Planned Parenthood

Some people have the luxury of planning when to expand their families -- waiting until the time feels "right," finances are in order, space is adequate or whatever physical or psychological obstacles once believed to exist are removed. There is excitement and anticipation imagining life with the new addition -- activities like family walks and cuddling on the couch. There might even be a practice run conducted first, spending time with a friends' family -- possibly a trial-by-fire opportunity to test one's patience and limits before launching headlong into the expansion program.

I recently underwent a process of considering whether my home and my life were capable of taking on responsibility for another. It's been an interesting learning process that showed me I have more patience and compassion than I used to (largely due to living with Moose for the past two years), and that maybe 'things' that could be destroyed by some knee-high creature running around aren't as important as relationships, and I like feeling needed (thanks again, Moose!).

In preparation for my growing family unit, I had several talks with Moose. This is not unusual, as I talk his cute triangular ears off regularly, but this time I was explaining to him that soon he wouldn't be the only one getting all my attention, but that doesn't mean I love him less.

There was a practice run when this cute little beagle-chihuaha mix named Winston came and stayed with us for a weekend. I had imagined a scene where Moose and Winston were frolicking and playing (which I saw Moose do at the shelter with this little dog Eddie I have wondered about ever since), but instead, they gave each other respectful space and/or climbed all over me while paying little heed to each other. They didn't seem to hate each other, and both were ecstatic when leashes and keys were picked up and it was clear we were going for a ride. Winston is lighter and leggier and can jump up onto my bed, while Moose hops alongside like a little circus performer, and Winston once looked down from the bed at Moose and growled, but I was optimistic we can move beyond this.

A few weeks later, Moose went off to a lovely pet resort in the Tennessee countryside while I went home to New England. He was surrounded by dogs of various breeds and sizes for twelve days and came home either tired or depressed, because for the first few days back he slept, rejected his food and seemed mopey. I took this as a positive sign that he would be agreeable to another dog being around all the time, but I have been known to be way off the mark on my assessments of a variety of relationship situations (especially when I'm involved) so who knows.

I reminded myself that I was ascribing human emotions to a dog, and maybe that was a little neurotic. But I do fear Moose is lonely -- the most playful I've ever seen him was that day two years ago at the shelter when he was so happy and playing with Eddie, and it's bothered me ever since that my little guy's happiest times may have been while on doggy death row. I even went back on Petfinder looking for Eddie shortly after getting Moose, but without luck.

At least it's finally being fixed. I am as ready as I'll ever be. Moose shall be a lonely only fur-baby no more. Winston, our test-drive houseguest, is coming to live with us. Last weekend, Moose and I went to PetSmart and got extra chew treats, toys and femur bones. Fancy Christmas collars were on clearance, so I bought two, imagining next year's Christmas portrait of my two little guys, maybe with Santa. Or maybe even forthis years now-too-late-for a Christmas / New Year's card -- maybe a new arrival announcement instead? I can probably get it out for Groundhog Day.  

Getting Physical

I like to study and analyze things I'm interested in. I love research. Sure, it can become obsessive, and friends may occasionally slip into a comatose state when I frequently slip into yet another recitation of the latest bits of knowledge upon which I have been bestowed during a late night spent with Google and YouTube learning about roller derby or wire wrapping or glass cutting or lead soldering or belly dance makeup. Sometimes EBay is the research vehicle of choice for weekends awash in viewings of vintage dresses or belly dance costumes. A Civil War project at work involved reading journals written by women in Clarksville from 1862-65 and narratives and interviews with freed slaves in the years following the war. It was heaven. Well, my version of it.

Years of ballet classes that began at age six, topped by years of a casual participation in yoga and four or five years of belly dance lessons have generated a reasonably high level of body consciousness and an interest in how muscles work and movement happens. It was interesting to me when my ballet teacher told us our balance on one leg would be better if we lifted through the torso and held our weight over the extended leg. Leg extension could be improved by focusing on pushing down in the hip, instead of raising the foot. In a recent belly dance workshop deeply rooted in yoga movement and anatomy, we learned to move the torso to the right by contracting the left oblique muscle, and executed chest lifts by contracting the muscles between the shoulder blades. Fascinating stuff. Well, to me.

Undergoing physical therapy has been an interesting learning adventure. Many of the movements and actions in my program are dance moves, or darned close to them. Except for the fact that I am there to rehabilitate an injury, it's kind of fun. That is, until the first therapy appointment of the new year that began with the first two days spent virtually immobilized with a wretched cold.

The third day of the new year was marked by my full-time return to work since what I now refer to as "the incident involving the leg" and the return to physical therapy after a trip home for Christmas that involved much overeating. Therapy opened with my attempting to ride a stationery bike and whining about my knee that keeps clicking like a party noisemaker, then attempting various ways to to actually feel some stretch in a flexible gastrocnemius muscle, and other assorted actions involving weights and towels and heel raises.

On the bike, we taped my knee with the three-inch surgery scar to stop the rubbing/clicking annoyance. Later, we discussed the big thick pad on my knee at the incision site that prevents my ability to kneel. I asked how long it would stay like that, thinking about yoga and the kneeling poses. Mr. Physical Therapist said "a year." He kids around sometimes, but this time he wasn't laughing or even smiling. In a standing exercise with weight shifts, I was supposed to raise the front of my foot. In spite of attempting this movement for many weeks, the stubborn left foot doesn't cooperate because the big toe doesn't flex no matter how hard I try. It's kind of a big deal, because it replaces smooth walking with a Frankensteinian walk that I despise at every step. My right foot rolls smoothly and silently while my left foot starts with the normal meeting of heel to ground, followed by a very ungraceful slap. No silent ninja action for me. Silent roll. SLAP! Roll. SLAP! Absolutely the worst sound I can imagine coming from my body. Worse than a loud, public fart. The big toe doesn't register feeling, so I don't walk around barefoot at home for fear of breaking my toe and not realizing it.

The physical therapist spent time addressing the issues of my colossally limp big toe and partially dysfunctional foot. In the midst of it, he said three words that sucked the air out of my otherwise good day. "Possible nerve damage." My bright mood dimmed. He had me close my eyes and he touched my shin, ankle, foot and toes, and I had to tell him when I could feel the touch. Half the time it seemed as though he had abanded me at the padded table upon which I sat and gone out for coffee. This seemed to confirm his suspicion, which he reiterated, only this time he left out the "possble" and just said "nerve damage." My mood became downright dark.

He explained to me about the nerve that runs down the shin (at the area of the fracture site noted by a lovely two-inch scar), through the ankle, over the top of my foot and to my toes. He said he'd call my surgeon. He assured me that nerves can regenerate, albeit at the rate of about a millimeter a month. Freeking great. Let's see, the length of the dead span of my ankle and foot plus a miniscule growth rate means that maybe by the time I'm 80 I'll be able to walk normally again and maybe even wear scuff slippers without constantly losing the left one in transit. Plenty of time to research ways to disguise a limp / Frankenstein walk. I already know of one -- deliberately hiding out at home. Much like the past two months.

Addiction Development

I can be impulsive. And forgetful. Maybe even a little obsessive. I might fall in like with a television series during the premier episode, then forget it ever existed before the next episode a week later. I can watch a day-long marathon of an entire season and not recognize the show's title if someone asked me about it the next day.

In my 'normal life' -- the one that I lived all the way up until October 22, 2011 when I sustained a compound fracture of the tibia and fibula in my left leg -- I rarely watched TV. I was on the go constantly, zipping between a full-time job, roller derby practice, derby marketing committee work that often consumed as many hours as a part-time job, taking care of Moose and sort of taking care of the house, and spastically bouncing between belly dance workshops, photography, writing, jewelry design and fabrication, occasional sewing of dance costumes, and far too many hours on the computer playing Scrabble and wasting time on facebook. It was a lot, but probably not as much as my friends with husbands and kids. The time I don't spend maintaining romantic and familial relationships is more self-absorbed time for me. It's a swell life. Really. At least that is what I keep telling myself.

After leg surgery at 1:00 am on October 23, I was checked in to a lovely hospital room. It had a pair of unmatched curtains that circled the bed for "privacy" and simultaneously blocked the view of the clock and the postage-stamp sized TV mounted on the wall. The TV was so small it was impossible to read the station ID, news crawls, sports scores or any other text that may be posted during a show. It was really fun when I was watching a show and the staff would draw my curtain to provide privacy for the person coming into or out of the room from the next bed and then neglect to re-open them, cutting me off from all stimulus and information in the room, and most importantly, the tiny TV.

The hospital drugs were great at blocking pain, and when combined with a steady stream of staff taking my blood pressure and temperature hourly, pretty much ensured I was wiped out and sleeping a lot. I couldn't hold my eyes open enough to read a book or magazine and could barely remain awake when visitors stopped in. The hospital time is mostly a fuzzy blur punctuated with panicked moments of losing my phone in the bedsheets that had been removed because my incision had drained through the dressings and all over the bed, and the heart-pounding moments of hobbling with the walker a full two feet to the bedside commode while being humbled by needing a nurse's assistance to pee.

After leaving the hospital, I was lodged at my friend Wendy's for a week, set up in her son's room and queen of the couch -- leg elevated on a pile of towels, watching regular TV and on-demand runs of entire seasons of shows. Wendy has great cable, with lots of movie channels and the ability to save shows and view on demand, sharply contrasting with my cheap one-step-above-basic package.

In four weeks convalescing at my own home, I have watched more TV than in the full four years leading up to now. We're talking marathons of Project Runway, Project Accessory, The Sopranos, America's Next Top Model and Millionaire Matchmaker, almost all of which made me cry at some point, due to feeling like a giant raw nerve. There were at least two solid weeks of daily doses of a different season of Project Runway (3:00) and On the Road with Austin and Santino (4:30). These are in addition to the movies. I decided to make a list of all the movies I watched during my home recovery incarceration that I could recall. The list currently stands at 21 movies, including 3 DVDs from my meager video holdings. At approximately two hours per movie, that is a few hours of staring at a box. The TV veiwing would begin daily within five minutes of clocking out of the company laptop remote desktop time clock. Weekends are free-for-all during my waking hours.

And since Thanksgiving night, my eyeballs have been exposed to something I have not only avoided watching for most of my adult life but actually ridiculed and mocked -- Christmas movies. Sappy, hopeful, tear-jerking, freeking Christmas movies where cranky, crotchedy, often childless working females (hmmm... sounds like me) always find true love on Christmas Eve and no later than Christmas Day. My previous aversion to the genre makes what has happened recently even more surprising. I have watched (i.e. cried through) at least eight Christmas-themed movies in five days. The only one that didn't pull a tear was Scrooged, probably because I was also reading email while that one was on.

This new affinity comes as a great shock to me. Since moving to Tennessee, where I have spent maybe three Christmases in my own home in ten years, I have not been much of a Christmas person. While I have an attic full of decorations, accumulated from decades of ceiling scraping trees in New England homes, I usually don't up put any decoratios any more. Really, why bother? My life is different, and I am usually elsewhere on Christmas, enjoying someone else's decorations and traditions. Decorating my house is just a bunch of work on my end that nobody else will see. And this year I can't actually get into the attic on my own. Asking for help is out of the question, as I am very particular about my decorations. I am afraid whoever might be helping would want to kill me.

When I realized I was trolling the channel guide consciously seeking Christmas movies and making mental notes about upcoming premier presentations on Hallmark and Lifetime, I panicked. It occurred to me that this thing is starting to feel like some sort of addiction. This may require an intervention. Or medication. Or my own Christmas miracle.

Handi-Capable

When it was time for my first follow-up appointment with the orthopedic surgeon, three days after being discharged from the hospital, my derby wife / nursemaid / angel / savior/ comedy team partner Wendy and I headed out. Our destination was the Gateway Medical Center complex comprised of the hospital and its cleverly named adjoining office building, “Medical Office Building 1.” Seriously. They even invested in metal letters on the facade to spell it out. It looks like they need a nice big donation from some local philanthropist so they can have a better name for that building. Anyone?  At least this time I was arriving at the center in a personal vehicle and not an ambulance.

Our hospital is an attractive structure. The first time I saw it at night, illuminated by the dramatic and expertly placed architectural lighting, it reminded me of the castle in the Emerald City of Oz or my first view of Foxwoods Casino rising up grand and beautiful in the middle of nothing, or in this case, a tobacco field. The building gives great face, its majestic facade attracting the eye of drivers on the nearby interstate. Strategically located between exits on I-24 which runs past it (so close you can almost touch it), you can't actually reach it directly from the interstate -- you need to know the magical labyrinth of side and back roads, and not become flustered by Dunlop Lane when it suddenly dead-ends at Ted Crozier Blvd, resulting in a panic-inducing moment for the uninitiated, as the hospital's address IS on Dunlop Lane, and when approaching fom the mall, drivers are suddenly faced with the orange and white striped road barrier signifying the road is no more, and beyond it, a farm field. It requires a right turn, then a left at the next light, and it's on the road again. Maybe it's part of a diabolical master plan to become a major player in the cardiac field -- boost the treatment numbers with all the extra walk-in traffic for cardiac events incurred while trying to visit a Gateway patient or a specialist in Medical Building One. Fortunately, we knew exactly where to go.

We had a plan. Wendy would drop me off at the building, park the car, then accompany me to the second floor suite housing my surgeon's office. Once I was settled, she would head out to an appointment of her own and return when she was done.

The first obstacle we encountered was the door, which is not the rare and exotic hands-free automatically opening door like those generally found at exclusive locations like Kroger, Walgreen's, WalMart or any number of other places accessed by intact and impaired people alike. These doors, set in an expansive wall of glass, require human intervention for activation, which is really a special touch when one is separated from life by say, a walker, or is juggling crutches. Don't be shy, just hippity-hop on up and give that big handle a yank. Beyond that door was a vestibule featuring a lovely weather matt not secured to the floor and perfect for tripping up those walker legs and that one good foot before reaching another glass wall with another door demanding a personal relationship for operation. We fought our way through the doors into the lobby where I hobbled to the first bench I saw, conveniently located immediately inside the second set of doors and parked myself and my high-speed, high-tech walker while Wendy went to park the car.

From my perch on a lovely upholstered bench, I surveyed the battlefield. The use of stone, glass and wood gave a wonderful textural feel to the large open area. Medical office doors dotted the walls around the lobby. A wide wooden staircase sat about three-fourths of the way into the lobby. There were framed color photos of beautiful nature scenes hung on the walls. Perhaps the most interesting detail was the placement of the elevators to the upper floors – unobtrusively tucked (in other words, practically hidden) neatly on the back wall at the furthest possible point from the entrance, a distance of approximately one mile according to my narcotic-medicated, walker-hobbling self. The distance from the bench to the elevators was downright frightening. For the past three days a round-trip trek of maybe 30 feet from the couch to the bathroom and back resulted in sufficient fatigue so as to require a nap. The estimate is probably way off, because I really have no sense of distance, but relatively speaking, I now needed to cross the equivalent of a continent the size of North America to advance to the next phase of this real-life game quest to reach Suite 210. Game on.

Upon reaching the second level of the building, we took a right out of the elevator and were faced with a corridor roughly the length of the Appalachian Trail, though absent the hills, wildlife and shrubbery. Wendy was ahead of me, scouting our magical destination, and I called out to her that I needed to rest. There were people behind me, who I motioned to go past me as I paused, forearms resting on the top bar of the walker, breathing heavily from all the one-legged hopping. Wendy called back over her shoulder, “Quit your bitching and keep moving,” which cracked me up and nearly caused bladder failure. When she picked me up from the hospital on Tuesday to transport me to her house, Wendy kidded that she was going to play Kathy Bates’ role in Misery, and occasionally we slipped into a little spiel. The comic relief provided when she discovered we were not alone in that hallway was enough to propel me down its never-ending expanse. Unfortunately, the reward at the end of the hallway was yet another forever-long hallway. Very video game-esque, these corridors.

After some 30 days of weary travel, we finally entered the waiting room of the Orthopedic and Spinal Surgery office. There were several people already there, at least half of them sporting the same trendy Bledsoe Boot that I was wearing, prompting chitchat about the latest fall footwear. Being my first office visit, there was at least a ream of paperwork to deal with, including checklists of symptoms, medical history, and the rules of the office appointments and payment expectations. The main directive I remembered receiving from the doctor at my discharge from the hospital was to keep my foot elevated. There was good reason to follow this order, as my foot throbbed and felt like it would explode any time it was not propped and elevated. I looked around the waiting room for a footstool, but there were none, nor were there any low tables. The chairs had wooden arms separating them, so it was not possible to just turn and hoist a leg on an adjoining chair, restaurant booth style. My leg was pounding in agony after the grueling journey from the car to the office and felt like it really would explode without immediate elevation. I asked the receptionist for a wastebasket, storage tub, or anything else that could be used to prop my leg. A stepstool with shiny white paint was produced. Except for the part where the boot kept slipping on the slick, painted surface, it was suitable. Could I really be the first compound fractured tibia-fibula patient in this practice who was trying to follow the doctor's directive? This building was attractic, but its loveliness carried a harsh penalty for the visitors.

Before she headed out for her own appointment, Wendy requested a wheelchair for our trip out of the office. I think she knew she'd have to carry me otherwise. And the surprising news from the Orthopedic and Spinal office staff -- they didn't have a wheelchair, and would have to go next door to the hospital to borrow one. Thankfully, they did, or our exit from the bulding could have been a catastrophe of epic proportions. Heck, after fighting with the weight of the seven-foot tall solid wood door to the restroom we both needed to use before leaving, we barely got out of the there intact. I'm not claiming to have the strength of Wonder Woman here, but seriously, I have no idea how the more frail, elderly patients even make it in or out of that office building. I said as much to the office nurses. I also pointed out to the doctor that the building was pretty, but the architect either seemed to have completely neglected to consider who would be using it, or had a very cruel sense of humor.

During my second visit there, while completing a patient satisfaction survey, I politely suggested in the "Additional Comments" section that they "move to a smaller office building with fewer obstacles, as weakened, hobbled patients are exhausted by the time they reached the second-floor suite. Or maybe it's just me." Just a thought.

Show Time

Sometimes the time stated for an event is really the time it will begin and other times it is a rough guideline. At work, day after day, I plan my workflow around those times my name appears on the meetings posted on the company calendar. If the meeting or conference call involves a client, it will likely begin close to on-time. If it’s an internal planning meeting, it’s anyone’s guess, but those are usually rescheduled before they actually happen. The rescheduling record for one of my internal meetings is currently at six, but the average is three or four time shifts before it happens.

It seems the trick to ensure an internal meeting won’t happen is to actually prepare for it by reviewing project notes and statuses, creating an agenda, making copies of documents under discussion. Likewise, the rare failure to prepare for a particular meeting almost guarantees that will be the one meeting of the year that is called exactly on time, the first time scheduled.

When it comes to events scheduled outside work, the same thing sometimes happens. Sure, the event description and ticket for a show have a start time listed, but is it REALLY the start time, or just number dumped into a mandatory computer field in order to proceed to the next step? Some shows start nowhere near the stated time, while others are excruciating in their punctuality. Two recent examples come to mind.

I saw the Raconteurs at their sold-out show at Ryman Auditorium in September. The show time was listed at 7:30. The opening act was not announced in advance, so it wasn’t obvious if there would be none, one, or maybe more. I have been to a couple shows that had no opener and started on time, and trust me, there were some aggravated late arrivals 45 minutes or an hour after the start. My friend and I hustled to Nashville after work, and were in our designated pew seats on time, along with a fraction of the rest of the audience sprinkled throughout the place. At 7:30 on the dot, the first band walked onto that famous  stage, picked up their instruments, and began playing. According to the Ryman website, the maximum seating capacity is 2,362. According to my estimate, there were about a thousand people missing some great stuff on that stage from 7:30 to 8:00.

Many of the other attendees were still in the forever-long merchandise line that began in the lower lobby and snaked up the staircase with the cast iron decorative panels (cast by Clarksville Foundry for the 1994 restoration, but I digress and show off my knowledge of odd and random things). The merch line continued across the upper lobby to the back table. There were also significantly shorter and faster-moving multiple snack and beverage lines. I wondered what could be worth spending more money on AND missing out on the entertainment for which one had already forked over ticket money, but not enough to get in line and check it out.

I popped out for a beer run after the first act, whose name was completely unintelligible and sounded like “Bwaaawperelrk -- from St. Louis, Missouri!” They were fun -- a 1920s or 30s suited-wardrobe look, a dude with a giant bass, and another alternating between playing a washboard and a harmonica! The lobby and mezzanine outside the concert hall were still packed with all those people in their various lines.

More seats were filled by the second opening act, whose name was “Mwwblahjkreppl -- from Nashville, Tennessee!” Another fun band with poor speaking skills. Just before the headliners took the stage, the lobby traffic had finally all moved to the auditorium, many attendees clutching their newly acquired concert treasures. I asked the people around me if they knew either of the bands. Nobody knew the first band’s name, which was a shame, because I really liked them and might even buy their stuff now that I’ve heard it. I mean, who doesn’t like some kick-ass harmonica or washboard music for the ride to work?!?!? People around us knew the second band was called Jeff the Brotherhood.

The Raconteurs were amazing and everything I hoped to hear, and it ended at a decent hour (defined by me as, I can actually get some sleep before it’s time to get up again for work, and if it wasn’t a weeknight, I’d be all about going out somewhere for a while). We headed back the ‘Ville and real life with timetables and alarm clocks prepared for too early awakenings.

Exactly a month later, I had a ticket to the (also) sold-out Beats Antique show at 12th & Porter. The advertised show time was 9:00, with doors opening at 8:00. It was general admission, which means the free-for-all to stake out a real estate claim in whatever seating, leaning or standing in the middle of the floor opportunities exist when one crosses the threshold. In spite of my going from “it’s too early to leave” to “crap, now I’m late!” in the blink of an eye, I managed to somehow stop for gas, get to Nashville, find the club, drive around the block three times and finally give up and get brave and park in a lot in a space missing a “permit only” sign, and be the second person in line awaiting the designated door opening time and “will call” ticket pickup.

The advertised magical hour of the door opening came. And passed. The line grew behind me, and stretched around the corner of the building. After what felt like forever, a cute dude in a knit beanie came out and started checking names off the will call ticket list and another dude verified IDs and issued wristbands. Then we waited some more. Fortunately, it was nice out -- a lovely autumn evening. There was sidewalk chatter about how much money the place was losing in drink sales, which we would all surely be buying if we were inside instead of out, and how, if *WE* ran things, there would be snacks served to the people in line, or at the very least, a food truck on the street selling grub to those of us who had barely a mere handful of Fritos for “supper” before driving to Nashville.

When they finally let us inside after what felt like forever but was probably 45 minutes after they’d checked us in, my new temporary, situational best friends (the gal in front of me in line, and the three tribal belly dancers from Cookeville behind me) and I scored the seats in the front of the balcony with the perfect view of the stage.  And then we waited. And waited some more. The crowd filled in below us, and soon it was, in my dad’s eloquent words, “packed asshole to belly button.” I was so glad I was not trapped in it.

Some time after 10:00 (who knowsl how long, but it felt like forever), a guy in jeans and a tee shirt came on stage. All the listings for the show had said Beats Antique and “TBA” -- so there was no clue provided about an opener except that there was one. Apparently, this was finally the time it would be announced. The dude introduced himself and it sounded like he said “Augie from Los Angeles.” He said his name a few more times during his whatever you call it when a  guy makes cool sounds for 45 minutes with  a laptop and a keyboard and a thing with square buttons -- gig? performance? opening act time slot? Anyway, each time he said who he is, it sounded a little different and was never clear except for the LA part, but with a sort of an “Ah” and “Ee” sound in it. Why do so many musicians fail to enunciate so we can actually understand the name of their bands or themselves? Do everyone a favor -- speak clearly!! Please. Okay?

The opening guy from LA said something else several times that struck me as odd... He said “Thank you Nashville for coming out here so early.” Huh? Dude, I don’t think WE were EARLY. Is “at the time the ticket said the show would start” now early? More like all y’all were LATE. Maybe it’s a west coast thing? But you’re welcome. I guess. And thanks for noticing.

During the performance by the headliners they thanked “R. D. from LA” a couple times -- clearly, thank goodness, and I finally had the name. Sheesh. Why was it so hard? Get the crap out of your mouth performers at a mic. Speak so we can understand who you are. Unless, of course, you don’t care that we know who you are, only where you are from. The show was great, again proving that there is more to Music City than just country music. Thank goodness.

After the show, even though it was a Friday night and theoretically I could stay out as late as I wanted, the only thingI really wanted was to get to the car and be home. I was really tired from a week of extra stress at work that wore me out, and I had attended the show alone, which felt like about as much solo personal nightclub bravery as I needed for one night. I left the club as quickly as I could, given there was a line of hundreds of people barely moving ahead of me -- all  attempting the same thing. After being absorbed into the crowd, I realized I had neglected to even say goodbye to the gals with whom I had spent the past four hours of quality time joking around with on the sidewalk and sitting in the balcony. Sorry gals. Maybe we’ll run into each other another night, on another sidewalk while waiting for the doors to open for another show.

Charming Shoes

One seemingly ordinary weekend afternoon, I went shopping, which was actually a bit out of the ordinary for me.  My girly-girl card may be confiscated and cut to pieces for this, but I generally don’t enjoy shopping. In fact, the word “detest” comes to mind. This may be shocking news to any who remember me from my recreational shopping days when I shopped three or four times a week. Back then, I was trying to get out of the house and away from a husband. I thought buying things would fill the emptiness in me. I know better now. 

For one thing, I know I already have far too much stuff. I could probably hang a banner outside my house and have enough clothing and housewares to run a little shop for a month or two. For another, beyond the quarterly pest treatments at the house and two random visits by the cute guy who used to live next door, I rarely have people over. This means there is no sense of needing to impress anyone. No need for the latest and greatest kitchen gadget, toothbrush holder, scented candle or hostessing outfit. In the nearly four years I have lived in my house, I’ve had exactly two parties, so it’s not like I am competing for the Martha Stewart home entertainment award. Fact: New Year’s Eve 2011 will be the fourth anniversary of the same bottle of champagne living in the lower right bin of the refrigerator.

Given my absence of house guests, already excessive wardrobe, and lack of need concerning basic living accoutrements, why would I invest my precious time and risk the potential of being hypnotized by some retailer’s Muzak system lulling me into shelling out money I don’t have for things I don’t need?

Like I was saying, it was unusual that I was shopping. The place I was shopping, however, was completely usual for me -- Goodwill. People thinkI am kidding whenI say it, but Goodwill is my first choice for shopping in Clarksville. Yes, the mall here is THAT pathetic and overstocked with disposable clothes clearly intended for one wearing as evidenced by their propensity to disintegrate in the washer the first time through. The TJ Maxx in Clarksville is the smallest I’ve seen in the five American cities resided in during my adult life. Since the flood of May 2010 there has been no Opry Mills with my beloved Gap and Nine West Outlet stores, so yes, shopping here stinks and I am almost exclusively a Goodwill gal.

This one particular day, I must have had a lot of time on my hands, because I was wandering all over the place, way beyond the usual skirts and tops for work section, and the “I don’t really need more jeans but these are cute and only $8” rack, and and even paid attention to the shoes, a category I tend to ignore because I already have some decent hookups for inexpensive shoes.

If you know me, you might have guessed that there is a tiny chance I have too many pairs of shoes to count. I have not figured out how to make the abacus go that high,  or maybe I just don’t want to know. The last time I took an inventory (many residential moves ago), I had 150 pairs of footwear (including specialty footwear like snow boots and hiking boots, but not counting super specialty footwear like ski boots). Family members vowed to never again help me move my household due to my excessive holdings of books, clothing and footwear. Ignorance may be bliss on this one, unless I can convert the unworn footwear to cold cash.

But there I was, cruising the shoe racks, when I spotted them. Amazing blue croc-textured shoes with squared toes, bearing a garish orange price tag proclaiming the price to be $5. It was a plunge into instant adoration. With me and retail, the lower the price, the deeper the love.  A wistful sigh escaped my lips. Or maybe it was a gasp. I stroked the uppers and examined the soles which were barely sullied by asphalt or gravel and still seemed perilously slippery. The pale gray, pristine insoles still had cushiony cushions. The black heels bore hardly a nick nor a scuff. I was swooning. Somehow, I tore myself away and walked halfway to the checkout to clear my head. Even from half a store away, I heard the shoes whisper my name.

And suddenly, a vision of a tall, handsome, muscular man in nicely fitting dark-dyed jeans and vintage-styled, hipster shirt burst into my head. This stunner of a man, worthy of a magazine cover and as yet unknown to me, was the perfect accessory for these shoes. I returned to the shoe rack. I snatched up the shoes.  As I walked to the checkout, clutching the shoes to my bosom, I imagined the dates I would go on with the the beautiful shoes and the handsome man I didn’t happen to know yet.  And I bought them.

Here’s the good part -- they are men’s shoes. Size 10. In my date fantasy, the handsome and charming imaginary prince is wearing the shoes. It will take a special guy to pull off wearing these shoes, and that is the guy I want.

So now I have a pair of shoes, but there is no man in my real life (yet) who can fill them. But I have an idea ... a quest!  A reverse Cinderella type thing. I will find the man who fits the shoes. Granted, it will be kind of weird asking men I only recently met what size shoe they wear, and they might get a little creeped out when I pull out my pair of blue mens shoes and ask them to put them on and walk around for me. Sure, some might think I am a total whack job. But think of the stories! I can chronicle my journey for the man to fill the shoes, they can tell their buddies about the nutcase running around with the blue shoes. Everybody wins! Especially me, when I find the right man to fill the shoes.

Final Straw

This weekend may have marked a turning point. The final straw that broke this camel’s emotional back has been added to the load.

While I was frolicking by a river in Tennessee watching cardboard boat races and attending a festival in my stupid, lonely, self-absorbed little life, deliberately crowded with activity in an attempt to fill the vast, emotional emptiness, my sister was in Massachusetts receiving the shocking blow of the sudden death of her father-in-law. While I was wondering about the monumental things in my day, like whether or not the cute guy would be at the beer store and if the weather would remain nice for the rest of the festival, my mom was watching my three nieces until such time as my sister and her husband could collect them to deliver the devastating news about Pepe.

And when, save for the distance of half a country, I could be there helping in any number of ways big and small -- like watching the kids, holding a hand, making dinner, running errands or whatever it is that might need doing -- I am sitting alone (because even when surrounded by people, I am alone and that is just a fact of my life), feeling as isolated and helpless and useless to my people as I have ever been these past ten years.

When my grandmother learned she had cancer again, I was in Tennessee working a meaningless part-time job (it was all I could find) and angrily going through the motions in the marriage that was deteriorating around me -- that same marriage that I let take me so far from my family (and thus, some of the anger). My sister and Mom were dealing with ongoing doctor visits and stress and medication that may or may not be taken correctly by a stubborn woman who wanted things on her terms which meant no nursing home and a flat out refusal to live with my sister and the kids, because she didn’t want to change her lifestyle and/or be “a burden on anyone.”  They took care of Mummu and juggled their schedules and kept me from stressing about things I couldn’t help with by not telling me what was going on. When I finally got parts of the story, I tenderly cultivated a weighty crop of guilt over being the one who left and is no longer around to be helpful.

When Mummu was close to what everyone feared was the end, I finally got the awful story and swooped up to Massachusetts in time to see her in a medicated coma in the hospital, and that night she passed away and then we were making funeral plans. After a few days of actually being there for my family, I was gone again, returning to whatever trivial crap it is that I do on a regular basis.

Any time something happens back home -- whether good, bad, or indifferent -- I get the edited, condensed, sanitized version. There is little (or nothing) I can do to help with the coping or celebrating of it, anyway. This is how we function and half a country is a pretty big distance to cover, and while the florists would have us believe otherwise, lovely flowers do not really deliver all that much.

This weekend, it has hit me harder than ever that this is not the life I want. While never established that it was ever the life I ‘wanted,’ it’s definitely the one I allowed to happen. I chose to leave my family to move away with a husband, because it felt adventurous and seemed like what a new wife should do and it was logical to move into a house he already owned. When we split up four years ago it made sense to take a minute to catch my breath while I figured out what would come next. Yes, it was the perfect time for going home to family, and there were people who were surprised I didn’t, but the “back” in “going back home” tasted like neediness, weakness, failure and defeat, and that is not a stew I enjoy. I am supposed to be the strong and self-sufficient one, a false construct erected entirely to justify myself to myself.

And the fact remains, in four years, I really haven’t started breathing again and I definitely haven’t done any figuring. The only conscious thing I’ve done is (over)fill my life with activity so I don’t have time to deal with the hard stuff like coping with my ever present loneliness; finding a new job and selling a house  in a bad economy; moving 1,200 miles on my own; letting myself feel what it’s like to be human; or even cleaning the house.

But it’s time to get real and do it. I am tired of not being there. I want to hug my sister, brother-in-law and nieces so much right now it is a physical pain, and my arms are not long enough to do it from here.