Feast Famine

For some reason, it’s feast or famine when it comes to social and work events. There will be a week or a month (or even and entire quarter) with nothing much going on, then bam! -- a weekend, an entire week and sometimes even a month,  jammed with stuff.

This week has been one of the full weeks, with recurring events and some special gigs that have me busy every night after work. It's shaped out like this:

Monday: Soiree and chamber ensemble concert (special)
Tuesday: Dance class (weekly recurring)
Wednesday: Photography group meeting (monthly recurring)
Thursday: Hairdresser appointment across town (every six or seven weeks, but usually on a Saturday afternoon) and an artist event back downtown (special)
Friday: Heather’s birthday dinner and girls’ night out downtown (annual recurring)
Saturday: Yoga class (weekly recurring) and a bridal shower (special).

While all this is going on, I am also getting ready for the next Underground 9 group show in Nashville, which goes up on the walls December 1, and which I have to finish before Thanksgiving. I need seven (or so) pieces of work matted, framed and delivered on time, some of which are not even printed yet because all my time seems to have been absorbed with other things. Besides, I work better under a tight deadline so I kind of let it all slide for the two months I've known about it.

Thanksgiving week includes a heating and cooling company energy evaluation and system estimate at the house on Tuesday (which also features a dentist appointment and a day at the office). It is entirely possible there will be a heating and cooling system installation beginning at the house on November 30 that will require a major organizing of the embarrassing basement or there is no way the installers will be able to move. Shoulda had that yard sale I thought about last spring. And summer. And early fall. Woulda delayed the estimate appointment, but there are certain rebates involved that expire, you guessed it, November 30 (and the estimator has been at a conference for the past week). Coulda seen it coming if I'd just removed my head from my derrierre.

Last week and the week before that and probably the week before that were much more typical – arrive home from work (meanwhile, Boyfriend is headed to work), graze on a sumptuous repast of crackers and chips, write and goof off on Facebook. Unfortunately, after a spell of several months where I was hitting the gym maybe once or twice a week, and a review of the budget and slowdown in the rate of savings, I scaled back to a weekend membership (Fridays after 4:00 through Sunday night) -- which of course means that lately most Mondays and Thursdays my schedule is free for me to go there. Except now I can’t. Timing is still not my forte. Or I want what I can't have. Feel free to discuss.

There are weekends where I am tossing the mental equivalent of a dart to choose between social gatherings, art events and dance workshops. A couple weeks ago there was a Halloween Burlesque show in Nashville (annual event) the same night as a performance by the famous tribal belly dancer Rachel Brice in Kentucky (rare event).  When belly dance workshops hit the area, they seem to be in two or three or more locations all on the same weekend (and all teaching something different I want to learn), followed by a dry spell of four or five months with no workshops. And lately, any musician or band I might want to see is playing locally on the every-other-weekend schedule – as in, the same every-other-weekend Boyfriend has Junior at the house.

The feast/famine principle also applies at work. It's either neck-deep in major projects tracking with the same deadlines or horrible stretches of unbillable time cleaning out paper files and reading trade journals. It's either scrambling like a gerbil in the Habitrail or slipping into a coma in a cubicle. We don’t get to leave the office early and go do something crazy like have a life when there is no real work to do -- there seems to be a minimum face time requirement.

This week I'm pulled like a rag doll in a childhood fight between writing content for a web site for one client and planning a script and images for a video for another client. Both are great projects worthy of dedicated, singular focus, but for the next couple weeks, they are tracking on a deadline collision course. The three-day Thanksgiving workweek opens with an all-day sechedule of video taping for the video project and closes with a content development work session at the website client's office, which is followed by four days out of the office to totally lose compression (along with all memory of what was done). The ‘no overtime’ mandate of June 2008, plus with the new timeclock software, mean the option of staying at the office to finish things is just a memory.

The time-space continuum is not always my friend and there are some days I really need another one of me. (Of course, many days, one of me is more than plenty. Ask Boyfriend and my coworkers.) Life is about choices, some days there are just more of them to make, and the famines help to inspire appreciation of the feasts. Or something like that. As one of my Grad School professors said: "When the poop hits the fan it is never distributed evenly." True dat.

Headache Season

Headache season is here. It’s actually been around for a while, making its initial appearance around Independence Day when Hobby Lobby started clearing out the summer goods and stocking the aisles with Christmas. Yes. In July. And good luck trying to find a swimsuit for a pool party around that time – it’s already fall sweaters in the clothing stores. Ah, retail.

The season of the pounding head kicks into a higher gear in late September and into October when it’s tobacco smoking season and visitors and newcomers to town think some pyromaniac somewhere set all the barns a-smoldering or the Civil War re-enactors have gone overboard and are re-invading Clarksville and burning Palmyra again. I know a couple people who have a really tough time with allergy-provoked headaches during smoking season, not to mention the other symptoms – burning eyes, trouble breathing.

For the past two weeks I’ve been visited by nightly headaches, and coworkers or clients and I occasionally compare notes. Some are having allergy symptoms from raking leaves, various sinus problems, and colds with headaches and sneezing, but I don’t think any of these are the source of my problem. Mine doesn’t really feel like the ‘haven’t been drinking enough water’ dehydration headache, and I’m also having neck tension, so I’m thinking the likely culprit is my teeth. Probably because the holidays are approaching.

Stay with me.

Many, many moons ago, I worked for a company in New England that had a great health plan. The company owned its own health insurance subsidiary, and the plan had the broadest coverage I’ve seen in all my years of servitude to the man. The coverage had a low copayment (like $5) and covered pretty much everything, including alternative practices. Over the course of my five years with that company, I went to a Ayerveda doctor for a laundry list of issues (which were fixed), a chiropractor (back issues) and an acupuncturist (back and neck pain). I tried the acupuncture route after a year of chiropractic treatments still left me with ongoing headaches and neck pain (which may have been caused by an ex-husband, but why drag him into things now). I avoided the Western doctors because I was tired of being handed a prescription for every ailment, and wanted to find the root of the problems instead of turning into a pill-popping zombie.

It’s possible that my current (and ongoing) neck aggravation is rooted in my former habit of neck cracking, a skill learned sophomore or junior year when I hung around with a chiropractor’s daughter. Apparently I did it a lot, because I once bumped into a guy from high school in a coffee shop, and after exchanging the usual pleasantries and “I haven’t seen you in ages!” he said, “Hey, do you still do that gross thing where you crack your neck?” Great. Ten years later, that’s what he remembered me for – my neck cracking. I used to be able to crack my entire spine, but some time since high school, I guess I got all uptight. Or maybe it’s “more uptight.”

Anyway, to recap: headaches, neck and back pain, one year of chiropractic, one year of acupuncture.

A breakthrough came during a routine dentist visit when I casually remarked how, if I was ever in a car accident, I’d likely lose the insides of my cheeks from biting them between my back teeth because driving stresses me out. Dr. Dentist recommended I chew gum while driving to keep from tensing my jaw, and then he said, “You’re probably grinding your teeth in your sleep from stress, too. Do you have a lot of neck pain and headaches?” Bingo! And I was fitted with the prettiest little custom bite guard to keep my teeth apart when I sleep. It is one sexy accessory that makes me spray spittle, speak with a lisp and drool all over my pillow while alleviating my other issues. Hot cha!

Back to today.

Every year since 2001 when I moved to Tennessee, as the holidays approach, I have entered a cycle of stress and guilt, and look at the calendar, right on time for the annual angst! My molars will be ground to tiny stumps any minute now. The stress focuses on the decision making of where to spend the holidays. The family wants me to come ‘home’ and I have a yearning to just stay put. In the past eight years, I have had exactly one Christmas in my own home. My bank account votes for home – even the largest tree is less expensive than airfare. And my heart cracks with guilt every time my sweet nieces are on the phone asking when I’ll be back. ‘Cuz lord knows it is easier (and less expensive) for one person to go North than for an entire clan to travel anywhere. And they’ve been working on me since July when I neglected to schedule my precious few vacation days for a summer vacation (like a normal person) and chose to save them up for “in case I can go home for Christmas.”

So yeah, it’s the season of a little stress, a little guilt, and a string of headaches. It's my own doing -- after all, I'm the one who chose to move 1,200 miles from the kinfolk to a place nobody wants to visit. If only I'd opted for living in the pretty castle at the Magic Kingdom... Wait, that was never an option. And no, I haven’t been using a bite guard lately. But it might be time to get another one, before I bite someone’s head off.

Windy Monday

The week got off to a very cultural start when I accepted friend Stacy’s invitation to attend a “Soiree” (yes, the event was truly, officially, called a "soiree"), followed by a woodwind concert by a chamber ensemble. I like finger foods and wine and lovely classical music, so I was looking forward to it. Talk about shaking up a Monday!

The soiree began at 5, which meant I went straight from work, conveniently located just a few blocks away. The reception was in the fifth floor function room of a local bank, in what is probably the most remarkable room in town with terraces on each corner of the building and the best views of the courthouse, the museum, the Cumberland River and sadly, the jail. Or is it a prison? I never know the difference. It’s a big building with tiny windows and if you do bad things you get to spend some quality time in there. That place. Which is unfortunately located in the backyards of beautiful Dog Hill historic district blocking the sun from all the really cool older homes. I bet tending the roses is a blast when you think there are incarcerated eyes trying to peer out the frosted windows at you.

Back to the party. I mean soiree. There was a pianist playing the grand piano in one corner of the room. Many of the staff of the University art department were in attendance, along with a couple clients from my work, a few artists, my bosses, and my former boss from when I worked at the museum, plus his wife (who I was very pleased to see wearing a multi-strand citrine chip and pearl necklace created by me). The food was prepared by the culinary department at the University, one of the top secret programs that many in town don’t know even exists. Sadly, there has been a lot of cool stuff going on at the University that many don’t know exists – including the art classes KB and I sign up for that keep being cancelled because the minimum enrollment of five is not reached.

It was a couple hours of mingling and sitting in an alcove chatting with people including the musicians in the concert before a change of venue to the University concert hall. It’s always fun being with Stacy, a local celebrity – born and raised here, a journalist with the local paper who knows everybody and their mommas and daddies and first cousins once removed. That’s where it gets tricky, because it is nearly impossible for us to have a conversation with the constant interruptions from well-wishers and friends and family and people she wrote articles about at some time or another. She handles it with grace and charm and I am used to it taking three or four attempts to finish a story.

The concert was great – woodwind arrangements of pieces originally scored for orchestras. It opened with a comedy sketch when the musicians came out and the seating arrangement was short one chair and one music stand. Oops. Musical Chairs? Accident? Mischief? Or was it malice aforethought? Intrigue in the music hall.

The concert opened with a piece by Gioachino Rossini, then a piece by Antonin Dvorak. A quick intermission, then a long lost piece by Richard Strauss. Stacy asked if I wanted to bail during intermission, but I like Strauss waltzes, so I was interested to hear the “piece that may never be played anywhere else in the world.” And when I said “long” … try 30 minutes long. I was starting to glaze over like a Christmas ham about 20 minutes into it. Evidently, I missed the part in the introductory speechifying when the conductor said it was a half-hour long. That’s what I get for spacing out. I don’t care how pretty it is, I’m not sure any single piece of music should run that long. And it wasn’t that it was unpleasant, the music was lovely. It was just long. Blame my sound-bite attention span.

When I remarked how the clarinets had gotten quite a workout in the opening piece, I was informed by the journalist who had interviewed the musicians that they were oboes. My bad. I thought the mouthpiece looked weird. But really, what do I know? I also thought the bassoons were the oboes and the cello was a viola. Hey, I was a ballerina who wanted to play piano and spent all of the third or fourth grade mastering faking the flutophone. My brother and sister were the family blowhard wind musicians (trombone and clarinet).

I was enjoying watching the musicians, and gave some of them nicknames. (If the program wasn’t printed in such tiny lettering, or I wasn’t too lazy to pull out reading glasses, I could have read their real names, but my way worked fine.) There was “bored French Horn guy,” “bassoonist with cute ankle strap shoes,” “cellist with the intensity of an ax-murderer,” “flutist with great glasses and high-heeled boots,” and “spitmeister,” the oboist who would run a cloth on a string through his instrument between sections of music. The contrabassoon player had a brown plastic prescription container of water on the floor that he rewet his reed in. Well, I assumed it was water. Who knows, maybe it was vodka.

Overall, it was the most interesting Monday night I could have hoped for. I love being the journalist’s “+1”.

Two Minutes

A lot can happen in just a few minutes. At work, I can put my frozen, boxed lunch in the microwave, set it for three minutes, get back to my desk, shuffle some papers or type a sentence before the timer dings and I return to the kitchen to fully remove the lid, stir the contents and heat for an additional minute, during which I scan the front page of the newspaper on the table nearby (and sometimes, a large portion of the contents).

At home, two minutes is enough time to pick a fight with Boyfriend, or visit the bathroom and be back on the couch and not miss a moment of whatever show I’m barely watching on TV. In the darkroom, two minutes is plenty of time (and sometimes, far too much time) to expose a negative onto photo paper, or run it through the developer solution. Heck, I’ve performed entire belly dance routines that are in the two to three minute time frame.

Two minutes is an eternity, really.

And as we saw last night, two minutes is the perfect amount of time to blow a decent lead in an NFL game. Geez, Bill Belichek. And we all get to see headlines like this on Monday morning, “Colts take advantage of Pats’ gamble for 35-34 win.” Tom Brady is probably pretty miffed this morning. And Peyton Manning and the Colts are likely giddy with joy.

And speaking of Peyton Manning … two minutes is plenty of time to chat up an NFL player and his entourage, too, but that is more my friend Stacy’s story than mine. About a year and a half ago (during the off-season), she, my friend Amy and I went to Nashville for the night. We were at The Stage on Broadway, Stacy was going to get a beer from the bar, so I asked her to bring me one back, too. After what felt like a parched forever of me staring at my empty bottle, she returned to the table. With a story. She had gone out to the alley in the back of the place for a quick cigarette, and while there, met Peyton Manning and his friends, who were in transit from one spot to (allegedly) nearby Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. There was sharing of matches or lighters or cigarettes under some smoker’s code of generous camaraderie, and they all hung out back talking for a few minutes, and to clarify – NO, Manning was not smoking cigarettes, but one of his crew was.

When Stacy got back to the table and told us of her encounter with a major sports figure and where they said they were going next, we held a quick conference (15 seconds or less – plenty of time to reach a consensus or determine the next play) and decided to get over to Tootsie’s. Seriously, I don’t care for the Colts because my undying NFL loyalty and affection are pledged to the Pats, but one does not let precious information like the whereabouts of a star quarterback slip past without taking action, no matter what team he plays for. We never did find Manning and friends at Tootsie’s, so Amy and I didn’t get to experience a brush with fame that night. We were probably just two minutes behind.

Cinderella Moment

When shopping for my house, I made a list of 'must-have' features that included porch, fireplace and hardwood floors. The house I eventually shelled out the ducats for not only had all the features on my list, it had two fireplaces – one on the main level in what is my dining room, and another in the partially finished basement. Sweet.

Oddly, as much as I wanted a fireplace, in two years in the house, and in spite of the presence of firewood and manufactured artifical logs that crackle and burn cleaner, there has not yet been a single fire lit, because I thought it would be wise to have the chimney checked out first, and I just never got around to that step. I thought about it many times – usually on the cold nights that are perfect for a fire I was afraid to light because I had not yet found my own personal chimney sweep. (C'mon, there's no chimney sweeper gang prancing through the city like in Mary Poppins.) And in the same two-year period, I was also planning to clean out the basement fireplace, which had some ashes in it from the previous owner. I know what you’re thinking, and it's true, I probably won’t be winning any Martha Stewart awards any time soon.

In any event, Boyfriend got home from work early last night and we were watching 30 Rock DVDs, sipping on Jack and coke and chillaxin. After a while, he suggested we hang out in the basement/man cave, a partially finished space that might someday be a master bedroom suite, but which, for now, is the storage spot for a very proper and formal living room set in need of a good home, and where he practices his electric guitar and he and Junior play video games. I visit the basement only to do laundry, so our trip downstairs would be an interesting change of venue.

While Boyfriend played his newest action-packed, testosterone laden video game (involving a voice over constantly barking orders at “Ramirez”), I was imagining the space with French doors where the sliders are now, picturing where new walls might go, redesigning the staircase, and arranging furniture we don’t own to maximize enjoyment of the fireplace. And while I was ruminating on the sweet room I think I want, I decided to (finally) clean out the fireplace.

It turned out the ashes were about three inches deep, and while filling four WalMart bags with someone else’s ashes, it dawned on me that I was like Cinderella. Granted, there was no evil stepmother or stepsisters, no fairy godmother, I’m not exactly a young maiden, and my Prince Charming was already present, so the parallel was limited to the domestic labor part, but hey, it was my night of Tennessee whiskey-fueled imaginings and flights of fancy. The Boyfriend Prince and I were sharing space, each content in an activity, and I gotta say, I found my chosen activity somewhat enjoyable (maybe it was the Jack Daniel’s), and felt like an archeologist while examining a few pieces of curved metal, some long nails and screws, and a corner bit of cardboard that had somehow survived the fiery fate of whatever it was once a part of. And I never knew there were so many colors of ash – white, brown, light gray, dark gray, black. Enjoyable and educational.

Scarce Supplies

It never fails. If I like something – say a TV show, a band, a particular food product at the grocery store – it will be cancelled, break up or no longer be carried in stock. It’s aggravating. Especially the grocery store part, because once I discover something I like to eat, I want to keep eating it.

When I first moved to Tennessee (2001), the Kroger store in North Clarksville had a terrific International section – full of Italian, Indian, Asian and Latino fresh and dried foods, oils, sauces, beverages and spices. It was like going to the Farmer’s Market in Nashville, but without the 45-minute drive. The packaging with pretty labels in languages I couldn’t read was fascinating, and once I tried the Tandoori spice mix, I was a regular consumer of that corner of the store. Then, the product offerings began to diminish until one day the square footage, the size of a small shop, was transformed into a beer and tailgate party folding chair department, which later became a gift card and holiday wrap nook, and ultimately, the pharmacy. The International section, which had boasted its own pink tube lighting announcing its presence, was reduced to half an aisle of ramen and canned chilies. No more Tandoori spices. No more dried chiles. No more anything interesting. Welcome to homogenous America.

There are certain staples I try to keep in the house, because with them, I can throw down a meal in about ten minutes. One of these items is creamy chicken flavor ramen noodles. It’s the best flavor for making my beloved cheesy ramen with Korean hot pepper paste. Trust me on this. I've tried every other flavor – oriental, shrimp, roast chicken, chili, pork, beef – but the creamy chicken flavor rules. So, guess which flavor ramen I can’t find anymore? Anywhere. There will be a mile of shelf space housing case after case of crap-flavored ramen – and not a single brick of creamy chicken to be found. We are now stuck with funky flavored noodles. At least I still have the pepper paste covered, thanks to the proliferation of Korean markets across town. For now, anyway.

I am (or more correctly, I was) a fan of the fresh refrigerated pasta products, especially the linguine, fettucine and angel hair, which of course means those are no longer available, either. There is enough ravioli and tortellini in town to sink an entire naval fleet, but not a box of fresh flat pasta to be found for my fried noodle cake recipe – flat fresh pasta noodles pressed into a giant pancake and fried in olive oil with pine nuts. No fresh fettucine to accompany my creamy pesto sauce made with basil I grew myself. No more ready in five minutes flat fresh angel hair with white clam sauce. Bastards.

When I first moved to Tennessee, I naively assumed there would be sweet potatoes on every menu I saw. It’s the South – they grow them here, don’t they? There are Sweet Potato Princesses in every town, right? I even researched (and confirmed) my initial impression concerning my beloved sweet potato to make sure I wasn’t completely delusional. According to www.sweetpotato.org, “During the Civil War, the supply of some foods in the South started to run low. When coffee became hard to get, the sweet potato was used to make a tasty hot drink. It was cut into thin pieces, dried, ground and brewed just like coffee!” Wait, there’s more… “Nearly every large farm in the South had a sweet potato patch during the Civil War. This was a large area with a fence around it where hills of yams were covered with straw and soil. This covering protected the sweet potatoes from the cold and frost of winter, helping them become sweet and tasty.”

Heck, I used to eat sweet potato fries in Worcester, Mass all the time – served with the amazing Cajun catfish with mango salsa at Tortilla Sam’s on Highland Street. Imagine my shock upon realizing the only place I could find sweet potatoes on a menu in Clarksville, Tennessee was Outback Steak House (and those are baked and smothered in 1,000 calories of butter and brown sugar). And imagine my unbridled joy upon discovering sweet potato fries in the freezer section at WalMart, where I was able to buy them in large bags. Well, for a couple months, anyway. Then they stopped carrying them. Soooo….. whassup, fine people of the South? Why are there no danged sweet potato fries?

I once heard a comment that was alleged to have been uttered by a manager at a military Post Exchange (“the PX”). A customer asked if there was any more Product X – and the manager is now infamously quoted as having said, “Oh, no. We kept running out of that, so we stopped carrying it.” Is that the retail mentality consumers are stuck dealing with?

I have a glimmer of hope that there may be a solution to my scarce supplies. “Dear Santa, I have been a kinda sorta good girl this year. This year for Christmas, I would like a case of sweet potato fries, a case of fresh fettucine (and a freezer to store them in) and a pallet of creamy chicken ramen noodles (they are only 17 cents a brick). And please don’t let 30 Rock be cancelled.”

Ripe Pickins

It’s Friday, and my thoughts are turned to another weekend with few to no plans. Ugh. I’m not sure what’s worse, the soul-sucking drudgery of the work week or the wasted potential of a weekend with no plans. I’ll go to yoga on Saturday morning, so I have a 45-minute stretch to look forward to.

It’s cruddy – last weekend there were three or four things going, and I had to pick and choose. This weekend, sadly, not so much. I guess I’ll turn my thoughts to beer and catching up on Netflix viewing and email reading.

One of my favorite email newsletter topics for the past year or so has been relationships. I read Rory Raye and Christian Carter, who advise the women on what to do, but only with teasers so we’ll fork over the ducats to buy their CD programs. It’s interesting. Carter is all about telling the girlies how to “Catch Him and Keep Him.” To balance my reading, I also read the newsletters for men by David DeAngelo and Bobby Rio, featuring helpful tidbits on how to pick up women just about anywhere, also in teaser fashion so the reader will buy the program. Yes, I’m spying on the enemy. So what?

Here’s what I’ve noticed – first, three out of these four relationship program writers have the lovely alliteration thing going with the name, which makes me wonder if they took pen names. You know, like the writers who publish their romance novels under a pseudonym so as to not dilute the weight and seriousness of their writing careers in nuclear physics or economic theory. Or are those the names given by their parents at birth, and because I lack a cool name with alliteration or a reference to a hopping spot (Rio!) does that mean I can never be a newsletter writer for relationship issues? These are the things that keep me up at night. Ok, not really. I am more likely to be kept awake at night turning lovely phrases in my head that I will not remember in the morning.

The second thing I’ve noticed is that these writers actually have some interesting and valid points (once I weed through the spelling and grammar errors). For example, I have read many times in DeAngelo’s “Double Your Dating” that attraction is not a choice (although I could have told you that one a hundred times over). I have also learned that women tend to view relationships on a timeline (after dating for this amount of time, that landmark event should have happened) and for men, there is no such timetable for falling in love or wanting to be in a committed relationship.

There may not be a timetable for falling in love, but according to Rio, there is a season for scoring a girlfriend and that season is now. Forget about Alfred Lord Tennyson’s lovely and poetic proclamation that, “In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love” (it’s in the poem Locksley Hall, if you really care). According to Bobby Rio of TSB Magazine, “You need to be taking advantage of this PRIME TIME for pulling women off online dating sites. The fact is, no woman wants to be alone for the Holidays... so the single ones are STARVING to meet someone... And we all know that quickest way to score is to get in front of a starving crowd.” (FYI, TSB = The Seduction Bible).

So, single girlfriends of mine, if you really are 'starving' as Rio puts it …. get thee to an online dating site. And single guys, I guess you would be wise to do the same. And if you really want a deep, lasting connection (and not just an arm to cling to at your company Christmas party) I recommend eHarmony, not because I have experience with it, but because I have friends who met on it last year and are getting married in December. Sweet!