperate need of money. But which version do I get? If and when I remember to bother to spritz on cologne, it’s Armani for Men, because most women’s fragrances smell too powdery or flowery and make me gag. There is no point grossing myself out with cologne, as there are enough reeking ladies running around the ‘Ville handling the task for me.

I checked the list of “resellers” on the Money website, hoping to test drive “The Fragrance of Success” which includes “the distinct note of fresh, crisp bills” (Her Money) or “the unique aroma of newly-printed bills” (His Money). Sadly, the only Tennessee reseller is, of all places, “The Cowboy Store” in some town called Huntingdon that I’ve never heard of before. Interestingly, many of the reseller names contain the words “Western” and “Cowboy” with Oklahoma and Texas having the most resellers. The smell of money will be heavy in the air over the oil well states. Strangely, the giant state of California has only two resellers, and Massachusetts and New York have none. Asia is listed with just one reseller in the entire region. Europe has one in Lithuania and England has just a website listed. Perhaps the answer is to boost my own money by becoming a reseller in one of the unrepresented areas  ... Hmmmm.

Bottom Feeding

On Sunday, as I was driving to WalMart, the store I love to hate -- but the only place in Clarksville selling my favorite flavor of ramen and therefore a necessary undertaking -- I noticed a person on the side of the road in front of Pier 1, holding a double stacked sign about Borders Bookstore’s closing sale -- with savings of 50% to 70%. It is more accurate to say this person was wielding the sign like a giant shield and hiding behind it, as if anticipating a barrage of incoming firepower, or more likely afraid of being seen by someone they knew in the traffic at the intersection. I’m not sure holding a sign outside a mall entrance would be my favorite job either. But it’s a job, right? And lately they are pretty hard to come by, I don’t care what the highly-paid big economists declare about economic recovery. I have seen nothing of the sort.

National economy aside, the point is I was headed somewhere else, saw the sign, and changed course into the mall at the next entrance. The sign holder accomplished his or her purpose. Marketing objective fulfilled.

I hadn’t been to Borders in months, so I felt a little guilty showing up for the closing sale. The place was more packed with shoppers than I ever saw it in regular times. It brought tears to my eyes.  I figured many of us were occasional shoppers bottom feeding off the going out of business sale. It made me sad, because if this many people shopped there on a regular basis, maybe they wouldn’t be closing. Then, to make myself feel better,  I rationalized my own presence -- it’s not my fault a single hard cover book costs the equivalent of my weekly grocery budget and the only time books feel affordable is at a half-off sale. If things weren't so expensive or if I made more money maybe I could afford to be something more lofty than a bottom feeder.

Instead of strolling the grocery section of WalMart for my weekly supply of $1 frozen microwave dinners for lunch, granola bars for breakfast, and tomato paste to finish off my spaghetti sauce already in progress, I spent over an hour browsing the racks at Borders. Even the bookcases and fixtures were for sale. I fantasized about having one of the really tall wall units with the rolling ladder, and how that might FINALLY provide enough room for all my books. It was a lovely reverie, but then I woke up and remembered where I live, the height of my ceilings and size of my rooms, the reality that I really do plan to move someday, and that $600 for a rolling wooden ladder is NOT the wisest alternate use of September’s mortgage payment and I should send it to Bank of America as planned, thus keeping the book collection dry for another month, though still “organized” in piles on far too many horizontal surfaces.

In my wanderings, I picked up books -- eight, to be precise, at saving of 50% and 60% depending upon genre -- plus a blank journal, an installment in the graphic novel series I’ve been reading for the past year, two magazines (70% off) and a new pair of reading glasses in the strength recommended by the eye doctor at my recent $300 eye exam (including 6 months worth of contact lenses) which is unfortunately not covered by my $200 a month health coverage. About halfway through my hunting and gathering of books with titles as varied as  “The Complete Idiot’s Guide to World Religions (Fourth Edition);” “Becoming a Life Change Artist: 7 Creative Skills to Reinvent Yourself at Any Stage of Life;” and “Crazy Aunt Purl’s Drunk, Divorced & Covered in Cat Hair: True Life Misadventures of a 30-Something Who Learned to Knit After He Split;” and somewhere in the law book section strategically located next to the books about sex, the figure $100 popped into my head. I don’t know where it came from, or how it landed in my cranium, but after it arrived there I thought, “Ok, this little side trip is going to be the equivalent of the month’s grocery budget.” Maybe that's when I should have visited the financial management section.

Standing there at the intersection of books about legal defense and wills and “Secrets of a Call Girl” and the Illustrated Kama Sutra, I considered the sum of $100 and what it represented -- the number of hours at my desk ... the slightly more than two tanks of gas to get me to that desk and everywhere else for a two week period  ... three months derby league dues plus a six-pack of pricey beer ... a third of the current cost of a round-trip plane ticket home. And then I said “screw it,” yes, out loud ... followed by a silent “I have a VISA card, what’s another $100 owed on top of the seven grand piled up in the three-and-a-half years since my divorce?” It’s that sort of thinking that got me back into credit card debt in the first place. But I kept shopping, grabbing a novel featuring a Jack Russell Terrier (half Moose!) and two books based in New England -- a novel set in colonial Andover, and “The Gardner Heist -- The true story of the world’s largest unsolved art theft;” a craft book about recycling wool sweaters into new creations .... another graphic novel, this one from the biography section. On the way to the register, I grabbed a copy of Cesar Milan’s magazine and one on Gothic Style and Beauty.  No, I am not going goth .... it just amused me there was an entire glossy, full-color magazine about goth style and the challenges it can present in the workplace. The topic matter interested me as much as the expense undertaken for color ... I mean, really ... most of the pages are black! But hey, the red lipstick and tattoo ink really pop in the photos. I was proud of myself for completely avoiding the Self Help section, where I have already 'invested' far too much money on books telling me all the new and modern ways in which I am defective.

My total at the register? $100.01. Seriously. Almost dead on the money of my random price, save for one cent. I would actually have been under the amount if not for standing in line waiting and eyeballing those reading glasses at half-off. And then it was off to Walmart to stock up on that ramen I’ll be eating for a good long time, thanks to my spontaneous shopping trip, because even though it was on the credit card, I'll pay extra when I send in the payment. (At least that's what I tell myself now.) Bottom feeding at the bookstore means bottom feeding in the nutrition chain. But my soul will be nourished for a while with all these new books.

Suddenly Popular

I am suddenly popular. It doesn't feel good.

This isn’t the high school “dramatic save to win the big game for your team and become the homecoming hero” type of popular. Neither is it the “get the broken front tooth capped, feel unselfconscious enough to finally smile, and suddenly the cool kids notice you” brand of  popular.  Nor is it the “work on an award-winning professional project and people take notice” popular.

It is more of a flashback to darker days of eventual enlightenment. 

My recent newfound popularity began shortly after accepting an offer I couldn’t refuse -- a one year subscription to W magazine for some ridiculously low price like $10. My introduction to that publication occurred during one glorious semester luxuriating at a junior college in Boston’s prestigious Back Bay, where our dormitory was once a hotel and W, the consumer publication from fashion industry cornerstone Women’s Wear Daily, was required reading for my fashion merchandising class. Even in the olden days of the 1980s when I was in college, the average W reader’s income was in the $50,000-plus range, and I gladly handed over a full week’s worth of minimum-wage, part-time retail salesclerk earnings for the joy of studying the pages, worshipping the designers, then carefully scissoring out images for collages to adorn the walls.

Upon my return to the Burg and the four-year institution I had taken brief leave of, I proceeded to paper my bedroom walls with fashion images from W and confound my mother with attempts at conversation about designers, super models, diamond jewelry, and high-end watches and automobiles that cost more than the combined incomes of everyone in my family. These things had no relevance in her world and she told me as much every time I tried to discuss with her the classic tank watch by Cartier, iconic wrap dress from Diane von Furstenburg or night club escapades at Studio 54. It felt like we were from two different planets.

Recently, a mailer arrived for a “special professional discount rate” W subscription. I don’t know what profession they refer to, but I don’t work in fashion, modeling, retail or publishing. Whatever. That was unimportant. It was my favorite magazine at a rate I could afford even in junior college!

Past experience with magazine solicitations (and those for credit cards) taught there is room to play hard to get. And if they didn’t play along, it was one less thing to feel guilty about not reading. I ignored the offer for a free tote bag with subscription and procrastinated until it was too late to get the red mock-croc purse. Ultimately, thinking they’d stop courting without some payoff, I succumbed to the lure of the ivory scarf, spread open the checkbook, and sent the subscription order.

Around the time the first issue of W arrived, so did an invitation to subscribe to Vogue, followed in turn by more subscription invitations -- Elle, O, Allure and Lucky.  Even Architectural Digest suddenly wants me, the owner of a circa 1958, 1,200 square foot brick ranch (they must be really desperate). Architectural Digest has fascinated me since the glamorous days of my 20s when I possessed dreams, aspirations, an inflated sense of myself, and drank on the periphery of the same social circle as someone whose downtown apartment was featured in that magazine. 

My 20s and 30s were heady times of shopping in the best stores and sewing garments from patterns by the prestigious designers featured in W to create a wardrobe that (I hoped) announced to the world I was successful (or at least on the way). Cocktails and pricey dinners at beautiful (non-chain) restaurants were weekly rituals where my friends and I dropped a cool $100 each on a Friday night meal and drinks. It felt like I was on my way to, well, someplace. It was exciting, and almost how I had once imagined my life would be, back when I thought about such things.

Life is so different now. These days, my primary goal is to get through the day and make it out the other side alive. Cocktails and fine dining are memories from the past not worth dwelling upon, because the contrast to today -- where I panic after spending $25 on a meal that provides leftovers for three days -- is just too depressing. Wardrobe shopping occurs almost exclusively in thrift stores, thanks to an annual income significantly less than it was ten years ago, before I gambled on a dream of love, cashed in my chips, and walked away from a well paying career in New England to marry and relocate to a place with limited opportunity and maximum sense of entrapment.

The magazine subscription of my past, the freshly revived (bittersweet) memories of a lifestyle gone, and the ensuing onslaught of attention from other magazines reminds me of something else from my history. 


There was a time when I was better-versed in the fine arts of flirting and the male gender actually acknowledged my existence (to my face) on a semi-regular basis. One starry night, while a student at the hometown college to which I defaulted (another story for another day), I made out with a certain guy upon whom I had been crushing -- a high school classmate, home on leave from the military. In those days, I was naive enough to believe that what happened between two people stayed between them, and also that he would call me, because he said he would. He never called, but his friends started ringing me up. Even the ones with steady girlfriends. 

After a couple weeks of the sudden, puzzling attention, I got the scoop from one of the guys by asking, “It sure does seem like all of [name omitted to avoid potential lawsuits]‘s friends are calling me up lately. What’s going on?” He told me, and what I heard made me kind of mad. And ill. Apparently, my crush had not only shared, but embellished the facts of that one drunken night after Happy Hour at the Buttercup, and now the friends wanted a piece of some major action, which they had been told was me. 

Likewise, now it seems the W subscription database server is sharing with its peers, with the logical conclusion being, if my checkbook opened for W, it will also open for them. How adolescent. And erroneous.

What Stress?

Sometimes, people who are under a lot of stress think that they are handling it well, and think that they appear all calm and normal on the façade. Sometimes stressed-out people don’t even realize they ARE stressed until someone else points out that they seem different from their usual demander – maybe quieter, maybe louder, or more snappish, or angry, or sullen, or locked into a permanent scowl.

Other people (or the same person at a different time) are fully aware they are stressed. They wave the stress flag, stomp around, and let everyone in a five mile radius (or greater) know that they are stressed. Kind of a “Yup, I’m stressed, I know it and I am not even going to try and hide it” theatrical production of Broadway caliber.

I have partied in both of these camps.

Many moons ago, while deep in the cesspool of a divorce, I thought I was holding myself and my situation together pretty well. I was (I thought) keeping my personal life out of the office. Sure, I would burst into tears on the way to and/or from work most days. Yeah, my neck and back hurt all the time. There was the teeth grinding and the insomnia and the lovely accompanying dark under-eye circles and the weight loss. But a little concealer cream, a touch up of the tear-smeared mascara, a tinier suit and pair of jeans charged to the already overburdened credit card and I was fine. Right? Yeah, right.

There was the argument with my doctor about being stressed when she wanted to write me a prescription for something I didn’t want to take. When a co-worker proclaimed me “the angriest person [she] ever met,” I wrote it off to her being a stuck-up bitch. When another member of the gym I belonged to said I was “always so intense” I figured he was probably just a wuss.

In retrospect, I finally recognized that I was a walking a disaster. It took a while. Months. Years even.

I lived in one city, worked a full-time corporate finance job in another city 45 minutes away, worked a part-time job waiting tables at a ski lodge between the two, attended grad school one night a week in a city 40 miles in yet another direction, took a photography class one night a week, and somehow had a semblance of a social life. Any tiny spaces in my life were filled with the noise of television or music. I did this for several years. Looking back, I am shocked my head didn’t explode, and more shocked I somehow had friends who actually wanted to spend time with me. Or maybe they were just too afraid to say ‘no.’

I did a similar routine after another breakup. I had finished grad school by then, so that time, I worked 50 hours a week at my job, took random classes like acting, inline skating, portrait photography, ballet, flamenco dancing and kickboxing. I trained for a 250 mile bike ride. I drank lots of coffee and Diet Coke to fight off the fatigue from not sleeping. Even though I burst into tears a lot, I thought I seemed like I was okay. I finally snapped out of it.

And here I am again. Based on my long history in (mis)handling stress, and the current manner in which I have deliberately overcrowded my life, it is brilliantly obvious that I am stressed. All the markers are there. The tightly-packed activity schedule. The spontaneous tears. The short fuse. The sullenness. The screwy appetite. The anger. The difference this time is that I am not even trying to hide it. In fact, about the only thing missing is a neon sign over my head flashing the message “stressed out bitch here” with an arrow pointing to me.

If you have any doubt about this (and I am sure there may be one or two doubters sporting the rose-colored glasses out there) I invite you to ask the office production manager how our morning was. But first, in my own defense, I am compelled to open my confession by saying that I had not yet had sufficient coffee intake. My caffeine-addicted brethren and sisters will understand. That part anyway.

In any event, she asked me a question first thing this morning, and I nearly tore her head off. Not in a direct personal attack against her kind of way, more in the indirect “I’m so aggravated with everything and you happen to be here in front of me so you are stuck with it” kind of way. Right before declaring (i.e., launching into a dramatic tirade) how stressed I am. You know, in case she couldn’t tell, based on my slightly vocal whining about it all week. Okay, maybe louder than "slightly vocal whining" and probably more like all year.

On the bright side (if there is one), at least I am not in denial. Acceptance is the first step to healing, is it not?

Gooden Bad

Life, mine anyway, is a mixed bag. It feels like anything good is counterbalanced with something equal or greater than in the not good area. At best, the net effect is neutral. Mostly, it’s like a precarious balance of the see-saw that sometimes feels a lot like the time my brother decided to bail from the see-saw when I was poised at the highest point, and I came crashing down on my back, knocked windless on the playground. Or the time at Lunenburg Town Beach when I fell off the see-saw and fainted in the sand. Or maybe I fainted first. Evidently, I have a history of problems with balance.

A few weeks ago there was a pretty typical example.

In a rare event, one remarkable morning, I woke up both on time and feeling rested. -- events that rarely coincide. It didn’t, however, mean that my night’s sleep was a blessed, uninterrupted event. It featured a 10 pm bedtime followed by the usual “wake-up-after-exactly-two hours” rousing where I marvel at how great the sleep was and wonder if it is 6 am already. A squinty-eyed check of the clock indicates the epic rest was merely a two hour nap. Sleeping commences, one or two hours passes and the cycle of awakenings continues, sometimes prompted by Moose jumping at the side of the bed like a circus performer to announce his need to be outside and conduct some business. To his credit, Moose has become adept at notifying me of his late-night bladder needs, which might be easier to appreciate if the little guy would go outside before bed. Sadly, he is as stubborn as I am.

Back to that day. Awoke feeling good, and the feeling continued in spite of the incessant meowing of the cat who never shuts up and refuses to understand when there is no more lactose-free milk in the place and he is not getting the half-and-half that makes him sick no matter how long he sits in front of the refrigerator wailing. Already been there and cleaned up the cat sick. Thankfully, Moose is as quiet as Merriwether is vocal.

Early computer work indicated bills are current. Calendar check served a reminder that October contains an extra pay period. Sweet sigh of relief that the month might have a longer than usual ramen-free stretch. Once again considered the possibility of flying home for Thanksgiving without having to add to the already hefty credit card debt. At least "Thank You Rewards" points to offset the interest rate, right?

Dress without incident – as in, no missing buttons, falling hems, torn seams, snagged tights or shoes falling apart. Dog fed and crated. Purse loaded with a fresh supply of gum and breakfast granola bars. Final post-departure Facebook check and a cheery post on a friend’s wall that “Life is good!” Head outside and take note of the remarkably beautiful fall day, only a few minutes late with an 8:15 expected arrival time at the office.

Traverse uneven brick walkway to the daily sound of the usually silent Moose barking his indignant cries of separation as soon as the door was locked. Load car with portfolio notebook, daily journal, two-ton purse (what is in that thing, anyway?), cell phone, derby gear bag and derby clothes bag. Assume the position in the driver’s seat. Insert key and turn. Click. Scratchy click. Dashboard lights illuminated. All of them. Bell dinging that door is open. And nothing else. Barely a whimper from under the hood. Try again. Nothing.

Okay. Mind racing. Housemate? Moved out seven months ago. Neighbor who works on cars? Moved away last week. Other known neighbors? Yeah, not a one. So much for the great day. It was good, stress-free seven minutes. While it lasted.

Call the office to notify of automotive issue and ensuing tardiness, and the very level-headed production manager offers a couple suggestions before recruiting a coworker to come over and execute a jump start. While waiting, I call Midas to check on potential age of battery and if under warranty. Alert “Eddie” that the CRV will be rolling in soon with issues.
Jump start successful. Arrive at office, leave car running and run inside to drop derby gear and daily portfolio at desk before heading back out to Midas, two short blocks away. Leave car running while head in to speak to someone inside. One dude sending text messages in the “customer lounge” area which is now boasting ridiculously uncomfortable looking (new) red plastic Adirondack style chairs. Hmmm. Place has been painted since my last visit. A sign near the door to the shop proclaims “Vending Machines located in Shop Area,” not too far from another near the same door that states “Authorized Personnel Only.” I love the fuck you messages. Ha! We moved your machines, AND put them in an area where you are not allowed. Hey, enjoy our newly re-arranged, freshly painted, brutally uncomfortable lounge.

There plenty of time to take all this in, while pacing the lobby area waiting for help. An unseen man in the office answered the phone and embark on what seems to be a personal call. Perhaps I am such a lightweight that I did not trigger the door sensor when I slipped in like a paper doll. Look around, wondering what is the appropriate time to be ignored before barging into the office or the “Authorized Personnel Only” area. Finally, someone emerges from the shop and fetches Eddie, who is poised under a car on a lift, wielding a welder, surrounded in an impressive shower of sparks. Wished for a camera to capture that photo-worthy sight.

Walk up the hill back to the office. Clock in, restart computer, and head to the kitchenette for coffee. And there it is … a foil-covered plate on the “if it’s here it’s fair game for everyone” counter. Whatever is under that foil has got to better than the dry granola bar on my morning menu. And whaddaya know – chocolate cake with chocolate icing. An instant improvement. A great thing to offset the crappy thing that offset the good thing.

When Eddie called with an estimate, the damage for a new 60-month battery plus the regular oil change that was a bit late was $175 plus tax. Hmmm. Roughly one-half the cost of the airfare seen  merely a day earlier when the new Southwest rates came out. Oh, and Eddie says I need new tires. Not necessarily that minute, but definitely before the winter ice. Perfect. Really.

After work, rushed home to let Moose out and get ready for derby practice. Halfway there, realize my derby gear bag was still under my desk at work.

Two days later, the Honda is at the dealer for a check of the door locks that no longer function with the remote. Received the panicked message from the service manager that “the vehicle is on the lift ... please call right away.” Apparently, my brakes were worn down to tissue paper thinness. And that was gonna get me for $577, including the $49 to check out the "door actuator" and the $225 for the part. See-saw down. Bam! And I sat at my desk and cried. Then I boldly marched into the kitchenette and cried some more. Then I swore a bunch., but mostly under my breath. Then I tried to dedicate my overly-stressed self to doing some work. Right.