Knee Socks and Bedazzlers

Mom bought some new paver blocks to set next to the house under the trash bin, recycle bin, and hose reel. The previous blocks were decades old and had cracked, chipped and deteriorated. It was time for an upgrade. After the cruddy old pavers were swapped out for the new ones, Mom sat down on the screened porch and said, “Now I’m happy.”

I was in the kitchen doing something or other, and yelled out to the porch, “Wow. You’re easy to please. Who knew?” I was, of course, trying to be funny.

Mom said she was always easy to please. As evidence, she added that all she wanted every year for Christmas as an adult was knee socks.

Wait. What? Knee socks?

Not jewelry, new cars, or fancy leather jackets? Not the latest kitchen gadgets?

Nope. Turns out that Mom, when asked what she wanted for Christmas, had specifically requested knee socks. For years. And she never got them. She told me she didn’t want to spend money on them, but she wanted them. So year after year she asked. And year after year, she continued to want for knee socks.

My best guess at this tardy date is that we thought she was kidding. It’s a problem in our family. We kid around a lot, which makes it hard to decipher sometimes when one of us is actually being serious. Maybe it’s like when I respond with “plaid,” when asked my favorite color, because I don’t have a singular favorite color. I like most all the colors, and it really depends upon the context -- clothing? Automobile? Hair? House paint? Perhaps we assumed she was adding a face-saving, low cost option in case we were broke. Maybe we were just dense. I dunno. It was a long time ago.

I’m guessing that we probably deemed it a “stupid gift” and went searching for something more expensive, more impressive, more worthy of wrapping paper and presentation at such a major gift giving holiday. I hate to think that all three of her children would willfully deny Mom the simple pleasure of knee socks. So she suffered through the years, graciously accepting the parade of gifts that may or may not have been of particular interest to her. And all she really wanted were some damned knee socks, that she wasn’t going to buy for herself. (Did I mention we are also stubborn?)

I understand now what she meant, if not back then. I also had a coveted item making annual appearances on my extensive and detailed Christmas lists drafted and distributed at Thanksgiving in the 1980s and 90s for the convenience of my gift-giving family.

My desired (and unfulfilled) gift was the “as-seen on TV” fashion staple, The BeDazzler. For years I dutifully added the “only $19.95 plus shipping and handling” item to my list. Each time I was confident that this would be the year I would debut my newly bedazzled with metal and rhinestones clothing on New Year’s Eve. Each year I was disappointed.

I received many, many fine and wonderful gifts over the decades, including expensive gold and silver jewelry ablaze with real gemstones. Beautiful clothing. Home decor items. Money, which I suppose I could have used to by my own stupid glitz-applying tool. But never The BeDazzler.

Although the details surrounding my unfulfilled want are a bit fuzzy, it’s possible I wanted The BeDazzler as a gift so that when my friends made fun of my glittering, bedazzled attire, (and it was pretty much guaranteed they would), I could honestly and blamelessly say, “It was a gift,” as if that would shift the potentially questionable nature of my fashion sense a few degrees away from gaudy and slightly more towards mainstream acceptable.

Maybe everyone thought I was kidding, or adding some ridiculous, red herring item to increase the odds of a “better” gift. Maybe it was perceived as my low-cost alternative, akin to how we viewed Mom’s knee socks. 

In any gift-giving event, Mom has still not received her knee socks. And I’m still waiting for my BeDazzler. Maybe this year. Hint, hint.

Sadder-days

In another lifetime, Friday and Saturday nights meant furlough from the weekday grind as a desk jockey. There were weekly meetings with friends for dinner, drinks, dancing, shows, roller derby events, hanging out on the patio at a bar, coffee shop, or pizza joint ... whatever. There was intellectual banter, snappy comebacks, and much laughter. The world was our playroom. It was fun.

It’s mostly not like that anymore.

First, I got married and moved to a state where I had no job and no friends. My husband had one local friend and no interest in finding more friends, and it took a couple years and a couple jobs for me to settle down with work and make friends and for things to be fun again. When I got divorced and bought my own house it was really fun for a good five years. Then I left my great office job in my degree field, sold my house to move “back home,” and for the past 18 months it has been largely un-fun.

In spite of over a year of looking, two job seeker networking groups, help from the state career center and a job coach through an unemployment study with MIT, there has no professional job. Hell, there was barely even a handful of interviews. My confidence has hit lows it hasn’t visited since I was twelve.

The only salvation to my sanity has been a part-time gig in retail, which is surprising when one considers I don’t even like shopping. But I do like clothes, and posses exactly the right amount of obsessive-compulsive tendencies to find straightening displays quite gratifying.

In addition to the satisfying tidying tasks, fun aspects to retail include time off during the week, which this summer has meant weekday trips to the beach. The unpredictable number of hours and corresponding variable pay are less delightful. Earning less in a month than I used to make in a week is a major blow to the ego and the finances. But I’m thankful for my job for the social interaction, excuse to leave the house (that doesn’t cost me money), employee discount, and modicum of income to cover gas and dog food. Thank goodness my Mom feeds me and won’t take rent from me, or I’d really be in trouble.

Unfortunately, my schedule has included working 19 of the past 25 Saturday nights (all but once until 11:00 closing), frequently followed by a Sunday morning shift (often at 9:00 opening). Half of my few Saturday nights off were specifically requested, because thank God, I had plans three times in the past six months. But damn, who did I piss off to earn the ongoing punishment of my Sadder-day nights?

One notable Sadder-day shift began shortly after I clocked in and unintentionally annoyed a customer. She asked, “Can someone help me get something?” A past customer request involved trekking across the store to the furthest point from where we were standing for what turned out to be a patio umbrella display dismantling project requiring tools and a cart (and ultimately required someone from that department who had a clue). Others featured inquiries about removal of clothing items from mannequins posed on shelves and platforms nine feet high. Consequently, it felt necessary to understand the scope and location of the desired non-specific “something” to determine if ladders, tools, carts or other store associates may be needed.

When I asked what she needed, the customer offered a vague, “It’s over there,” gesturing in the general direction of someplace not where we were.  Familiar with past customer queries, largely unfamiliar with the mostly foreign territory beyond misses, juniors and mens, and holding an armload of clothes I was returning from the fitting room and may need to set down somewhere, I asked if it was something on the wall, or was it on a mannequin, and she snapped. “It’s a boy’s shirt! On the wall! Why would I want a mannequin?” I apologized and said I was just trying to understand what was needed. She ran her hand through her short, stylish haircut, hissed, “Forget it, I’ll find someone else,” and stomped off. Oops. Using the walkie-talkies we carry, I warned my associates I had just made a customer mad.

That same shift, around eight o’clock, there was an announcement for a “Call for Misses on line one,” which sent me searching for a phone while, you guessed it, schlepping an armload of clothes from the fitting room. The male caller asked if I could see his phone number on the phone, “you know, in case we get disconnected.” I said, “Sorry, no. It just says line one.” Then he said maybe his request was actually more for the juniors department, but he wants to buy a bra for his daughter, “because her nipples are getting really big and sticking out.” That sounded more like something for the intimates department, but okay. Then he said, “and she’s getting a lot of pubic hair,” which was clearly too much info, so I politely asked how we, as a department store, could help him. He responded, “Well, I have a big load I need to blow off.” That’s when I said, “Um, ok,” and hung up.

I guess it bested the time a woman called the misses department and told me to page her mother and tell her that the daughter was waiting for her out in the parking lot.

An hour after the pervert’s call, and after sharing the tale with a co-worker, I thought of what my response should had been. “I’m sorry sir, but I’ll need your credit card number to continue with this call.” Damn, I miss those days when I was fully functioning and on my game with the comebacks.

How Are You Feeling?

American poet Maya Angelou is credited with saying, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

In case you don’t believe it, I’m here to tell you it’s true. And it may not be good.

I have been blessed with wonderfully supportive people in my life who are nicer to me than I thought I deserved. Unfortunately, it seems I remember with the most detail the people who made me feel the worst. Maybe the foul aftertaste lingers so I’ll know to avoid them in the future.

Last fall, I was at an outdoor market where I recognized a woman from my past. We’d had an encounter decades ago when I was in college and working as a waitress.

I must have served hundreds, probably thousands of people in several stints as a waitress spanning six or seven years in four different restaurant/bars in four different cities. I remember exactly two of them, and neither of them fondly.

It's all about choices.

One was a nameless, faceless man in a private dinner club who called me a “tart” after I failed to procure him a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine. Before he handed me the money or even told me which of the six or seven or ten brands he wanted, he found himself in an argument with his lady friend about his smoking. I wandered off during the debate to check on another table. When the smoking lecture finally concluded, he flagged down a waiter and repeated his request, “because the little tart over there wouldn’t do it.” 

The most memorable dining customer was one of those local celebrity types you read about in the paper and can recognize on the street, but may not have met in person. She was a realtor and city councilor. The time I waited on her, she sat with two other people in a booth and ordered “an Irish Coffee” in an Irish-themed pub restaurant where we served Irish Coffee four different ways — with Jameson’s Whiskey or with Bailey’s Irish Cream, and with the liquor and the coffee in a tall dessert glass topped with whipped cream, or with the coffee in a regular mug with the liquor in a separate glass.

I asked all the questions. Jameson’s? Bailey’s? Tall mug? Whipped cream? She provided answers which I wrote down for the bartender on the beverage side of the table’s order card the way it was done in the dark ages before table side iPad ordering. At the proper time, namely, as soon as the bartender finished making it, I brought the coffee concoction to the table and set it on a cocktail napkin in front of her. She glared and me and hissed, “WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” And I recited back, “Irish Coffee, Jameson’s, tall mug, whipped cream.” With her eyes blazing she snapped, “THAT is not what I wanted. I wanted coffee. In a cup. With a side of Jameson’s. And some creamer. How did you screw that up?”  I recall that one of her table companions who had witnessed the entire lengthy coffee ordering process gave me a sympathetic look as if this wasn’t the first time he’d seen this.

After an apology and statement that I must have heard her incorrectly, the drink was replaced with the other version. Later, she was not satisfied with her dinner, and I was a nervous wreck because at one point, Mrs. Sunshine looked at me and said, “If you hate your job so much, maybe you should get a different one.” I wanted to say, “If you hate your life so much, maybe you should get another one,” but arguing with customers even if they deserved to be told off was certainly grounds for termination and I needed my job to finance my car payments and gas.

Besides, my chosen job was mostly fine, it was her and her meanness I couldn’t tolerate. She made me so mad by choosing to be a witch that I finally chose to visit the storage room and punch a wall, partly to relieve my anger and mostly because I couldn’t actually punch her.

And thirty years later, even though it was unlikely this woman remembered our restaurant incident and didn’t know me from an ant on the ground, when I saw her at an outdoor market, I remembered. I veered off in another direction as quickly as I could.

Now I’m rolling back the tape and hoping I am not residing in someone’s memories in a similarly unpleasant manner. But I’m afraid that due to some unfortunate choices as a much younger person I might be.

Originally published April 1, 2014 on www.unite4women.com.

Food science

They past two days have involved heavy consumption of apple fritters. While delicious,  they have sat heavy in my stomach. All day.

Once I get past the guilt of having consumed a gazillion calories, and attempt to ignore the feeling of a brick in my gut, I can appreciate the efficiency of not having to eat again for the rest of the day. Such a time saver!

In the interest of 'science' I examined and photographed a cross section of one of the tasty pastries. I learned little. Nothing,  actually. But photographing it let it cool off from the microwave so I didn't burn my face off, so that had some value.

After consuming two of the plate-sized confections in as many days (plus parts of others because unfortunately I had to share) I can say with confidence that I like the apple fritters I had in Tennessee better. They were flatter and I remember them as crispier.  The Massachusetts fritters are thicker, with a cinnamon apple fruit filling.

Don't get me wrong,  I may like the Tennessee fritters better,  but I'm pretty sure that won't stop me eating the local pastries. And any food that keeps me from getting hungry again for a whole day and spares me thinking about food when I have to work screwy retail hours is a winner in my book. Even with the stomach ache.

Deliberately Single

For the better part of three years I have not dated, partly on purpose. Sometimes, when people ask, I tell them “I’m training for the convent.” It’s one of the few lies I can deliver with a straight face, so maybe a new career direction is in order. In any event, it is possibly more believable than the truth. Who abandons dating?

The first year of not dating happened by accident. After a relationship ended I got wonderfully busy and the habit stuck. There were satisfyingly exhausting projects at work, art openings to attend, belly dance classes and troupe performances, and I skated with a roller derby team and handled the team’s marketing and PR. One day I realized I hadn’t been on a date or even thought about dating for nine months. I made a decision to extend it to a year in an experiment to see if extended celibacy would cause me to lose my mind with loneliness.

After the first year, most of it without my noticing, the second year of chasteness was premeditated and officially began in October 2011 when I broke my leg during a roller derby bout. Life came to a screeching tomahawk stop. Walking required brain cramping effort. There were months of physical therapy. The injury highlighted how much I missed my family 1,200 miles away. Nerve damage in my leg and foot (which still lingers) resulted in my decision to leave roller derby. The effort of something as basic as walking without dragging my numb foot made me too self-conscious and depressed to do very much beyond going to work.

A few months after what I still refer to as “the leg incident,” I listed my house with a realtor, told my bosses what was happening, planted Saint Joseph in the yard, and waited for a sale. Because timing was an unknown variable at the whim of the local real estate market, I chose to continue not dating after listing the house. I’d already gone long enough that it was nothing new, and there was no point starting something that would have to end or become complicated. There were work projects to wrap up, a house to pack, and goodbyes with the people already in my life. With uncertain timing and so much to do, I grasped whatever nuggets of control were available. Resolutely not dating meant one less stressful thing to deal with.

In the year since selling the house and moving from Tennessee back to New England, I’ve been staying with my mother and focused on looking for a job. In my delusional fantasy world, I thought this process would take one to two months, after which I’d be headed to an office daily and returning to my own dog-friendly apartment or home. Reality obviously has another timeline in play and 12 months later I am still without a full-time job, still staying with mom and still paying for my household stuff to sit in storage.

In the fall, I went apple picking and had dinner with a man in what are technically “dates” as there was planning involved and my fretting over things like “Are we going to kiss?” and “I should be at home working on my resume.” It was unnecessarily stressful. And I’m hypersensitive about the potential of a guy thinking I’m looking for someone to “take care of me.” The dating arena of life can remain on ice for the time being until I get the major priorities like a job and housing settled. The experiment continues.

Overall, my non-dating, chaste, anti-romantic relationship status is quite satisfactory. I haven’t yet begun writing adolescent, angst-ridden poetry or expired from loneliness, and there are benefits. I never have to check with someone else when making plans. My two dogs are always ready and willing to cuddle. I don’t have to feel guilty for “ignoring” a partner in my occasional periods of sullenness. I don’t have to share my chocolate or my beer. Or myself.

An ex-boyfriend once said that I’m “too independent” and “don’t need anyone.” I can’t remember what I did to warrant his analysis, but he may have been right.

There was one point recently when being deliberately alone felt slightly less glorious than usual. Working a part-time retail job during the Christmas season and fondling men’s sweaters in an action cleverly disguised as folding, I felt a teensy pang of regret at the lack of a romantic someone for whom to buy gifts of menswear. Fortunately, the desire to makeover a man into the likeness of Mark Anthony or a Chaps model passed. When the pangs dissipated, I congratulated myself for being free of worry about whose family to visit for Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner. It’s just me and I can pretty much go where I want, including nowhere!

Hot on the heels of Christmas is Valentine’s Day. On this day and the month-and-a-half month leading to it, the retail spotlight shines white hot on love, romance and the trappings deemed essential by marketers paid to create hype and increase sales of dinners, jewelry, cards, cologne, flowers, lingerie, and chocolate. The pressure! I am thrilled to sit out this particular level of hell, free of gifting and card selection and worry that it’s too much or too little. I rejoice in the knowledge there is no chance my feelings might be misinterpreted like the time I casually signed an email to a long-distance beau with “love ya” and he dropped out of contact for a week then reemerged to break it off, having panicked under the assumption I meant “I love you” when I didn’t.

I have a swell plan for my singleness and intend to dedicate a small Valentine’s budget to some quality chocolate for myself. The procurement probably won’t happen until the candy is on sale because it hurts my feelings more to pay full retail than to hold out for a few more days and get twice as much for the money. Is this a sign I have finally lost my mind from not dating?  Nope. Like my “experiment,” I prefer to think it’s a sign that I am very practical.

Originally published February 14, 2014 on www.Unite4Women.com

Death by a Thousand Small Cuts

According to Wikipedia, “death by a thousand small cuts” is a way major negative change happens — slowly, in many unnoticed increments not perceived as objectionable. It is akin to the expression “boiling a frog,” where the belief is a frog placed in a pot of hot water will jump out, but one placed in cold water and gradually heated won’t notice the danger and will eventually be cooked to death.

I think this was the manner in which my second marriage was ultimately, incrementally extinguished. 

In the beginning, as in the end, it was all about the small things. I believe that had we continued our attention to the small things we could have sustained what was once the most important big thing — our marriage.

Initially, we specialized in details, niceties, and politeness. He was in the US Army and transferred to Seoul, S. Korea while we were dating. Before he left we spent hours talking about our concerns for the forced separation, but it turned out we excelled on separate continents, emailing each other daily (often multiple times) with long messages recounting the day’s activities and filled with sentiment for each other and plans for a future together. I raced home to check for his emails.

On weekends we invested two and three hour blocks of time burning the international calling plan and bridging time zones to discuss everything under the sun, the moon, and the stars. Under the classic “way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” philosophy, I regularly baked cookies to mail to him.

Separated by half a world, we still maintained a magical closeness.

After 18 months of long-distance relationship nurturing and maintenance I quit my job, moved to Korea, and we married. Together in time and space, he opened doors to buildings and vehicles for me and I thanked him for it. Hand in hand we rode the subway and walked around Seoul. We talked about our future and planned our life back stateside.

Three months later, he retired from the Army and we returned to the house he owned in Tennessee and a new life together. We continued our habits of paying attention to each other by talking, dreaming, holding hands and opening doors. Married life was good.

But somewhere along the line we stopped noticing each other. I don’t know when it happened, I only know that about four years into our marriage, I realize with a shock the many ways our relationship had shifted. We had managed to commit the tiny crimes of neglect we vowed to never do when we first married.

When he walked in the door from work, the warm “Hi, Babe” and quick kiss had been replaced with a curt “What’s for dinner?”

Instead of rushing home, I found reasons to be elsewhere.

We stopped eating facing each other at the dining room table and were eating side by side on the living room sofa, facing the TV.

The routine question of “How was your day?” was met with “OK,” or “crappy,” instead of the once detailed stories of coworkers, bosses, work successes and frustrations.

Too much space in between.

Weekend walks in the woods had been traded for near-silent observation of outdoor shows on TV.

We never emailed or spoke to each other during the workday.

We stopped talking to each other and replaced it with watching other people talking on TV.

My self confidence took a nosedive and I began provoking arguments primarily for the conversation and attention.

The volume and resonance of his snoring increased. I resented what I perceived as his indifference to the effect on my own sleep, and stomped down the hall to the guest room, where I set up permanent camp.

Where we had once done everything together — talking, shopping, hiking, driving aimlessly around town holding hands — we had degenerated to living separate, parallel, mostly silent lives.

When I expressed my concerns, he didn’t want to discuss it. He said he was happy and that we had a great marriage because we rarely fought. The way I saw it, we rarely fought because we didn’t talk, and a marriage is only as happy as the least happy person.

On separate continents, we were able to focus on each other and maintain closeness, but under the same roof, we had incrementally neglected each other until there was too much emotional space between us.

One thousand small cuts later, we signed papers for our divorce.

Originally published January 22, 2014 on www.Unite4Women.com

Fresh Start

New Year. New start. New baggage.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think any other day of the year arrives with the attached pressure to improve, remodel, and/or reorganize one’s life and/or self as does January 1st. The ‘old’ year is kicked to the curb with the drying Christmas tree and wrapping remnants and the ‘new’ calendar year is ushered in with parties, trumpeted fanfare, and champagne toasts as resolutions often focusing on self-improvement are enumerated and hopes and plans for the coming year freshly formulated.

Judging by the volume of resolution-related news headlines and social media posts, the custom of New Year’s Resolutions, which according to Wikipedia was practiced by ancient Babylonians, Romans, medieval knights, and Methodist Christians beginning in the 1740s at watchnight services, is still practiced by many people in the Western Hemisphere. In spite of the guilt I may feel as a result, I am not always one of them. Not right away, anyway.

I might get around to drafting resolutions within the first couple weeks of January, if at all. While it’s a nice marker, unlike important calendar reference points like Thanksgiving, my birthday, due dates on bills, or artwork submission deadlines, I don’t see the creation date of my potential resolutions as critical. Heck, half the time I could just change the date on the previous year’s resolutions, which means I am probably not even doing it right.

Unlike my workday goals (back when I had a job), which would be as specific as “Call Denise at (Client) Bank to discuss website navigation, and brochure copy” and “Send home refinancing ad file to Kathy at (Client’s local) newspaper” my annual “resolutions” are often not drafted for precision. My personal goals generally include generalities like “exercise more,” “create more art,” and “write more,” with “more” more or less defined as exceeding whatever level of personal physical activity, journaling or artwork was produced the prior year. Some years I fail miserably on the “more” target, setting a new, low, more easily attainable bar that boosts the chances for stellar success in the coming year.

Back when he held the title “husband,” ex-husband 2.0 would insist we write goal lists each new year, which we shared and compared and more often than not, filed away somewhere, never again to see the light of day. While packing to move from Tennessee to Massachusetts, I found one such list, penned in red ink on a sheet of lined notebook paper. Some goals on the list, such as traveling and buying a different house, had been achieved, but more interestingly, were accomplished by me alone, post-divorce. While successfully cultivating our growing bank balances with Depression-era inspired thrift practices (acting like we were totally poor and rarely going out) we were woefully, shamefully, deficient at cultivating a marital partnership. For seven years, we spent most of our “together time” staring at the TV with him shushing me when I tried to speak. The realization that the majority of our communication was the direct result of me provoking a fight meant it was time for a goal list of my own, which included “save money and get the hell out” and was ultimately, supremely successful.

More recently, my philosophical approach to New Year’s resolutions is akin to the wish made every year on my birthday for as long as I can remember -- To be happy. General. Simple. Timeless. Renewable. Consequently, my resolutions are simultaneously perpetual and attainable. And like I said already, I’m probably doing it wrong anyway.