My son is a nice kid, almost frighteningly well behaved. So it was easy, a few days before Christmas, to tease him after some minor offense - most likely farting - that Santa would start removing gifts he'd intended to leave. Robby, who still believes despite mounting evidence to the contrary, grinned, and said, "He'll start taking some away from you, too!"
At this point, I knew I had him. "Now how could he do that?" I said. "Who gives me gifts?"
He thought for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Robby, it's just that no one gives me Christmas gifts," I said.
This was not an effort to make him feel sorry for me. It is simply the truth. This year, my mother had my name in the family gift exchange. She gave me money some months back, in an effort to repay me for flying to Phoenix to pack up my sister's apartment. Friends give bottles of wine and small gifts, but on Christmas morning, there are no presents under the tree with my name on them. A light Christmas is the common plight, I think, of the single mom.
Each year, however, I hope, for that something unexpected. A gift of my own on Christmas Day.
Robby spent Christmas Eve and morning with his father, and arrived at my house Christmas night for our holiday. A fat stocking and a mound of gifts waited for him under the Christmas tree.
But before he dove into them, he handed me a tiny box, on which perched an equally tiny white bow.
"I got you something," he said.
I unwrapped the gift to reveal a small black box. The words "Fine Jewelry" were stamped upon it in gold letters. Inside, a small gold heart rested on a cushion of white foam. Trailing down its left side were seven small red-and-white stones. The chain was fine, almost spiderweb light.
"Why thank you, honey, that was so sweet," I said, and heard my voice emerge thick with emotion. My vision blurred with unshed tears. "I love it," I kissed him on the top of his head, touched my lips to his soft, blond hair.
"You're welcome," he said, and stepped away, pulling up his shirt. He pointed at his chest. I could count every rib on his thin frame. "See, it didn't cost me much. No stitches!"
I stared at him for a few seconds until it hit me. Robby was suggesting he'd sold his organs to pay for the delicate piece of jewelry.
We both laughed. He saw the unnatural shine in my eyes, then turned toward the tree.
I have worn the necklace just once so far, only because the clasp is so tiny it is nearly impossible to fasten behind my neck. This, I realize, is a clasp made for a child's hands, a necklace intended for someone more Robby's age than mine. He had chosen what he thought was the prettiest item in the store. And this thought, this picture of him carefully and proudly selecting his 11-year-old version of the very best for me, makes my heart ache every time it crosses my mind.
I plan to take the necklace in to a jewelry store early in the new year, and ask them for an equally fine chain with a bigger clasp. Because this is not an item that can sit, unworn, in my jewelry box. It should be worn as often as possible to show Robby how much I appreciate it, and to remind me - as though I could ever forget - how beautiful is his own little heart.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Some places never change. How reassuring that is.
My son spent this Christmas, and the days preceding it, with his father. So I packed my bags and headed into the mountains, back to the county I called home for 13 years. I have been gone from this ski community of about 25,000 people for three-and-a-half years now. Folks there would say the place has changed dramatically. Condos have gone up. Open space has vanished. Acres of trees were cleared last summer in a fruitless attempt to get ahead of the pine beetles that are turning the evergreen forest to rust.
For me, it could still have been May 2003. Everything was familiar and memories leapt toward me from around every corner.
As I drove my trusty Saturn from the Continental Divide into the valley in which the towns rested, my eyes fell on a mountainside neighborhood I knew well. Peeking out from the trees was the apartment building in which Roger lived. I hadn't thought about him in weeks. Without warning, I felt a pang of longing in my stomach, or somewhere thereabouts. His phone number popped into my brain without my conscious permission. I pushed it aside and blazed up and over the rise to Frisco.
My friend and former fellow newspaper reporter Lu and I arranged to rendezvous for a long-overdue catch-up and an afternoon hike with our dogs. I pulled into a parking spot on Main Street Frisco, where we'd agreed to meet. A black truck parked next to me, and a man got out and walked into the store in front of my car. He was a bit grayer than I remembered, but he was still Travis Holton, the owner of three of the county's finest restaurants and manager of the immensely popular Lake Dillon Tiki Bar. A 40-something man in Sorels walked past my car on the sidewalk. I knew his face, knew it fairly well, in fact, but his name eluded me.
I smiled, sitting there alone in the car. In this county teeming with holiday tourists, the first two people I saw still were people from my past.
Lu and I walked from her home up a snowmobile trail into the forest. Fresh snow weighed the tree branches so that they appeared to bow before us. The lodgepole pines through which the path wandered stood like sedentary escorts, stately and somehow protective.
A snowmobile drove around the corner, slowing for us. The driver, his face hidden behind a hat and goggles, waved and smiled. The smell of the two-stroke engine filled the air. Lu and I both inhaled it deeply, acknowledging that for better or worse, we both loved it.
A couple on cross-country skis appeared around the next bend, a golden lab, golden retriever and a black dog of uncertain parentage bounding beside them on the trail. The man and woman each were pulling a tot carrier on skis, price tags still waving in the breeze from each tiny vehicle. A sleeping baby, nestled deeply in a blanket, rested in each one. They stopped to chat about the weather, and the four of us laughed at the five dogs frolicking in the hip-deep snow off the trail.
They continued on and we turned toward Lu's home.
Later, we met another former co-worker at a restaurant on Main Street Frisco. The last time I had been there was the night of my farewell party, a surprisingly large affair attended by mayors, the sheriff, district attorney, and other contacts and co-workers accumulated during 13 years of small town reporting.
I walked in the door, cell phone to my ear. A blonde woman at a table of four caught my eye and waved. I waved back and said "Hello!" as though she were an old friend. In truth - and to my horror - I did not recognize her. She turned to her fellow diners and spoke to them with some enthusiasm. All three of them turned to look at me. Grateful for the phone call that prevented me from speaking to her, I moved to the back of the restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, microbrews in hand, the three of us saw newspaper photographer Mark Fox walk into the bar. We waved him down and he told Alex, my former editor, was meeting him there. Another former co-worker called to ask where I was, and joined us half an hour later.
A party of three had blossomed unexpectedly into one of six.
The last time this group had been together was only four months ago, at Brad's funeral. Then, we hugged one another in consolation, our faces tight with grief, eyes bloodshot and shiny with tears. Now, those same eyes were alive with mirth, the faces gleaming in the firelight.
We bid one another Merry Christmas and I drove to my friend's home in Breckenridge, where I was staying the night.
I wound through the back streets, absurdly proud that I knew my way around so well.
Again, without warning, I slammed into a wall of memories. There was another apartment building, this one Iain's. I saw us standing there the day he left the county, the day - in retrospect - that our relationship began to unravel. Robby was sitting in the car, peering at us as we stood, arms around each other. He was only five years old. "I never cry," Iain said, as tears escaped the corners of his green eyes. Then he dropped my hands as though they were afire - rapidly, almost roughly. "I've got to go. Now," he said and jumped into his packed truck.
He left me that day as he ended up leaving me at the last. Quickly, abruptly, as though in this way, he could escape the pain.
He started the engine that late fall day and looked at me, safe behind the wheel of my own car now. Tears ran down both our faces. He did not mouth goodbye. He did not wave. He did not drive out of the parking lot, he fled it, the truck almost lurching as he accelerated rapidly, tires spinning rocks, leaving a wide gash in the gravel.
I had pulled out behind him, and stopped at the stop sign only a block from me on this December 2007 night. I saw him stop two blocks away from me, at the last stop sign before the on-ramp to Interstate 70 west. There was not another car on the street, but still his truck sat motionless, brake lights glowing red. Five or 10 seconds passed, both of us stopped for a reason no one else could have understood. Then I pulled through the intersection to the post office. I remembered clearly that I knew I must check my post office box, knew I had to move through life's daily motions because that is all any of us can do to dull heartache.
Yesterday, I drove the dam road, and remembered boating there with Leland, the two-year beau all my friends hated for the hot-and-cold treatment to which he subjected me. He was freshly divorced then and deeply scarred and I never stopped defending or caring for him. At this moment, I could remember none of the bad. What I saw was him sitting on the pontoon boat, beer in hand, laughing.
I remembered Brad, too, whose three-story condominium overlooked this lake he'd so loved. We'd joked and sometimes were truly annoyed when he submitted yet another photograph of the sunset, the frozen lake, a sailboat race, or a mountain mirrored in the glass of its surface, all taken from the deck of his home. The home at which he'd died these many years later. I knew he was dead, yet I had a sudden urge to call him and wish him a Merry Christmas.
I left Summit County this morning, looking forward to this Christmas night with my son. I drove away from the stunning beauty to which people from around the world flock. I drove away from 13 years of memories, and the endless triggers that bring them back to life, almost as vivid as the day they were made.
I drove away from my old home, toward my new one. My brain shifted from the past to the present, returning me to my life as a city dweller and insurance saleswoman in a city that thrilled me with its possibilities. The facts of this life came almost like a surprise, so deeply had I entrenched myself in memories these last two days.
I will return to the mountains to visit, to make new memories in a place that changes at what seems an almost imperceptible pace, where long-held friends wander the streets beside ghosts from the past. The memories are now more poignant than painful. The friendships are deep and multi-layered, the kind that only come with years of shared experiences.
They all exist only an hour away. How comforting that is.
My son spent this Christmas, and the days preceding it, with his father. So I packed my bags and headed into the mountains, back to the county I called home for 13 years. I have been gone from this ski community of about 25,000 people for three-and-a-half years now. Folks there would say the place has changed dramatically. Condos have gone up. Open space has vanished. Acres of trees were cleared last summer in a fruitless attempt to get ahead of the pine beetles that are turning the evergreen forest to rust.
For me, it could still have been May 2003. Everything was familiar and memories leapt toward me from around every corner.
As I drove my trusty Saturn from the Continental Divide into the valley in which the towns rested, my eyes fell on a mountainside neighborhood I knew well. Peeking out from the trees was the apartment building in which Roger lived. I hadn't thought about him in weeks. Without warning, I felt a pang of longing in my stomach, or somewhere thereabouts. His phone number popped into my brain without my conscious permission. I pushed it aside and blazed up and over the rise to Frisco.
My friend and former fellow newspaper reporter Lu and I arranged to rendezvous for a long-overdue catch-up and an afternoon hike with our dogs. I pulled into a parking spot on Main Street Frisco, where we'd agreed to meet. A black truck parked next to me, and a man got out and walked into the store in front of my car. He was a bit grayer than I remembered, but he was still Travis Holton, the owner of three of the county's finest restaurants and manager of the immensely popular Lake Dillon Tiki Bar. A 40-something man in Sorels walked past my car on the sidewalk. I knew his face, knew it fairly well, in fact, but his name eluded me.
I smiled, sitting there alone in the car. In this county teeming with holiday tourists, the first two people I saw still were people from my past.
Lu and I walked from her home up a snowmobile trail into the forest. Fresh snow weighed the tree branches so that they appeared to bow before us. The lodgepole pines through which the path wandered stood like sedentary escorts, stately and somehow protective.
A snowmobile drove around the corner, slowing for us. The driver, his face hidden behind a hat and goggles, waved and smiled. The smell of the two-stroke engine filled the air. Lu and I both inhaled it deeply, acknowledging that for better or worse, we both loved it.
A couple on cross-country skis appeared around the next bend, a golden lab, golden retriever and a black dog of uncertain parentage bounding beside them on the trail. The man and woman each were pulling a tot carrier on skis, price tags still waving in the breeze from each tiny vehicle. A sleeping baby, nestled deeply in a blanket, rested in each one. They stopped to chat about the weather, and the four of us laughed at the five dogs frolicking in the hip-deep snow off the trail.
They continued on and we turned toward Lu's home.
Later, we met another former co-worker at a restaurant on Main Street Frisco. The last time I had been there was the night of my farewell party, a surprisingly large affair attended by mayors, the sheriff, district attorney, and other contacts and co-workers accumulated during 13 years of small town reporting.
I walked in the door, cell phone to my ear. A blonde woman at a table of four caught my eye and waved. I waved back and said "Hello!" as though she were an old friend. In truth - and to my horror - I did not recognize her. She turned to her fellow diners and spoke to them with some enthusiasm. All three of them turned to look at me. Grateful for the phone call that prevented me from speaking to her, I moved to the back of the restaurant.
Twenty minutes later, microbrews in hand, the three of us saw newspaper photographer Mark Fox walk into the bar. We waved him down and he told Alex, my former editor, was meeting him there. Another former co-worker called to ask where I was, and joined us half an hour later.
A party of three had blossomed unexpectedly into one of six.
The last time this group had been together was only four months ago, at Brad's funeral. Then, we hugged one another in consolation, our faces tight with grief, eyes bloodshot and shiny with tears. Now, those same eyes were alive with mirth, the faces gleaming in the firelight.
We bid one another Merry Christmas and I drove to my friend's home in Breckenridge, where I was staying the night.
I wound through the back streets, absurdly proud that I knew my way around so well.
Again, without warning, I slammed into a wall of memories. There was another apartment building, this one Iain's. I saw us standing there the day he left the county, the day - in retrospect - that our relationship began to unravel. Robby was sitting in the car, peering at us as we stood, arms around each other. He was only five years old. "I never cry," Iain said, as tears escaped the corners of his green eyes. Then he dropped my hands as though they were afire - rapidly, almost roughly. "I've got to go. Now," he said and jumped into his packed truck.
He left me that day as he ended up leaving me at the last. Quickly, abruptly, as though in this way, he could escape the pain.
He started the engine that late fall day and looked at me, safe behind the wheel of my own car now. Tears ran down both our faces. He did not mouth goodbye. He did not wave. He did not drive out of the parking lot, he fled it, the truck almost lurching as he accelerated rapidly, tires spinning rocks, leaving a wide gash in the gravel.
I had pulled out behind him, and stopped at the stop sign only a block from me on this December 2007 night. I saw him stop two blocks away from me, at the last stop sign before the on-ramp to Interstate 70 west. There was not another car on the street, but still his truck sat motionless, brake lights glowing red. Five or 10 seconds passed, both of us stopped for a reason no one else could have understood. Then I pulled through the intersection to the post office. I remembered clearly that I knew I must check my post office box, knew I had to move through life's daily motions because that is all any of us can do to dull heartache.
Yesterday, I drove the dam road, and remembered boating there with Leland, the two-year beau all my friends hated for the hot-and-cold treatment to which he subjected me. He was freshly divorced then and deeply scarred and I never stopped defending or caring for him. At this moment, I could remember none of the bad. What I saw was him sitting on the pontoon boat, beer in hand, laughing.
I remembered Brad, too, whose three-story condominium overlooked this lake he'd so loved. We'd joked and sometimes were truly annoyed when he submitted yet another photograph of the sunset, the frozen lake, a sailboat race, or a mountain mirrored in the glass of its surface, all taken from the deck of his home. The home at which he'd died these many years later. I knew he was dead, yet I had a sudden urge to call him and wish him a Merry Christmas.
I left Summit County this morning, looking forward to this Christmas night with my son. I drove away from the stunning beauty to which people from around the world flock. I drove away from 13 years of memories, and the endless triggers that bring them back to life, almost as vivid as the day they were made.
I drove away from my old home, toward my new one. My brain shifted from the past to the present, returning me to my life as a city dweller and insurance saleswoman in a city that thrilled me with its possibilities. The facts of this life came almost like a surprise, so deeply had I entrenched myself in memories these last two days.
I will return to the mountains to visit, to make new memories in a place that changes at what seems an almost imperceptible pace, where long-held friends wander the streets beside ghosts from the past. The memories are now more poignant than painful. The friendships are deep and multi-layered, the kind that only come with years of shared experiences.
They all exist only an hour away. How comforting that is.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Part of my job involves doing presentations to seniors about our insurance program at low-income housing complexes. My co-worker brings a home-cooked meal and while the seniors eat, I stand up and talk about the plan.
Sounds boring? Yeah, it sort of is. First I was nervous. Now, I'm becoming bored, trying to find ways to keep it fresh.
When I look at it that way, I guess I should thank God for people like John.
Most of the elderly we meet are sharp, well-acquainted with the wide variety of Medicare plans from which they can choose and capable of though sometimes forgetful, hard of hearing, or sight impaired, logical.
This was not the case today.
This building near downtown Denver houses some of the poorest and most uneducated of the elderly population. They are, for the most part, warm hearted souls in need of a hand up. But this population also is rife with mental illness.
I sat down with one gentleman with braided black-and-gray hair and wide, brown eyes who seemed anxious to speak with me. He immediately told me he did not want to change doctors; because his doctor isn't part of our network, I told him he could not sign up with us, but to stay where he felt he was getting the best care. He nodded appreciably and I stood to leave. But John was not done with me.
"The Lord sent us this storm today," he said. "He's trying to tell us something, you know? A lot of these people here, they want answers. And we'll get the answers someday. We all know that. But they want answers now. All this war, killing people, this storm, he's trying to tell us something. We gotta take care of one another, you know, sister?"
Since I agreed with him wholeheartedly on his last statement, I nodded enthusiastically. This was a bad idea. John was encouraged.
"All these people - Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, Elvis - all these great people died. Why?" Frankly, I've never understood the whole Elvis thing. I wanted to tell John that, the way I saw it, Elvis was just a horndog with the ability to swivel his hips and pout, but I suspected John would not react well to it. "We want answers," he told me.
The answer was that Elvis was a constipated drug addict, I thought.
John rambled, quoting Scripture, repeating many of the things he'd already told me. I smiled, nodded and tried to find a kind way to escape. There was none. Finally, I glanced at my watch, looked surprised and said I was overdue to give my talk.
One minute into it, after I mentioned a care manager who could answer almost any question, John raised his hand. "Can they tell us why Marilyn Monroe killed herself before the government could?"
"They may have a theory but I doubt they can answer that one," I said with a smile.
John's hand rose again. I ignored it. He ignored me.
"Can they tell us why Jesus was whipped and tortured and died on the cross for our sins?"
John had just gotten on my last nerve. Fearing another bizarre interruption, I cut the presentation short.
"Who wants to talk with me one-on-one?"
Several people, including John, raised their hands. I went straight to the wheelchair-bound woman in front of me. She was wheelchair bound, a Medicare recipient who was too young to have qualified for turning 65.
She pushed the wheels on her chair to move closer to me, then stopped, her entire body shaking. She looked at me with discouraged, frightened, resigned eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The doctors are trying to keep me home."
She pushed back her sleeve to reveal a hospital wristband. "I just got home last night. I'm so depressed."
I rubbed her back, murmuring that I understood, that she should stay strong. My words sounded incredibly trite, yet I could think of nothing more original to say. She stopped shaking.
"But I'd like to talk with you about this plan. Just not here."
Tremors overtook her again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John. He flung a leg over the bench nearest us and gazed at Margaret. He grinned widely.
"You doing the spirit walk, sister? That's what happened to me when the Lord came into me. I shook like crazy! Sister, that's wonderful!"
Margaret rolled her eyes so that only I could see. I almost grinned at this small display of spunk.
Margaret and I agreed to meet next week in the privacy of her apartment, far from John.
"Anybody else want to schedule an appointment with me?"
Three women raised their hands. So did John. "To talk about Evercare?" I added. His hand dropped.
Twenty minutes and three scheduled appointments later, I headed for the door.
John called out from behind me. "You married?"
Without thinking, I told him the truth.
"OK. I've got your number if I have any questions," he said, holding up my business card. "So your boyfriend won't get mad if I call then?"
My heart sank. I pretended not to hear him. Instead, I stepped outside into one of the worst blizzards in Denver's history. It felt absolutely wonderful.
Sounds boring? Yeah, it sort of is. First I was nervous. Now, I'm becoming bored, trying to find ways to keep it fresh.
When I look at it that way, I guess I should thank God for people like John.
Most of the elderly we meet are sharp, well-acquainted with the wide variety of Medicare plans from which they can choose and capable of though sometimes forgetful, hard of hearing, or sight impaired, logical.
This was not the case today.
This building near downtown Denver houses some of the poorest and most uneducated of the elderly population. They are, for the most part, warm hearted souls in need of a hand up. But this population also is rife with mental illness.
I sat down with one gentleman with braided black-and-gray hair and wide, brown eyes who seemed anxious to speak with me. He immediately told me he did not want to change doctors; because his doctor isn't part of our network, I told him he could not sign up with us, but to stay where he felt he was getting the best care. He nodded appreciably and I stood to leave. But John was not done with me.
"The Lord sent us this storm today," he said. "He's trying to tell us something, you know? A lot of these people here, they want answers. And we'll get the answers someday. We all know that. But they want answers now. All this war, killing people, this storm, he's trying to tell us something. We gotta take care of one another, you know, sister?"
Since I agreed with him wholeheartedly on his last statement, I nodded enthusiastically. This was a bad idea. John was encouraged.
"All these people - Martin Luther King, John Kennedy, Elvis - all these great people died. Why?" Frankly, I've never understood the whole Elvis thing. I wanted to tell John that, the way I saw it, Elvis was just a horndog with the ability to swivel his hips and pout, but I suspected John would not react well to it. "We want answers," he told me.
The answer was that Elvis was a constipated drug addict, I thought.
John rambled, quoting Scripture, repeating many of the things he'd already told me. I smiled, nodded and tried to find a kind way to escape. There was none. Finally, I glanced at my watch, looked surprised and said I was overdue to give my talk.
One minute into it, after I mentioned a care manager who could answer almost any question, John raised his hand. "Can they tell us why Marilyn Monroe killed herself before the government could?"
"They may have a theory but I doubt they can answer that one," I said with a smile.
John's hand rose again. I ignored it. He ignored me.
"Can they tell us why Jesus was whipped and tortured and died on the cross for our sins?"
John had just gotten on my last nerve. Fearing another bizarre interruption, I cut the presentation short.
"Who wants to talk with me one-on-one?"
Several people, including John, raised their hands. I went straight to the wheelchair-bound woman in front of me. She was wheelchair bound, a Medicare recipient who was too young to have qualified for turning 65.
She pushed the wheels on her chair to move closer to me, then stopped, her entire body shaking. She looked at me with discouraged, frightened, resigned eyes and whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The doctors are trying to keep me home."
She pushed back her sleeve to reveal a hospital wristband. "I just got home last night. I'm so depressed."
I rubbed her back, murmuring that I understood, that she should stay strong. My words sounded incredibly trite, yet I could think of nothing more original to say. She stopped shaking.
"But I'd like to talk with you about this plan. Just not here."
Tremors overtook her again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John. He flung a leg over the bench nearest us and gazed at Margaret. He grinned widely.
"You doing the spirit walk, sister? That's what happened to me when the Lord came into me. I shook like crazy! Sister, that's wonderful!"
Margaret rolled her eyes so that only I could see. I almost grinned at this small display of spunk.
Margaret and I agreed to meet next week in the privacy of her apartment, far from John.
"Anybody else want to schedule an appointment with me?"
Three women raised their hands. So did John. "To talk about Evercare?" I added. His hand dropped.
Twenty minutes and three scheduled appointments later, I headed for the door.
John called out from behind me. "You married?"
Without thinking, I told him the truth.
"OK. I've got your number if I have any questions," he said, holding up my business card. "So your boyfriend won't get mad if I call then?"
My heart sank. I pretended not to hear him. Instead, I stepped outside into one of the worst blizzards in Denver's history. It felt absolutely wonderful.
Monday, December 11, 2006
After swearing not to do so in a not-so-recent blog entry, I'm trying Internet dating again. Heck, after that fiasco of a dating event it seemed like a very sound idea. Plus, I didn't want to end the year crying in my champagne, and leaving you all feeling I was a near-suicidal wreck. Does not exactly inspire one to read, now does it?
I signed up for the three-month Match.com subscription with the Dr. Phil MindFindBind guarantee. What the hell that means I don't know. I haven't looked into it. I did click on a few Dr. Phil icons however, and was told to work on packaging "the product that is you!" After that point, I left the Dr. Phil areas of the site alone. Somehow, though I know he's often right on the money in his advice, I resent that freakishly tall, bald man. Is it just me or is he arrogant as hell? I wonder sometimes if Oprah harbors regrets about the monster she unleashed on the world.
Anyway, so far, Match is interesting, as always. It feels somewhat sadly familiar, since I've tried it at least twice before with obviously lackluster results. Yet, Denver is a bigger pool. And hey, I can only hope to at least get some more Viagra-variety date stories! Already, I've received an e-mail from someone I know - a sheriff's deputy from the county in which I once lived. He complimented me highly and suggested we meet for coffee and a "catch-up." Ironically, I hang out with his ex-wife and her new husband when I visit there. I know all about his cheating ways, and believe I subtly told him so when I mentioned how often I see Jen.
Life is otherwise pretty fine. Today, I garnered four applications for our Medicare program. Two from a mother and daughter who seem both damn happy and damn healthy. One from a former Southern belle who moved here to be near family and now finds her family doesn't want to be near her. And a fourth from a man whose house, like the other gentleman I visited weeks ago, lacked a single photograph or picture.
I believe I am adjusting to my job and the people I meet through it, however. On Christmas Day, one of my co-workers and I plan to provide a meal at a seniors' complex whose residents are, like the characters in the Land of Misfit Toys, forgotten on the holidays. Families are either too far away or simply do not invite them for Christmas. Sad though it is, I cannot imagine a finer way to spend the holiday than to bring smiles to their faces. It's either that or track down their kids and kick them in their faces; this seems the easier option.
Christmas looms and I am not ready. While I hope to post again before then, I sign off tonight hoping you are farther along the shopping trail than I, and that Christmas brings you everything your little hearts desire. Especially the company of those you love.
I signed up for the three-month Match.com subscription with the Dr. Phil MindFindBind guarantee. What the hell that means I don't know. I haven't looked into it. I did click on a few Dr. Phil icons however, and was told to work on packaging "the product that is you!" After that point, I left the Dr. Phil areas of the site alone. Somehow, though I know he's often right on the money in his advice, I resent that freakishly tall, bald man. Is it just me or is he arrogant as hell? I wonder sometimes if Oprah harbors regrets about the monster she unleashed on the world.
Anyway, so far, Match is interesting, as always. It feels somewhat sadly familiar, since I've tried it at least twice before with obviously lackluster results. Yet, Denver is a bigger pool. And hey, I can only hope to at least get some more Viagra-variety date stories! Already, I've received an e-mail from someone I know - a sheriff's deputy from the county in which I once lived. He complimented me highly and suggested we meet for coffee and a "catch-up." Ironically, I hang out with his ex-wife and her new husband when I visit there. I know all about his cheating ways, and believe I subtly told him so when I mentioned how often I see Jen.
Life is otherwise pretty fine. Today, I garnered four applications for our Medicare program. Two from a mother and daughter who seem both damn happy and damn healthy. One from a former Southern belle who moved here to be near family and now finds her family doesn't want to be near her. And a fourth from a man whose house, like the other gentleman I visited weeks ago, lacked a single photograph or picture.
I believe I am adjusting to my job and the people I meet through it, however. On Christmas Day, one of my co-workers and I plan to provide a meal at a seniors' complex whose residents are, like the characters in the Land of Misfit Toys, forgotten on the holidays. Families are either too far away or simply do not invite them for Christmas. Sad though it is, I cannot imagine a finer way to spend the holiday than to bring smiles to their faces. It's either that or track down their kids and kick them in their faces; this seems the easier option.
Christmas looms and I am not ready. While I hope to post again before then, I sign off tonight hoping you are farther along the shopping trail than I, and that Christmas brings you everything your little hearts desire. Especially the company of those you love.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Tonight, I attended a singles group event. I'd arranged for my son to spend the night with my cousins so I could go. I spent more than an hour dressing and primping. I was quietly optimistic.
I was home within two hours, sadder than before I had left. As I walked in, I was asked to put on a name tag and take a ticket for a free drink. The organizer hands me a yellow sheet with about 16 cubed drawings. All of these represent the name of a Christmas carol. We are to sit down and figure out what they are. "And if you can't get it, ask someone cute to help you," she says, winking at me.
I choose a table that looks safe. A smiling woman, my age or older, and two men, neither of whom looks excited to be there.
We talk out each drawing. The three kings standing under huge plants must be "We Three Kings." The knight with holes in his armor: "O Holy Night." Giant feet trudging through a snowy scene: "Walking in a Winter Wonderland."
"It feels like we're in third grade, doesn't it?" the organizer calls out, beaming at us.
Yes, it does. Exactly.
After that, we're asked to count off by threes. The ones, twos and threes all gather in separate circles. The organizer asks us to pass around a present that has been wrapped in several layers. As we pass it, we are to introduce ourselves and tell our most romantic Christmas story. I can't think of one, and I pass the gift quickly to my left. Neither can most of the people there; some instead tell stories about other gifts, other times, with lovers, husbands and girlfriends who are no longer part of their lives. I can scarcely imagine a crueler question to put to a group of singles.
I talk afterward with a blonde woman, Kristie, who's affixed her name tag to the bare skin showing above her low-cut dress. She is funny, in a sarcastic, sad way. "I've signed up for lots of things with this group in the next few weeks," she says. "I have to to convince my married friends they're right. They keep telling me how great it must be to be single during the holidays. Christmas, oh yeah. When I wake up and think, 'Another one alone,' and decide I'm not going to get out of my pajamas all day. And New Year's Eve - there's another one."
Her words are not amusing, but her demeanor is. The tone of her voice, her smile as she relates this, the timing of the words. She tells me she's hiding from one of the guys who was in our group - the three's. "We had a date last week," she said. "He told me to meet him at 5:30 and all we did was split an appetizer. Was I wrong to expect dinner?"
He finds her and my presence among them is immediately awkward. I wait until there's a point in the conversation in which I can gracefully make an exit.
The organizer sees me reaching for my coat. She's passing out red tickets. "Wait," she says, "you'll want to stay for the drawing. We've got some great prizes!"
I take the ticket with a smile and a thank you, wait until she's passed and slip out the door. I wonder what I did, what any of those people did, to bring us to this place. I start the car and aim it homeward. The tears, of which I am so incredibly weary, fall.
I was home within two hours, sadder than before I had left. As I walked in, I was asked to put on a name tag and take a ticket for a free drink. The organizer hands me a yellow sheet with about 16 cubed drawings. All of these represent the name of a Christmas carol. We are to sit down and figure out what they are. "And if you can't get it, ask someone cute to help you," she says, winking at me.
I choose a table that looks safe. A smiling woman, my age or older, and two men, neither of whom looks excited to be there.
We talk out each drawing. The three kings standing under huge plants must be "We Three Kings." The knight with holes in his armor: "O Holy Night." Giant feet trudging through a snowy scene: "Walking in a Winter Wonderland."
"It feels like we're in third grade, doesn't it?" the organizer calls out, beaming at us.
Yes, it does. Exactly.
After that, we're asked to count off by threes. The ones, twos and threes all gather in separate circles. The organizer asks us to pass around a present that has been wrapped in several layers. As we pass it, we are to introduce ourselves and tell our most romantic Christmas story. I can't think of one, and I pass the gift quickly to my left. Neither can most of the people there; some instead tell stories about other gifts, other times, with lovers, husbands and girlfriends who are no longer part of their lives. I can scarcely imagine a crueler question to put to a group of singles.
I talk afterward with a blonde woman, Kristie, who's affixed her name tag to the bare skin showing above her low-cut dress. She is funny, in a sarcastic, sad way. "I've signed up for lots of things with this group in the next few weeks," she says. "I have to to convince my married friends they're right. They keep telling me how great it must be to be single during the holidays. Christmas, oh yeah. When I wake up and think, 'Another one alone,' and decide I'm not going to get out of my pajamas all day. And New Year's Eve - there's another one."
Her words are not amusing, but her demeanor is. The tone of her voice, her smile as she relates this, the timing of the words. She tells me she's hiding from one of the guys who was in our group - the three's. "We had a date last week," she said. "He told me to meet him at 5:30 and all we did was split an appetizer. Was I wrong to expect dinner?"
He finds her and my presence among them is immediately awkward. I wait until there's a point in the conversation in which I can gracefully make an exit.
The organizer sees me reaching for my coat. She's passing out red tickets. "Wait," she says, "you'll want to stay for the drawing. We've got some great prizes!"
I take the ticket with a smile and a thank you, wait until she's passed and slip out the door. I wonder what I did, what any of those people did, to bring us to this place. I start the car and aim it homeward. The tears, of which I am so incredibly weary, fall.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Perhaps it's the prospect of another partner-less holiday season, but I am sunk in a loneliness much deeper than I have known for a very long time.
Worse, I cannot think of who to reach out to to for help.
I know this lowest of low points will pass. A heavy dose of carbohydrates, a trip to Target, a couple of sales, will dull it down again. But the roots remain.
My personal cell phone scarcely rings anymore. Where once I could call upon two or three people when I felt blue, now I can think of no one with whom I am in regular enough contact to reach out to for comfort without also feeling I am interrupting them. Distance does that. People's schedules do it. The modern world and all the supposed wonders of increasingly impersonal contact does it.
As I may have written here before, for various reasons, my once robust social circle - so vibrant that sometimes I chose not to answer my phone because I was simply tired of talking so much - shrank in the last couple of years. I don't regret the couple of those lost friendships I could control, and can do nothing about those that have moved but wish them good luck. Yet no one has yet stepped into those empty spaces to flush it back out again. I know that I'm the same person, still just as capable of attracting and keeping friends, but it's been surprisingly tough here. I feel isolated.
Earlier this year, I read the book, "7 Habits of Highly Effective People," in which the author encourages the reader to set his or her life's goal. I thought about this long and hard and decided mine was to help people in emotional distress. I think that I have tried everything since to do so. In my work. In my e-mails. In inviting people, calling them, trying to be there for them. But the question keeps going through my head, "Who is there for me?"
I come home at night and I cannot think what to do, who to call. I reach for the wine. I take the dog for long walks. I think about blogging. and then I do not do it because I can't think what I have to offer. Certainly, it is not anything funny. My sense of humor seems buried.
I feel a failure as a mother, for my inability to find friends for him, for the inability to get him onto sports teams and bond with other kids his own age like normal children do. I feel we are close to a point that is unhealthy, reliant on one another in our mutual loneliness for peers. The idea of staying in this complex - where neighbors simply dash from car to apartment door and back again - while I try to find a child-rich neighborhood and save for a down payment is bleak indeed. I know there are better places for us, and we will find them, but for now, the potentially lonely months until that time stretch far, far ahead.
The prospect of trying to find a partner is wearying. Internet? Clubs? Classes? All so tiring. Such work to find someone with whom to share these most simple things, who to turn to at the end of the day, and in the dark of night. I want it so much. I am so afraid to try. I want to simply skip the getting-to-know-you process, the search, trial and error. I want just to get to the comfort of knowing someone loves you enough to see you without makeup. (Yes, that is an attempt at levity and you laugh, but I truly consider this a landmark in a relationship.)
Still I think I made the right move in coming here. Colorado Springs was no place for us either and Denver has so much to offer. The job is a huge step up financially, the prospects beyond my imagining, the challenge welcome. But I can't seem to break through, to get the time to make the connections - friendly or romantic - that seem so desperately needed.
Is it childish to express it here? Am I sunk in a pity party? Really, it doesn't matter. It hurts no matter what it is. Now, it seems it's time for me to find some solutions.
I also would like to make a postscript to this entry. After a fairly good crying jag, I am impressed to note that my new eyeliner has clung tenaciously in place. In case you girls would like to know, it's Maybelline New York liquid eyeliner (brown black). And for those of you who know I sell Arbonne, I love their products, but their eyeliner sucks.
Worse, I cannot think of who to reach out to to for help.
I know this lowest of low points will pass. A heavy dose of carbohydrates, a trip to Target, a couple of sales, will dull it down again. But the roots remain.
My personal cell phone scarcely rings anymore. Where once I could call upon two or three people when I felt blue, now I can think of no one with whom I am in regular enough contact to reach out to for comfort without also feeling I am interrupting them. Distance does that. People's schedules do it. The modern world and all the supposed wonders of increasingly impersonal contact does it.
As I may have written here before, for various reasons, my once robust social circle - so vibrant that sometimes I chose not to answer my phone because I was simply tired of talking so much - shrank in the last couple of years. I don't regret the couple of those lost friendships I could control, and can do nothing about those that have moved but wish them good luck. Yet no one has yet stepped into those empty spaces to flush it back out again. I know that I'm the same person, still just as capable of attracting and keeping friends, but it's been surprisingly tough here. I feel isolated.
Earlier this year, I read the book, "7 Habits of Highly Effective People," in which the author encourages the reader to set his or her life's goal. I thought about this long and hard and decided mine was to help people in emotional distress. I think that I have tried everything since to do so. In my work. In my e-mails. In inviting people, calling them, trying to be there for them. But the question keeps going through my head, "Who is there for me?"
I come home at night and I cannot think what to do, who to call. I reach for the wine. I take the dog for long walks. I think about blogging. and then I do not do it because I can't think what I have to offer. Certainly, it is not anything funny. My sense of humor seems buried.
I feel a failure as a mother, for my inability to find friends for him, for the inability to get him onto sports teams and bond with other kids his own age like normal children do. I feel we are close to a point that is unhealthy, reliant on one another in our mutual loneliness for peers. The idea of staying in this complex - where neighbors simply dash from car to apartment door and back again - while I try to find a child-rich neighborhood and save for a down payment is bleak indeed. I know there are better places for us, and we will find them, but for now, the potentially lonely months until that time stretch far, far ahead.
The prospect of trying to find a partner is wearying. Internet? Clubs? Classes? All so tiring. Such work to find someone with whom to share these most simple things, who to turn to at the end of the day, and in the dark of night. I want it so much. I am so afraid to try. I want to simply skip the getting-to-know-you process, the search, trial and error. I want just to get to the comfort of knowing someone loves you enough to see you without makeup. (Yes, that is an attempt at levity and you laugh, but I truly consider this a landmark in a relationship.)
Still I think I made the right move in coming here. Colorado Springs was no place for us either and Denver has so much to offer. The job is a huge step up financially, the prospects beyond my imagining, the challenge welcome. But I can't seem to break through, to get the time to make the connections - friendly or romantic - that seem so desperately needed.
Is it childish to express it here? Am I sunk in a pity party? Really, it doesn't matter. It hurts no matter what it is. Now, it seems it's time for me to find some solutions.
I also would like to make a postscript to this entry. After a fairly good crying jag, I am impressed to note that my new eyeliner has clung tenaciously in place. In case you girls would like to know, it's Maybelline New York liquid eyeliner (brown black). And for those of you who know I sell Arbonne, I love their products, but their eyeliner sucks.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
My life as a Medicare health insurance saleswoman has just begun. I can see already I'll have to work on not bringing these people, their faces and their troubles "home" with me. Here is a sampling of the people I've met so far.
Jodie, a 71-year-old black man, former member of a gospel trio that traveled nationwide. Jodie has no plans for Thanksgiving or Christmas. His apartment is neat but plain, the carpet flat, with no padding. His furnishing are modest and sparse. "My family and friends are all dead. I buried every one of them," he told me. "Some days I wake up and wished I hadn't. But what cha gonna do? You just go on." He smiles as he says all these things, then shrugs.
Mary Ann, 65, tall, emits a sense of grace and pride. Widowed a little over a year ago in Texas, she moved to Denver to be near her daughter and niece to escape the memories in the rural home she'd shared with her husband for all those years. She lives in a neat, older brick home and owns a Chihuahua named Taco. From the dining room, I can see into her bedroom and a tidily made single bed. "Across the street, I see my neighbor's brick house. Out back, I see that brick apartment building. Just over the edge of that roof, when the leaves are down, I can see the tops of three peaks." Her eyes are watery. "I miss the life I had. I miss the life I had when my husband was alive and healthy."
David, 48, disabled by a wicked industrial accident in which his apron was caught by a huge saw. His body was sucked into the blade. "I heard my bones breaking. I was conscious through the whole thing." He spent a three months in a coma, a year in a full-body cast and every moment since in pain. His townhouse is decorated in a Victorian theme, lavish and immaculate. David is tall and rangy, made for country and western bars. His loneliness is palpable.
Jorge, 30, disabled in ways I can't see, divorced with a 13-year-old son who has a close relationship with Jorge's ex-wife, almost none with him. His apartment is drab and dirty. Picked-up but not clean. He is overweight such that he has difficulty walking. The only photograph in his home is a framed picture of a smiling boy perched atop the television. "I might get to see him the day before Thanksgiving because he doesn't have school that day." The actual holiday, however, his son will spend with Jorge's ex-wife. When I ask to see his insurance cards, he has them at the ready. "I have everything," he says, then pauses, and smiles almost shyly. "Well, if I had everything, I wouldn't need you here to help me get this insurance."
The majority of them are women. Women left alone. With only a few words, they give me glimpses of their lives. "My husband left me money when he died, but because of it, my income is considered high. I can't qualify for any assistance. I'm barely making it." "When my husband died, I couldn't afford to live anywhere but here." "I visited him in the hospice every day for two months until he died."
I see joy, too.
One particular apartment complex has amenities I wish were offered here. Every morning, the men and women gather around a coffee pot in a sunny community room like hunters huddling around a campfire. They warm their hands around colorful, coffee-filled mugs. They gossip about the goings-on in the building.
Two of the women I've met there share an apartment. When the others speak of them, they glance knowingly - eyebrows arched - at one another. It delights me; the happy, elderly lesbians enraging their widowed neighbors. I see the two of them later, side by side, pushing their identical wheeled walkers down the hallway. "Do you cover disposable briefs," one of them, Sharon, asks me. "Linda needs those and they're $60 a month! Can you help us with that?" "Yes," I tell them, and they happily sign.
On another floor, women play pool on a chilly winter afternoon, chattering cheerfully in Spanish. They turn at the sight of me and shower me with bright smiles. It is my third visit to this building and already, nearly every face is familiar.
And I see humor.
On the third floor of this same lively building, I meet Deborah and Joe, a black couple who share a smoke-filled apartment. Joe is just starting his day when I arrive. He is out of sight, down the hall in their bedroom. "Boo," she yells. "You stay in there, OK? That insurance lady is here." He mutters something unintelligible in return, his tone mirthful. "Never mind how old she is," Debra retorts. "You stay there, you hear? Don't you come outta there nekkid!"
Everyone -regardless of their lot in life - smiles at me, and my name is rarely spoken. To them, I am simply "honey."
Each time one of these people signs an application, I make $70. I feel alright about this when I sign Joe, Debra and the other vivacious elderly I've encountered. Yet I leave the homes of the sad and lonely, signatures in hand, with little joy in the commission I've earned. I am helping them financially, yes. But that, it seems, is all I can do, and it feels so insignificant. It does not ease their heartbreak, fill an empty room, or bring back a loved one.
What I need to realize, and fast, is that the assistance I offer them truly is significant. It makes a positive difference in their lives. And in terms of what I can and should do for them, I must accept that that will have to be enough.
Since I first posted this last week, I met Francis. Francis merits an edit to this blog entry because Francis is happy. She is a skinny, tiny black woman with a big smile, thick glasses and white curly hair springing out from her head. She is 88, turning 89 in 10 days. Francis lives with her daughter in a brick house. With obvious difficulty, she stands to shake my hand, beaming all the while. When I tell her she looks happy, Francis nods.
"I am happy," she says. "And I eat right and do everything I can to stay healthy."
Her daughter, divorced and delighted about it, laughs. "She's something, I know."
I leave their home feeling light and realizing the key is seemingly simple, yet impossible for some to reach. The happiest old folks I've met live with someone. Be it their crazy husband, their lesbian lover or their daughter. They are happy because someone is there to share their days with them, to love them no matter how late the hour in their lives.
It shows me yet again how much we all need one another to thrive. We were designed as social creatures, no matter our age. Isolation, I think because it's an unnatural state, makes any of us sad. Isolation without hope, the kind I see on some of these individuals' faces, must be the loneliest place of all.
A friend of mine (who I hope is reading) told me years ago she plans to buy an island of her very own when she's older. "You, me, Nancy, Chris, all of us will go live there and be Golden Girls."
The first time she said this, I found it an odd idea. Why was she even thinking about this kind of stuff? We were in our 30s and my job then didn't bring me into regular contact with seniors. I gave little thought to aging at all, my own or anyone else's.
But now, as I'm suddenly seeing life from new angles -- and peering down the hall of life toward my still distant but steadily approaching senior years, Laura's idea doesn't sound so strange. In fact, it sounds mighty damn fine.
Jodie, a 71-year-old black man, former member of a gospel trio that traveled nationwide. Jodie has no plans for Thanksgiving or Christmas. His apartment is neat but plain, the carpet flat, with no padding. His furnishing are modest and sparse. "My family and friends are all dead. I buried every one of them," he told me. "Some days I wake up and wished I hadn't. But what cha gonna do? You just go on." He smiles as he says all these things, then shrugs.
Mary Ann, 65, tall, emits a sense of grace and pride. Widowed a little over a year ago in Texas, she moved to Denver to be near her daughter and niece to escape the memories in the rural home she'd shared with her husband for all those years. She lives in a neat, older brick home and owns a Chihuahua named Taco. From the dining room, I can see into her bedroom and a tidily made single bed. "Across the street, I see my neighbor's brick house. Out back, I see that brick apartment building. Just over the edge of that roof, when the leaves are down, I can see the tops of three peaks." Her eyes are watery. "I miss the life I had. I miss the life I had when my husband was alive and healthy."
David, 48, disabled by a wicked industrial accident in which his apron was caught by a huge saw. His body was sucked into the blade. "I heard my bones breaking. I was conscious through the whole thing." He spent a three months in a coma, a year in a full-body cast and every moment since in pain. His townhouse is decorated in a Victorian theme, lavish and immaculate. David is tall and rangy, made for country and western bars. His loneliness is palpable.
Jorge, 30, disabled in ways I can't see, divorced with a 13-year-old son who has a close relationship with Jorge's ex-wife, almost none with him. His apartment is drab and dirty. Picked-up but not clean. He is overweight such that he has difficulty walking. The only photograph in his home is a framed picture of a smiling boy perched atop the television. "I might get to see him the day before Thanksgiving because he doesn't have school that day." The actual holiday, however, his son will spend with Jorge's ex-wife. When I ask to see his insurance cards, he has them at the ready. "I have everything," he says, then pauses, and smiles almost shyly. "Well, if I had everything, I wouldn't need you here to help me get this insurance."
The majority of them are women. Women left alone. With only a few words, they give me glimpses of their lives. "My husband left me money when he died, but because of it, my income is considered high. I can't qualify for any assistance. I'm barely making it." "When my husband died, I couldn't afford to live anywhere but here." "I visited him in the hospice every day for two months until he died."
I see joy, too.
One particular apartment complex has amenities I wish were offered here. Every morning, the men and women gather around a coffee pot in a sunny community room like hunters huddling around a campfire. They warm their hands around colorful, coffee-filled mugs. They gossip about the goings-on in the building.
Two of the women I've met there share an apartment. When the others speak of them, they glance knowingly - eyebrows arched - at one another. It delights me; the happy, elderly lesbians enraging their widowed neighbors. I see the two of them later, side by side, pushing their identical wheeled walkers down the hallway. "Do you cover disposable briefs," one of them, Sharon, asks me. "Linda needs those and they're $60 a month! Can you help us with that?" "Yes," I tell them, and they happily sign.
On another floor, women play pool on a chilly winter afternoon, chattering cheerfully in Spanish. They turn at the sight of me and shower me with bright smiles. It is my third visit to this building and already, nearly every face is familiar.
And I see humor.
On the third floor of this same lively building, I meet Deborah and Joe, a black couple who share a smoke-filled apartment. Joe is just starting his day when I arrive. He is out of sight, down the hall in their bedroom. "Boo," she yells. "You stay in there, OK? That insurance lady is here." He mutters something unintelligible in return, his tone mirthful. "Never mind how old she is," Debra retorts. "You stay there, you hear? Don't you come outta there nekkid!"
Everyone -regardless of their lot in life - smiles at me, and my name is rarely spoken. To them, I am simply "honey."
Each time one of these people signs an application, I make $70. I feel alright about this when I sign Joe, Debra and the other vivacious elderly I've encountered. Yet I leave the homes of the sad and lonely, signatures in hand, with little joy in the commission I've earned. I am helping them financially, yes. But that, it seems, is all I can do, and it feels so insignificant. It does not ease their heartbreak, fill an empty room, or bring back a loved one.
What I need to realize, and fast, is that the assistance I offer them truly is significant. It makes a positive difference in their lives. And in terms of what I can and should do for them, I must accept that that will have to be enough.
Since I first posted this last week, I met Francis. Francis merits an edit to this blog entry because Francis is happy. She is a skinny, tiny black woman with a big smile, thick glasses and white curly hair springing out from her head. She is 88, turning 89 in 10 days. Francis lives with her daughter in a brick house. With obvious difficulty, she stands to shake my hand, beaming all the while. When I tell her she looks happy, Francis nods.
"I am happy," she says. "And I eat right and do everything I can to stay healthy."
Her daughter, divorced and delighted about it, laughs. "She's something, I know."
I leave their home feeling light and realizing the key is seemingly simple, yet impossible for some to reach. The happiest old folks I've met live with someone. Be it their crazy husband, their lesbian lover or their daughter. They are happy because someone is there to share their days with them, to love them no matter how late the hour in their lives.
It shows me yet again how much we all need one another to thrive. We were designed as social creatures, no matter our age. Isolation, I think because it's an unnatural state, makes any of us sad. Isolation without hope, the kind I see on some of these individuals' faces, must be the loneliest place of all.
A friend of mine (who I hope is reading) told me years ago she plans to buy an island of her very own when she's older. "You, me, Nancy, Chris, all of us will go live there and be Golden Girls."
The first time she said this, I found it an odd idea. Why was she even thinking about this kind of stuff? We were in our 30s and my job then didn't bring me into regular contact with seniors. I gave little thought to aging at all, my own or anyone else's.
But now, as I'm suddenly seeing life from new angles -- and peering down the hall of life toward my still distant but steadily approaching senior years, Laura's idea doesn't sound so strange. In fact, it sounds mighty damn fine.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
It's Sunday morning. My neighbor just had an orgasm.
I'm happy for her, really. Just as I was happy for my Colorado Springs neighbor when she had hers - complete with headboard banging and an impressive array of vocalizations. That was a townhouse with depressingly thin walls - depressing because I owned the place and had no clue until then the construction was so shoddy. (Or that my seemingly demure neighbor was so ... lively.) This is an apartment and yes, the walls are thin, but hey, it's not unexpected.
Still, it's salt in the wound for us partner-less apartment dwellers. Bad enough our solo status means most of us are forced into a housing situation that falls short of ideal. On top of it, the relatively poor quality of our boxy little units allows us uncomfortably easy access to one another's private lives.
Like the couple across the hall. I suppose they make love on occasion, but from what I hear, most of their time is spent making war. I've met these two people. I know their names. I know they have recently relocated here from Seattle. I know she is one of the most gorgeous women I have ever seen. I know he's in some fairly serious legal trouble.
I know this because, a month or so ago, they left. Newspapers piled up around their door. A note from the apartment complex was slipped into the crack of the door. Then another, this one taped to the door. A third, rolled-up and ominously-legal-looking notice was tucked through the hole in the knocker handle.
After a couple of weeks, I was sure they'd skipped town. Snuck away, most certainly under the cover of darkness, without paying rent, stopping their newspaper delivery or paying bills. Surely, that was what the rolled-up piece of paper was all about. Wasn't it?
After a day or two, that notice began calling to me in seductive tones. "Read me," it said. "C'mon, they're gone anyway. You know you want to." I shushed its papery voice.
Two more days worth of papers landed on the already formidable pile. Finally, I gave in. I pulled the notice out of the knocker handle. I unrolled it, and scanned it, quickly. It was a subpoena. I recognized my neighbor's first name. His presence was demanded in court, courtesy of his employer. My face burned with late-rising embarrassment. I rolled it up, slipped it back into the handle and ducked into my apartment, shame on my heels.
Still, I could not bring myself to feel completely guilty. They were not coming back, and this legal dispute surely was the reason. Mystery solved. Besides, once a reporter, always a reporter.
The next morning, every newspaper, notice and scrap of accumulated paper was gone. I heard the unmistakable babble of a television. I heard voices. They were home.
Oops.
So I know more than I should. But what I mostly know is that they argue, often.
All this wafts under my closed apartment door from behind their closed door. Even for the non-curious, it would be hard to ignore. For someone without a sex life, or much of a social life, it's impossible. Still, I do my best - unless the TV selections are truly pathetic. Which is, pretty much always. And then, the way I see it, you might just as well just mute the thing.
Anyway, a snippet from last weekend: First, indistinguishable, angry words from them both. A door opens, with such quick force the knob shrieks in protest. "... makes you happy!" she shouts, her voice thick with tears and rage. The door slams. A grocery bag slaps against the lobby door. Footsteps heavy with anger echo through the stairwell as she descends the three flights to the parking lot.
She's leaving him. Again. Perhaps she goes to friend's house for the night. But she's back the next day. Already, in just the three months during which they've lived across the hall from me, they've established a sad pattern.
I see her the next day, unloading something from the trunk of their car. I smile and wish her good morning, ask how she is without even thinking about it. She blinks at me. Her beautiful face is twisted with sorrow. "Good," she says. But her smile is as weak as the early November sun.
All things considered, I suppose the sounds of my other neighbor should give me hope about the state of relationships. But if I had my druthers, she would have a sex life just like mine. Quiet, and imaginary.
I can't suggest that to her because, well, it'd be sort of rude, and potentially awkward. But even more so because I don't know her. I can tell by her, uh, voice, that she's young. I also know she has a cell phone alarm that jolts her - and sometimes me - to life every morning. That's all I know. After this morning, that's all I want to know.
Unfortunately, I'll now be eying every woman I see in our third floor hallway with suspicion. That woman looks awfully damn happy. She's sort of even glowing - on a bitterly cold, November morning, for God's sake! Could she be the one? Perhaps I'll pose a seemingly innocent, passer-by-variety question, such as, "This weather's amazing, huh?", with the hope that she'll confirm my suspicions by responding, "Oh! Yeah!" just as she did today.
No, never mind. I really don't want to know.
Nevertheless, I now face a dilemma, because if the Colorado Springs experience is any indication, this is just the beginning of my auditory woes. I could move my bed. But the placement of windows and doors throughout the room makes that difficult; there really is only one logical spot for the bed. I could pound on the wall next time and ask her to conduct her recreational activities on the couch. I could buy ear plugs. But I dislike the little wax collectors intensely. Or, I can just take the passive aggressive approach, as I did in Colorado Springs. And hope they break up. Soon.
I'm happy for her, really. Just as I was happy for my Colorado Springs neighbor when she had hers - complete with headboard banging and an impressive array of vocalizations. That was a townhouse with depressingly thin walls - depressing because I owned the place and had no clue until then the construction was so shoddy. (Or that my seemingly demure neighbor was so ... lively.) This is an apartment and yes, the walls are thin, but hey, it's not unexpected.
Still, it's salt in the wound for us partner-less apartment dwellers. Bad enough our solo status means most of us are forced into a housing situation that falls short of ideal. On top of it, the relatively poor quality of our boxy little units allows us uncomfortably easy access to one another's private lives.
Like the couple across the hall. I suppose they make love on occasion, but from what I hear, most of their time is spent making war. I've met these two people. I know their names. I know they have recently relocated here from Seattle. I know she is one of the most gorgeous women I have ever seen. I know he's in some fairly serious legal trouble.
I know this because, a month or so ago, they left. Newspapers piled up around their door. A note from the apartment complex was slipped into the crack of the door. Then another, this one taped to the door. A third, rolled-up and ominously-legal-looking notice was tucked through the hole in the knocker handle.
After a couple of weeks, I was sure they'd skipped town. Snuck away, most certainly under the cover of darkness, without paying rent, stopping their newspaper delivery or paying bills. Surely, that was what the rolled-up piece of paper was all about. Wasn't it?
After a day or two, that notice began calling to me in seductive tones. "Read me," it said. "C'mon, they're gone anyway. You know you want to." I shushed its papery voice.
Two more days worth of papers landed on the already formidable pile. Finally, I gave in. I pulled the notice out of the knocker handle. I unrolled it, and scanned it, quickly. It was a subpoena. I recognized my neighbor's first name. His presence was demanded in court, courtesy of his employer. My face burned with late-rising embarrassment. I rolled it up, slipped it back into the handle and ducked into my apartment, shame on my heels.
Still, I could not bring myself to feel completely guilty. They were not coming back, and this legal dispute surely was the reason. Mystery solved. Besides, once a reporter, always a reporter.
The next morning, every newspaper, notice and scrap of accumulated paper was gone. I heard the unmistakable babble of a television. I heard voices. They were home.
Oops.
So I know more than I should. But what I mostly know is that they argue, often.
All this wafts under my closed apartment door from behind their closed door. Even for the non-curious, it would be hard to ignore. For someone without a sex life, or much of a social life, it's impossible. Still, I do my best - unless the TV selections are truly pathetic. Which is, pretty much always. And then, the way I see it, you might just as well just mute the thing.
Anyway, a snippet from last weekend: First, indistinguishable, angry words from them both. A door opens, with such quick force the knob shrieks in protest. "... makes you happy!" she shouts, her voice thick with tears and rage. The door slams. A grocery bag slaps against the lobby door. Footsteps heavy with anger echo through the stairwell as she descends the three flights to the parking lot.
She's leaving him. Again. Perhaps she goes to friend's house for the night. But she's back the next day. Already, in just the three months during which they've lived across the hall from me, they've established a sad pattern.
I see her the next day, unloading something from the trunk of their car. I smile and wish her good morning, ask how she is without even thinking about it. She blinks at me. Her beautiful face is twisted with sorrow. "Good," she says. But her smile is as weak as the early November sun.
All things considered, I suppose the sounds of my other neighbor should give me hope about the state of relationships. But if I had my druthers, she would have a sex life just like mine. Quiet, and imaginary.
I can't suggest that to her because, well, it'd be sort of rude, and potentially awkward. But even more so because I don't know her. I can tell by her, uh, voice, that she's young. I also know she has a cell phone alarm that jolts her - and sometimes me - to life every morning. That's all I know. After this morning, that's all I want to know.
Unfortunately, I'll now be eying every woman I see in our third floor hallway with suspicion. That woman looks awfully damn happy. She's sort of even glowing - on a bitterly cold, November morning, for God's sake! Could she be the one? Perhaps I'll pose a seemingly innocent, passer-by-variety question, such as, "This weather's amazing, huh?", with the hope that she'll confirm my suspicions by responding, "Oh! Yeah!" just as she did today.
No, never mind. I really don't want to know.
Nevertheless, I now face a dilemma, because if the Colorado Springs experience is any indication, this is just the beginning of my auditory woes. I could move my bed. But the placement of windows and doors throughout the room makes that difficult; there really is only one logical spot for the bed. I could pound on the wall next time and ask her to conduct her recreational activities on the couch. I could buy ear plugs. But I dislike the little wax collectors intensely. Or, I can just take the passive aggressive approach, as I did in Colorado Springs. And hope they break up. Soon.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Sunday, my son and I went to Goodwill in search of new clothes for his rapidly growing body.
I pulled out a pair of pants for his consideration. They were khaki, with pleats, perfect for semi-dressy occasions.
Robby shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "Those look like Christian pants," he said.
I laughed out loud there in the store, even though I understood exactly what he meant. I also realized his comment indicates his views on religion are taking shape, and paralleling mine. It made me consider, again, what a strong influence I am in his life. The thought is humbling, and frightening. Because the truth is, I don't know anything.
I know there are more wonderful Christians than hateful ones, but that the latter are, sadly, the loudest. I know that most religious people are good and deeply kind. What I don't know is how they can be so sure.
To Robby, I have said only that clearly, something beyond comprehension created this world. I believe we are all here to make life better for one another, and that we should wring as much joy out of it as possible. Beyond that, I cannot venture.
I have never had a conversation with God, nor do I know anyone who has. And so, I wonder, how can anyone profess to know the answers?
Who knows that God believes homosexuality is abhorrent? If heterosexuals and homosexuals were created by the same hand, how can one kind of love be alright - even sacred - and another not? Isn't love, no matter who we love, a powerfully positive force? Who knows that those who do not share the beliefs of one specific religion are damned to hell, while others will ascend to heaven? How can anyone know there is a heaven or a hell?
I cannot get my arms around this. So instead of practicing a faith, mine is in people, the good I think is at the core of us all, and the ability we have to transform our worlds.
It seems to me New Life Church pastor Ted Haggard - whose teachings are among the reasons I left Colorado Springs - made a prison for himself. He preached that homosexuality was wrong. He found his urges repulsive. He hated that part of himself because he believed it is an abomination. For him, there is no escape.
I don't understand the attraction of homosexuality. But I also don't see how the current battle for equal rights among homosexuals is any different than the battles fought for equality among women and blacks. How can someone be judged for how they are made - whether it's the color of their skin, their gender, or their sexual preference?
I believe we are born with all these things already burned into our DNA. I suspect any gay or lesbian would tell you the same. Or just ask Pastor Ted, who admits he's fought unsuccessfully against it his entire life.
I wonder how much more peace he'd have felt if he'd accepted himself and preached that acceptance. How many people - so convinced they are repulsive and freaks of nature that they ended their lives - could he truly have saved?
I pulled out a pair of pants for his consideration. They were khaki, with pleats, perfect for semi-dressy occasions.
Robby shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "Those look like Christian pants," he said.
I laughed out loud there in the store, even though I understood exactly what he meant. I also realized his comment indicates his views on religion are taking shape, and paralleling mine. It made me consider, again, what a strong influence I am in his life. The thought is humbling, and frightening. Because the truth is, I don't know anything.
I know there are more wonderful Christians than hateful ones, but that the latter are, sadly, the loudest. I know that most religious people are good and deeply kind. What I don't know is how they can be so sure.
To Robby, I have said only that clearly, something beyond comprehension created this world. I believe we are all here to make life better for one another, and that we should wring as much joy out of it as possible. Beyond that, I cannot venture.
I have never had a conversation with God, nor do I know anyone who has. And so, I wonder, how can anyone profess to know the answers?
Who knows that God believes homosexuality is abhorrent? If heterosexuals and homosexuals were created by the same hand, how can one kind of love be alright - even sacred - and another not? Isn't love, no matter who we love, a powerfully positive force? Who knows that those who do not share the beliefs of one specific religion are damned to hell, while others will ascend to heaven? How can anyone know there is a heaven or a hell?
I cannot get my arms around this. So instead of practicing a faith, mine is in people, the good I think is at the core of us all, and the ability we have to transform our worlds.
It seems to me New Life Church pastor Ted Haggard - whose teachings are among the reasons I left Colorado Springs - made a prison for himself. He preached that homosexuality was wrong. He found his urges repulsive. He hated that part of himself because he believed it is an abomination. For him, there is no escape.
I don't understand the attraction of homosexuality. But I also don't see how the current battle for equal rights among homosexuals is any different than the battles fought for equality among women and blacks. How can someone be judged for how they are made - whether it's the color of their skin, their gender, or their sexual preference?
I believe we are born with all these things already burned into our DNA. I suspect any gay or lesbian would tell you the same. Or just ask Pastor Ted, who admits he's fought unsuccessfully against it his entire life.
I wonder how much more peace he'd have felt if he'd accepted himself and preached that acceptance. How many people - so convinced they are repulsive and freaks of nature that they ended their lives - could he truly have saved?
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Sunday, I broke down and did something I swore I never would: I bought TV trays.
I admitted to myself, finally, that I watch TV while I eat. Not always, mind you. But sometimes. And sometimes ... with my son.
Yes, I know, dinner time with my son should be a time of conversation, bonding and all that. But with just two of us, frankly, sometimes the conversation quickly runs dry. Our "bonding" conversations like as not take place in the car or while we're walking the dog, rarely over the dinner table. But perhaps the volume of the TV has something to do with that.
Whatever, as long as he agrees to watch "Animal Planet," I'll often concede on TV-with-dinner.
For years, I've denied it was an issue, or, some might say, a problem. So instead of buying and using TV trays, we balanced plates and glasses on the couch seats, on the arms, on the pillows - anywhere but on a solid surface. I placed wine and milk glasses on the floor between bites.
Sometimes, as you might imagine, food slipped off plates. Wine spilled. Ice cream overflowed the bowl and melted. The cushions took a beating. Thank God, they're red, a color that can take a licking and still look surprisingly festive and clean. Time and again, it shrugs off milk, beer, butter, fried chicken and vino stains, and essentially says, "Party on!" It is ever-ready to host another dinner party on its happy red countenance.
The carpet is not so hospitable. It's far less forgiving of social gatherings, I-can-party-just-fine-by-myself-damnit nights, muddy animal paws or boy children. But hey, that's what stain removers are for. Furthermore, we're renting. The carpet can go to hell. The couch is ours forever.
And just why the hell do they put white carpet in an apartment anyway? To guarantee forfeiture of the security deposit?
Non-sequiter; my apologies.
I also can justify the purchase of TV trays because they disappear neatly when sandwiched between the back of the couch and the wall. One moment, they're here - folded open, damn near spread-eagled in the living room, obscene, tangible evidence of our American lifestyle at its most shameful. The next, they've vanished, resting serenely behind the couch, where even the rudest guest will never think to look.
In our house, they shall serve more than just the occasional dining need. In order to be trendy, I purchased a few years ago a metal table with rough, rocky tiles. It's beautiful. It's stylish. It's impractical. My son cannot do homework on its uneven surface. I cannot write even so much as my signature without knowing the future reader will suspect I was thoroughly smashed at the time - or that I am very, very old.
The other night, I not only ate - alone - at the TV tray, I sat down afterward and paid bills. The writing surface was smooth. My handwriting appeared eloquent. The sit-coms were funnier than I remembered. Paying bills suddenly seemed fun, very nearly artistic! I did so with maniacal glee, paying every single one in my stack, realizing I'd gone too far only when I saw checks made out to "Will & Grace," and "Seinfeld."
Robby has not yet "met" the TV trays. I am disgusted to realize that I consider this a treat for him, that I know he will love them, and be amazed that I spent my good money on such things.
I know this is twisted and wrong. I also know both of us desperately need to interact more with our fellow human beings.
Thusly, I plan to change the names of these instruments of evil. When he arrives Thursday evening, I plan to thoroughly buffalo him. I will introduce them not as TV trays, but as Portable Academic Workstations. Only when homework is complete, I will instruct, can they be called into service for their secondary purpose, as Nutritional Support Systems.
I admitted to myself, finally, that I watch TV while I eat. Not always, mind you. But sometimes. And sometimes ... with my son.
Yes, I know, dinner time with my son should be a time of conversation, bonding and all that. But with just two of us, frankly, sometimes the conversation quickly runs dry. Our "bonding" conversations like as not take place in the car or while we're walking the dog, rarely over the dinner table. But perhaps the volume of the TV has something to do with that.
Whatever, as long as he agrees to watch "Animal Planet," I'll often concede on TV-with-dinner.
For years, I've denied it was an issue, or, some might say, a problem. So instead of buying and using TV trays, we balanced plates and glasses on the couch seats, on the arms, on the pillows - anywhere but on a solid surface. I placed wine and milk glasses on the floor between bites.
Sometimes, as you might imagine, food slipped off plates. Wine spilled. Ice cream overflowed the bowl and melted. The cushions took a beating. Thank God, they're red, a color that can take a licking and still look surprisingly festive and clean. Time and again, it shrugs off milk, beer, butter, fried chicken and vino stains, and essentially says, "Party on!" It is ever-ready to host another dinner party on its happy red countenance.
The carpet is not so hospitable. It's far less forgiving of social gatherings, I-can-party-just-fine-by-myself-damnit nights, muddy animal paws or boy children. But hey, that's what stain removers are for. Furthermore, we're renting. The carpet can go to hell. The couch is ours forever.
And just why the hell do they put white carpet in an apartment anyway? To guarantee forfeiture of the security deposit?
Non-sequiter; my apologies.
I also can justify the purchase of TV trays because they disappear neatly when sandwiched between the back of the couch and the wall. One moment, they're here - folded open, damn near spread-eagled in the living room, obscene, tangible evidence of our American lifestyle at its most shameful. The next, they've vanished, resting serenely behind the couch, where even the rudest guest will never think to look.
In our house, they shall serve more than just the occasional dining need. In order to be trendy, I purchased a few years ago a metal table with rough, rocky tiles. It's beautiful. It's stylish. It's impractical. My son cannot do homework on its uneven surface. I cannot write even so much as my signature without knowing the future reader will suspect I was thoroughly smashed at the time - or that I am very, very old.
The other night, I not only ate - alone - at the TV tray, I sat down afterward and paid bills. The writing surface was smooth. My handwriting appeared eloquent. The sit-coms were funnier than I remembered. Paying bills suddenly seemed fun, very nearly artistic! I did so with maniacal glee, paying every single one in my stack, realizing I'd gone too far only when I saw checks made out to "Will & Grace," and "Seinfeld."
Robby has not yet "met" the TV trays. I am disgusted to realize that I consider this a treat for him, that I know he will love them, and be amazed that I spent my good money on such things.
I know this is twisted and wrong. I also know both of us desperately need to interact more with our fellow human beings.
Thusly, I plan to change the names of these instruments of evil. When he arrives Thursday evening, I plan to thoroughly buffalo him. I will introduce them not as TV trays, but as Portable Academic Workstations. Only when homework is complete, I will instruct, can they be called into service for their secondary purpose, as Nutritional Support Systems.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Since the company that now employs me is a major health insurance provider, I sense a constant, sort of nagging emphasis on good health. You know, green tea in the break room, sunflower seeds and trail mix in the vending machine. That sort of stuff.
Thank God they also believe in coffee. Quality coffee. Where at my last job we all pitched in money to buy massive containers of Folger's, here, Starbucks and Seattle's Best flows from super-heated coffee pots 24/7. This, to me, is a benefit in itself.
Bu they don't stop there. As you might guess, the health insurance benefits are darn good. They can get even better if you prove to the company that you are hale and hearty.
The offer is thus: If you ace a health questionnaire, you get a $114-a-year discount on your total benefits.
This afternoon, I took that test. I was confident that I would get the full benefit, particularly since I planned to tweak the facts a touch to get it. In this case, honesty doesn’t pay.
So I lied. Just a wee bit. About just a few things.
“How often do you consume alcohol?” the computer asked.
Since weekends are not on company time, we all know they don’t count. I searched among the choices for the correct weekday response, which would have read: “Once daily, as a bedtime chaser to one prescription and two herbal sleeping pills.”
It wasn’t there. There also was no space for write-in responses. All I could do, then, was mark the space that came closest to the truth: “Never.”
Really, bad sleep = bad employee, so my habit is more of a boon for the company than anything else. Right?
I moved on.
“How many servings of fruits do you eat a day?”
I thought. There were two in my morning banana/frozen raspberries/peanut butter/ice cream smoothie. And then, nothing for the rest of the day. They were big bananas, however, and I was generous with the frozen fruit. (And the sugar, when the ice cream ran out.)
That added up to … “Five!”
“Vegetables?”
Usually, I had some kind of vegetable with dinner. And often white rice, which counted, of course, since it comes from a plant. As does coffee, now that I think about it.
I wasn’t sure what the best answer would be. Would six make me seem excessive? A little too granola? Perhaps a low-producing employee because of all that wasted bathroom time?
Whatever. More had to be better. “Six!”
By this time, I was on a roll, spinning out of control in my increasingly sticky web of health-related lies. And in the back of my mind, always – the money. Why, $114 a year added up to $4.38 a pay period. The things I could do! The new kinds of wine I could try! I was getting might thirsty at the very idea, which was to be expected since it was 5 o'clock somewhere.
“Moderate exercise each week, at least 30 minutes a day?”
Since I walked the dog daily for 5 or 10 minutes each morning and evening, this was a no-brainer. And not really even a lie. I checked the maximum number.
Vigorous exercise weekly? At least 30 minutes a day?
Sometimes, I suddenly recalled, we had to run from other dogs, which Ally would otherwise attack. Such moments always produced a rush of adrenalin. Besides which, I lived on the third floor. Not to mention all the daily heart pounding involved in maneuvering through city traffic. Don't tell me that's not vigorous!
“Four!”
Stretching, i.e. yoga, Pilates? How many times weekly?
Yoga was something I actually did. And the classes were one hour and 15 minutes long! Surely longer than most, (although in truth, I've never attended a class any shorter than an hour). Which meant two classes a week equaled … Five!
"Do you pull over to take cell phone calls?"
Sheesh, doesn't everyone??
Do you suffer from depression? "No." Was it my fault they didn't ask about manic depression?
I was in the home stretch now. The last question?
“How much do you weigh?”
This was my ace in the hole. For the last couple of years, I’d weighed less than at any time in my life (except for right after that whole nervous breakdown thing; and I can't say that was a particularly flattering look). In fact, people here and there urged me to gain a few pounds.
I plugged the final numbers in and waited for the results.
They came back in seconds.
I looked at my risk factors.
Diet: Low
Alcohol consumption: Low
Fitness: Low
On and on, down and down the list. Until: “Weight: Moderate.”
Underneath, in red letters, was written: “Click here for more information.”
I clicked.
“Did you know being underweight can lead to weakness and fatigue? Poor concentration? Scabies?”
OK, so maybe it didn’t say scabies. I couldn’t really concentrate on the horse pucky I was reading.
“Your discount is $104. To learn more on the ill effects of low weight, and get heart-healthy tips, visit these links.”
I felt angry, disappointed and lighter in the wallet already. I had to recalculate my biweekly take. But that would have to come later. Because I was tired. So very tired. And sort of weak. The test really had taken it out of me.
I closed the computer, closed my eyes, closed my ears to the sound of my growling stomach and took a nap.
Thank God they also believe in coffee. Quality coffee. Where at my last job we all pitched in money to buy massive containers of Folger's, here, Starbucks and Seattle's Best flows from super-heated coffee pots 24/7. This, to me, is a benefit in itself.
Bu they don't stop there. As you might guess, the health insurance benefits are darn good. They can get even better if you prove to the company that you are hale and hearty.
The offer is thus: If you ace a health questionnaire, you get a $114-a-year discount on your total benefits.
This afternoon, I took that test. I was confident that I would get the full benefit, particularly since I planned to tweak the facts a touch to get it. In this case, honesty doesn’t pay.
So I lied. Just a wee bit. About just a few things.
“How often do you consume alcohol?” the computer asked.
Since weekends are not on company time, we all know they don’t count. I searched among the choices for the correct weekday response, which would have read: “Once daily, as a bedtime chaser to one prescription and two herbal sleeping pills.”
It wasn’t there. There also was no space for write-in responses. All I could do, then, was mark the space that came closest to the truth: “Never.”
Really, bad sleep = bad employee, so my habit is more of a boon for the company than anything else. Right?
I moved on.
“How many servings of fruits do you eat a day?”
I thought. There were two in my morning banana/frozen raspberries/peanut butter/ice cream smoothie. And then, nothing for the rest of the day. They were big bananas, however, and I was generous with the frozen fruit. (And the sugar, when the ice cream ran out.)
That added up to … “Five!”
“Vegetables?”
Usually, I had some kind of vegetable with dinner. And often white rice, which counted, of course, since it comes from a plant. As does coffee, now that I think about it.
I wasn’t sure what the best answer would be. Would six make me seem excessive? A little too granola? Perhaps a low-producing employee because of all that wasted bathroom time?
Whatever. More had to be better. “Six!”
By this time, I was on a roll, spinning out of control in my increasingly sticky web of health-related lies. And in the back of my mind, always – the money. Why, $114 a year added up to $4.38 a pay period. The things I could do! The new kinds of wine I could try! I was getting might thirsty at the very idea, which was to be expected since it was 5 o'clock somewhere.
“Moderate exercise each week, at least 30 minutes a day?”
Since I walked the dog daily for 5 or 10 minutes each morning and evening, this was a no-brainer. And not really even a lie. I checked the maximum number.
Vigorous exercise weekly? At least 30 minutes a day?
Sometimes, I suddenly recalled, we had to run from other dogs, which Ally would otherwise attack. Such moments always produced a rush of adrenalin. Besides which, I lived on the third floor. Not to mention all the daily heart pounding involved in maneuvering through city traffic. Don't tell me that's not vigorous!
“Four!”
Stretching, i.e. yoga, Pilates? How many times weekly?
Yoga was something I actually did. And the classes were one hour and 15 minutes long! Surely longer than most, (although in truth, I've never attended a class any shorter than an hour). Which meant two classes a week equaled … Five!
"Do you pull over to take cell phone calls?"
Sheesh, doesn't everyone??
Do you suffer from depression? "No." Was it my fault they didn't ask about manic depression?
I was in the home stretch now. The last question?
“How much do you weigh?”
This was my ace in the hole. For the last couple of years, I’d weighed less than at any time in my life (except for right after that whole nervous breakdown thing; and I can't say that was a particularly flattering look). In fact, people here and there urged me to gain a few pounds.
I plugged the final numbers in and waited for the results.
They came back in seconds.
I looked at my risk factors.
Diet: Low
Alcohol consumption: Low
Fitness: Low
On and on, down and down the list. Until: “Weight: Moderate.”
Underneath, in red letters, was written: “Click here for more information.”
I clicked.
“Did you know being underweight can lead to weakness and fatigue? Poor concentration? Scabies?”
OK, so maybe it didn’t say scabies. I couldn’t really concentrate on the horse pucky I was reading.
“Your discount is $104. To learn more on the ill effects of low weight, and get heart-healthy tips, visit these links.”
I felt angry, disappointed and lighter in the wallet already. I had to recalculate my biweekly take. But that would have to come later. Because I was tired. So very tired. And sort of weak. The test really had taken it out of me.
I closed the computer, closed my eyes, closed my ears to the sound of my growling stomach and took a nap.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
A downtown Denver homeless man turned the tables on me a few weeks ago. He gave me money. He pressed eight quarters into my hand and waved away my offer of two $1 bills.
"Tonight's my night," he told me. "I'm happy to help."
I knew I'd lived in Colorado Springs too long when I began to recognize the homeless there. Or maybe, that meant I'd finally lived there long enough. The black guy with the dreadlocks, toothy smile and over-sized trench coat was not a stranger to me, and certainly not someone I feared. He was a part of the community, someone whose face was nearly as familiar to me as the mayor's. If he was mentally ill, drug- or alcohol-addicted, it never showed.
Colorado Springs also had its share of alcoholic and mentally ill homeless folks, people whom you avoided on the sidewalk, whose behavior was erratic, their pleas for cash demanding, sometimes frighteningly insistent. But these, too, I came to recognize.
I don't expect to become as familiar with Denver's homeless as I did with Colorado Springs. The city is too big, and if the first few months are any indication, I will be an irregular downtown visitor. But I suspect I'd recognize my unlikely benefactor again.
I'd been circling the downtown area for nearly 15 minutes on a Wednesday night last month, searching for a parking spot whose fee was not greater than the amount I planned to spend that evening. My friend had long ago arrived at our destination, a margarita bar in Denver's toniest block.
"I'm here," I told her. "I just can't find a place to park!"
Then, I saw it - a metered parking spot about three blocks north of the street on which we were to meet. Downtown meters are free after 8 p.m., so this was a find. All I needed were 10 quarters to feed the thing until it closed its gaping maw for the night.
I did a smashing job of parallel parking, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
About 10 feet from me stood a man, bending down to pick something up from the gutter. He was bearded and mustached, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that hung loosely from his thin frame. A shopping cart, only partially filled with a few indistinguishable items, appeared to wait like a weary and loyal steed on the sidewalk next to him.
He looked up, saw me and held out his arm to show me something small and flat in his hand.
"I knew this was gonna happen!," he said. "I've had this feeling all day."
He grinned, so widely I responded in kind.
"I found $45!" he said, pointing into the gutter. "Two twenties here and a five there.
"Thank God! Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
He wanted, like anyone who makes an extraordinary find or just learns some unexpected good news, to share it with someone. And that was me.
"Wow, that's great," I said, and tried to get a closer look at his eyes. I could see no evidence in them or his manner that he was drunk, drugged or otherwise impaired. He was simply happy. "I bet you need that more than whoever lost it."
"Oh God, I sure do," he said. "I really do."
I had fished out my wallet by then and rummaged in its depths for quarters. I found two.
"I'm gonna have me a good dinner tonight," the man said. "I'm gonna get me some chicken-fried steak and some mashed potatoes. I'm gonna eat good."
He did a little dance on the sidewalk, raising his arms skyward and circling around in an awkward jig.
His joy was infectious, but not enough to distract me from my own plight. I stood, in perplexed frustration, at the meter, uncertain what to do next. Walking three blocks down and back, in high heels, seemed a daunting task.
"Hey," he said. "You need some money?"
I looked at him, not knowing how to respond. "I -"
"I think I got some quarters," he said. "Let me look."
He rummaged in a bag nestled in his shopping cart. "Yeah, I do."
He held out his hand, and I opened mine. Into it he dropped eight quarters.
I protested. "Listen, I've got a couple of dollars. Let me -"
He held up a hand to stop me in mid-sentence. "No. No ma'am. That's on me. Tonight, I've got plenty."
For a moment, he was as distinguished a gentleman as any I had ever met.
"You enjoy your night," he said.
"Well," I said, failing to find more words. "You, too."
"Oh, I will," he said, wrapping his hands around the cart handle and pushing it away from me, down the street. "I sure will. Thank the good Lord."
I walked down the street behind him until he turned left, toward a neon sign that blared, "Diner."
I smiled all the way to the bar, where my friend waited.
"There you are!" she said. "I wish you'd been here earlier. I parked my car and when I got out, this big, old homeless guy was standing there. He asked me for money and when I said 'no,' he kicked the meter and started muttering to himself. I thought he might get violent. These guys are so unpredictable."
I agreed. I'd have felt the same way in her position.
But sometimes, albeit rarely, they're unpredictable in a good way.
Tonight, as Denver's first major snowstorm of the season blankets the city with an icy white coat, I thought about the man I've come to think of as MY homeless guy. I hope he's warm, comfortable, well-protected from the elements, and full to the brim of chicken-fried steak.
"Tonight's my night," he told me. "I'm happy to help."
I knew I'd lived in Colorado Springs too long when I began to recognize the homeless there. Or maybe, that meant I'd finally lived there long enough. The black guy with the dreadlocks, toothy smile and over-sized trench coat was not a stranger to me, and certainly not someone I feared. He was a part of the community, someone whose face was nearly as familiar to me as the mayor's. If he was mentally ill, drug- or alcohol-addicted, it never showed.
Colorado Springs also had its share of alcoholic and mentally ill homeless folks, people whom you avoided on the sidewalk, whose behavior was erratic, their pleas for cash demanding, sometimes frighteningly insistent. But these, too, I came to recognize.
I don't expect to become as familiar with Denver's homeless as I did with Colorado Springs. The city is too big, and if the first few months are any indication, I will be an irregular downtown visitor. But I suspect I'd recognize my unlikely benefactor again.
I'd been circling the downtown area for nearly 15 minutes on a Wednesday night last month, searching for a parking spot whose fee was not greater than the amount I planned to spend that evening. My friend had long ago arrived at our destination, a margarita bar in Denver's toniest block.
"I'm here," I told her. "I just can't find a place to park!"
Then, I saw it - a metered parking spot about three blocks north of the street on which we were to meet. Downtown meters are free after 8 p.m., so this was a find. All I needed were 10 quarters to feed the thing until it closed its gaping maw for the night.
I did a smashing job of parallel parking, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
About 10 feet from me stood a man, bending down to pick something up from the gutter. He was bearded and mustached, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that hung loosely from his thin frame. A shopping cart, only partially filled with a few indistinguishable items, appeared to wait like a weary and loyal steed on the sidewalk next to him.
He looked up, saw me and held out his arm to show me something small and flat in his hand.
"I knew this was gonna happen!," he said. "I've had this feeling all day."
He grinned, so widely I responded in kind.
"I found $45!" he said, pointing into the gutter. "Two twenties here and a five there.
"Thank God! Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
He wanted, like anyone who makes an extraordinary find or just learns some unexpected good news, to share it with someone. And that was me.
"Wow, that's great," I said, and tried to get a closer look at his eyes. I could see no evidence in them or his manner that he was drunk, drugged or otherwise impaired. He was simply happy. "I bet you need that more than whoever lost it."
"Oh God, I sure do," he said. "I really do."
I had fished out my wallet by then and rummaged in its depths for quarters. I found two.
"I'm gonna have me a good dinner tonight," the man said. "I'm gonna get me some chicken-fried steak and some mashed potatoes. I'm gonna eat good."
He did a little dance on the sidewalk, raising his arms skyward and circling around in an awkward jig.
His joy was infectious, but not enough to distract me from my own plight. I stood, in perplexed frustration, at the meter, uncertain what to do next. Walking three blocks down and back, in high heels, seemed a daunting task.
"Hey," he said. "You need some money?"
I looked at him, not knowing how to respond. "I -"
"I think I got some quarters," he said. "Let me look."
He rummaged in a bag nestled in his shopping cart. "Yeah, I do."
He held out his hand, and I opened mine. Into it he dropped eight quarters.
I protested. "Listen, I've got a couple of dollars. Let me -"
He held up a hand to stop me in mid-sentence. "No. No ma'am. That's on me. Tonight, I've got plenty."
For a moment, he was as distinguished a gentleman as any I had ever met.
"You enjoy your night," he said.
"Well," I said, failing to find more words. "You, too."
"Oh, I will," he said, wrapping his hands around the cart handle and pushing it away from me, down the street. "I sure will. Thank the good Lord."
I walked down the street behind him until he turned left, toward a neon sign that blared, "Diner."
I smiled all the way to the bar, where my friend waited.
"There you are!" she said. "I wish you'd been here earlier. I parked my car and when I got out, this big, old homeless guy was standing there. He asked me for money and when I said 'no,' he kicked the meter and started muttering to himself. I thought he might get violent. These guys are so unpredictable."
I agreed. I'd have felt the same way in her position.
But sometimes, albeit rarely, they're unpredictable in a good way.
Tonight, as Denver's first major snowstorm of the season blankets the city with an icy white coat, I thought about the man I've come to think of as MY homeless guy. I hope he's warm, comfortable, well-protected from the elements, and full to the brim of chicken-fried steak.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
My mom has more than once said my father's never had a day of fun in his life. I hope my mother is wrong, but since she's lived with him for 50 years, I'm thinking she has a pretty good handle on this subject. I just hope that somewhere in the 35 years before they married, he had a couple good days of fun.
I hope he has scandalous secrets about which I don't know, things that still make him smile when he thinks no one's looking. My brother says he has some stories about nights out with buddies, but I suspect my dad was a spectator, and not a participant in most of the goings-on.
My father's 86 now, no less a curmudgeon than he was while my siblings and I grew up on the family farm, just an older one.
Instead of talking about farming, now he talks about bowel movements.
My dad was the only one home when I arrived at my parents' house earlier this summer for my mom's 80th birthday celebration. He hugged me. He hugged Robby. I asked him how he was, and he said he wasn't feeling so good.
"The god-damn doctor gave me pills that made me constipated," he said. "I took a laxative and but that just made me go a little, and nothing since. Damn straining irritated my hemorrhoids; they're all flared up. Christ."
He wrapped the whole sordid tale up saying, again, "I'm not feeling so damn good."
He told me all this with a straight face. All within 60 seconds of my walking in the door.
"Well," I said. "That doesn't sound fun."
I was home. And grateful only for the fact that he hadn't told me another story I'd heard: About what happened when the constipation ended. With volcanic effect.
A psychiatrist would have either a field day or a serious headache in attempting to label my father's disorder. From all that I've observed, he's agoraphobic, obsessive compulsive and bipolar.
It's certainly from dad's side of the family that my sisters and I inherited the mental illnesses from which we suffer. All three of us have struggled with depression and bipolar disorder. And you don't have to look very high into the branches of dad's family tree to connect the dots to past generations.
My mom's a good woman, but devoted to my father in a way I find hard to understand. She once told my sister she thought she would grow to love him over the years, but it never happened. She believes her reward for being a good wife to a difficult man will come in a life beyond this one. She is a staunch Catholic and after all these years, I understand why. She can't stop believing, or even question her faith. If she does, all these years of sacrifice will be for naught. To a woman who likes to laugh and has let pass countless opportunities for joy and fun to be by my dad's side, I truly cannot imagine how terrifying a thought that would be.
I respect her for her beliefs, and for how unshakable they are. I believe part of me is envious that she can be so certain when I am so unsure about not just the afterlife, but who or what this Higher Power is that brought us all here and how it plays into our everyday lives.
All that aside, you might guess that their unusual marriage spawned four unusual childhoods. But they were not without laughter.
Because Dad didn't have much fun in his life, he didn't leave much room for us to do so either. My siblings and I had to make do with what we had, and that was a challenge. My son is horrified when I tell him that we played with Jell-O boxes. They were cattle, who roamed the orange carpeted stairs in our farmhouse.
Lights were out at 10 p.m. Sharp. No talking, no going to the bathroom, no getting up, no lights on after that. No exceptions.
My sister and I, who shared a bed until we were well into Catholic elementary school, were regularly chided for giggling after the lights went out. Chided, I suppose, is not quite the right word. "Shut the hell up," my dad would yell down the hall, a phrase that sometimes only inspired us to more, but oh-so-carefully suppressed, laughter.
A light left glowing at 10:01 garnered a similar angry outburst. "Shut that god-damn light out!" Followed by the soft click of a light going off.
My Chicago cousins, who visited often during our growing-up years, tell me that one night - for what bizarre reason, I cannot imagine - Dad was out late. Past our bedtimes. They say we plotted this all out before bed, and when Dad came home, turning on lights downstairs while the rest of us lay in darkness, they waited for me to speak my line. I did, shouting down the stairs, "Shut off that god-damn light!"
Silence ensued - broken only by the sound of beds shaking as their occupants attempted to stifle laughter. Dad never said a word.
My mom was subject to these rules as well. During my childhood, she slept alone in a bedrooms downstairs, one level removed from Dad. It was a normal arrangement that no one questioned. Mom kept a coffee can under her bed. This wasn't a spittoon, though not even the saints in which she so firmly believes would have blamed her for taking up that or some other addiction to escape the strange world into which she'd married. No, the can was her bathroom during the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. night shift.
Mom knew well the creaky seventh stair. She did not even attempt to cross it.
Not so my friend Mary and I. Mary stayed overnight at my house only one time that I can recall. Though we're friends to this day, I think that experience was quite enough for her.
Mom let us sleep downstairs in her bed whenever friends stayed overnight. We settled in, whispering and laughing quietly after 10 p.m. This was a deliciously forbidden treat for me; being downstairs gave us an auditory advantage over my father. He couldn't hear our conversation, but he could hear plenty else. As the two of us wound down, Mary announced that she had to go to the bathroom.
"There's a can under the bed," I told her.
"What for?" she asked, eyes growing wide.
"To pee in," I said, a bit disgusted that I had even to explain this to her. Didn't everyone's mom pee in a can at night?
"I'm not peeing in that," she said. "I'm going to the bathroom."
Mary could not be dissuaded, despite my many warnings that the journey upstairs would be a perilous one.
"OK, then I'm going with you," I said, and we tiptoed together out of my mother's bedroom. Both of us instinctively assumed the crawl position, creeping step by step up, not just suppressing our laughter, but holding our breath. We were five steps from the top when a stair creaked. Both of us froze, dead silent. For a moment, we thought the sound had gone unnoticed.
Mary raised a hand to move to the next step. "Get back downstairs and get the hell to bed!" my father's voice boomed.
We retreated, wordlessly, back down the stairs, walking upright this time.
I closed Mom's bedroom door and shook my head in defeat. "Sorry, Mary, it's can time."
Mary shook her head. "I just won't pee," she said. "Let's go to sleep."
Twenty minutes later, she shook my shoulder. "OK, I've really gotta go. Will you go with me again?"
"Mary! Don't be stupid. He's just laying there waiting for us. Just pee in the can!"
"Fine," she said, "then I'll go by myself."
But this I couldn't allow. It was dangerous territory, and I knew it best. If we were to go down in defeat again, we'd do it together.
This time, we agreed to skip the seventh stair. It seemed an ingenious plan. Both of us lifted our hands from the sixth to the eighth. No sound. I grinned at Mary in the dark. Then both our knees hit the seventh stair.
This time, the voice came quickly, and like a thunderclap. "God-damnit, I said get the hell to bed, you god-damn kids!"
That night, Mary peed in a can, for the first - and last - time. After that, all the overnights were at her house, where we stayed up late, sat outside and scared ourselves silly with the certainty that we'd seen UFOs. We shut off all the lights in her bedroom and sang and danced to the Jackson 5's "Dancing Machine." Mary would prove to me she was meant to be with Leif Garrett because her lips matched perfectly with his when she pressed them to the full-length poster on her bedroom wall. We read aloud the definition of "sex" from the S encyclopedia. We made snickerdoodles at midnight. In short, we did what girls do.
And we peed whenever we wanted. Mary's parents didn't care.
When I think back on that night and others like it, I realize the effort my dad made to shout at us - whether it was Mary, my brother, my sisters or I - surely exceeded the disruption he'd suffered if only we'd been allowed to go unchecked.
But this was part of his lifelong curmudgeonly behavior.
Then again, maybe this was Dad's way of having fun. Maybe he had all of us fooled and on those nights, in the darkness of his room, he lay smiling. Maybe, minute by minute, this was the way my dad got in those couple days of fun in his life.
I hope he has scandalous secrets about which I don't know, things that still make him smile when he thinks no one's looking. My brother says he has some stories about nights out with buddies, but I suspect my dad was a spectator, and not a participant in most of the goings-on.
My father's 86 now, no less a curmudgeon than he was while my siblings and I grew up on the family farm, just an older one.
Instead of talking about farming, now he talks about bowel movements.
My dad was the only one home when I arrived at my parents' house earlier this summer for my mom's 80th birthday celebration. He hugged me. He hugged Robby. I asked him how he was, and he said he wasn't feeling so good.
"The god-damn doctor gave me pills that made me constipated," he said. "I took a laxative and but that just made me go a little, and nothing since. Damn straining irritated my hemorrhoids; they're all flared up. Christ."
He wrapped the whole sordid tale up saying, again, "I'm not feeling so damn good."
He told me all this with a straight face. All within 60 seconds of my walking in the door.
"Well," I said. "That doesn't sound fun."
I was home. And grateful only for the fact that he hadn't told me another story I'd heard: About what happened when the constipation ended. With volcanic effect.
A psychiatrist would have either a field day or a serious headache in attempting to label my father's disorder. From all that I've observed, he's agoraphobic, obsessive compulsive and bipolar.
It's certainly from dad's side of the family that my sisters and I inherited the mental illnesses from which we suffer. All three of us have struggled with depression and bipolar disorder. And you don't have to look very high into the branches of dad's family tree to connect the dots to past generations.
My mom's a good woman, but devoted to my father in a way I find hard to understand. She once told my sister she thought she would grow to love him over the years, but it never happened. She believes her reward for being a good wife to a difficult man will come in a life beyond this one. She is a staunch Catholic and after all these years, I understand why. She can't stop believing, or even question her faith. If she does, all these years of sacrifice will be for naught. To a woman who likes to laugh and has let pass countless opportunities for joy and fun to be by my dad's side, I truly cannot imagine how terrifying a thought that would be.
I respect her for her beliefs, and for how unshakable they are. I believe part of me is envious that she can be so certain when I am so unsure about not just the afterlife, but who or what this Higher Power is that brought us all here and how it plays into our everyday lives.
All that aside, you might guess that their unusual marriage spawned four unusual childhoods. But they were not without laughter.
Because Dad didn't have much fun in his life, he didn't leave much room for us to do so either. My siblings and I had to make do with what we had, and that was a challenge. My son is horrified when I tell him that we played with Jell-O boxes. They were cattle, who roamed the orange carpeted stairs in our farmhouse.
Lights were out at 10 p.m. Sharp. No talking, no going to the bathroom, no getting up, no lights on after that. No exceptions.
My sister and I, who shared a bed until we were well into Catholic elementary school, were regularly chided for giggling after the lights went out. Chided, I suppose, is not quite the right word. "Shut the hell up," my dad would yell down the hall, a phrase that sometimes only inspired us to more, but oh-so-carefully suppressed, laughter.
A light left glowing at 10:01 garnered a similar angry outburst. "Shut that god-damn light out!" Followed by the soft click of a light going off.
My Chicago cousins, who visited often during our growing-up years, tell me that one night - for what bizarre reason, I cannot imagine - Dad was out late. Past our bedtimes. They say we plotted this all out before bed, and when Dad came home, turning on lights downstairs while the rest of us lay in darkness, they waited for me to speak my line. I did, shouting down the stairs, "Shut off that god-damn light!"
Silence ensued - broken only by the sound of beds shaking as their occupants attempted to stifle laughter. Dad never said a word.
My mom was subject to these rules as well. During my childhood, she slept alone in a bedrooms downstairs, one level removed from Dad. It was a normal arrangement that no one questioned. Mom kept a coffee can under her bed. This wasn't a spittoon, though not even the saints in which she so firmly believes would have blamed her for taking up that or some other addiction to escape the strange world into which she'd married. No, the can was her bathroom during the 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. night shift.
Mom knew well the creaky seventh stair. She did not even attempt to cross it.
Not so my friend Mary and I. Mary stayed overnight at my house only one time that I can recall. Though we're friends to this day, I think that experience was quite enough for her.
Mom let us sleep downstairs in her bed whenever friends stayed overnight. We settled in, whispering and laughing quietly after 10 p.m. This was a deliciously forbidden treat for me; being downstairs gave us an auditory advantage over my father. He couldn't hear our conversation, but he could hear plenty else. As the two of us wound down, Mary announced that she had to go to the bathroom.
"There's a can under the bed," I told her.
"What for?" she asked, eyes growing wide.
"To pee in," I said, a bit disgusted that I had even to explain this to her. Didn't everyone's mom pee in a can at night?
"I'm not peeing in that," she said. "I'm going to the bathroom."
Mary could not be dissuaded, despite my many warnings that the journey upstairs would be a perilous one.
"OK, then I'm going with you," I said, and we tiptoed together out of my mother's bedroom. Both of us instinctively assumed the crawl position, creeping step by step up, not just suppressing our laughter, but holding our breath. We were five steps from the top when a stair creaked. Both of us froze, dead silent. For a moment, we thought the sound had gone unnoticed.
Mary raised a hand to move to the next step. "Get back downstairs and get the hell to bed!" my father's voice boomed.
We retreated, wordlessly, back down the stairs, walking upright this time.
I closed Mom's bedroom door and shook my head in defeat. "Sorry, Mary, it's can time."
Mary shook her head. "I just won't pee," she said. "Let's go to sleep."
Twenty minutes later, she shook my shoulder. "OK, I've really gotta go. Will you go with me again?"
"Mary! Don't be stupid. He's just laying there waiting for us. Just pee in the can!"
"Fine," she said, "then I'll go by myself."
But this I couldn't allow. It was dangerous territory, and I knew it best. If we were to go down in defeat again, we'd do it together.
This time, we agreed to skip the seventh stair. It seemed an ingenious plan. Both of us lifted our hands from the sixth to the eighth. No sound. I grinned at Mary in the dark. Then both our knees hit the seventh stair.
This time, the voice came quickly, and like a thunderclap. "God-damnit, I said get the hell to bed, you god-damn kids!"
That night, Mary peed in a can, for the first - and last - time. After that, all the overnights were at her house, where we stayed up late, sat outside and scared ourselves silly with the certainty that we'd seen UFOs. We shut off all the lights in her bedroom and sang and danced to the Jackson 5's "Dancing Machine." Mary would prove to me she was meant to be with Leif Garrett because her lips matched perfectly with his when she pressed them to the full-length poster on her bedroom wall. We read aloud the definition of "sex" from the S encyclopedia. We made snickerdoodles at midnight. In short, we did what girls do.
And we peed whenever we wanted. Mary's parents didn't care.
When I think back on that night and others like it, I realize the effort my dad made to shout at us - whether it was Mary, my brother, my sisters or I - surely exceeded the disruption he'd suffered if only we'd been allowed to go unchecked.
But this was part of his lifelong curmudgeonly behavior.
Then again, maybe this was Dad's way of having fun. Maybe he had all of us fooled and on those nights, in the darkness of his room, he lay smiling. Maybe, minute by minute, this was the way my dad got in those couple days of fun in his life.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
For the first time in months, I'm employed again by a big company. But this time, it's a really big company.
A year ago, if you'd told me I'd be clicking my heels across marble floors to get to my place of employment, or bidding goodnight each evening to a uniformed doorman as I stride back across those same floors home, I'd have laughed. Newspapers may be noble institutions, but they rarely are housed in noteworthy buildings. They are long on function, short on decor, trimmings or - most criminal - any sense of feng shui.
But so it is. And hell, maybe it's not marble - like I would know. But it looks like it to me, and it sounds better - for the sake of this blog entry - to describe it as such. The uniformed doorman is genuine, however. He is gray-haired, distinguished, and smiley - just like a doorman should be. His name is Allan (don't let me forget that).
I've spent the last two days filling out forms, listening to Webcasts and taking online courses required in my "development plan." It's all new and different to me, particularly these course tests. I'm not sure if anyone's checking my grades. I rather hope not, cuz I darn near failed record keeping.
My son would have aced it. I was instructed to decide how to dispose of the items that would fly by on the top of the screen. Along the bottom were three objects: a shredder, a garbage can and a filing cabinet. "Click 'start' when ready," the computer advised. I hesitated. My finger quivered a bit above the enter key - I was nervous.
This method seemed a red herring among all the tests that had proceeded it, and I didn't like that they had mixed it up. What was wrong with the check boxes and true-or-false format they'd used in previous tests? What frustrated games-addict had gotten his way with this one? And as long as he'd gotten the clear to do so, why hadn't he used a frog with a sticky tongue to zap the documents into the containers? Sound effects - maybe a belch from the frog or a slam of a garbage can lid - would have been nice, too. If you're gonna do something different, do it all the way!
Finally, I started. The items rolled from right to left, more quickly than I'd anticipated. I panicked, placed a birthday card from my colleagues in the shredder instead of the garbage can, a draft document into the filing cabinet instead of the shredder. Then I scored: Consumer profiles dropped into the filling cabinet! Official board meeting minutes -- same! Used Kleenex? I slam-dunked the slimy thing into the garbage can! And passed.
This is but one of the harrowing adventures I've undergone in these last 48 hours.
Far worse is the test of matching faces to names. I've met approximately 229 people in the last two days. Or maybe 19, I can't be sure. Here is how an average introduction has gone:
"Jane, this is Brad. He's the CE for the NPs, in charge of TLS."
I stare at Brad, who beams at me expectantly.
"Wow," I say. I want to add, "Whatever that is, I'm sure you're just fabulous at it." Instead, I say, "Nice to meet you."
Because I feel momentarily reluctant to identify my new employer (surely my new boss is blog-trolling), I will tell you only that this is a medical company. Most of the people employed here have medical backgrounds. They know what these abbreviations mean. Me, I'm a journalist. I understand BOCC (board of county commissioners), HOA (c'mon, surely you know), ACE (assistant city editor), and OT (because we were told daily not to get one second of it).
I do not get NP - until someone in HR (I get that one, too), tells me it means Nurse Practitioner.
But I am new. I am a fine, smart addition to the company. I will admit no weaknesses, yet. Instead, I'll nod and hope no one sees my utter lack of comprehension.
For the moment, I understand all I need to. Paycheck. (Bigger than any I have ever received in my life). Expense account. Company American Express card. And cell phone.
I now have a company-issued cell phone. That means I have two -- my personal phone, and my company phone.
I am in a quandary about this. For now, I carry them both. The company Webcasts warn that it can look at your Internet history, read any e-mail sent from the company computer and put a boot on your car wheel if you lie about your mileage. Wait - that was the Gazette, maybe they weren't quite that extreme. At any rate, I'm nervous, and so reluctant to make my company phone my personal one as well.
The combined weight of two tiny phones is too much for the wee, cheap purses I favor. My shoulder already hurts. And I am horrified at the idea that both of them will ring at once someday in a public place. I will fumble through a tangle of shoulder straps - the company laptop and the electronic company notebooks we will be issued next month - to find them. People will turn and sneer, thinking, as I would, "Please, who does she think she is?"
And I will tell them, "I'm a DH MA-PD AE at EVC for UHG." That oughta shut 'em up.
A year ago, if you'd told me I'd be clicking my heels across marble floors to get to my place of employment, or bidding goodnight each evening to a uniformed doorman as I stride back across those same floors home, I'd have laughed. Newspapers may be noble institutions, but they rarely are housed in noteworthy buildings. They are long on function, short on decor, trimmings or - most criminal - any sense of feng shui.
But so it is. And hell, maybe it's not marble - like I would know. But it looks like it to me, and it sounds better - for the sake of this blog entry - to describe it as such. The uniformed doorman is genuine, however. He is gray-haired, distinguished, and smiley - just like a doorman should be. His name is Allan (don't let me forget that).
I've spent the last two days filling out forms, listening to Webcasts and taking online courses required in my "development plan." It's all new and different to me, particularly these course tests. I'm not sure if anyone's checking my grades. I rather hope not, cuz I darn near failed record keeping.
My son would have aced it. I was instructed to decide how to dispose of the items that would fly by on the top of the screen. Along the bottom were three objects: a shredder, a garbage can and a filing cabinet. "Click 'start' when ready," the computer advised. I hesitated. My finger quivered a bit above the enter key - I was nervous.
This method seemed a red herring among all the tests that had proceeded it, and I didn't like that they had mixed it up. What was wrong with the check boxes and true-or-false format they'd used in previous tests? What frustrated games-addict had gotten his way with this one? And as long as he'd gotten the clear to do so, why hadn't he used a frog with a sticky tongue to zap the documents into the containers? Sound effects - maybe a belch from the frog or a slam of a garbage can lid - would have been nice, too. If you're gonna do something different, do it all the way!
Finally, I started. The items rolled from right to left, more quickly than I'd anticipated. I panicked, placed a birthday card from my colleagues in the shredder instead of the garbage can, a draft document into the filing cabinet instead of the shredder. Then I scored: Consumer profiles dropped into the filling cabinet! Official board meeting minutes -- same! Used Kleenex? I slam-dunked the slimy thing into the garbage can! And passed.
This is but one of the harrowing adventures I've undergone in these last 48 hours.
Far worse is the test of matching faces to names. I've met approximately 229 people in the last two days. Or maybe 19, I can't be sure. Here is how an average introduction has gone:
"Jane, this is Brad. He's the CE for the NPs, in charge of TLS."
I stare at Brad, who beams at me expectantly.
"Wow," I say. I want to add, "Whatever that is, I'm sure you're just fabulous at it." Instead, I say, "Nice to meet you."
Because I feel momentarily reluctant to identify my new employer (surely my new boss is blog-trolling), I will tell you only that this is a medical company. Most of the people employed here have medical backgrounds. They know what these abbreviations mean. Me, I'm a journalist. I understand BOCC (board of county commissioners), HOA (c'mon, surely you know), ACE (assistant city editor), and OT (because we were told daily not to get one second of it).
I do not get NP - until someone in HR (I get that one, too), tells me it means Nurse Practitioner.
But I am new. I am a fine, smart addition to the company. I will admit no weaknesses, yet. Instead, I'll nod and hope no one sees my utter lack of comprehension.
For the moment, I understand all I need to. Paycheck. (Bigger than any I have ever received in my life). Expense account. Company American Express card. And cell phone.
I now have a company-issued cell phone. That means I have two -- my personal phone, and my company phone.
I am in a quandary about this. For now, I carry them both. The company Webcasts warn that it can look at your Internet history, read any e-mail sent from the company computer and put a boot on your car wheel if you lie about your mileage. Wait - that was the Gazette, maybe they weren't quite that extreme. At any rate, I'm nervous, and so reluctant to make my company phone my personal one as well.
The combined weight of two tiny phones is too much for the wee, cheap purses I favor. My shoulder already hurts. And I am horrified at the idea that both of them will ring at once someday in a public place. I will fumble through a tangle of shoulder straps - the company laptop and the electronic company notebooks we will be issued next month - to find them. People will turn and sneer, thinking, as I would, "Please, who does she think she is?"
And I will tell them, "I'm a DH MA-PD AE at EVC for UHG." That oughta shut 'em up.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Endings are never easy. It doesn't matter that it's your decision, or that your reasons are solid. Saying goodbye hurts.
But if you leave with your head held high, your sense of self strong, it hurts far less.
That's how I walked away from the African.
It's the first time in my life I acted on early warnings about a man, the first time I didn't push them aside and believe they would resolve themselves, that I could change him, and that he would eventually love me for it. In the past, I'd have hung on, become deeply, emotionally entangled and ended up heartbroken - my faith in men shattered yet again, my confidence in shreds, fear of risking another relationship binding me for months, perhaps years.
Aside from my ex-husband, it was the only time that I mattered more than him.
There was just one red flag with Roger. He was a Summit County guy. He could have been a Vail or an Aspen guy, almost any single man living in a resort community. They are a breed apart, with a strikingly similar mindset.
Each of them, even if not physically beautiful, is born with a magnetic personality. He is dedicated to a life of minimal responsibility, a trait that is enviable and admirable. In the same way the class troublemaker's recklessness and daring inspire an astounded tip of the hat, so does his seemingly untroubled decision to break with tradition. He lives for the moment, for the thrill of catching air on a black diamond run, the adrenalin rush of blasting down uncharted mountain terrain on a bike, for alcohol-induced highs and the touch of a woman. His happy, free spirit and dedication to all things pleasurable make him a powerfully seductive force. He is a heartbreak waiting to happen.
I saw all this from day one. I searched in his stories for evidence of a single serious relationship. With the exception of his daughter, I found none. But that was exceptional in itself. I saw the photos of a smiling, red-headed 5-year-old on his refrigerator. I heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of her. I heard him commit to never leaving her and Colorado.
That devotion gave me hope that he was different. Indeed, he was.
Never was there an unhappy moment with the African. His eyes sparkled each time he saw me. His voice on the phone was without fail enthusiastic, lifting at the sound of mine. I never so much as saw a frown cross his beautiful face.
I wonder, even as I write, why on earth I threw all that away.
Perhaps that initial, drunken kiss on the steps of the bar set the stage. That impulsive, reckless and delightful exchange spawned a relationship just as bold and unreflective. I firmly believe we should all get wild once in a while. But it's the rareness of it that makes it so fabulous and freeing an experience. In a disappointingly short period of time, it loses its shine.
Months later, my emotions had caught up with me. Roger was no longer just a handsome stranger. He was a man for whom I cared.
But time always was a fleeting element for Roger. He was heading out of town for the weekend, he had to be at work. He had, always, to be elsewhere, and soon, and I was never invited to accompany him. He asked to see me in those pockets of time between, and I allowed it.
He made it clear: I was not a priority.
Roger dressed it all in cheery tones, and genuine sincerity. He never lied or led me on. He thought things between us were perfect – just as they were. He had no plans to change his life, to introduce me to his friends or to meet mine, or even to take me to dinner.
I wanted to believe it could be that easy, to subscribe to a relationship that would always be light and spontaneous. What did the trimmings matter?
But it wasn't enough. Roger's fierce hugs and bright smiles were temporary things. He took up no more space in my life than two or three hours here and there. I realized, in the last few days, that the emptiness I felt when he left was not worth the brief pleasure of his company. My respect for both of us was waning. Worst of all, I'd become vulnerable.
Roger was a well-time blessing in my life. I needed him to cool my feelings for the other significant man in my life, for the huge boost in self confidence it gave me that such a charming, gorgeous man found me so desirable, for serving as a repeated bright spot in my often lonely first summer in this new city, and for the different kind of confidence it gave me to leave all that behind. I am grateful to him for it all.
I nipped the rest - damaged self esteem, frustration, anger and the pain peeking over the horizon - in the bud.
To the last, we never exchanged a harsh word.
He was baffled when I said I wouldn't be seeing him anymore.
“You’re thinking about this way too much,” he said. "What's wrong with this?"
I wanted to tell him he was not thinking about it enough, to ask him if he could find it in himself to give me more, how he could like me so much but keep me so hidden, why at 35 he was still living like a teenager. But I said nothing at all.
He smiled, kissed me and pulled me to his chest. "You're going to miss me. In a month, you're going to call.
"Stay the night," he said, and I told him I might.
I waited until I heard his breathing ease into sleep. I thought ahead to the morning and the goodbye that would come with it.
I moved silently away from him, walked to the door and opened it. Cold, high-mountain night air embraced me as I crossed the threshold. I did not look back.
But if you leave with your head held high, your sense of self strong, it hurts far less.
That's how I walked away from the African.
It's the first time in my life I acted on early warnings about a man, the first time I didn't push them aside and believe they would resolve themselves, that I could change him, and that he would eventually love me for it. In the past, I'd have hung on, become deeply, emotionally entangled and ended up heartbroken - my faith in men shattered yet again, my confidence in shreds, fear of risking another relationship binding me for months, perhaps years.
Aside from my ex-husband, it was the only time that I mattered more than him.
There was just one red flag with Roger. He was a Summit County guy. He could have been a Vail or an Aspen guy, almost any single man living in a resort community. They are a breed apart, with a strikingly similar mindset.
Each of them, even if not physically beautiful, is born with a magnetic personality. He is dedicated to a life of minimal responsibility, a trait that is enviable and admirable. In the same way the class troublemaker's recklessness and daring inspire an astounded tip of the hat, so does his seemingly untroubled decision to break with tradition. He lives for the moment, for the thrill of catching air on a black diamond run, the adrenalin rush of blasting down uncharted mountain terrain on a bike, for alcohol-induced highs and the touch of a woman. His happy, free spirit and dedication to all things pleasurable make him a powerfully seductive force. He is a heartbreak waiting to happen.
I saw all this from day one. I searched in his stories for evidence of a single serious relationship. With the exception of his daughter, I found none. But that was exceptional in itself. I saw the photos of a smiling, red-headed 5-year-old on his refrigerator. I heard the pride in his voice when he spoke of her. I heard him commit to never leaving her and Colorado.
That devotion gave me hope that he was different. Indeed, he was.
Never was there an unhappy moment with the African. His eyes sparkled each time he saw me. His voice on the phone was without fail enthusiastic, lifting at the sound of mine. I never so much as saw a frown cross his beautiful face.
I wonder, even as I write, why on earth I threw all that away.
Perhaps that initial, drunken kiss on the steps of the bar set the stage. That impulsive, reckless and delightful exchange spawned a relationship just as bold and unreflective. I firmly believe we should all get wild once in a while. But it's the rareness of it that makes it so fabulous and freeing an experience. In a disappointingly short period of time, it loses its shine.
Months later, my emotions had caught up with me. Roger was no longer just a handsome stranger. He was a man for whom I cared.
But time always was a fleeting element for Roger. He was heading out of town for the weekend, he had to be at work. He had, always, to be elsewhere, and soon, and I was never invited to accompany him. He asked to see me in those pockets of time between, and I allowed it.
He made it clear: I was not a priority.
Roger dressed it all in cheery tones, and genuine sincerity. He never lied or led me on. He thought things between us were perfect – just as they were. He had no plans to change his life, to introduce me to his friends or to meet mine, or even to take me to dinner.
I wanted to believe it could be that easy, to subscribe to a relationship that would always be light and spontaneous. What did the trimmings matter?
But it wasn't enough. Roger's fierce hugs and bright smiles were temporary things. He took up no more space in my life than two or three hours here and there. I realized, in the last few days, that the emptiness I felt when he left was not worth the brief pleasure of his company. My respect for both of us was waning. Worst of all, I'd become vulnerable.
Roger was a well-time blessing in my life. I needed him to cool my feelings for the other significant man in my life, for the huge boost in self confidence it gave me that such a charming, gorgeous man found me so desirable, for serving as a repeated bright spot in my often lonely first summer in this new city, and for the different kind of confidence it gave me to leave all that behind. I am grateful to him for it all.
I nipped the rest - damaged self esteem, frustration, anger and the pain peeking over the horizon - in the bud.
To the last, we never exchanged a harsh word.
He was baffled when I said I wouldn't be seeing him anymore.
“You’re thinking about this way too much,” he said. "What's wrong with this?"
I wanted to tell him he was not thinking about it enough, to ask him if he could find it in himself to give me more, how he could like me so much but keep me so hidden, why at 35 he was still living like a teenager. But I said nothing at all.
He smiled, kissed me and pulled me to his chest. "You're going to miss me. In a month, you're going to call.
"Stay the night," he said, and I told him I might.
I waited until I heard his breathing ease into sleep. I thought ahead to the morning and the goodbye that would come with it.
I moved silently away from him, walked to the door and opened it. Cold, high-mountain night air embraced me as I crossed the threshold. I did not look back.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Time and again, the Internet proves itself a poor way for me to meet men. Yet, every few months or so, I give it another chance, encouraged by friends who meet nice, long-term boyfriends online. But after last night, I'm done. And please don't ever let me forget it.
I signed up for this free site several months ago, met a man who became my first stalker, and abandoned the whole idea Then, inexplicably, the African stopped calling. Que sera sera, I told myself, he didn’t mean all that much to me anyway.
A week later, I crossed paths in a city park with a dark-haired, handsome man with three children in tow. He spoke to them, giving me a passing glance as he did so, and I heard a musical accent – Australian, African, British, German, or something. To my horror, I shot him a killer glare.
I realized on that day a distraction was in order.
So I popped back onto the free site, unhid my profile and waited. I received a dozen or so e-mails. Most of them were men in their 50s. One was 29 – too young, even, for me. But one was 39, a mortgage broker, cute smile, semi-witty profile. He shot me a nice, respectful compliment about my smile. I was charmed.
We agreed to meet. My first red flag came quickly when he responded to my, ‘Sure, let’s have a drink’ e-mail with 5 e-mails of his own. The last, sent an hour after mine, said, “Did I scare you off? I didn’t mean to. Please write.”
At this point, however, I could not think of a polite way to back out.
We met at an English pub near his office. His name was Gary, and he looked exactly like his picture. He opened the door. The smell of cologne wafted from him as he walked into the pub. He was nervous.
I found it all endearing.
Perhaps I had been wrong, I thought.
The bar was dimly lit and artfully decorated. He led me to a pair of love seats near a fireplace in the very back section of it, and we sat opposite each other, with a heavy coffee table between us – a seating arrangement with which I was completely comfortable. We ordered two dark ales.
The conversation flowed smoothly, with neither of us taking more than our share of air time. He told me about his job, his recent victory over smoking, the family that lived in Denver and with whom he spent much of his time. He complimented my smile again.
We talked about beer. He was relieved, he said, to hear I was not a teetotaler. Not, he added hastily, that there was anything wrong with that.
I was, to my surprise, enjoying myself.
“Ya know,” he said, “I think I’ve seen your byline. I used to work in the Springs and I’d page through the Gazette from time to time. Just skimming it, ya know. Now, if it’d had pictures of naked women in it, I’d have read it from cover to cover.”
Gary laughed jovially.
I smiled, and swallowed. Hard.
“Am I wrong here, or do we have a vibe going?” he asked.
Startled, I didn’t answer for a moment.
“We may,” I said, pleased with my careful response.
“Well listen, if that’s the case, I gotta tell you something,” he said, and stood to move closer to me. Clearly, he expected me to scoot over and make room for him on the love seat. I sat statute still. He perched awkwardly on the leather arm and leaned down to talk softly.
“I like to let the girls know this up front, just in case they have a problem with it,” he said. “I take the little blue pill, ya know? I’ve had a problem since I was in junior high. The main blood vessel just never formed correctly. The doctor said there’s no way for it to get enough blood. The drive is there. Believe me. But the blood can’t get to it to make it happen.
“So I take the pill and everything is fine. Really, really fine.”
He moved back over to his love seat, sat down and smiled at me. “I just think it’s better to be honest about these things,” he said.
I smiled. “Well, isn’t it amazing all the great medications they have out there these days for – everything.
“I mean, think about all the antidepressants there are now. Things like that.”
He snorted. “Well, at least I’m alright mentally,” he said, and, pointing an index finger at his temple, twirled it in a circle.
Without asking me, he ordered two more beers. I asked for a water.
He smiled at me and shook his head. “Wow, you are just about perfect,” he said. “Not that you were being tested!
“You’re attractive. You’re funny. You drink beer. You understand my shortcomings. Not that there’s anything short about it – trust me, that is not an issue.”
Then, he made a pumping motion with his arms. His hips slid back and forth on the love seat. He was thrusting.
At that very moment, my cell phone rang, loud and insistent.
“It’s OK. You can answer it,” he said.
“No, no,” I shook my head, reaching for my purse. “I’ll just see who it is.”
I stared at the number. Area code: Summit County. Prefix: cell phone. 3031: Roger.
I set it down, let it go to voicemail.
Gary looked at my face. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It’s someone I was seeing until about a month ago.”
“Well,” he said. “I guess he missed out.”
It was not a question. It was a statement.
Hastily, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
The door had not yet closed by the time I hit “New Message.” The African’s voice, his tone happy and excited, floated out to me. A shot of adrenalin zipped through my legs, straight to my toes.
He said he had dropped his phone in water a few weeks ago and had spent all his time since regathering lost numbers. “I had to wait until I got my statement today to look through it and find yours, but I’ve found you! How are you? Call me sometime, OK?”
I heard the unmistakable tremor of nerves in his last few words. He was uncertain that I would call.
And that, I thought, was just as it should be. The tables were turned now. I would make him wait, sweat and wonder - just as I had.
Two hours seemed punishment enough.
That gave me time to flee from Gary. When I came back from the table, he looked at me, suspiciously. “You’re getting ready to tell me you have to go somewhere, aren’t you?”
Really, I did admire his powers of perception. He had a strong instinct, it seemed, for women who were about to blow him off.
“Yes,” I said. I explained to him I'd already arranged to meet a girlfriend who needed to talk about some difficult issues in her life. This was true, but I had met with her the night before and we'd made no arrangements to meet again so soon. It was, however, an explanation with which I knew he wouldn't argue.
“Oh,” he said. “I understand. You barely touched your second beer?”
“Well, I’m guessing you won’t let it go to waste,” I said. “You seem like a smart man.”
He grinned. “You are right about that. I’ll walk you to your car, then I’ll come back and make sure that gets a good home.”
Gary followed me out, and I hastily unlocked my door. He moved closer.
“I’m wondering now if I should try to kiss her,” he said. “I want to, but …”
I smiled and stepped forward. “How about a hug?”
“OK,” he said, and hugged me tight. “I’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”
He stood back and winked at me. “Don’t meet any other guys.”
I laughed, waved and stepped into the sweet security of my car.
Gary had sent me two e-mails by the time I got up this morning. I e-mailed him back to tell him I had talked to the guy who called during our date, and we were back on. He responded almost immediately.
"Geez, I find the perfect girl and poof! She's gone. This has happened to me before and I'm trying not to be bitter, but I just don't get it."
Sadly, I believe he never will.
I signed up for this free site several months ago, met a man who became my first stalker, and abandoned the whole idea Then, inexplicably, the African stopped calling. Que sera sera, I told myself, he didn’t mean all that much to me anyway.
A week later, I crossed paths in a city park with a dark-haired, handsome man with three children in tow. He spoke to them, giving me a passing glance as he did so, and I heard a musical accent – Australian, African, British, German, or something. To my horror, I shot him a killer glare.
I realized on that day a distraction was in order.
So I popped back onto the free site, unhid my profile and waited. I received a dozen or so e-mails. Most of them were men in their 50s. One was 29 – too young, even, for me. But one was 39, a mortgage broker, cute smile, semi-witty profile. He shot me a nice, respectful compliment about my smile. I was charmed.
We agreed to meet. My first red flag came quickly when he responded to my, ‘Sure, let’s have a drink’ e-mail with 5 e-mails of his own. The last, sent an hour after mine, said, “Did I scare you off? I didn’t mean to. Please write.”
At this point, however, I could not think of a polite way to back out.
We met at an English pub near his office. His name was Gary, and he looked exactly like his picture. He opened the door. The smell of cologne wafted from him as he walked into the pub. He was nervous.
I found it all endearing.
Perhaps I had been wrong, I thought.
The bar was dimly lit and artfully decorated. He led me to a pair of love seats near a fireplace in the very back section of it, and we sat opposite each other, with a heavy coffee table between us – a seating arrangement with which I was completely comfortable. We ordered two dark ales.
The conversation flowed smoothly, with neither of us taking more than our share of air time. He told me about his job, his recent victory over smoking, the family that lived in Denver and with whom he spent much of his time. He complimented my smile again.
We talked about beer. He was relieved, he said, to hear I was not a teetotaler. Not, he added hastily, that there was anything wrong with that.
I was, to my surprise, enjoying myself.
“Ya know,” he said, “I think I’ve seen your byline. I used to work in the Springs and I’d page through the Gazette from time to time. Just skimming it, ya know. Now, if it’d had pictures of naked women in it, I’d have read it from cover to cover.”
Gary laughed jovially.
I smiled, and swallowed. Hard.
“Am I wrong here, or do we have a vibe going?” he asked.
Startled, I didn’t answer for a moment.
“We may,” I said, pleased with my careful response.
“Well listen, if that’s the case, I gotta tell you something,” he said, and stood to move closer to me. Clearly, he expected me to scoot over and make room for him on the love seat. I sat statute still. He perched awkwardly on the leather arm and leaned down to talk softly.
“I like to let the girls know this up front, just in case they have a problem with it,” he said. “I take the little blue pill, ya know? I’ve had a problem since I was in junior high. The main blood vessel just never formed correctly. The doctor said there’s no way for it to get enough blood. The drive is there. Believe me. But the blood can’t get to it to make it happen.
“So I take the pill and everything is fine. Really, really fine.”
He moved back over to his love seat, sat down and smiled at me. “I just think it’s better to be honest about these things,” he said.
I smiled. “Well, isn’t it amazing all the great medications they have out there these days for – everything.
“I mean, think about all the antidepressants there are now. Things like that.”
He snorted. “Well, at least I’m alright mentally,” he said, and, pointing an index finger at his temple, twirled it in a circle.
Without asking me, he ordered two more beers. I asked for a water.
He smiled at me and shook his head. “Wow, you are just about perfect,” he said. “Not that you were being tested!
“You’re attractive. You’re funny. You drink beer. You understand my shortcomings. Not that there’s anything short about it – trust me, that is not an issue.”
Then, he made a pumping motion with his arms. His hips slid back and forth on the love seat. He was thrusting.
At that very moment, my cell phone rang, loud and insistent.
“It’s OK. You can answer it,” he said.
“No, no,” I shook my head, reaching for my purse. “I’ll just see who it is.”
I stared at the number. Area code: Summit County. Prefix: cell phone. 3031: Roger.
I set it down, let it go to voicemail.
Gary looked at my face. “It’s a guy, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It’s someone I was seeing until about a month ago.”
“Well,” he said. “I guess he missed out.”
It was not a question. It was a statement.
Hastily, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
The door had not yet closed by the time I hit “New Message.” The African’s voice, his tone happy and excited, floated out to me. A shot of adrenalin zipped through my legs, straight to my toes.
He said he had dropped his phone in water a few weeks ago and had spent all his time since regathering lost numbers. “I had to wait until I got my statement today to look through it and find yours, but I’ve found you! How are you? Call me sometime, OK?”
I heard the unmistakable tremor of nerves in his last few words. He was uncertain that I would call.
And that, I thought, was just as it should be. The tables were turned now. I would make him wait, sweat and wonder - just as I had.
Two hours seemed punishment enough.
That gave me time to flee from Gary. When I came back from the table, he looked at me, suspiciously. “You’re getting ready to tell me you have to go somewhere, aren’t you?”
Really, I did admire his powers of perception. He had a strong instinct, it seemed, for women who were about to blow him off.
“Yes,” I said. I explained to him I'd already arranged to meet a girlfriend who needed to talk about some difficult issues in her life. This was true, but I had met with her the night before and we'd made no arrangements to meet again so soon. It was, however, an explanation with which I knew he wouldn't argue.
“Oh,” he said. “I understand. You barely touched your second beer?”
“Well, I’m guessing you won’t let it go to waste,” I said. “You seem like a smart man.”
He grinned. “You are right about that. I’ll walk you to your car, then I’ll come back and make sure that gets a good home.”
Gary followed me out, and I hastily unlocked my door. He moved closer.
“I’m wondering now if I should try to kiss her,” he said. “I want to, but …”
I smiled and stepped forward. “How about a hug?”
“OK,” he said, and hugged me tight. “I’ll e-mail you tomorrow.”
He stood back and winked at me. “Don’t meet any other guys.”
I laughed, waved and stepped into the sweet security of my car.
Gary had sent me two e-mails by the time I got up this morning. I e-mailed him back to tell him I had talked to the guy who called during our date, and we were back on. He responded almost immediately.
"Geez, I find the perfect girl and poof! She's gone. This has happened to me before and I'm trying not to be bitter, but I just don't get it."
Sadly, I believe he never will.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
I'm cheating tonight. This was an essay I wrote about two years ago. I stumbled upon it today and felt it was worth resurrecting here. I hope you agree.
My son doesn’t remember his father and I together. We separated when he was 14 months old, days after he took his first wobbling steps. Days, too, after a trip home to Wisconsin that was supposed to be about writing a book and ended up being the realization my marriage was over.
I left quickly, hoping Robby would not remember. Hoping, too, to leave while both my ex and I had enough youth and faith in love to find someone else.
Two years ago, when Robby was 7, my ex married again. She was childless, in her mid-40s and had had a hysterectomy. She had, I’m sure, resigned herself to the fact she would never have the children she’d always wanted.
Then, along came my ex, and with him the cuddly blond boy who is our son. My son.
My ex told me how much she loved Robby. He encouraged him, he said, to call her “Mom.” “He has two mothers now,” he said.
It seemed beyond anyone’s definition of grace for me to accept the idea.
My ex, I think, saw it as the surest way to enfold her into his life, put Robby at ease and complete his new family circle. I saw it as a clear and deep betrayal.
For Robby, however, it was not about biology but love - the more, the better. How lucky he was, I tried to tell myself, to have three parents now.
That Mother’s Day, I waited for the annual school project gift, the lovingly made, often homely offering created with the teacher’s guidance. It did not come.
When next I went by my ex’s house, I saw on an end table a homemade necklace – a plaster-of-Paris mold strung on a bright green ribbon. The mold was a rough depiction of a woman’s face framed by brown hair. Like me. Like his stepmother.
My ex told me Robby had given it to his wife. He said no more, but I heard the words hanging between us: “Instead of you.”
I called my mother, and cried to her from across the miles. Her voice cracked as she searched for words of comfort.
I wish I could say I let it go, sucked it up, simply felt bone-deep certainty that Robby knew well who his real mother was and that nothing and no one could alter our bond. But I did not. The pain seemed too great.
Instead, I talked to him. I asked him why he had given his Mother’s Day gift to her. She was his stepmom, I reminded him. Presents like that, I said, should go to your real mom.
He looked up at me, his brown eyes shiny with tears.
“But Mom,” he said, “she’s never had a Mother’s Day.”
***
Since then, my ex, his wife and I have settled into a fairly comfortable relationship. We’ve sat three-in-a-row through Christmas programs, parent/teacher conferences and karate lessons, adjusted schedules around 4-H and Cub Scouts, and stopped arguing about who pays for what.
We have all learned to bend. Sometimes beyond, as my yoga instructor insists, the point of flexibility.
Last week, heading back from our weekly pick-up point, Robby gave me another gift.
“I was just thinking,” he said, “how lucky I am to have three parents.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, Sherry’s teaching me about drawing. Dad teaches me how to fix things. And you …” He frowned. “I’m trying to think what you teach me. Maybe about computers.”
And maybe, I hoped, a little something about flexibility.
Robby smiled brightly. I laughed.
How lucky indeed.
My son doesn’t remember his father and I together. We separated when he was 14 months old, days after he took his first wobbling steps. Days, too, after a trip home to Wisconsin that was supposed to be about writing a book and ended up being the realization my marriage was over.
I left quickly, hoping Robby would not remember. Hoping, too, to leave while both my ex and I had enough youth and faith in love to find someone else.
Two years ago, when Robby was 7, my ex married again. She was childless, in her mid-40s and had had a hysterectomy. She had, I’m sure, resigned herself to the fact she would never have the children she’d always wanted.
Then, along came my ex, and with him the cuddly blond boy who is our son. My son.
My ex told me how much she loved Robby. He encouraged him, he said, to call her “Mom.” “He has two mothers now,” he said.
It seemed beyond anyone’s definition of grace for me to accept the idea.
My ex, I think, saw it as the surest way to enfold her into his life, put Robby at ease and complete his new family circle. I saw it as a clear and deep betrayal.
For Robby, however, it was not about biology but love - the more, the better. How lucky he was, I tried to tell myself, to have three parents now.
That Mother’s Day, I waited for the annual school project gift, the lovingly made, often homely offering created with the teacher’s guidance. It did not come.
When next I went by my ex’s house, I saw on an end table a homemade necklace – a plaster-of-Paris mold strung on a bright green ribbon. The mold was a rough depiction of a woman’s face framed by brown hair. Like me. Like his stepmother.
My ex told me Robby had given it to his wife. He said no more, but I heard the words hanging between us: “Instead of you.”
I called my mother, and cried to her from across the miles. Her voice cracked as she searched for words of comfort.
I wish I could say I let it go, sucked it up, simply felt bone-deep certainty that Robby knew well who his real mother was and that nothing and no one could alter our bond. But I did not. The pain seemed too great.
Instead, I talked to him. I asked him why he had given his Mother’s Day gift to her. She was his stepmom, I reminded him. Presents like that, I said, should go to your real mom.
He looked up at me, his brown eyes shiny with tears.
“But Mom,” he said, “she’s never had a Mother’s Day.”
***
Since then, my ex, his wife and I have settled into a fairly comfortable relationship. We’ve sat three-in-a-row through Christmas programs, parent/teacher conferences and karate lessons, adjusted schedules around 4-H and Cub Scouts, and stopped arguing about who pays for what.
We have all learned to bend. Sometimes beyond, as my yoga instructor insists, the point of flexibility.
Last week, heading back from our weekly pick-up point, Robby gave me another gift.
“I was just thinking,” he said, “how lucky I am to have three parents.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Well, Sherry’s teaching me about drawing. Dad teaches me how to fix things. And you …” He frowned. “I’m trying to think what you teach me. Maybe about computers.”
And maybe, I hoped, a little something about flexibility.
Robby smiled brightly. I laughed.
How lucky indeed.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Do you ever wonder what happens to the drivers of those cars abandoned in snowstorms?
This is sort of a seasonal topic, and I don't know why I'm thinking of it right now. But I am, and I thought there was probably a good chance this thought had crossed your minds, too.
Why do they stop in the first place? After miles of crouching to see the sliver of road visible through their frosty windshield, do they suddenly pull over and say, "Oh fuck it! This is just too hard."
And then what?
Do they just stumble out into the blinding snowstorm and die? And if so, why do we never hear about it in the spring, when their grizzly remains rise up from the departing snow?
Do they call a relative or friend to come get them? Just how inconsiderate is that? "Listen, I can't drive in this stuff. The conditions are the worst I've ever seen them. Cars are spinning out all over the place. It's dangerous as all get out. I've never been so terrified to be behind the wheel of a car in all my life.
"Will you come get me?"
Does the woman's boyfriend - or, so I don't appear sexist, guy's mother - really relish the idea of driving in it anymore than you did? So you've put your own life at risk. Now you want to endanger two of you?
So if they don't do that, maybe they call 911. Maybe the State Patrol spends all its time during snow storms picking up hapless drivers and shuttling them to cozy hotel lobbies. Somehow, I don't think that's true. I think the troopers have other things to attend to during weather disasters.
I don't just wonder nasty, belittling things about these drivers - although I have to admit, if it's an old, rusted-out heap of junk, I immediately believe whatever happened to them was their own fault. I know this is uncharitable, but it's a flaw in my otherwise lily-white character I can't seem to control.
For God's sake, I think, you ran out of gas! If you'd put part of the cash you waste on cigarettes into some good snow tires, you wouldn't be sitting there, would you? How could you possible think a Yugo would make it over a mountain pass in January??
Whereas, if it's a modest car, my heart bleeds for their unknown tragedy.
Oh my God, did you run out of gas? Did you go into labor? Did some low-life in a Yugo abscond with your brand new snow tires?
Four-wheel drive SUV abandonees get less sympathy from me as well. This was the guy - or someone very like him - who nearly drove me off the road when he passed me six miles back. So what if I was in his lane - I couldn't see through the one-inch frost-free zone of my windshield. Now karma has caught up to him. (Of course it's a him; a woman would never drive so aggressively - unless she's PMSing, and then she has every right to take her intensely personal pain out on other drivers.)
Sometimes, you see these cars sitting in the same spot for days. This baffles me even more than the initial abandonment.
Perhaps they were hen-pecked men who'd been considering vanishing from their domestic hell for years. The snowstorm, they realized, was their only opportunity to make a break for it. After all, they'd have at least until spring before their wives even realized they weren't actually dead.
Or did the car just perform so pitifully in the storm that the owner walked away in disgust, throwing his keys into the snow and never looking back.
Again, unless PMSing, a woman who never do either of the above.
Someone should do a story on the whole thing. Maybe I'll put a bug in the ear of my one remaining journalist friend. It'd be easy enough - match the plate to the owner and call them, ask them why on earth they abandoned their car - or ask their families what they believe happened to the loved one who drove off into a snowy night, and never returned. You could do a chart showing how many left spouses, how many called mommy, and how many simply could not find the defroster button.
Iraq and Jon Benet could take a back seat for just a day so this Average Joe question finally could be answered.
You'd read it. Wouldn't you?
This is sort of a seasonal topic, and I don't know why I'm thinking of it right now. But I am, and I thought there was probably a good chance this thought had crossed your minds, too.
Why do they stop in the first place? After miles of crouching to see the sliver of road visible through their frosty windshield, do they suddenly pull over and say, "Oh fuck it! This is just too hard."
And then what?
Do they just stumble out into the blinding snowstorm and die? And if so, why do we never hear about it in the spring, when their grizzly remains rise up from the departing snow?
Do they call a relative or friend to come get them? Just how inconsiderate is that? "Listen, I can't drive in this stuff. The conditions are the worst I've ever seen them. Cars are spinning out all over the place. It's dangerous as all get out. I've never been so terrified to be behind the wheel of a car in all my life.
"Will you come get me?"
Does the woman's boyfriend - or, so I don't appear sexist, guy's mother - really relish the idea of driving in it anymore than you did? So you've put your own life at risk. Now you want to endanger two of you?
So if they don't do that, maybe they call 911. Maybe the State Patrol spends all its time during snow storms picking up hapless drivers and shuttling them to cozy hotel lobbies. Somehow, I don't think that's true. I think the troopers have other things to attend to during weather disasters.
I don't just wonder nasty, belittling things about these drivers - although I have to admit, if it's an old, rusted-out heap of junk, I immediately believe whatever happened to them was their own fault. I know this is uncharitable, but it's a flaw in my otherwise lily-white character I can't seem to control.
For God's sake, I think, you ran out of gas! If you'd put part of the cash you waste on cigarettes into some good snow tires, you wouldn't be sitting there, would you? How could you possible think a Yugo would make it over a mountain pass in January??
Whereas, if it's a modest car, my heart bleeds for their unknown tragedy.
Oh my God, did you run out of gas? Did you go into labor? Did some low-life in a Yugo abscond with your brand new snow tires?
Four-wheel drive SUV abandonees get less sympathy from me as well. This was the guy - or someone very like him - who nearly drove me off the road when he passed me six miles back. So what if I was in his lane - I couldn't see through the one-inch frost-free zone of my windshield. Now karma has caught up to him. (Of course it's a him; a woman would never drive so aggressively - unless she's PMSing, and then she has every right to take her intensely personal pain out on other drivers.)
Sometimes, you see these cars sitting in the same spot for days. This baffles me even more than the initial abandonment.
Perhaps they were hen-pecked men who'd been considering vanishing from their domestic hell for years. The snowstorm, they realized, was their only opportunity to make a break for it. After all, they'd have at least until spring before their wives even realized they weren't actually dead.
Or did the car just perform so pitifully in the storm that the owner walked away in disgust, throwing his keys into the snow and never looking back.
Again, unless PMSing, a woman who never do either of the above.
Someone should do a story on the whole thing. Maybe I'll put a bug in the ear of my one remaining journalist friend. It'd be easy enough - match the plate to the owner and call them, ask them why on earth they abandoned their car - or ask their families what they believe happened to the loved one who drove off into a snowy night, and never returned. You could do a chart showing how many left spouses, how many called mommy, and how many simply could not find the defroster button.
Iraq and Jon Benet could take a back seat for just a day so this Average Joe question finally could be answered.
You'd read it. Wouldn't you?
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
OK, I just wanna go on a rant completely unrelated to anything else. Things have been a little heavy on the blog here lately, so I'm going to skirt another edge for a moment and talk about one of life's mosquitos - an everyday issue that matters little but irritates just the same.
Who on earth invented scented underarm deodorant?
Personally, I want my armpits to do three things: not grow hair, not sweat and not smell. Not smell AT ALL. Armpits should be perfectly neutral on the whole smell thing. That's why I buy perfume and body spray. Fragrance should come from my pulse points, not my pits. What marketing whiz decided scented deodorant was a fine fricking idea? By its very name, deodorant should not have any smell!
Another thing about this stuff: Why is it so hard for them to make deodorant that doesn't leave white marks on your clothes? Some companies have done it; why can't they all?? Do the stain remover folks pay select companies NOT to make their deodorants invisible? What kind of crazy scheme is going on here exactly? Certainly, perfume manufacturers were not invited to the party.
I am somewhat happy with this product, Secret clear gel, because it is, as promised, clear. So far, it's left no white smudges on my black, navy or otherwise dark tops. But I had no choice about the smell. Either the Unscented was sold out, or Secret opted not to make such a ridiculous product. Who, after all, would want unscented deodorant when you could have what I now have: Vanilla Sparkle.
Now, my clothes are unmarked, but I smell like vanilla. Had I known how very strong Vanilla Sparkle was, I would not have purchased it. But my other options seemed no less desirable. I could have been Tropical Sparkle or Berry Sparkle. Vanilla seemed safe, neutral, even blah. It's vanilla, for God's sake. But not this stuff - it's overwhelmingly sweet and strong. Would that my perfumes lasted as long as Vanilla Sparkle Clear Gel Secret.
There's even a graphic of an ice cream cone on it. Does a 42-year-old woman really want to smell like an ice cream cone? Or a berry? Or a coconut? Does even a 16-year-old woman want this? The only women I can think of who want to smell like ice cream haven't yet developed sweat glands; they're racking up single digit birthdays and biting their tongues as they struggle to print their first names with soft-edged pencils.
Most of the time, I wear no fragrance at all, and on those days, that is my aim. I want to smell like nothing. I'd like to think I naturally emit a delightful fragrance of my own, but let's not kid ourselves. We're humans. Without deodorant, we stink. Even with deodorant, the odds of us smelling lovely are slim (let's not forget breath, feet and, well, other areas that are not naturally minty smelling).
So, how about a deodorant called Inoffensive Woman? When will we see that on the shelf? Or if that's not jazzy enough, Nature Girl. And please don't go adding any pine or earthy scents, thinking this will make DO even more attractive to the neutral-scent-seeking woman. Oh, and definitely don't go for patchouli.
No offense to anyone patchouli fans who may be reading this, but from my nose's point of view, only in the drug-crazed 60s and 70s could that "unique" odor have possibly been considered alluring. If you're in my vicinity and wearing it, please stand back a bit - but not so far that I can't reach the pipe you're extending in my direction.
Back to you manufacturing types: Follow the age-old KISS rule: Keep it simple, Stupid. Produce every underarm product with exactly the same basic, timeless name that I believe almost all of us scour the shelves for every time we're forced to buy deodorant: Unscented.
Who on earth invented scented underarm deodorant?
Personally, I want my armpits to do three things: not grow hair, not sweat and not smell. Not smell AT ALL. Armpits should be perfectly neutral on the whole smell thing. That's why I buy perfume and body spray. Fragrance should come from my pulse points, not my pits. What marketing whiz decided scented deodorant was a fine fricking idea? By its very name, deodorant should not have any smell!
Another thing about this stuff: Why is it so hard for them to make deodorant that doesn't leave white marks on your clothes? Some companies have done it; why can't they all?? Do the stain remover folks pay select companies NOT to make their deodorants invisible? What kind of crazy scheme is going on here exactly? Certainly, perfume manufacturers were not invited to the party.
I am somewhat happy with this product, Secret clear gel, because it is, as promised, clear. So far, it's left no white smudges on my black, navy or otherwise dark tops. But I had no choice about the smell. Either the Unscented was sold out, or Secret opted not to make such a ridiculous product. Who, after all, would want unscented deodorant when you could have what I now have: Vanilla Sparkle.
Now, my clothes are unmarked, but I smell like vanilla. Had I known how very strong Vanilla Sparkle was, I would not have purchased it. But my other options seemed no less desirable. I could have been Tropical Sparkle or Berry Sparkle. Vanilla seemed safe, neutral, even blah. It's vanilla, for God's sake. But not this stuff - it's overwhelmingly sweet and strong. Would that my perfumes lasted as long as Vanilla Sparkle Clear Gel Secret.
There's even a graphic of an ice cream cone on it. Does a 42-year-old woman really want to smell like an ice cream cone? Or a berry? Or a coconut? Does even a 16-year-old woman want this? The only women I can think of who want to smell like ice cream haven't yet developed sweat glands; they're racking up single digit birthdays and biting their tongues as they struggle to print their first names with soft-edged pencils.
Most of the time, I wear no fragrance at all, and on those days, that is my aim. I want to smell like nothing. I'd like to think I naturally emit a delightful fragrance of my own, but let's not kid ourselves. We're humans. Without deodorant, we stink. Even with deodorant, the odds of us smelling lovely are slim (let's not forget breath, feet and, well, other areas that are not naturally minty smelling).
So, how about a deodorant called Inoffensive Woman? When will we see that on the shelf? Or if that's not jazzy enough, Nature Girl. And please don't go adding any pine or earthy scents, thinking this will make DO even more attractive to the neutral-scent-seeking woman. Oh, and definitely don't go for patchouli.
No offense to anyone patchouli fans who may be reading this, but from my nose's point of view, only in the drug-crazed 60s and 70s could that "unique" odor have possibly been considered alluring. If you're in my vicinity and wearing it, please stand back a bit - but not so far that I can't reach the pipe you're extending in my direction.
Back to you manufacturing types: Follow the age-old KISS rule: Keep it simple, Stupid. Produce every underarm product with exactly the same basic, timeless name that I believe almost all of us scour the shelves for every time we're forced to buy deodorant: Unscented.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Brad's services have come and gone. I feel healed by it, but feel flashes of guilt in the wake of it all. Why is my grief not deeper? Why is it not lingering? When will it rear its ugly head again? And what if it never does? I know there is no right way to grieve, yet I feel my loss should be tearing me apart, as it is some of my friends.
Two friends flew into DIA and stayed here last Friday night. The three of us - two of whom had never met before - stayed up late, drinking wine, talking about Brad, sharing our disbelief that this had happened to one so beautiful and vital. It seemed to me the three of us felt immediately comfortable with one another. Our friendship with Brad, and our shared loss, bound us immediately.
Stephanie said she had letters he'd penned to her years ago saved at her home in California. She e-mailed last week to say she'd re-read them, and they reassured her that Brad did indeed have a good life.
Kimberly, however, had been visiting him three times a week before he died, leaning on him as she worked through domestic pain. Likewise with Shauna.
Brad had been propping up two of my friends, and I hadn't even known. Kimberly feels lost, still overwhelmed by her personal problems and without the rock Brad had become for her.
I worry about both of these women, delicate souls from the start, who are trying to move on with their lives. One dealing with the unknown and likely eternal "what ifs," along with the loss of support and friendship. The other whose loss is coupled with intense personal struggle.
I want to be there for them now. But I can't be from this distance. And I can never take Brad's place.
I worry, too, about Mark, the photographer who worked with him at the paper for years. Someone said last weekend that the Brad and Mark years were the paper's golden ones. I felt privileged that I had been there during those years.
But Mark suffered the loss of a girlfriend, the shocking and bizarre loss of his job, and a transfer that took him to Aspen. Aspen, he said, is not his home. Frisco, home of the Summit Daily and the cabin he still owns, is where his heart resides. Mark is quiet. His emotions stay, for the most part, underground. Brad, he said, was his brother. I wonder where his grief will go, how he will let it out, if it will stay inside and eat that gentle man to pieces.
As for me, I'm doing better than I'd have thought with it all. I was so shaky before the service I couldn't look at Brad's photos, more than a dozen of which were on display at the amphitheater in which his service was held. I tried to sign the guest book and only got as far as my name and address. The pen simply ceased to function when I tried to write in the comments section, where people had written messages to Brad.
Stephanie, Kimberly and I held onto one another during the service. We laughed as Shauna spoke, doing a perfect impression of Brad's monotone voice. We cried when she said that through all this confusion, all she wanted to do was talk to Brad about it. We cried still more when she made a personal vow to the blue sky above that she would be a better friend in the future, as he had always been. Tears rolled when Mark, normally so shy, gave a heart-rending speech and said, as he walked off stage, "I'll see you again someday, my brother."
Then somehow, after it was over, I felt calm and steady. And have felt mostly that way since.
In keeping with everyone's resolve to be better friends and stay in touch, I have reached out to some old Summit Daily friends this week. In the space of only a few days, I have seen five of them. A surprising amount of us live in the Denver metro area. Jeff, a mid-90s co-worker, and I met for a drink downtown Wednesday. Kristin, my former editor, invited me to her baby shower yesterday, where I saw three other old friends. Andy and I, after putting it off for weeks, finally will meet for that drink midway between our suburban homes.
I really hope we can all keep this up. It could be that Brad's death has the strange effect of re-igniting these old friendships that have been missing in my life (perhaps all our lives) so long and somehow assuaging the loneliness. It makes me feel guilty just writing that, however.
Somehow the most heartbreaking thing of all came Tuesday. Kimberly called to say she was in the Summit Daily parking lot at and about to go in for the first time without Brad.
"I don't think I can do this without crying. Can you talk me through it?" she asked, and she burst into gut-wrenching sobs.
My eyes, which had been tearless for days, welled. My chest ached as her pain sped across the satellite signal and wrapped itself around me. "You're breaking my heart," I told her.
I told her to cry, to run for Martha, who had been there for more than a dozen years and knew Brad almost as well as she did. These people, all of whom loved him, too, will understand, I said. She broke down, she told me later, and it was, she said, just fine.
So now, I move on, without as much sorrow as I think I should feel.
Certainly, it has residual, even strangely comical, effect.
When I arrived home last Sunday night, I tossed my packet of daily pills by the sink - my antidepressant, my mood stabilizer, my multi-vitamins, calcium and acne treatment. As well as my herbal sleeping pills, which I failed to notice were still mixed among them.
The next morning, I swallowed them all and got ready to make the 45-minute drive to my boss' home.
I stood to leave and felt overcome by dizziness. It was, I swore, a variety of dizziness I'd never felt before, extending from my head to my toes and leaving nothing between untouched. My brain did not want my limbs to move. My brain wanted only to lay my body down. I felt, or perhaps imagined, my left arm tingling.
I'm dying, I thought. I'm having a heart attack and I'm going to die here in my bedroom. I'm going where Brad has gone, only 10 days later. Why couldn't I have died at the same time, I thought. It would have been so much more convenient for everyone. How many of these people will return for my funeral; surely, only a handful. And who will find me? How long will I lay here?
Somehow, I convinced myself that rather than laying down, I should head for the office.
If I die on the highway and have an accident, I thought, at least I'll be found immediately. Hopefully, I won't take anyone else with me. Hopefully, I'll just drive off the edge and pass away at the steering wheel. Someone will stop. They'll grab my cell phone and begin notifying everyone.
But I did not die. Instead, I drove to work fighting the urge to nod off. Nausea set in. My head began to throb.
Slowly, I started to think I might not be dying after all.
My boss was concerned. She fed me crackers and hot tea. She asked if I needed to go home.
"No, no," I reassured her, feeling brave in the face of this potentially terrible illness. "I'll be OK."
An hour later, I felt dramatically improved. Only then did my brain recover enough to think back on my morning's dose, to remember it had seemed like an unusually tough swallow, to realize my Valerian pills had been nestled in among all the others.
I did not admit this to my boss.
I was not dying. But neither did I feel as Brad wrote that he did in a letter he penned to a friend several years ago. He was in a tent far from civilization in the middle of a frenetic lightning storm. If he were struck that night and died, he wrote, he would be content. He had lived a good life, seen many places, loved many people. Brad survived the lightning storm and lived many more good years. This letter, I think, comforts his family and friends deeply.
But I don't share Brad's sentiments. Only in the last few years do I think I've begun the process of giving to others, of becoming less selfish and feeling that I can make a difference.
I want to see my son through every fascinating phase of his life, to be the best influence I can be and continue to help form this amazing young person into the fine adult I already know he will be. He needs me, this child. Even if I felt ready to go, he is not ready to lose his mother.
There are a million places I want to see, and experiences I want to have. I want to share my life with a man, perhaps a man with children. Have I lived alone too long? Am I too spoiled by my own good child to take on someone else's? Perhaps. Yet nature beckons me toward that lifestyle; it's a yearning that begs to be satisfied. I want to be a better friend, a better sibling, a better daughter, a better mom. I want to take more chances. Damnit, I want to try that Indoor Skydiving thing down by the mall. What the heck is that anyway?
What it all boils down to is, I cannot write the words that Brad wrote in that tent. How many of us can?
Last eve, Robby and I were kicking a rock across a parking lot and I noticed it would have been a perfect skipping stone. Out of the blue, I remembered skipping rocks with Brad at a pond while we were en route to some story, and Brad trying to teach me the proper wrist flick. I never did get it.
The memory did not pain me, as I thought it should. It was only a thought of a pleasant sunny day with Brad, one of many nice times we'd shared. Those moments were never over-the-top - Brad was a man of moderation in all things - but never anything less than nice. They simply were.
And so, I guess, is that memory. It was not a knife to my heart, which - thank to the forces-that-be - continues to beat strongly. It was a gentle reminder of a dear and now-departed friend that, thankfully I believe, did not fill me with yearning, regret or angst about my own mortality.
It simply was.
Two friends flew into DIA and stayed here last Friday night. The three of us - two of whom had never met before - stayed up late, drinking wine, talking about Brad, sharing our disbelief that this had happened to one so beautiful and vital. It seemed to me the three of us felt immediately comfortable with one another. Our friendship with Brad, and our shared loss, bound us immediately.
Stephanie said she had letters he'd penned to her years ago saved at her home in California. She e-mailed last week to say she'd re-read them, and they reassured her that Brad did indeed have a good life.
Kimberly, however, had been visiting him three times a week before he died, leaning on him as she worked through domestic pain. Likewise with Shauna.
Brad had been propping up two of my friends, and I hadn't even known. Kimberly feels lost, still overwhelmed by her personal problems and without the rock Brad had become for her.
I worry about both of these women, delicate souls from the start, who are trying to move on with their lives. One dealing with the unknown and likely eternal "what ifs," along with the loss of support and friendship. The other whose loss is coupled with intense personal struggle.
I want to be there for them now. But I can't be from this distance. And I can never take Brad's place.
I worry, too, about Mark, the photographer who worked with him at the paper for years. Someone said last weekend that the Brad and Mark years were the paper's golden ones. I felt privileged that I had been there during those years.
But Mark suffered the loss of a girlfriend, the shocking and bizarre loss of his job, and a transfer that took him to Aspen. Aspen, he said, is not his home. Frisco, home of the Summit Daily and the cabin he still owns, is where his heart resides. Mark is quiet. His emotions stay, for the most part, underground. Brad, he said, was his brother. I wonder where his grief will go, how he will let it out, if it will stay inside and eat that gentle man to pieces.
As for me, I'm doing better than I'd have thought with it all. I was so shaky before the service I couldn't look at Brad's photos, more than a dozen of which were on display at the amphitheater in which his service was held. I tried to sign the guest book and only got as far as my name and address. The pen simply ceased to function when I tried to write in the comments section, where people had written messages to Brad.
Stephanie, Kimberly and I held onto one another during the service. We laughed as Shauna spoke, doing a perfect impression of Brad's monotone voice. We cried when she said that through all this confusion, all she wanted to do was talk to Brad about it. We cried still more when she made a personal vow to the blue sky above that she would be a better friend in the future, as he had always been. Tears rolled when Mark, normally so shy, gave a heart-rending speech and said, as he walked off stage, "I'll see you again someday, my brother."
Then somehow, after it was over, I felt calm and steady. And have felt mostly that way since.
In keeping with everyone's resolve to be better friends and stay in touch, I have reached out to some old Summit Daily friends this week. In the space of only a few days, I have seen five of them. A surprising amount of us live in the Denver metro area. Jeff, a mid-90s co-worker, and I met for a drink downtown Wednesday. Kristin, my former editor, invited me to her baby shower yesterday, where I saw three other old friends. Andy and I, after putting it off for weeks, finally will meet for that drink midway between our suburban homes.
I really hope we can all keep this up. It could be that Brad's death has the strange effect of re-igniting these old friendships that have been missing in my life (perhaps all our lives) so long and somehow assuaging the loneliness. It makes me feel guilty just writing that, however.
Somehow the most heartbreaking thing of all came Tuesday. Kimberly called to say she was in the Summit Daily parking lot at and about to go in for the first time without Brad.
"I don't think I can do this without crying. Can you talk me through it?" she asked, and she burst into gut-wrenching sobs.
My eyes, which had been tearless for days, welled. My chest ached as her pain sped across the satellite signal and wrapped itself around me. "You're breaking my heart," I told her.
I told her to cry, to run for Martha, who had been there for more than a dozen years and knew Brad almost as well as she did. These people, all of whom loved him, too, will understand, I said. She broke down, she told me later, and it was, she said, just fine.
So now, I move on, without as much sorrow as I think I should feel.
Certainly, it has residual, even strangely comical, effect.
When I arrived home last Sunday night, I tossed my packet of daily pills by the sink - my antidepressant, my mood stabilizer, my multi-vitamins, calcium and acne treatment. As well as my herbal sleeping pills, which I failed to notice were still mixed among them.
The next morning, I swallowed them all and got ready to make the 45-minute drive to my boss' home.
I stood to leave and felt overcome by dizziness. It was, I swore, a variety of dizziness I'd never felt before, extending from my head to my toes and leaving nothing between untouched. My brain did not want my limbs to move. My brain wanted only to lay my body down. I felt, or perhaps imagined, my left arm tingling.
I'm dying, I thought. I'm having a heart attack and I'm going to die here in my bedroom. I'm going where Brad has gone, only 10 days later. Why couldn't I have died at the same time, I thought. It would have been so much more convenient for everyone. How many of these people will return for my funeral; surely, only a handful. And who will find me? How long will I lay here?
Somehow, I convinced myself that rather than laying down, I should head for the office.
If I die on the highway and have an accident, I thought, at least I'll be found immediately. Hopefully, I won't take anyone else with me. Hopefully, I'll just drive off the edge and pass away at the steering wheel. Someone will stop. They'll grab my cell phone and begin notifying everyone.
But I did not die. Instead, I drove to work fighting the urge to nod off. Nausea set in. My head began to throb.
Slowly, I started to think I might not be dying after all.
My boss was concerned. She fed me crackers and hot tea. She asked if I needed to go home.
"No, no," I reassured her, feeling brave in the face of this potentially terrible illness. "I'll be OK."
An hour later, I felt dramatically improved. Only then did my brain recover enough to think back on my morning's dose, to remember it had seemed like an unusually tough swallow, to realize my Valerian pills had been nestled in among all the others.
I did not admit this to my boss.
I was not dying. But neither did I feel as Brad wrote that he did in a letter he penned to a friend several years ago. He was in a tent far from civilization in the middle of a frenetic lightning storm. If he were struck that night and died, he wrote, he would be content. He had lived a good life, seen many places, loved many people. Brad survived the lightning storm and lived many more good years. This letter, I think, comforts his family and friends deeply.
But I don't share Brad's sentiments. Only in the last few years do I think I've begun the process of giving to others, of becoming less selfish and feeling that I can make a difference.
I want to see my son through every fascinating phase of his life, to be the best influence I can be and continue to help form this amazing young person into the fine adult I already know he will be. He needs me, this child. Even if I felt ready to go, he is not ready to lose his mother.
There are a million places I want to see, and experiences I want to have. I want to share my life with a man, perhaps a man with children. Have I lived alone too long? Am I too spoiled by my own good child to take on someone else's? Perhaps. Yet nature beckons me toward that lifestyle; it's a yearning that begs to be satisfied. I want to be a better friend, a better sibling, a better daughter, a better mom. I want to take more chances. Damnit, I want to try that Indoor Skydiving thing down by the mall. What the heck is that anyway?
What it all boils down to is, I cannot write the words that Brad wrote in that tent. How many of us can?
Last eve, Robby and I were kicking a rock across a parking lot and I noticed it would have been a perfect skipping stone. Out of the blue, I remembered skipping rocks with Brad at a pond while we were en route to some story, and Brad trying to teach me the proper wrist flick. I never did get it.
The memory did not pain me, as I thought it should. It was only a thought of a pleasant sunny day with Brad, one of many nice times we'd shared. Those moments were never over-the-top - Brad was a man of moderation in all things - but never anything less than nice. They simply were.
And so, I guess, is that memory. It was not a knife to my heart, which - thank to the forces-that-be - continues to beat strongly. It was a gentle reminder of a dear and now-departed friend that, thankfully I believe, did not fill me with yearning, regret or angst about my own mortality.
It simply was.
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