Book Clubbing

There are enough balls in the juggling act currently masquerading as my life that I may soon be qualified for a position with the circus. The major variables in the air are: 1) a job to facilitate 2) my own place in which to live, 3) travel, and 4) a social life. For now, I live with my Mom and stepdad, and although I have a valid passport and plenty of time to travel, I am far too sensible (frugal?) to spend what money I have on travel, a situation I will deeply regret once I find a job and no longer have the time for it. Plus, I don’t have any travel companions, and there are certain things, like jetting off to a foreign country, that I refuse to do alone. Dang, I don’t even enjoy going to a local museum alone.

In between stalking the job listings and crafting customized cover letters worthy of a literary award (depressing), and flirting with the real estate listings to monitor current prices (more depressing), a meager amount of continually diminishing energy is directed to reconstructing a social life in a geographic area from which I was absent for 12 years. I considered ordering these stressful searches sequentially, but the logical first step is a job, a search that is going so poorly I’ll likely be eligible for Social Security before I find the next step in my career. If only I could be paid handsomely to just show up places and act aloof and snooty. You know, like Paris Hilton. Then I could be knocking out the money, travel and social scene all at once.

The whole life rebuilding thing isn’t exactly easy. It’s reminiscent of the square peg / round hole feeling I had all through school. And college. And most of my adult life. At least there’s consistency. And familiarity. I feel like a fish out of water, gasping for air on a dock, unable to commandeer my own life.

At Mom’s, we each seem to feel the need to entertain the other. We go clubbing (BJ’s Wholesale Club) and visit antique shops. We cook dinner together. There are Scrabble matches almost daily. She still has regular activities away from home that I have conscientiously remained out of, because she needs her own space as much as I need mine. I don’t get much writing done when she is home, because I feel like I’m ignoring her, which feels rude. Plus, she likes to watch the morning chat shows, an endless stream of crime dramas and the game show classics “Let’s Make a Deal” and “The Price is Right” which are intrusive to my focus, especially when she starts talking to me about what is happening on TV. It’s super fun when I’m trying to write cover letters and send resumes.

My trajectory into the social scene has been pathetic, to put it delicately.  There have been a handful of social outings in three months -- a lounge concert and a bar, a coffee date, patio cocktails, three book club meetings, and a ballet recital. There have also been seven dance classes and two workshops.  Sprinkle in a couple hair appointments and the sum total is the rough equivalent of one week’s activity in my previous, mostly-fully-formed-adult life.

My life is so small right now I don’t know how I have managed to not slip through the cracks in the front porch. Perhaps the extra 15 pounds of lard presently adorning my physique has spared me such a tragic fate.

It’s one thing to be a pathetic adult loner living independently and sulking after work in one’s fortress of loneliness, surrounded by cherished belongings and without witnesses, but it’s kind of horrifying to be a middle-aged, unemployed loner (by which I mean LOSER) living at your Mom’s and having her see you on the computer or on the sofa watching TV all night every night.

My most “interesting” outings so far, if they can be called that, might be the book club meetings. It is glaringly obvious that I don’t read books like other people in book clubs read books. While other members reference sentences, phrases, and incidents in the book with startling clarity and detail, I sit there frantically flipping through the story in my head trying to grasp something, anything, upon which to comment. I guess I need to postpone my reading until the last minute, instead of devouring the book three weeks in advance to increase my chances of recollection. 

When other readers are commenting on the “darkness” of the story or something that happened to the central character, I’m wondering just how that “darkness” was conveyed and how it managed to completely escape my attention. Instead of revealing my state of obliviousness, I bite my tongue to hold back the “Huh? What page is that on?” that is eager to burst forth from my lips.

Heck, even when I read Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar,” the classic depiction of depression and breakdown, it seemed like the chronicle of a series of normal days to me. Perhaps my own inner life is so dark and twisty that someone else’s mental breakdown reads to me like just another day from my own journal.

So while my book club members wax eloquently on the importance of the gold scarf that was not discarded in one book, the abusiveness of the father in another, or the symbolism of the tail gate party in a third, I sip my beverage of choice with a smile upon my face that I hope is concealing the utter emptiness residing in the cavity behind it. Maybe I need to check for Cliffsnotes or published reviews before my next book club meeting, so I can participate with confidence (and a clue).

Red Line

After submitting painstakingly prepared cover letters and resumes in response to 30 job postings within a couple months, there was finally an interview. In person. At an official office. It wasn't for a specific position, but with a placement agency for the potential of future contract jobs of varying duration. Work I'm not convinced I even want, but an income stream needed if I ever want to be a grownup again, with my own residence, bills and lifestyle.

Since selling my house and leaving a full-time marketing job in Tennessee to move back to the family home I lived in from age 10 to 23, I've wondered how long it would take to become bored with not working. At 2.5 months into it, boredom has not yet come to ring the doorbell, just the postal carrier and FedEx guy (eBay!) and a bedraggled young woman trying to “win points for a trip” by “meeting people” which turned out to be code for “selling magazines.”

Episodes of unemployment in Tennessee were periods of self-discovery (and de-evolution) as the woman who once vowed to never be seen outside the house without mascara, combed hair, and wearing an actual "outfit" began sprinting the driveway in pajamas to fetch the mail. I learned it was possible to plan, shop for, and prepare a decent dinner in 1.5 hours and power clean major areas of the house in about 15 minutes, leaving lots of time free for sulking and playing online word games with strangers in faraway places like the UK and India.

Having achieved something fantasized about for years -- time to write, do photography, make art, (and a husband to pay the bills) -- I had no idea how to proceed. Most days were occupied with thinking about all the things I *could* do, until it was too late to actually do any of them. Too many options led to total paralysis. The big discoveries were that I function better when expected to report to a workplace on a regular schedule, and that the busier I am, the more that gets done.

My small circle of Tennessee friends and acquaintances was comprised of people who had nice, grownup day jobs like journalist and museum worker, or retirees with spouses and a routine of joint daily activities. It eventually required Herculean effort to haul my own arse out of bed for the long, lonely days, and I’m pretty sure I nearly lost my mind during those poorly executed June Cleaver phases.

This time unemployment would be different. I'm older and wiser. Well, older anyway. And I didn’t plan on being unemployed for very long. I was scoping out apartments and job postings and applying for jobs in New England two months before I even left Tennessee -- a productive way to avoid the actual packing of the house. Daily emails with multiple job openings in marketing, writing, museum work and public relations, coupled with government propaganda proclaiming an improving economy were promising signs. By my initial calculations, it would take a couple weeks, maybe a month, to find a job, move into a great place of my own and dive headfirst back into whatever was left of the social scene I left a dozen years ago. This uncharacteristically optimistic (ridiculously naive?) view felt exciting. Refreshing, even. Nobody could accuse me of being “glass half empty.” Not this time.

Now that the dark cloud of reality has descended, it's more accurate to say that I'm an unemployed schmuck sitting around a different house in a different state. At least I have Mom for company and to inspire a level of self-regulation. To exhibit I'm a grownup, I don't lounge in PJs all day, like I would most assuredly do without a witness. There was a time when the idea of hanging out with my Mom all day, every day would have been more than either of us could bear (or survive). I'm referring, of course, to that period of my moody adolescence, when I knew absolutely everything and no matter what my Mom suggested, did, or didn't do, she was wrong in my eyes. I was a miserable bitch. There is no point denying it, as there are far too many witnesses. It’s different now. I’m a bit less cranky, and I see my Mom with mature, more respectful vision, greatly improved by a dozen years spent 1,200 miles away.

While in Tennessee and seeing friends with their families, I really came to miss, appreciate, and understand my Mom -- the woman who worked full-time and put herself through college while managing a difficult marriage and raising three kids. She transformed herself from low-wage retail clerk to well-paid accountant with a major computer company. Mary, the financial adviser we both utilized in the late 1990s, referred to her as "One of the funniest women I know." My Mom? Really? That was a major clue that Mom had a facet or two or ten with which I was unacquainted, and that I had probably sold her short for the past, oh, lifetime.

Mom is retired from the now defunct computer company, and I presently share her retiree life as I search for a new job (some days more diligently than others). We visit antique and consignment shops on a rotation loosely linked to grocery runs and dollar store visits and spread out to avoid entire days bereft of activity. There have been two trips to Maine -- first in April to look for a beach rental house for a vacation with my sister and nieces (yes, I’ll be taking a vacation from unemployment), and again on a gorgeous 80 degree day in Mid-May to deliver the rest of the payment, calculate the best walking path to the beach and note directions and landmarks. We lunched in the little beach town just beginning to awaken from winter. On the way home, we visited an outlet mall and an antique mall. I could really get used to this.

The day after the second beach visit, I was encamped at a Dunkin Donuts in Boston’s financial district, an hour early for the appointment with the placement agency. Like Mom, I'd rather be wicked early than risk being even a little late. Plus, I’d dreamed the night before that I kept changing outfits and engaging in delaying tactics until it was 30 minutes late for my appointment and I hadn't yet left the house. The disturbance of the dream launched me out of bed without hesitation, a solid two-and-a-half hours before my usual leisurely arising.

Pre-trip planning involved exploration of three options: the Fitchburg to Boston commuter rail ($25 round trip with inconvenient return times); the subway (one hour drive to Cambridge, then a 20 minute subway ride and five minute walk); or driving all the way into Boston (potential traffic nightmare and search for parking). Plan B won -- drive to Alewife Station, park for $7, ride the MBTA red line to South Station, then walk a few blocks. The return trip could include jumping off the red line at the Kendall/MIT stop to visit a nearby vintage/used clothing store.

The brief visit at the glamorous offices on the 20th floor with a view of the harbor hardly seemed worth the 1.5 hours of multi-modal travel. The purpose of the appointment seemed to be establishing my validity as a legally-employable worker by photocopying my driver's license and Social Security card. The agency representative said most of their writing and marketing placements are in Boston with practically none in Worcester or anywhere near my current (temporary) residence. It’s doubtful temp work will pay enough to relocate closer to Boston, so commuting may be a necessity, seeing as I didn't win the massive Powerball lottery drawing, and am too young to draw on my still insufficient retirement plan and too broke to swing it otherwise.

The visit to the vintage store included wandering lost around the MIT campus upon exiting the subway station and scrutinizing the throngs of skinny-jean clad men for lookalikes for Howard Walowitz on Big Bang Theory.  Some things are really more fun with a companion. After retrieving the car from the Alewife Station and exiting the garage, an unintentional and circuitous driving tour of MIT, Harvard University and Lesley College reminded me how much I prefer to be a passenger.

Now it’s back to plowing through dozens of daily job ads. Most are seeking someone with the skill set of three people from three different departments at my old job (graphic design plus account management plus production management? Really?). The highlight of each day is “Scrabble o’clock” when Mom and I start our daily round of games while multi-tasking the preparation of dinner and watching crime dramas and Judge Judy. Seriously, I can get used to this.

Self Contained

The house is under contract. The closing date is tentatively set. Ample notice and a departure date have been given at work and one of my bosses and I are disproportionately stressed about one or two projects. But basically, bit by bit, the details are being worked out. My mom and Butch are coming to help load up my stuff, and their travel dates are set. Their decision to drive instead of fly down helped resolve my debate of shipping container versus truck. Good thing.

On a vacation day scheduled to handle house repairs needed as a result of the inspection, I had time to sit and focus on the container/truck issue. I had already checked UHaul and PODS and spazzed out over the costs ($900 to $2500, depending). On this day, I found another company and got an estimate online.

After some trouble on the container company’s website when I tried to change their seemingly random assigned moving date, which was, unfortunately, a week later than I need the stuff gone from the house, I cast aside my long-standing neurotic issues with phones (another story for another day) and called them. Drew, my customer service rep, said there wasn’t much availability for February, which explains why the web page kept defaulting to March 5. We got things lined up. If I need to store the cube on the other end, it’s in Worcester, a town I have lived in twice and would be happy to live in again. The other container storage companies also had storage  -- but in towns I never heard of or in a neighboring state. I like to think my stuff is nearby, so I think the Worcester storage site sealed the deal for me with this company.

As promised by Drew, follow-up emails arrived within a few minutes. One email had checklists and the “Do Not Ship” list was quite helpful. Enlightening. Sure, I knew it wasn’t acceptable to ship/store my paint, gasoline, ammunition or fireworks arsenals, but I hadn’t really considered nail polish and nail polish remover. Anybody want 38 bottles of nail polish? Yes, 38. I counted. Well, maybe I can keep 10 or 12 in the stuff packed into the car. But seriously, at least half will have to find new homes.

The overall plan is to sell as much stuff as I can and have a super light move.  To have a clean start. To finally be free of secondhand clunky furniture and the need to find a living space based on the volume of my stuff. Heck, with the exception of four white leather dining chairs I bought new for the house in Tennessee, most of my stuff has been castoffs from family and friends, a couple yard sale finds, or the pressboard stuff that comes in a box and is assembled at home. My major new furniture purchases were in the last century for the house in Massachusetts (1986), and I walked away from most of that stuff in the divorce, telling myself it was a small price to pay to get out of there alive.

Worse than the secondhand stuff (or “Shabby Chic” as the trend was called 15 or 20 years ago when it was cool -- and still never a deliberate decor scheme on my part), some of my boxed stuff has enjoyed five or six moves and never seen the light of day. Time to go.

I still, however, have a couple issues with the “Do Not Ship” list, specifically, their category called Miscellaneous:
 - Antiques
 - Automobiles
 - Contraband
 - One of a kind artwork
 - Pets
 - Photos-photo albums

After I liberate myself from the replaceable furniture and stuff I am tired of looking at and schlepping around,  I’ll have a few antiques (mostly family furniture), a bunch of one of a kind artwork (most done by my Tennessee art friends), and my own gazillion photos /photo albums. Dang. Maybe I just need to get a tow hitch and drag my stuff behind me.

Sky Writing

Another Christmas trip home to New England is done. As always, it went by too quickly. As usual, I ran out of time and didn't get to see everyone. In keeping with tradition, approximately 6 days into the trip and a couple days before the flight back to Tennessee, I was visited by the annual stuffed up sinuses, scratchy throat and general feeling of unwellness to enhance the regularly scheduled depression at having to leave the family. It wouldn't be a major holiday family visit if it didn't end in me feeling like I'd been run over by a bus.

It seems the best thing I ever did to fully appreciate my family was to move 1,200 miles away from them. Maybe when I am 1,200 miles away from Clarksville I can finally appreciate that place, but it will probably be a delayed gratification thing, as it may take a few years for the excitement of leaving to wear off first.

It stinks to fly with congested sinuses, and moreso since Southwest stopped flying direct between New England and Nashville. Once upon a time, there were multiple daily nonstops on the schedule, but ever since the addition of Baltimore-Washington Airport to their schedule, there are no more nonstops to Nashville from either Manchester, New Hampshire or Providence, Rhode Island. The once two hour trip is now a four to seven hour event involving foot tours of multiple airports. The first leg of the flight introduces a mild ear discomfort which is topped with a bonus round of excrutiating ear pain and the challenge of suppressing the urge to scream and wail like an infant by jamming gum into my mouth and chewing it like my life depends on it while applying pressure to the outer opening my ear canal. Then, I spend the next couple days feeling like my ears are stuffed with cotton or I've just left a very loud concert. It might be my favorite part of traveling by air, narrowly edging out the joy of playing fortune teller as required to pack for as-yet-unknown weather conditions and activities.

Being New Year's Eve and dancing on the brink of sickness, there was a huge compulsion to go to bed early and attempt to heal, but that's what I did one year ago and resented it any time I thought about it for the rest of the year. Twenty years ago there would be no consideration given to missing a New Year's Eve celebration -- come hell, high water, the forced muteness of laryngitis or a raging case of tonsillitis, I would be dressed to the nines and out in the fray. I have a quieter life now. In my delusional moments I call it maturity, but it's probably more accurate to call it laziness.

Sleep was poor much of the week in New England, thanks to the seemingly never-ending sinus issues that prevented breathing. And the unfamiliar bed with no dogs. And the weird dreams. Some of the best sleep of the week happened each morning between 8:00 and 9:00 when I had intended to already be up, and on the flight from Baltimore-Washington International to Nashville International when I dozed off three or four times in six or seven minute increments, and awoke when I whacked my head on the cabin wall each time my head began to drop. I think it was starting to freak out the kid in the center seat, who had her mother sleeping in the aisle seat to her right and me smashing my head on the window like a psychiatric patient in the seat to her left.

The rest of the week's prime sleep came when I hit the couch after arriving home. In spite of the Doctor Who marathon on BBC America, the fatigue and feeling of crappiness, coupled with the coziness of the exhausted fur babies curled up beside me overpowered my supreme crush on David Tennant and I was sleeping, this time in 15 minute slots -- just long enough to miss key moments of each episode all afternoon long.

In a triumphant move, I managed to fight the urge to retreat to bed early and sick and stayed up all the way until midnight and the Central Time Zone airing of the Times Square ball drop. My friend Sharon came over and we watched the Doctor Who marathon, so I got to see all the parts I slept through during the afternoon airings as we chatted and drank Chocolate Rouge wine (her) and Bourbon Barrel Stout beer (me) from wine goblets and ate snacks and lamented wearing jeans instead of our comfy fleecy sweats. But it was New Year's Eve and we didn't want to feel like those lazy zombies who parade through WalMart in pajamas at all hours of the day and night.

On New Year's Day morning when I got up at the rosy hour of 8:15 (after a night of reasonably satisfying sleep) I saw the TV listing for the last episode of Downton Abbey Season 2 and immediately jumped to the potentially false assumption that the entire second season had aired overnight on PBS (and probably all day Monday). There was no way to verify this, as the TV listing only displays current and future time slots and shows. If only I had looked at ALL the listings yesterday instead of immediately shacking up with Doctor Who all day. And night. I mean, it's not like The Doctor even knows that he and I are dating.

Crappy Day

The morning began in an unusually, exceptionally crappy way.

At 2:25 am, Moose deposited a combination of stomach acid and recently enjoyed yard poop onto the pale blue and white comforter. The wretched sounds of the retching and licking of an attempted re-ingestion, combined with the toxic fragrance of bile and poop tickled me awake. I dragged myself out of bed to scrub off the nastiness, reminded how the comforter had just, one day earlier, been washed and replaced on the bed after a month in the laundry room since the last time he got sick on it. That time, Moose had deposited a perfectly intact pineapple chunk in a fragrant bile sauce. The pineapple had been fed to both dogs after reading that it would help curb their taste for poop (or, Coprophagia, if you want to be all veterinary about it). The pineapple had the same non-effect as the liver flavored tablets bought at PetsMart. As for the comforter – it is now referred to as the “Late night bad luck comforter.”

Several hours later, having shaken off the crude, early awakening, I arrived at work ready for coffee. An earlier arriving coworker had, as usual, started the delicious brew. As I transferred the fresh coffee from the Bunn coffee pot to the thermos, charred liquid splatted onto the counter. Turned out, the glass coffee pot had a crack running all the way across the bottom. Luckily, there was a spare pot in the cabinet, because we are a crew not equipped to face a day sans a steady flow of coffee. Preferably in a cup.

After the kitchen cleanup and back at my desk with coffee and yogurt, it was time for the new Prednisone (take with food or milk!) prescribed to help with my recently acquired difficulty breathing (now on day 10!). This was followed with a hit from the new inhaler which loosens the vise grip on my chest for about, oh, 30 minutes at best (if at all).

Usually there are just a few emails awaiting my attention, but this particular morning there were 140 of them. A quick scan revealed exactly two of them to be legitimate – a Google news alert about a client and a marketing trade newsletter. The rest were spam, mostly from “IT Help Desk” (FAKE! – it is an individual with a name at my office), “Stelter Service Desk” (another unknown entity) and “IT Support” (again, another nonexistent company department). Highlight and delete!

During a morning conference call with Boss 2 of 2 and a client, I learned (to my horror) that I would be part of a press conference announcing the project. On a project I was only recently brought into, and for which I was not part of the project proposal or strategic planning. Normally the bosses handle this, but the one leading this project will be out of town. Before I had time to fully absorb the (excitable) weight loss potential of stressing over being part of a press conference (instead of a reporter or a bystander) and the (miraculous) chance that maybe my clothes would fit again, it was pointed out that the press conference would take place in two days. Worse, a scan of the agenda has “Q & A” next to my name. There better be no “Q” for me, because chances are very good the “A” will be stammering gibberish. The best we can hope for are variations of “We are very excited to be working on this project.”

Back at my desk, a deadline hung like the sword of Damocles on another project for another client. For weeks, I have been doing everything in my power to keep this initiative on track but circumstances beyond my cubicle seem to have wrested it out of my control and sent it and me into Limbo, Dante’s first of the nine Circles of Hell. You know, the eternal lounge for the guiltless damned.

And I wonder why I have chest pains and trouble breathing.

A phone call from a friend following up on a party invitation for Saturday to which I neglected to respond had me feeling slightly chastened. The invite arrived under the email name of a co-host I didn’t recognize into an email account I rarely check, which really sounds like a bunch of lames-ass excusery, but is the truth. At least it hadn’t been deleted, it just hadn’t been opened. But I am now forgiven and allowed to attend the party.

A 1:00 staff meeting to review statuses and priorities (rescheduled from two failed attempts a day earlier) forced a lunch reschedule from my usual 12:45 ish to 1:45 ish (timed to accommodate the bladders of the fur beasts) to a more brunch like slot (11:30 – 12:30). Imagine my joy when, at 1:00, after having prepared updated statuses for said meeting for the now third time, it was rescheduled to 2:30, and then again to 2:30 to the next day. 

During the brunch break, I stopped at Walgreen’s to pick up the second batch of Christmas card test prints. In my head and on the screen of my iMac, the card image is a vibrant close-up shot of a few branch tips of my silver foil tree framing a nice shiny, brightly colored ornament. For the second test round, I used every little sliding button available in the standard photo editing package on my computer and altered the saturation, the tints, the detail. The result was three versions that look wicked cool on screen. Unfortunately, in print, every one of them is a dull, muddy mess that looks as rotten as the first failure. Instead of tweaking the photo more, I decided to reshoot it after yoga after work.

After work (and before yoga), a quick trip across town to Goodwill in North Clarksville was needed to acquire an “Ugly Christmas Sweater” for a party on Friday. There was an entire rack of the hideous things there before Thanksgiving and before the event was planned. On Black Friday, there was not a single one to be found at City Thrift. The next day there were none at the Goodwill nearest my house. This visit was my last hope. And it was hopeless. The only things on the “Christmas clothing” rack were assorted pajama bottoms and toddler wear, and this was the only “Christmas clothing” rack to be found in three thrift stores. As I purchased a Plan B sweater to be self-festooned to within an inch of its life, the clerk said the Christmas sweaters flew out the door. “Ugly Christmas Sweater” is big party theme in town this year. The worst part is – I had one from a party last year, and in total violation of my packrat tendencies, I donated it back to Goodwill during the spring “planning to move purge and pack initiative.” The same mission has all my Christmas bake ware held hostage in a box somewhere in the depths of the basement. I was, after all, supposed to be living somewhere closer to the North Pole by now.

After yoga, a trip to WalMart, and a bowl of “I can’t believe I even screwed up ramen” laced with Sriracha sauce and the last of the Cheeze Whiz (meaning no chance to start over), it was time to reshoot the Christmas card photo. The tripod was retrieved from the coat closet, first exciting the dogs, who were inspired by the sound of the coat closet door into thinking we were going for a nighttime stroll. This was followed by the sound of their claws scrambling on the hardwood floor as they made a harried escape from the tripod being set up. Although much less noisy, it is almost as horrific to them as the erection of the ironing board. Five frames into the reshoot, the battery died in the camera, suspending all photo activity until a recharge.

By this point, I was more than ready for the day to be over. I called it done and the dogs and I retired to bed. Thankfully, screwy days like this come around only once in a while.

Renewed Addiction

My posse in early 2008.

In late 2007 / early 2008, I had an addiction problem. Not drugs. Not alcohol. Not food. I was hooked on Korean TV shows. The network called AZN -- “Television for Asian Americans” -- aired Korean soap operas with English subtitles. I loved watching the Korean stories when I was in Seoul. They have a beginning, middle, and end, and are done after a finite number of episodes as opposed to American stories that run with nonsense for 30-plus years. I like them because the story lines are interesting and it’s fun looking for familiar places in Seoul -- like the many bridges over the Han River, Namsan Park, Seoul Tower, Iteawon, Seoul Hyatt, the subway. I love the way the male characters often dress -- so much nicer than anything in real life middle Tennessee.

My time in Seoul (2000 and 2001) was split between scorching, humid summer (three weeks) and three frigid winter months with two record breaking snowfalls (including on the day we were supposed to fly back to the States). The summer trip was loaded with sightseeing. The winter months involved lots of time enjoying the heated floors in our tiny apartment on Embassy Hill and channel bouncing between my stories, Oprah (who seemed to air all day every day), and a French music video channel, while my new husband was at work on Yongsan post.

When I landed in Tennessee from Seoul, I searched online for the Korean TV stations, looking for subtitled soap operas, but had no luck securing any. Videotapes were available in the Korean markets in Clarksville, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking for anything like that, so we’d just buy fish cake, Chinese pancakes, hot pepper paste, rice candy and yogurt drinks and be on our way.

Several years, one divorce, a residential relocation and a new cable provider later, I was excited to find my beloved Korean soaps available in my living room on the AZN network. Several months spent licking my wounds from the break-up included the wonderful distraction of three hours per night watching stories. Face time with real people was cast aside in favor of my shows. The baristas in “Coffee Prince” were my new best friends.

The one thing that saved me from complete, total, permanent social ruin was AZN itself. It went off the air. I took it hard. It was breakup recovery all over again.

Netflix DVDs filled in for a while until the pricing structure changed and a thorough budget and lifestyle review resulted in my cancellation of Netflix. With roller derby practice, meetings and events, plus belly dance class, plus arts events, and of course, work, I was rarely home long enough to watch the DVDs or even update my queue. With no Playstation, Wii, or Blue-Ray player, and no desire to watch on my computer, I was married to the DVDs, for better or worse.

The winds of life reversed, and my post-derby, sloth-like lifestyle allows for ample (excessive) time to stare at the flatscreen rectangle in the living room, even when I don’t like what is on. It fills the time. I provides noise and a semblance of companionship. A Thanksgiving Day conversation about the various hardware devices for streaming Netflix to a TV revealed to me the existence of Roku -- a small, magical device that works through wi-fi to stream to TV for a fraction of the cost of a  Playstation or a Wii. Sweetness!

Said magical unit was ordered immediately (on sale, even) and the agonizing weeklong wait for its arrival was somehow endured. It was agony.  And then, the glorious day arrived. In one bountiful delivery, two Christmas gifts plus the Roku gift to myself appeared in the office mail drop.

After work I connected the Roku, which was pretty easy. There was the renewed realization the the superbly helpful input button on the TV remote has ceased functioning and the buttons on the TV were accessed to change between cable, DVD player and Roku. Got that figured out.

When the Roku was hooked up it provided a registration code to be entered online. The logical choice was to use my netbook, conveniently parked in the living room, except it chose that moment to freeze up, mandating a trip to the office (and over the child-gates keeping the fur babies off the office carpet) to register on the desktop, then back into the living room for the next step. Back into the office to reactivate my dormant Netflix account .... the living room to check it on the TV and discover the only way to browse is by show name. Really? Even the show names I knew wouldn’t come up.

Back into the office to visit Netflix online and browse a gazillion shows in the familiar search formats. A queue was built, (heavy on Korean TV shows) and back into the living room to pull one up onto the TV. It loaded, but with English dubbing instead of Korean language with English subtitles.  I don’t actually speak Korean (except for “hello” and “thank you” and “sweetheart”) but I like how it sounds and I’d rather watch the shows in the original language. It took another 20 minutes to figure out the subtitles, which was finally resolved by searching the troubleshooting screens on the Netflix site and standing next to the TV pushing up and down arrows.

All the running back and forth was beginning to feel like a workout, which seemed like a clear benefit. And I was kind of proud of myself for getting it all squared away on my own, without the assistance of an external superior technological intellect.

Flower Boy Ramyun Shop.

With all the particulars worked out, it was time to settle in and start watching the first of 16 episodes of “Flower Boy Ramen Shop” ... which turned into the first three ... followed by a few more each night after work all week long. The word ramen in the title inspired me to indulge daily in my favorite creamy chicken ramen -- made with frozen vegetables and half-and-half. As soon as I locate a Korean market (the one I used to visit seems to have disappeared off the face of Fort Campbell Boulevard) I can restock with hot pepper paste and resume my beloved cheesy hot pepper ramen addiction, but for now, creamy chicken with mixed vegetables is wonderfully satisfying.

As for my social life and soap opera addiction, it’s feeling like early 2008 all over again. I guess this time, Netflix will need to close shop in order for me to be saved.

Ewwww Factor

Some days should come with a warning label.

The day might start out innocently enough: Cereal with orange juice and a cup of coffee; cuddles from doggies;  a sunshiney morning with temperatures registering in the 60s in December. Later, it might unfold to reveal a more unsavory side. It might be good to know this in advance.

After a shower, hair styling, and dressing in jeans and a lightweight silk sweater to run some errands, it was time to take the dogs outside to play for a few minutes in the beautiful day. We ran around the yard and practiced “sit” and “stay.” The elderly trees in my yard frequently fling their limbs, and in some cases, their entire beings to the ground during wind and storms, and I began picking up sticks. The dogs wandered around the yard. 

The few small sticks in the front yard were gathered, then larger sticks and branches from the drainage ditch parallel to the road, and soon, I was trotting through the woods behind the house and hauling out limbs taller than I am. My address is already on the list for Street Department yard debris pickup, so it made sense to make it worth their trip and tidy up as much as I could.

After five or six trips up the incline of the driveway, dragging tree parts behind me (sans work gloves), I noticed Winston was in the front yard huddled over something, which turned out to be a dried, boney, piece of furry animal remains. I got him away from it and got him into the house. To prevent him from eating it the next time he went out, I had to pick it up and bag it for the trash. With no gloves nearby, the ewww meter was on high, but I took care of it much the way I use a plastic bag to pick up the daily poo and without dancing around like a nut or screaming from touching a part of a dead animal through a plastic bag.

After washing my hands three or four times with antibacterial soap (until the skin was ready to peel off) I brushed the tree branch dirt off my jeans and sweater and made ready to leave the house. Even though I didn’t need anything, it was half-off day at Goodwill, and I have previously found vintage wardrobe treasures when I’m in there sightseeing. I ended up with an armload of stuff to try on -- skirts for work, a few sweaters and jackets, and a black raw silk coat that may not be vintage but matches perfectly the first item in my vintage dress collection -- my grandmother’s black raw silk dress, bought for her brother’s funeral in the early 1960s and given to me in the mid-1980s.

I headed into the giant dressing room that can accommodate a shopping cart and contains a clothing rod that was stuffed full of other customer’s rejected items. Great items have been found on the reject rack. As I was trying on my selections, I noticed a brown sweater and a black sweater on the floor. My previous retail experience, coupled my occasional OCD mean I often rehang things in stores, pick stuff up from the floor, straighten displays, so out of habit, I decided to pick up what someone else had tossed onto the floor. I reached out with my left hand and grasped the fabric to set it onto the rack, and two fingers touched wet fabric. As I held it up I saw a straight line of wetness on the sweater. And then the fragrance hit me. Not odorless water. Not sweet soda. Stinky pee.

And that was the day’s second ewwww factor, even grosser than the first. At least with the dead animal part, it was dried up and my hand was protected by the plastic shopping bag used to grab it. This time it was bare skin on someone else’s nasty ewwwww. Some people are just so damned disgusting they'll pee in a dressing room instead of getting the key to the restroom. Maybe it was a little kid. In any case, there are not enough excuses or skin disinfectant on the planet to remove the heebie jeebies from that one.