To anyone who's followed this blog, I offer a heartfelt thank you.
But I've decided to take it a little more public, actually attach my last name to it and move it to a site with more traffic on which readers can offer feedback. So far, so good.
If you'd like to continue to follow, here's the link:
http://denver.yourhub.com/~AwkwardPose
You may notice a couple repeats as I'm editing and recycling some of my old posts.
Again, thanks for reading!
Jane
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
I Scream, You Scream, No More Ice Cream
The trail led down the hill, disappearing through a tunnel of houses, then up and into sight again, vanishing over the horizon. It beckoned me to follow, but at 7:30 p.m., the sun had set and darkness was falling fast. Reluctantly, I turned toward home.
Late this summer, I rediscovered the joys of bicycling. Tonight, pressed for time, it was the mountain bike I chose, spinning out of my garage and around the corner onto the dirt trail, a dog-eared bicycle map tucked inside my T-shirt. Shoes open-toed, legs bare. No helmet. No water. No destination.
Racing the descending sun and clouds that threatened rain, I rode hard and fast, thinking about everything and nothing: The man at whom I was pissed, loose plans already made for the upcoming weekend without my sun, the Sunday choir performance for which I felt unprepared, a too-long-absent friend with whom I'd finally spoken that day, the man at whom I was pissed.
I stood on my pedals to ease the pain in my knees of schlepping the bike and my body up a hill. It was not even a steep hill, I noted with equal parts dismay and disgust. I'd felt deceptively fit only a week ago when I rode 20 quick miles on my slender, laughably light, aluminum-framed Trek. But sailing on a road bike over Denver's flat, paved trails was one thing. Riding the heavier mountain bike over the small roller-coaster-variety trails of the south suburbs was an exercise in humility.
At the top of that rise was a split in the trail, and here was where the trail unfurled down, up and away. It seemed to disappear into the mountains, which were framed by dark clouds. Drops of rain began to fall, but lazily so. They lacked the enthusiasm necessary to become a storm, a soaker or even a dust buster.
With or without rain, the newly discovered section of trail would have to wait for another evening. I headed gratefully downhill.
By the time I rounded the last corner of the bike trail and bounced over the curb and back onto the street, darkness was only one slim layer of light away.
Out of the gloom, the sound of chimes rang, taking on an audible shape that was instantly recognizable. It was the song of the ice cream truck. The small, boxy vehicle drove into view at the end of a nearby street, pausing at the stop sign.
Something was wrong with this picture, I thought. It was the lights. The ice cream truck was piercing the darkness of the neighborhood streets with headlights.
The ice cream truck belonged on sun-drenched summer streets, with kids who ran to it from the front yards in which they'd already been playing.
Yet here it was, the driver making one last, seemingly desperate round on a Monday night, the first of autumn. I imagined the arguments he sparked in kitchens throughout the neighborhood as the heads of children, obediently bent over homework, snapped up at the strains of their favorite summer song. They pleaded and cajoled, and work-weary parents responded with firm, then frustrated 'nos'.
The ice cream truck, so welcome on a summer's day, did not belong here this eve.
The truck and I passed one another on the street. It slowed, the driver perhaps momentarily confused at the tiny light bobbing toward it, then regained speed, the driver and I waving at one another in the off-handed way of mere visual acquaintances.
As I rode by the truck's side, the sound waves broke and shifted and the happy tune suddenly devolved into something you'd expect to hear from a horror movie fun house. It was as though the truck were speaking. Summer's over, it seemed to say. Close the windows, pull the blinds, put away the sprinklers, drain the pools, bring in the flower pots. The bitterly beautiful season of winter is waiting impatiently in the wings, ready to take center stage.
The trail led down the hill, disappearing through a tunnel of houses, then up and into sight again, vanishing over the horizon. It beckoned me to follow, but at 7:30 p.m., the sun had set and darkness was falling fast. Reluctantly, I turned toward home.
Late this summer, I rediscovered the joys of bicycling. Tonight, pressed for time, it was the mountain bike I chose, spinning out of my garage and around the corner onto the dirt trail, a dog-eared bicycle map tucked inside my T-shirt. Shoes open-toed, legs bare. No helmet. No water. No destination.
Racing the descending sun and clouds that threatened rain, I rode hard and fast, thinking about everything and nothing: The man at whom I was pissed, loose plans already made for the upcoming weekend without my sun, the Sunday choir performance for which I felt unprepared, a too-long-absent friend with whom I'd finally spoken that day, the man at whom I was pissed.
I stood on my pedals to ease the pain in my knees of schlepping the bike and my body up a hill. It was not even a steep hill, I noted with equal parts dismay and disgust. I'd felt deceptively fit only a week ago when I rode 20 quick miles on my slender, laughably light, aluminum-framed Trek. But sailing on a road bike over Denver's flat, paved trails was one thing. Riding the heavier mountain bike over the small roller-coaster-variety trails of the south suburbs was an exercise in humility.
At the top of that rise was a split in the trail, and here was where the trail unfurled down, up and away. It seemed to disappear into the mountains, which were framed by dark clouds. Drops of rain began to fall, but lazily so. They lacked the enthusiasm necessary to become a storm, a soaker or even a dust buster.
With or without rain, the newly discovered section of trail would have to wait for another evening. I headed gratefully downhill.
By the time I rounded the last corner of the bike trail and bounced over the curb and back onto the street, darkness was only one slim layer of light away.
Out of the gloom, the sound of chimes rang, taking on an audible shape that was instantly recognizable. It was the song of the ice cream truck. The small, boxy vehicle drove into view at the end of a nearby street, pausing at the stop sign.
Something was wrong with this picture, I thought. It was the lights. The ice cream truck was piercing the darkness of the neighborhood streets with headlights.
The ice cream truck belonged on sun-drenched summer streets, with kids who ran to it from the front yards in which they'd already been playing.
Yet here it was, the driver making one last, seemingly desperate round on a Monday night, the first of autumn. I imagined the arguments he sparked in kitchens throughout the neighborhood as the heads of children, obediently bent over homework, snapped up at the strains of their favorite summer song. They pleaded and cajoled, and work-weary parents responded with firm, then frustrated 'nos'.
The ice cream truck, so welcome on a summer's day, did not belong here this eve.
The truck and I passed one another on the street. It slowed, the driver perhaps momentarily confused at the tiny light bobbing toward it, then regained speed, the driver and I waving at one another in the off-handed way of mere visual acquaintances.
As I rode by the truck's side, the sound waves broke and shifted and the happy tune suddenly devolved into something you'd expect to hear from a horror movie fun house. It was as though the truck were speaking. Summer's over, it seemed to say. Close the windows, pull the blinds, put away the sprinklers, drain the pools, bring in the flower pots. The bitterly beautiful season of winter is waiting impatiently in the wings, ready to take center stage.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The first time I met her, she called me a dog. Inadvertently, of course. It was confusing -- meeting me and my dog at the same time, what with my dog having a sort of human female name. But still, there it was: your boyfriend's mother, calling you by your dog's name. Not the most promising start.
My then-boyfriend introduced me to his mother with great excitement. "You'll like her," he said. "She's really nice." We entered her Denver house together: Zach, me and my border collie/Australian shepherd mix, Lindy. His mother was nice, greeting us with a big smile and in warm tones, her voice lightly laced with an accent I later learned was Oklahoman. She had big, brown eyes, high, round cheekbones and dark, curly hair. A pretty woman, already then widowed several years. She must have been in her mid-50s then, but I was too young at the time -- mid 20s -- to think about her age. She was a mom. A mom I wanted to impress, but still mostly to me just a mom.
It only occurred to me later, years later, that she was not just a mom. But a woman. Even then lonely and heartbroken, widowed too young - as though there is ever a right time to be widowed - facing an uncertain financial future, accustomed to a lifestyle she even then must have known was no longer sustainable.
Her smile when she addressed me that day gave away none of it. "Lindy, would you like a drink?" she asked.
I blinked, befuddled. Lindy likely was thirsty, but I would have bet doughnuts to dollars she'd already found an open toilet. Then I realized she was speaking to me.
And so our relationship began. Sue Allen eventually became my mother-in-law, later my son's grandmother and soon after that, my ex-mother-in-law. Strained by the divorce, torn by the custody battle, our relationship - bound by my son - was always that of family.
Sue Allen died last Wednesday at the age of 79. She died alone, in a hospital, with tubes up her nose, a band Velcroed to her forehand, rubber strips of some sort holding yet another medical measuring tool cutting into her cheeks. The last time I saw her, her depleted body was little more than a slight rise under a white sheet. The last time her eyes opened to mine, they were big, brown moons in a face strangely smooth and youthfully shining illness.
Almost two decades passed between the first and the last time our eyes met.
In the time between, I remember countless evenings spent in her Denver home, with Zach's brother and sister, and later their spouses and husbands, gathered inside the sprawling townhouse. She loved antiques and the finer things in life. Her hair was always expertly done, clothes fashionable and flattering, nails professionally polished. She was without fail, and for every day that I knew her, ladylike and dignified.
Sue Allen also could cook, and I remember big, meat-centric meals, the cut of choice sometimes grilled, sometimes roasted for hours, the meals always framed by endless glasses of red wine and the smoke of cigarettes. She and all three of her children smoked. I was always trying in vain to escape, to find a piece of furniture, a corner of the home, not saturated with cigarette smoke. I never found it because this was just part of the drill, the price paid for good food and a soon-robust family that often overwhelmed me with its wide-ranging personalities and issues.
Sue was the anchor, and Zach, by default after his father's death, was second in line. Yet I sensed that the family had suffered an unbreakable kink in the chain when Sue's husband died, that their most solid member had fallen away, leaving them all slightly adrift. To this day, I wish I'd have known the family that existed in the days before his death.
I suffered my miscarriage in Sue Allen's bathroom. Shocked by blood while my ex-husband and I were shopping in Denver that day now almost 14 years distant, we retreated to her home. I heard her voice and Zach's rise and fall from the living room and smelled cigarette smoke as cramps rippled through my abdomen, as I passed what was distinctly a tiny and vague but wholly human form. I called them in to see it, then flushed it away from sight.
She wanted to be in the delivery room for Robby's birth, having missed that opportunity with her own daughter, but I refused. I was not her daughter. It was not my duty. Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing.
It was with a shock, almost 10 years later, to hear that she planned to testify against me in the custody battle her son and I waged years after our divorce, when I moved two hours away from the mountains to the city. According to the docket, she was prepared to testify about my frequent vacations, a handful of long weekends I had taken in the two years previous to visit what was, by that point, an ex-boyfriend.
I was furious at the idea these few days could be so blown out of proportion. Even more so, I felt betrayed that she planned to say damning words about me in a courtroom when she and I had never exchanged a harsh word. Whether or not she truly intended to testify I will never know. The decision came with shocking speed and minimal testimony, granting her son primary custody.
In the chaos immediately following, she tried to approach me. I stood in the hallway, conferring with the court advocate about the wisdom of an appeal, too stunned and outraged to cry.
I heard Sue's voice from a small knot of people at my left shoulder. She was talking to someone else, perhaps to Zach, but she intended her words to reach my ears.
"I hope Jane isn't mad at me," she said. "Why, Jane has some qualities I wish I had."
At that moment, I could not turn to acknowledge her. My pain was too raw, my anger all-consuming. I thought I might hit her if she came any closer. Yet all these years later, the words and not the anger I felt, stay with me.
I could divorce her son. But I could not divorce my son's grandmother. He loved her, and she spoiled him rotten. I could not keep them apart. So as families often do, we put the past behind us, never spoke of it again, and moved on with our relationship.
When I moved to Denver, and Zach and his wife moved farther away, it was me who ensured she saw her grandson, who came to dinner in her apartment, whom she hugged and called sweetheart and over whom she sometimes worried. I felt like a surrogate daughter, stepping in where Robby's father could not. At first, I thought Sue was treating me so well because she knew it was in her best interest, that she knew very well I was the bridge to her grandson, and the unrelated parent who lived closest to her.
That changed on a snowy December night, on my way home from her house. I had brought Robby there for an overnight stay. In spite of her protestations, I left for home, driving slowly but steadily down snow-thickened and silent Denver streets. Shortly after my return home, the phone rang. It was Sue, saying she'd wanted to be sure I made it home safe. "I've been worried about you since you left," she said.
A feeling of warmth spread through me at the tender and genuine care and concern in her voice.
"OK, well I'm glad you're safe," she said. "I love you. Goodnight."
Though she had the time, the personality and the looks to easily do so, Sue Allen never remarried. I never even knew her to date. She moved several times in the years I knew her, each time to a smaller place, each time leaving behind furniture and other pieces of a life receding ever further into the past. I never heard her complain about these changes, or speak with bitterness or sorrow about the direction her life had taken. In fact, I never heard her speak of it at all.
In those last couple of years, she worked in the front office of her apartment building in exchange for rent and Zach's two siblings moved into her small apartment with her, each for different reasons, each with financial challenges of their own. While it was not the life any of them would have chosen, it most certainly was not the life Sue Allen had envisioned for herself. On the phone or in person, she revealed none of this, her voice always bright and cheerful, her manner always welcoming and warm.
Earlier this summer, a routine surgery ended with a myriad of complications. And after only a few weeks home, Sue Allen was rushed back to the hospital with a blockage in her small intestine. More complications, including pneumonia, ensued. We visited her on a Sunday that last time, three days before she died.
She was aware of our presence for only a few moments, but even then, strapped to an army of instruments monitoring every flutter of life within her, she put on a cheerful face for Robby, her cheeks somehow rising in a smile around the tubes and straps.
"Did you have a nice birthday party?" she asked Robby, who'd celebrated his 13th birthday the day before.
And then, only seconds later, "Is the coffee ready yet?"
I thought she was out of it for good then, so we said goodbye and turned to go, stripping off the latex gloves we'd been required to wear in the ICU.
But then we heard her voice again, muffled and impossible to understand. We both turned and stepped closer to the bed.
"What did you say, Grandma?" Robby asked.
"Kiss me on the cheek?" she said distinctly.
The last time I saw Sue Allen, my son was touching his lips to her cheek, somehow finding an open patch of skin among all the tubes and bands lashed across her face. She smiled slightly and murmured something that might have been, "You're a good boy, Robby."
My then-boyfriend introduced me to his mother with great excitement. "You'll like her," he said. "She's really nice." We entered her Denver house together: Zach, me and my border collie/Australian shepherd mix, Lindy. His mother was nice, greeting us with a big smile and in warm tones, her voice lightly laced with an accent I later learned was Oklahoman. She had big, brown eyes, high, round cheekbones and dark, curly hair. A pretty woman, already then widowed several years. She must have been in her mid-50s then, but I was too young at the time -- mid 20s -- to think about her age. She was a mom. A mom I wanted to impress, but still mostly to me just a mom.
It only occurred to me later, years later, that she was not just a mom. But a woman. Even then lonely and heartbroken, widowed too young - as though there is ever a right time to be widowed - facing an uncertain financial future, accustomed to a lifestyle she even then must have known was no longer sustainable.
Her smile when she addressed me that day gave away none of it. "Lindy, would you like a drink?" she asked.
I blinked, befuddled. Lindy likely was thirsty, but I would have bet doughnuts to dollars she'd already found an open toilet. Then I realized she was speaking to me.
And so our relationship began. Sue Allen eventually became my mother-in-law, later my son's grandmother and soon after that, my ex-mother-in-law. Strained by the divorce, torn by the custody battle, our relationship - bound by my son - was always that of family.
Sue Allen died last Wednesday at the age of 79. She died alone, in a hospital, with tubes up her nose, a band Velcroed to her forehand, rubber strips of some sort holding yet another medical measuring tool cutting into her cheeks. The last time I saw her, her depleted body was little more than a slight rise under a white sheet. The last time her eyes opened to mine, they were big, brown moons in a face strangely smooth and youthfully shining illness.
Almost two decades passed between the first and the last time our eyes met.
In the time between, I remember countless evenings spent in her Denver home, with Zach's brother and sister, and later their spouses and husbands, gathered inside the sprawling townhouse. She loved antiques and the finer things in life. Her hair was always expertly done, clothes fashionable and flattering, nails professionally polished. She was without fail, and for every day that I knew her, ladylike and dignified.
Sue Allen also could cook, and I remember big, meat-centric meals, the cut of choice sometimes grilled, sometimes roasted for hours, the meals always framed by endless glasses of red wine and the smoke of cigarettes. She and all three of her children smoked. I was always trying in vain to escape, to find a piece of furniture, a corner of the home, not saturated with cigarette smoke. I never found it because this was just part of the drill, the price paid for good food and a soon-robust family that often overwhelmed me with its wide-ranging personalities and issues.
Sue was the anchor, and Zach, by default after his father's death, was second in line. Yet I sensed that the family had suffered an unbreakable kink in the chain when Sue's husband died, that their most solid member had fallen away, leaving them all slightly adrift. To this day, I wish I'd have known the family that existed in the days before his death.
I suffered my miscarriage in Sue Allen's bathroom. Shocked by blood while my ex-husband and I were shopping in Denver that day now almost 14 years distant, we retreated to her home. I heard her voice and Zach's rise and fall from the living room and smelled cigarette smoke as cramps rippled through my abdomen, as I passed what was distinctly a tiny and vague but wholly human form. I called them in to see it, then flushed it away from sight.
She wanted to be in the delivery room for Robby's birth, having missed that opportunity with her own daughter, but I refused. I was not her daughter. It was not my duty. Sometimes I still wonder if I did the right thing.
It was with a shock, almost 10 years later, to hear that she planned to testify against me in the custody battle her son and I waged years after our divorce, when I moved two hours away from the mountains to the city. According to the docket, she was prepared to testify about my frequent vacations, a handful of long weekends I had taken in the two years previous to visit what was, by that point, an ex-boyfriend.
I was furious at the idea these few days could be so blown out of proportion. Even more so, I felt betrayed that she planned to say damning words about me in a courtroom when she and I had never exchanged a harsh word. Whether or not she truly intended to testify I will never know. The decision came with shocking speed and minimal testimony, granting her son primary custody.
In the chaos immediately following, she tried to approach me. I stood in the hallway, conferring with the court advocate about the wisdom of an appeal, too stunned and outraged to cry.
I heard Sue's voice from a small knot of people at my left shoulder. She was talking to someone else, perhaps to Zach, but she intended her words to reach my ears.
"I hope Jane isn't mad at me," she said. "Why, Jane has some qualities I wish I had."
At that moment, I could not turn to acknowledge her. My pain was too raw, my anger all-consuming. I thought I might hit her if she came any closer. Yet all these years later, the words and not the anger I felt, stay with me.
I could divorce her son. But I could not divorce my son's grandmother. He loved her, and she spoiled him rotten. I could not keep them apart. So as families often do, we put the past behind us, never spoke of it again, and moved on with our relationship.
When I moved to Denver, and Zach and his wife moved farther away, it was me who ensured she saw her grandson, who came to dinner in her apartment, whom she hugged and called sweetheart and over whom she sometimes worried. I felt like a surrogate daughter, stepping in where Robby's father could not. At first, I thought Sue was treating me so well because she knew it was in her best interest, that she knew very well I was the bridge to her grandson, and the unrelated parent who lived closest to her.
That changed on a snowy December night, on my way home from her house. I had brought Robby there for an overnight stay. In spite of her protestations, I left for home, driving slowly but steadily down snow-thickened and silent Denver streets. Shortly after my return home, the phone rang. It was Sue, saying she'd wanted to be sure I made it home safe. "I've been worried about you since you left," she said.
A feeling of warmth spread through me at the tender and genuine care and concern in her voice.
"OK, well I'm glad you're safe," she said. "I love you. Goodnight."
Though she had the time, the personality and the looks to easily do so, Sue Allen never remarried. I never even knew her to date. She moved several times in the years I knew her, each time to a smaller place, each time leaving behind furniture and other pieces of a life receding ever further into the past. I never heard her complain about these changes, or speak with bitterness or sorrow about the direction her life had taken. In fact, I never heard her speak of it at all.
In those last couple of years, she worked in the front office of her apartment building in exchange for rent and Zach's two siblings moved into her small apartment with her, each for different reasons, each with financial challenges of their own. While it was not the life any of them would have chosen, it most certainly was not the life Sue Allen had envisioned for herself. On the phone or in person, she revealed none of this, her voice always bright and cheerful, her manner always welcoming and warm.
Earlier this summer, a routine surgery ended with a myriad of complications. And after only a few weeks home, Sue Allen was rushed back to the hospital with a blockage in her small intestine. More complications, including pneumonia, ensued. We visited her on a Sunday that last time, three days before she died.
She was aware of our presence for only a few moments, but even then, strapped to an army of instruments monitoring every flutter of life within her, she put on a cheerful face for Robby, her cheeks somehow rising in a smile around the tubes and straps.
"Did you have a nice birthday party?" she asked Robby, who'd celebrated his 13th birthday the day before.
And then, only seconds later, "Is the coffee ready yet?"
I thought she was out of it for good then, so we said goodbye and turned to go, stripping off the latex gloves we'd been required to wear in the ICU.
But then we heard her voice again, muffled and impossible to understand. We both turned and stepped closer to the bed.
"What did you say, Grandma?" Robby asked.
"Kiss me on the cheek?" she said distinctly.
The last time I saw Sue Allen, my son was touching his lips to her cheek, somehow finding an open patch of skin among all the tubes and bands lashed across her face. She smiled slightly and murmured something that might have been, "You're a good boy, Robby."
Sunday, September 07, 2008
I could never hear Sarah Palin's name again in my life and be perfectly happy. I told my son this today as we sat in a hospital waiting room while I thumbed through a copy of time. Ms. Palin was on the cover. Note, I did not say "graced" the cover. Annoyed, I tossed down the Time and grabbed a slightly mangled copy of People. Unfolding it back into its original shape, I could finally make out the cover: Sarah Palin and family, all grinning maniacally.
What's not to like, you may ask? Or maybe not. Because if you're a fan of this blog, you're either a liberal or a very tolerant friend.
From all I've heard, I don't think Sarah Palin is a very nice woman. Or, as one man said today, "I think she's a vindictive bitch." This based on the whole state trooper, sister's divorce, firing, back-biting strange shenanigans. Second, she's Republican. Third, she's ill prepared. Fourth, she smiles too much and it's one of those fake, former-beauty-queen-turned-politicians smiles. Praticed. Cheesy. Calculating.
But perhaps most of all, she lives in Alaska. And as a cold-blooded woman - though notably NOT a vindictive one - I cannot relate in the slightest to someone who voluntarily lives in the land of glaciers and polar bears.
Robby and I don't really talk politics. My statement was more or less a comment made while passing the time. (What we were doing in the hospital waiting room is another story.) I think Robby leans toward Barack, but given the recent baptism debacle, I can't be sure of anything about him anymore. Except that he likes video games. And peanut butter. Unless he's tucking the peanut butter into his cheeks and spitting it out later, I know these two things for sure.
But my neighbor and I do talk politics. He, a conservative Christian, and me, an increasingly more liberal liberal, swap thoughts over the back yard fence. We are like Wilson and tool guy Tim, except that Dave is a floating head from my line of sight and not merely an arm, leg or chin. It happens almost naturally. Dave will be working in his backyard, and I in mine. We look up, say hey, comment about the weather and then segue with comedic rapidity into politics, or, even better, religion.
Dave does not understand my religion. "If you don't talk about God, what do you talk about?" he asked me a couple of weeks ago.
Fair question. I did my best to give him an answer, explaining that it's more about faith in the goodness of people than faith in a god.
He said little, nodding as though he understood. I figured he was back in his house within five seconds saying to his wife, "Suzanne! Listen to this!"
I thought little more of that conversation until today, when I tucked my chin over the fence to ask if I could borrow his ladder.
"Sure," he said, hoisting it over.
I'm not even sure how Sarah Palin's name came up but suddenly, we were into the thick of it.
"I think she's a slam dunk, home run for the Republicans," he said.
I bit my tongue. Hard and felt a swell of pride for resisting the urge to say, "And I think she's a slam dunk, home run for the Democrats."
Instead, with stunning restraint, I said, "But don't you wonder, if something happened to McCain, if she'd be ready to step into the seat?"
On this point, to my surprise, he conceded.
And then, to my even greater surprise, he offered an apology.
"Listen, I hope I didn't offend you when I said something about your church the other day. I can be kind of a smart ass, especially when I've had a couple beers which I think I had that day."
It took a few seconds for the conversation to come back. And then I laughed and told him I'd thought nothing of it. "I like smart asses!"
Dave brightened at this and we retreated to our separate yards.
An hour later, while I stood on his ladder painting the trim on the front of the house, I saw him fertilizing his lawn.
"Hey, I got some extra fertilizer," he said. "You want me to do your lawn?"
"Sure!"
Dave puttered happily around my front yard, spraying fertilizer pellets like raindrops. "Back yard need it, too?"
I nodded cheerfully and thanked him. This sort of thing was not unheard from from Dave, but not an everyday occurrence either.
That chore completed, he went back to his yard and revved up the leaf blower, blasting debris from the rock garden in his front yard. Without asking this time, he walked over to my yard and blasted a few leafy crevices of the sidewalk.
I gave him a wave and thought about making my own smart-ass comment. Something like, "If feeling bad about making a crack about my church makes you do stuff like this, bring it on, boy!" Or perhaps, "You know what? I DO love Sarah Palin!"
But I restricted myself to a neighborly nod. Secretly, I enjoy our backyard quipping and light-hearted debate. As neighbors and as kind-hearted if politically and theologically different people, we both know we will never cross the line into serious argument. But even more importantly, my reassurances aside, I think he still feels bothered by his comment. And I want to milk that for all its worth.
Secretly, I enjoy our exchanges ...
What's not to like, you may ask? Or maybe not. Because if you're a fan of this blog, you're either a liberal or a very tolerant friend.
From all I've heard, I don't think Sarah Palin is a very nice woman. Or, as one man said today, "I think she's a vindictive bitch." This based on the whole state trooper, sister's divorce, firing, back-biting strange shenanigans. Second, she's Republican. Third, she's ill prepared. Fourth, she smiles too much and it's one of those fake, former-beauty-queen-turned-politicians smiles. Praticed. Cheesy. Calculating.
But perhaps most of all, she lives in Alaska. And as a cold-blooded woman - though notably NOT a vindictive one - I cannot relate in the slightest to someone who voluntarily lives in the land of glaciers and polar bears.
Robby and I don't really talk politics. My statement was more or less a comment made while passing the time. (What we were doing in the hospital waiting room is another story.) I think Robby leans toward Barack, but given the recent baptism debacle, I can't be sure of anything about him anymore. Except that he likes video games. And peanut butter. Unless he's tucking the peanut butter into his cheeks and spitting it out later, I know these two things for sure.
But my neighbor and I do talk politics. He, a conservative Christian, and me, an increasingly more liberal liberal, swap thoughts over the back yard fence. We are like Wilson and tool guy Tim, except that Dave is a floating head from my line of sight and not merely an arm, leg or chin. It happens almost naturally. Dave will be working in his backyard, and I in mine. We look up, say hey, comment about the weather and then segue with comedic rapidity into politics, or, even better, religion.
Dave does not understand my religion. "If you don't talk about God, what do you talk about?" he asked me a couple of weeks ago.
Fair question. I did my best to give him an answer, explaining that it's more about faith in the goodness of people than faith in a god.
He said little, nodding as though he understood. I figured he was back in his house within five seconds saying to his wife, "Suzanne! Listen to this!"
I thought little more of that conversation until today, when I tucked my chin over the fence to ask if I could borrow his ladder.
"Sure," he said, hoisting it over.
I'm not even sure how Sarah Palin's name came up but suddenly, we were into the thick of it.
"I think she's a slam dunk, home run for the Republicans," he said.
I bit my tongue. Hard and felt a swell of pride for resisting the urge to say, "And I think she's a slam dunk, home run for the Democrats."
Instead, with stunning restraint, I said, "But don't you wonder, if something happened to McCain, if she'd be ready to step into the seat?"
On this point, to my surprise, he conceded.
And then, to my even greater surprise, he offered an apology.
"Listen, I hope I didn't offend you when I said something about your church the other day. I can be kind of a smart ass, especially when I've had a couple beers which I think I had that day."
It took a few seconds for the conversation to come back. And then I laughed and told him I'd thought nothing of it. "I like smart asses!"
Dave brightened at this and we retreated to our separate yards.
An hour later, while I stood on his ladder painting the trim on the front of the house, I saw him fertilizing his lawn.
"Hey, I got some extra fertilizer," he said. "You want me to do your lawn?"
"Sure!"
Dave puttered happily around my front yard, spraying fertilizer pellets like raindrops. "Back yard need it, too?"
I nodded cheerfully and thanked him. This sort of thing was not unheard from from Dave, but not an everyday occurrence either.
That chore completed, he went back to his yard and revved up the leaf blower, blasting debris from the rock garden in his front yard. Without asking this time, he walked over to my yard and blasted a few leafy crevices of the sidewalk.
I gave him a wave and thought about making my own smart-ass comment. Something like, "If feeling bad about making a crack about my church makes you do stuff like this, bring it on, boy!" Or perhaps, "You know what? I DO love Sarah Palin!"
But I restricted myself to a neighborly nod. Secretly, I enjoy our backyard quipping and light-hearted debate. As neighbors and as kind-hearted if politically and theologically different people, we both know we will never cross the line into serious argument. But even more importantly, my reassurances aside, I think he still feels bothered by his comment. And I want to milk that for all its worth.
Secretly, I enjoy our exchanges ...
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
On my way to work, I see what I think is the first sign of next week's Democratic National Convention. It is a mini bus, or some largish vehicle converted into what resembles a mini bus, painted red and seemingly defaced with ominous words. But this ugliness is obviously intentional, designed to grab the eye as it does both mine. I can read, "You've been warned …" on one side, the rest of the words hidden from my view by the hood of a Dodge Durango. "Murder: Plain and simple," pronounces a quartet of words slashed across the back in large and angry black paint. "It's a child," written in a smaller, slightly spidery, but somehow just as chilling writing style on the vehicle's back left corner. An American flag and a state of Colorado flag have somehow been affixed to the front of the scarlet vehicle and they sprout up proudly from either side of the hood, which, even as I watch, lumbers through the green light like a slow-moving, still glowing ember from hell.
I'm convinced this is among the first of protestors gathering for the convention until I see a white sign waving through the air from the street corner. Holding it is a young woman – high school-aged young I'd guess though God knows in the last couple of years everyone under 25 looks to me like a secondary school student – in a blousy white shirt, loose jeans, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, face devoid of makeup and expression. The sign is large – three feet tall by two feet wide, I'd guess, with a picture that occupies two-thirds of its available space. It is a fetus, small enough that it lacks the details that make the viewer think 'baby' but big enough that, even curled and with the otherworldly umbilical cord floating away from its middle off the edge of the poster, it looks undeniably human. The head is too big, the eyes too large, too black and covered by thin pink skin that makes the fetus look alien, but still, our images of aliens are also vaguely human. Its mittenlike excuses for hands apparently clasped in what looks like prayer. Under the photo, the words: "8 Weeks! I Am A Life!"
This girl/woman is not alone. On the opposite curb stand a gaggle of protesters, at least a dozen, most of them younger than she and holding identical signs.
At first, I am annoyed by the abortion protesters. One, because I am pro-choice and two, because I think these children are too young to have minds of their own and someday may cringe at the memory of their juvenile selves standing on the corner of a busy suburban artery, fighting for a cause they did not then understand.
But the abortion protestors remind me I'd forgotten tampons. This on the heaviest day of my period. And in turn, that reminds me I'd also forgotten to take my anti-depressant, mood stabilizer and assorted vitamins. I will have to turn back and go home, a pain in the butt but better than a stain on my office chair. And so perhaps the protesters do me more harm than good.
They remind me, too, of my son's comment last Sunday morning, as we pulled away from my Unitarian church. My son, as you may remember, was baptized some months ago into some radical Christian church that refuses to label itself -- though it closely resembles Southern Baptist. Unable to reverse his ill-fated dip in the church hot tub, I opted instead to become religious about my own faith and take him there as often as practical.
I was trying, you see, to be subtle about the whole thing, to let him see for himself the differences between the two, the tolerance and hope expressed by Unitarians as opposed to the messages of damnation and fear pounded into parishioners from the pulpit of his father's church.
I was trying, but not always succeeding. Sunday morning was a case in point.
"Why do I have to go?" he asked. "It's not like I'm a Unitarian."
"Yeah, well you might want to be one someday when you realize Unitarians don't damn people to an eternity of fiery hell for their sexual preferences," I said.
So I'm not perfect. Try, try, try again.
At any rate, after the service, we spoke for a moment with a fellow church member and married friend of mine who was four months pregnant, and none too enthused. This was a fact she did not make secret.
"Of course Robby doesn't want to babysit," she said Sunday. "He doesn't want to spend that much time with a baby. Heck, I don't want to spend that much time with a baby."
She laughed, but as with most jokes, there was a kernel of truth in what she's said. OK, half an unshucked ear of truth. Having known her for years, I knew she was one of those women who would become over-the-top indulgent, thunderously lovestruck and peacock proud once she held her child for the first time.
As we drove back toward home, I mentioned my friend's reluctance.
"Yeah," Robby said. "Why doesn't she just, you know what they do, kill it?"
I was stunned on a whole series of levels by what he'd said, perhaps even more so by how he'd said it, so casually, as if this were a simple, logical solution.
"Robby, I don't think that was ever an option for her," I said. "And she really doesn't mean what she says. She's being sarcastic, you know?"
He nodded.
I was still flabbergasted. "You understand, don't you Robby, that that's a horrible decision for a woman to have to make? It's not something any woman wants to do. And even if they do, I think it haunts most of them their entire lives. It's a terrible thing, do you understand that?"
He nodded again, but looked as though, in the way of 12-year-old boys, he had already tired of the subject.
This was one of those moments where I always feel a failure as a mother. A big subject comes up, is dropped in my lap in fact, and I sit there, slack-jawed in my lack of preparedness. Surely there was more I should say, more a good mother would say. Where was maternal instinct at a time like this?
Shouldn't I have said something about the fact that the term "killing" wasn't appropriate, that the debates surrounding whether a fetus was a life, whether it felt pain, and at what point cells become a person was never ending? I should have explained that the choice to abort is not typically based on a woman's mood, but economic, societal, mental and physical health and other weighty concerns. That as difficult as legal abortion may be, the options women sought without it were far worse. That a baby is a precious gift and needs to be born into a world, and a family, prepared to honor it.
On a comparatively lighter note, was this also the perfect opening to a second round of sex talks? Something over which we'd already glossed more than a year ago when he'd said, "Mom, I know about sex." For this moment, at least, I had been ready. In fact, I'd been ready for years, having purchased a copy of "It's Perfectly Normal" when I read portions of it that a friend had given her daughter. "It's Perfectly Normal" gave a straight-up accounting of all-things sexual, including masturbation, homosexuality, STDs, and birth control. The book was illustrated throughout with equally no-nonsense graphics, and peppered with light, witty comments from a pair of cartoon animals who appeared to "watch" the book unfold from some invisible perch. Robby disappeared with this book for a couple of days and confessed to me later he'd learned a great deal. "What about?" I asked. "Girls' body parts mostly," he said. And that was that.
But "It's Perfectly Normal" had not touched on the subject of abortion. Neither, apparently, had his father's church.
In the end, I said no more on the subject. But still I wonder, if I did the right thing. If I'm missing, somehow, that mother gene that seems to make most women emit exactly the right words in situations such as those. After all, like my church friend, I had never intended to have children, never expected even to marry. These things seemed unnatural to me; clearly, I'd been half right, but perhaps my instincts then had been spot on.
Maybe this missing gene is why, when Robby was a baby and most mothers were struggling with 10-pound diaper bags, I was floating by them with a tiny purse that held, in addition to my keys, lipstick and cash, a single diaper and a bottle. Maybe it's why I typically trudge ahead of him, too impatient to wait, convinced he's dawdling and not merely shorter-legged than I. Even to me, this doesn't seem natural; I feel vaguely ashamed when I catch myself doing it. Is this why I don't call him daily when he's at his father's, as most of my single mother friends do with their children? "You don't call him to ask how his day was?" more than one of them has asked in disbelief.
Or could it be that as a true joint custody parent, whose time is split with her child is split almost in precise half with another parent, I'm used to being on my own? That my life is almost unnaturally divided between mom time and me time?
These questions probably don't bear as much reflection as the subject or abortion, or even my son's casual perception of the idea. Because they are what they are.
My son's been raised in a way that is not traditional, and maybe that extends even to the way I address issues with him. So far, I think he's turning into a pretty cool little guy. Besides which, in these days of divorced, single, blended, and same-sex parent families, rare is the child who isn't experiencing a nontraditional upbringing. Perhaps the simplest truth is that any kind of upbringing, as long as it's accompanied with lots of love and healthy doses of logic, is absolutely, perfectly normal.
I'm convinced this is among the first of protestors gathering for the convention until I see a white sign waving through the air from the street corner. Holding it is a young woman – high school-aged young I'd guess though God knows in the last couple of years everyone under 25 looks to me like a secondary school student – in a blousy white shirt, loose jeans, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, face devoid of makeup and expression. The sign is large – three feet tall by two feet wide, I'd guess, with a picture that occupies two-thirds of its available space. It is a fetus, small enough that it lacks the details that make the viewer think 'baby' but big enough that, even curled and with the otherworldly umbilical cord floating away from its middle off the edge of the poster, it looks undeniably human. The head is too big, the eyes too large, too black and covered by thin pink skin that makes the fetus look alien, but still, our images of aliens are also vaguely human. Its mittenlike excuses for hands apparently clasped in what looks like prayer. Under the photo, the words: "8 Weeks! I Am A Life!"
This girl/woman is not alone. On the opposite curb stand a gaggle of protesters, at least a dozen, most of them younger than she and holding identical signs.
At first, I am annoyed by the abortion protesters. One, because I am pro-choice and two, because I think these children are too young to have minds of their own and someday may cringe at the memory of their juvenile selves standing on the corner of a busy suburban artery, fighting for a cause they did not then understand.
But the abortion protestors remind me I'd forgotten tampons. This on the heaviest day of my period. And in turn, that reminds me I'd also forgotten to take my anti-depressant, mood stabilizer and assorted vitamins. I will have to turn back and go home, a pain in the butt but better than a stain on my office chair. And so perhaps the protesters do me more harm than good.
They remind me, too, of my son's comment last Sunday morning, as we pulled away from my Unitarian church. My son, as you may remember, was baptized some months ago into some radical Christian church that refuses to label itself -- though it closely resembles Southern Baptist. Unable to reverse his ill-fated dip in the church hot tub, I opted instead to become religious about my own faith and take him there as often as practical.
I was trying, you see, to be subtle about the whole thing, to let him see for himself the differences between the two, the tolerance and hope expressed by Unitarians as opposed to the messages of damnation and fear pounded into parishioners from the pulpit of his father's church.
I was trying, but not always succeeding. Sunday morning was a case in point.
"Why do I have to go?" he asked. "It's not like I'm a Unitarian."
"Yeah, well you might want to be one someday when you realize Unitarians don't damn people to an eternity of fiery hell for their sexual preferences," I said.
So I'm not perfect. Try, try, try again.
At any rate, after the service, we spoke for a moment with a fellow church member and married friend of mine who was four months pregnant, and none too enthused. This was a fact she did not make secret.
"Of course Robby doesn't want to babysit," she said Sunday. "He doesn't want to spend that much time with a baby. Heck, I don't want to spend that much time with a baby."
She laughed, but as with most jokes, there was a kernel of truth in what she's said. OK, half an unshucked ear of truth. Having known her for years, I knew she was one of those women who would become over-the-top indulgent, thunderously lovestruck and peacock proud once she held her child for the first time.
As we drove back toward home, I mentioned my friend's reluctance.
"Yeah," Robby said. "Why doesn't she just, you know what they do, kill it?"
I was stunned on a whole series of levels by what he'd said, perhaps even more so by how he'd said it, so casually, as if this were a simple, logical solution.
"Robby, I don't think that was ever an option for her," I said. "And she really doesn't mean what she says. She's being sarcastic, you know?"
He nodded.
I was still flabbergasted. "You understand, don't you Robby, that that's a horrible decision for a woman to have to make? It's not something any woman wants to do. And even if they do, I think it haunts most of them their entire lives. It's a terrible thing, do you understand that?"
He nodded again, but looked as though, in the way of 12-year-old boys, he had already tired of the subject.
This was one of those moments where I always feel a failure as a mother. A big subject comes up, is dropped in my lap in fact, and I sit there, slack-jawed in my lack of preparedness. Surely there was more I should say, more a good mother would say. Where was maternal instinct at a time like this?
Shouldn't I have said something about the fact that the term "killing" wasn't appropriate, that the debates surrounding whether a fetus was a life, whether it felt pain, and at what point cells become a person was never ending? I should have explained that the choice to abort is not typically based on a woman's mood, but economic, societal, mental and physical health and other weighty concerns. That as difficult as legal abortion may be, the options women sought without it were far worse. That a baby is a precious gift and needs to be born into a world, and a family, prepared to honor it.
On a comparatively lighter note, was this also the perfect opening to a second round of sex talks? Something over which we'd already glossed more than a year ago when he'd said, "Mom, I know about sex." For this moment, at least, I had been ready. In fact, I'd been ready for years, having purchased a copy of "It's Perfectly Normal" when I read portions of it that a friend had given her daughter. "It's Perfectly Normal" gave a straight-up accounting of all-things sexual, including masturbation, homosexuality, STDs, and birth control. The book was illustrated throughout with equally no-nonsense graphics, and peppered with light, witty comments from a pair of cartoon animals who appeared to "watch" the book unfold from some invisible perch. Robby disappeared with this book for a couple of days and confessed to me later he'd learned a great deal. "What about?" I asked. "Girls' body parts mostly," he said. And that was that.
But "It's Perfectly Normal" had not touched on the subject of abortion. Neither, apparently, had his father's church.
In the end, I said no more on the subject. But still I wonder, if I did the right thing. If I'm missing, somehow, that mother gene that seems to make most women emit exactly the right words in situations such as those. After all, like my church friend, I had never intended to have children, never expected even to marry. These things seemed unnatural to me; clearly, I'd been half right, but perhaps my instincts then had been spot on.
Maybe this missing gene is why, when Robby was a baby and most mothers were struggling with 10-pound diaper bags, I was floating by them with a tiny purse that held, in addition to my keys, lipstick and cash, a single diaper and a bottle. Maybe it's why I typically trudge ahead of him, too impatient to wait, convinced he's dawdling and not merely shorter-legged than I. Even to me, this doesn't seem natural; I feel vaguely ashamed when I catch myself doing it. Is this why I don't call him daily when he's at his father's, as most of my single mother friends do with their children? "You don't call him to ask how his day was?" more than one of them has asked in disbelief.
Or could it be that as a true joint custody parent, whose time is split with her child is split almost in precise half with another parent, I'm used to being on my own? That my life is almost unnaturally divided between mom time and me time?
These questions probably don't bear as much reflection as the subject or abortion, or even my son's casual perception of the idea. Because they are what they are.
My son's been raised in a way that is not traditional, and maybe that extends even to the way I address issues with him. So far, I think he's turning into a pretty cool little guy. Besides which, in these days of divorced, single, blended, and same-sex parent families, rare is the child who isn't experiencing a nontraditional upbringing. Perhaps the simplest truth is that any kind of upbringing, as long as it's accompanied with lots of love and healthy doses of logic, is absolutely, perfectly normal.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Corporate America is a disease, I’m convinced, and a highly contagious one.
After two years of working in it, I count myself reasonably free of infection, mostly because I can still spot its symptoms from across a conference room table. The day I stop noticing is the day I fall victim.
Like John. I’m not sure how long he’s been infected but he’s clearly a terminal case. My guess is he’ll be part of the corporate world throughout his career, indeed that he wouldn’t survive outside it.
John is one of my favorite sales reps: Patient, polite, slow of speech, as genuine as the day is long, he’s the perfect personality for a career with seniors. John left a message on my voicemail while I was gone last week, an update on an event I’d coordinated for him.
“But hey, we can talk more about this when you get back. Enjoy your PTO!”
PTO? Enjoy my Planned Time Off? How about, “Have a nice vacation!” or even, “Enjoy your time off.”
I swear I felt a little stab of sadness, that my dear John was a corporate soldier, and so completely unaware of it.
The strangeness continues on a daily basis.
My new manager insisted I have a P-Card. The mysterious “P”, it turns out, stands for Purchasing. The P-Card is a company Visa used for business expenses. I received two, each with a separate account number – one by priority mail and the second by regular mail. I authorized the Priority Mail card; clearly, it was more important. The credit card company had no idea what to do with the second card.
“You’ll have to ask your manager,” the representative said. “We have nothing to do with that.”
“You’ll have to ask the expense department,” my manager said. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“Who at the expense department do I talk to?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ll have to ask someone at corporate.”
“Can’t I just cut up the second card?”
“No,” she said, spearing me with a look that told me I'd said something suspicious and strange.
“Well, what about my pass key? It doesn’t have garage access.” I held up the white rectangular piece of plastic I scanned past a red laser to gain entrance to the office each morning.
“I’m not sure about that either. E-mail Sarah.”
Sarah sat one desk from me. An actual person I knew. But my manager had asked me to e-mail her, and somehow, I thought this was an order. Speaking was not the preferred method of communication.
Her reply was prompt. “Talk to the management company, first floor.”
Neither of the two women on the first floor could help.
“That request has to come from your corporate office. Your manager will know.”
My manager did not know. It appeared I was doomed to boil in the parking lot forever, or at least until winter, when I would freeze.
This problem was forgotten, however, when yet another manager peeked over the wall of my cube.
“What you got going tomorrow?” he asked, corralling my co-worker as she walked by. “And you, too, what’s on your schedule?"
“I’m open,” I said.
“Me, too,” Debbie added.
“Great,” he said. “Let’s meet. 11 a.m.?”
We nodded in agreement.
“Alright. I’ll send an invite," he said, disappearing into his office.
In less than a minute, the e-mail popped into my inbox: an invitation from the manager to an 11 a.m. Friday meeting. Would I accept? Accept with comment? Decline? Decline with comment? Ignore?
I hesitated, debating. I could accept with comment and write, “OK, but I wish you would have talked to me about this before.” Or decline with comment, perhaps adding: “Sorry, something came up in the last eight seconds.”
In the end, I chose “accept,” knowing this was in the best interest of my bank account and my career. As we’d learned well in our online e-mail etiquette company-required training, every e-mail has the potential to destroy its sender. One of the worst symptoms of the Corporate America disease: no sense of humor.
Besides that, attending the meeting would log an hour or two onto my accumulated hours. And that would bring me another few minutes closer to that most-treasured of corporate rewards: Another round of PTO.
After two years of working in it, I count myself reasonably free of infection, mostly because I can still spot its symptoms from across a conference room table. The day I stop noticing is the day I fall victim.
Like John. I’m not sure how long he’s been infected but he’s clearly a terminal case. My guess is he’ll be part of the corporate world throughout his career, indeed that he wouldn’t survive outside it.
John is one of my favorite sales reps: Patient, polite, slow of speech, as genuine as the day is long, he’s the perfect personality for a career with seniors. John left a message on my voicemail while I was gone last week, an update on an event I’d coordinated for him.
“But hey, we can talk more about this when you get back. Enjoy your PTO!”
PTO? Enjoy my Planned Time Off? How about, “Have a nice vacation!” or even, “Enjoy your time off.”
I swear I felt a little stab of sadness, that my dear John was a corporate soldier, and so completely unaware of it.
The strangeness continues on a daily basis.
My new manager insisted I have a P-Card. The mysterious “P”, it turns out, stands for Purchasing. The P-Card is a company Visa used for business expenses. I received two, each with a separate account number – one by priority mail and the second by regular mail. I authorized the Priority Mail card; clearly, it was more important. The credit card company had no idea what to do with the second card.
“You’ll have to ask your manager,” the representative said. “We have nothing to do with that.”
“You’ll have to ask the expense department,” my manager said. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“Who at the expense department do I talk to?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ll have to ask someone at corporate.”
“Can’t I just cut up the second card?”
“No,” she said, spearing me with a look that told me I'd said something suspicious and strange.
“Well, what about my pass key? It doesn’t have garage access.” I held up the white rectangular piece of plastic I scanned past a red laser to gain entrance to the office each morning.
“I’m not sure about that either. E-mail Sarah.”
Sarah sat one desk from me. An actual person I knew. But my manager had asked me to e-mail her, and somehow, I thought this was an order. Speaking was not the preferred method of communication.
Her reply was prompt. “Talk to the management company, first floor.”
Neither of the two women on the first floor could help.
“That request has to come from your corporate office. Your manager will know.”
My manager did not know. It appeared I was doomed to boil in the parking lot forever, or at least until winter, when I would freeze.
This problem was forgotten, however, when yet another manager peeked over the wall of my cube.
“What you got going tomorrow?” he asked, corralling my co-worker as she walked by. “And you, too, what’s on your schedule?"
“I’m open,” I said.
“Me, too,” Debbie added.
“Great,” he said. “Let’s meet. 11 a.m.?”
We nodded in agreement.
“Alright. I’ll send an invite," he said, disappearing into his office.
In less than a minute, the e-mail popped into my inbox: an invitation from the manager to an 11 a.m. Friday meeting. Would I accept? Accept with comment? Decline? Decline with comment? Ignore?
I hesitated, debating. I could accept with comment and write, “OK, but I wish you would have talked to me about this before.” Or decline with comment, perhaps adding: “Sorry, something came up in the last eight seconds.”
In the end, I chose “accept,” knowing this was in the best interest of my bank account and my career. As we’d learned well in our online e-mail etiquette company-required training, every e-mail has the potential to destroy its sender. One of the worst symptoms of the Corporate America disease: no sense of humor.
Besides that, attending the meeting would log an hour or two onto my accumulated hours. And that would bring me another few minutes closer to that most-treasured of corporate rewards: Another round of PTO.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
I haven't felt like writing in days, weeks, maybe a month or more. I suppose it's writers block. But while it's keeping my fingers still, I thought instead I'd reach back in time and publish here something I wrote a few years ago. This is my version of a true story, an incident a former boyfriend relayed to me in which he was involved. He is the man in the tale. This happened, he said, when he was in a period of depression, rarely leaving his home except to go to the occasional movie, otherwise holed up in his darkened apartment smoking pot, playing his guitar, speaking to almost no one.
He admits it was a horrible thing to do, admits he wasn't quite in his right mind. I could relate to the latter; perhaps that's why this didn't alarm me more than it did.
I wrote this shortly before we broke up, and let him read it. He did so without comment.
Should I have known after he told me this story that our relationship was doomed? Should I have walked away when he did? Or should I count myself lucky that we didn't end up together, bad as our breakup was? I asked myself all those things many times in the year or two after our breakup. Regardless, it is I think, a gripping short story. I hope you agree. Feedback always appreciated. -- JR
10-8-00 Losing Control
Jeanna touched the counter with one finger, running it along the length of its stainless steel surface, past the tomatos, the banana peppers, the chopped onions, noodled strands of Swiss, American and cheddar, the glass bottles of oil and vinegar, plastic containers of mustard and mayo.
No stray bits of lettuce littered the counter, the glass bottles shone from her recent ministrations, the mustard top was free of the hardened, dried tip it inevitably gained in the course of a day.
The yellow booths beyond the counter sat empty, their surfaces bare of even a crumb, no hint there of the three customers who’d sat at them during the past hour.
The mop leaned wearily against the corner between the kitchen and the hallway, its graying tentacles still bearing traces of suds from their recent journey across the Subway floor.
Jeanna sighed. It was all disappointingly spotless.
She glanced at her watch again, peered out through her plastic-framed glasses into the too-quiet, moonless night, flipped open the dog-eared People in a vain search for some bit of celebrity news she had not yet read.
She had barely ducked her head to the page when the door sucked open.
“Hey,” grunted a masculine voice.
Jeanna grinned, tugged hard on the hem of her yellow Subway shirt, making a vain attempt to cover her ample hips. She shoved her glasses, which had slipped a good quarter-inch down her nose while she bent to study the magazine, roughly back up to the bridge of her nose.
“Hi,” she chirped. “How ya been?”
He did not look up, only stared through the glass at the sandwich ingredients.
He was always dressed the same – black boots, blue jeans, black leather jacket. That and his height – which was somewhere well beyond six feet – and a frame that appeared to Jeanna to be extremely well-defined, lent him a slightly sinister aura she wanted to fear, but was drawn to nevertheless. She studied his thick, brown hair as he stared, with an unusual intensity, at the food. Then his eyes shifted gears, never stopping at Jeanna but sweeping up to the menu board. She didn’t stop her perusal – he appeared oblivious to her anyway – and let herself gaze at his face: the big, green eyes, the day’s growth of hair. It was a face she had never seen smile.
She blushed, feeling him take her in as she stared at his stubble. She had been wondering what it would feel like against her palm.
“Huh?” he asked, in a gravely tone that suggested his vocal chords had been forced into use after a long period of rest.
She cleared her throat. “I said, ‘How ya been?’ What cha been up to?”
Jeanna looked directly into his eyes then, and almost gasped aloud. The pupils were dilated wide, a thin line of green separating them from the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
He stared, unblinking, back at her, standing utterly still. Then, abruptly, he reached an arm toward his back pocket and his wallet, and dropped his eyes. “Movie.”
“Movie, huh?” she queried.
But he didn’t look up. He was tugging on his wallet, trying to free it from his blue-jeaned back pocket, a task that appeared inordinately difficult.
“I saw ‘Pulp Fiction’ the other night. God, it was so violent, I’m still having nightmares. I just hate movies like that, ya know. What’d you see?”
She waited anxiously, hoping this time he would utter more than a monosyllable, daring to think he would even smile. She suspected he had a wildly sexy smile.
He looked at her again, but this time he seemed to see her, Jeanna thought. Determined to ignore the eyes that cried of a sickness she could not identify, she smiled nervously.
“That wasn’t real violence,” he said, forehead crinkling with annoyance. “It was just a movie. Don’t you know it’s not real?”
She blushed again, pleased that he was talking – uttering what was for him a veritable speech – but taken aback by his words.
“Well, it was real enough for me. I mean, have you seen real violence?”
“You want real violence?” He looked up at her, and this time she could not avoid the eyes. They caught her so all-consumingly that she did not see the large hand swooping toward her temple. She felt something firm and barrel-shaped against her brow, and drew in a breath of air so suddenly that her stomach lurched.
“I’ll show you real violence,” he growled.
In her terror, Jeanna felt a wash of utmost shame because even now, she still felt a thrill at the sound of his voice, now so near her ear he could have been a lover.
“Real violence is when I say, ‘Open the cash register and give me the money, bitch, or you die.’”
Jeanna cried out, fumbling for the “open” button on the cash register, her mind torn away from thoughts of flirtation to the most basic of instincts – the will to survive.
The door sucked open again, and her eyes flew to it, her mouth opening to scream for ‘Help,’ to say, ‘Oh, thank, God.’
But all she saw there was him, his broad shoulders and frame filling the doorway for a second before he melted into the night. The last thing she noticed were his hands, hanging at his side. His finger, she realized with a sickening sense of equal parts relief and humiliation, had been the “gun” she’d felt at her head.
Jeanna’s hands flew to her face, knocking her glasses askew. She slid to the floor, sobbing.
He admits it was a horrible thing to do, admits he wasn't quite in his right mind. I could relate to the latter; perhaps that's why this didn't alarm me more than it did.
I wrote this shortly before we broke up, and let him read it. He did so without comment.
Should I have known after he told me this story that our relationship was doomed? Should I have walked away when he did? Or should I count myself lucky that we didn't end up together, bad as our breakup was? I asked myself all those things many times in the year or two after our breakup. Regardless, it is I think, a gripping short story. I hope you agree. Feedback always appreciated. -- JR
10-8-00 Losing Control
Jeanna touched the counter with one finger, running it along the length of its stainless steel surface, past the tomatos, the banana peppers, the chopped onions, noodled strands of Swiss, American and cheddar, the glass bottles of oil and vinegar, plastic containers of mustard and mayo.
No stray bits of lettuce littered the counter, the glass bottles shone from her recent ministrations, the mustard top was free of the hardened, dried tip it inevitably gained in the course of a day.
The yellow booths beyond the counter sat empty, their surfaces bare of even a crumb, no hint there of the three customers who’d sat at them during the past hour.
The mop leaned wearily against the corner between the kitchen and the hallway, its graying tentacles still bearing traces of suds from their recent journey across the Subway floor.
Jeanna sighed. It was all disappointingly spotless.
She glanced at her watch again, peered out through her plastic-framed glasses into the too-quiet, moonless night, flipped open the dog-eared People in a vain search for some bit of celebrity news she had not yet read.
She had barely ducked her head to the page when the door sucked open.
“Hey,” grunted a masculine voice.
Jeanna grinned, tugged hard on the hem of her yellow Subway shirt, making a vain attempt to cover her ample hips. She shoved her glasses, which had slipped a good quarter-inch down her nose while she bent to study the magazine, roughly back up to the bridge of her nose.
“Hi,” she chirped. “How ya been?”
He did not look up, only stared through the glass at the sandwich ingredients.
He was always dressed the same – black boots, blue jeans, black leather jacket. That and his height – which was somewhere well beyond six feet – and a frame that appeared to Jeanna to be extremely well-defined, lent him a slightly sinister aura she wanted to fear, but was drawn to nevertheless. She studied his thick, brown hair as he stared, with an unusual intensity, at the food. Then his eyes shifted gears, never stopping at Jeanna but sweeping up to the menu board. She didn’t stop her perusal – he appeared oblivious to her anyway – and let herself gaze at his face: the big, green eyes, the day’s growth of hair. It was a face she had never seen smile.
She blushed, feeling him take her in as she stared at his stubble. She had been wondering what it would feel like against her palm.
“Huh?” he asked, in a gravely tone that suggested his vocal chords had been forced into use after a long period of rest.
She cleared her throat. “I said, ‘How ya been?’ What cha been up to?”
Jeanna looked directly into his eyes then, and almost gasped aloud. The pupils were dilated wide, a thin line of green separating them from the bloodshot whites of his eyes.
He stared, unblinking, back at her, standing utterly still. Then, abruptly, he reached an arm toward his back pocket and his wallet, and dropped his eyes. “Movie.”
“Movie, huh?” she queried.
But he didn’t look up. He was tugging on his wallet, trying to free it from his blue-jeaned back pocket, a task that appeared inordinately difficult.
“I saw ‘Pulp Fiction’ the other night. God, it was so violent, I’m still having nightmares. I just hate movies like that, ya know. What’d you see?”
She waited anxiously, hoping this time he would utter more than a monosyllable, daring to think he would even smile. She suspected he had a wildly sexy smile.
He looked at her again, but this time he seemed to see her, Jeanna thought. Determined to ignore the eyes that cried of a sickness she could not identify, she smiled nervously.
“That wasn’t real violence,” he said, forehead crinkling with annoyance. “It was just a movie. Don’t you know it’s not real?”
She blushed again, pleased that he was talking – uttering what was for him a veritable speech – but taken aback by his words.
“Well, it was real enough for me. I mean, have you seen real violence?”
“You want real violence?” He looked up at her, and this time she could not avoid the eyes. They caught her so all-consumingly that she did not see the large hand swooping toward her temple. She felt something firm and barrel-shaped against her brow, and drew in a breath of air so suddenly that her stomach lurched.
“I’ll show you real violence,” he growled.
In her terror, Jeanna felt a wash of utmost shame because even now, she still felt a thrill at the sound of his voice, now so near her ear he could have been a lover.
“Real violence is when I say, ‘Open the cash register and give me the money, bitch, or you die.’”
Jeanna cried out, fumbling for the “open” button on the cash register, her mind torn away from thoughts of flirtation to the most basic of instincts – the will to survive.
The door sucked open again, and her eyes flew to it, her mouth opening to scream for ‘Help,’ to say, ‘Oh, thank, God.’
But all she saw there was him, his broad shoulders and frame filling the doorway for a second before he melted into the night. The last thing she noticed were his hands, hanging at his side. His finger, she realized with a sickening sense of equal parts relief and humiliation, had been the “gun” she’d felt at her head.
Jeanna’s hands flew to her face, knocking her glasses askew. She slid to the floor, sobbing.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
For months now, I've been trying to find a volunteer slot that suits my fancy. Something interesting, even a little fun, but something that will change the world. Or at least the lives of several people in it. I have not yet found it. Interesting, fun and life-changing often doesn't fall into one package, particularly when combined with my schedule and abilities. And so I've felt frustrated with myself, as though I'm not doing enough, that I am less than I could be.
Now I'm beginning to wonder.
Volunteering for a refugee assistance group, children's literacy program, in-home seniors reading program and other such fabulous programs is one sure way to make a difference. But the circle doesn't have to be wide, formally titled and anonymous. It can be as close as an e-mail address book.
In the past couple of months, I've done three small things that had surprisingly large impact.
My Birthday Alarm notified me that an old friend would soon be celebrating her birthday. We had seen one another just months before at our 25th class reunion and had a nice re-connection. Still, we hadn't resumed our old friendship. I thought maybe I'd send her an e-card, but as usual, I pushed this tiny task aside as a do-later. The morning of her birthday, I got my second reminder. Out of time, I dashed off a three-sentence e-mail, urging her with hastily chosen words to celebrate herself. The next day, she e-mailed me back and said, "Your e-mail was the best gift I received this year. Thanks so much for your words."
I was stunned. I wondered if my friend - divorced, single and facing challenging economic times - had chosen to let her birthday go silently by. But I did not ask.
Last week, another, closer friend e-mailed me about some family problems. The stress she felt crackled along the electronic lines like a bolt of lightning, shooting off the screen as though the message had been written in all caps. It was a weekday morning so time was again short, and in part because hers were challenges I had never experienced, words failed me. Quickly, I perused Hallmark.com's e-cards. I sent her the first one I found; in part because I was in a hurry but also because its message struck me. Before day's end, she e-mailed to say the card had brought tears to her eyes, that it had been a needed message.
A few days ago, I wrote a letter to my former boss, who now works for our competitor. Vickie hired me when I was a marketing subcontractor, surprising me with a call to my home one night to say she had noticed my work and wanted to speak with me. Because of Vickie's faith in me, I left the sad, belittling atmosphere of the Gazette, and now live in the nicest house of my life to date, in economic conditions better than any I have previously known. Vickie is my first role model. I wrote all this down, printed it on nice stationary and sent it to her. Vickie's letter was planned. Even at that, I procrastinated the actual writing, and cranked it out with greater speed than she deserved.
Yesterday, she left a message of thanks. Never in her life had she gotten such a letter, she said. I could hear her voice crack even though Vickie was, as always, smiling as she talked. She planned to frame it, she said, and hang it in her new office for a while. She wanted to talk to me, see how things were going, to stay in touch and for me to know how much she treasured our friendship. I saved the message.
These three responses don't make me feel proud but humbled by the power of words. I wonder at all the opportunities I've missed. The quick e-mails I should have written, saying thanks, offering a compliment, suggesting an outing. The e-cards I should have sent, phone calls I might have made, letters I pondered writing and let fall to the sidelines of my busy days.
I think about the small acts of kindness that bolster me. Something so recent as a woman walking out of the grocery store the other day who said, "That dress looks so good on you!" Something so long ago as a man behind me at a convenience store in my college town, plunking down the change I lacked to pay for a candy bar. I was deeply depressed, weeks away from hospitalization. That single act restored my faith in the kindness of others.
All of this has a domino effect, I think. When someone does some small thing for us, that spot of happiness enables us to smile at another, put more effort into our jobs, to do something nice for someone else.
Imagine what would happen if we all took the time to do just one of these things, once a week, for those we know best. Imagine if we extended it to include a few of those we don't, by doing something so simple as complimenting that stranger at the grocery store. Imagine the difference we could make. In these small ways, we truly could change the world.
Now I'm beginning to wonder.
Volunteering for a refugee assistance group, children's literacy program, in-home seniors reading program and other such fabulous programs is one sure way to make a difference. But the circle doesn't have to be wide, formally titled and anonymous. It can be as close as an e-mail address book.
In the past couple of months, I've done three small things that had surprisingly large impact.
My Birthday Alarm notified me that an old friend would soon be celebrating her birthday. We had seen one another just months before at our 25th class reunion and had a nice re-connection. Still, we hadn't resumed our old friendship. I thought maybe I'd send her an e-card, but as usual, I pushed this tiny task aside as a do-later. The morning of her birthday, I got my second reminder. Out of time, I dashed off a three-sentence e-mail, urging her with hastily chosen words to celebrate herself. The next day, she e-mailed me back and said, "Your e-mail was the best gift I received this year. Thanks so much for your words."
I was stunned. I wondered if my friend - divorced, single and facing challenging economic times - had chosen to let her birthday go silently by. But I did not ask.
Last week, another, closer friend e-mailed me about some family problems. The stress she felt crackled along the electronic lines like a bolt of lightning, shooting off the screen as though the message had been written in all caps. It was a weekday morning so time was again short, and in part because hers were challenges I had never experienced, words failed me. Quickly, I perused Hallmark.com's e-cards. I sent her the first one I found; in part because I was in a hurry but also because its message struck me. Before day's end, she e-mailed to say the card had brought tears to her eyes, that it had been a needed message.
A few days ago, I wrote a letter to my former boss, who now works for our competitor. Vickie hired me when I was a marketing subcontractor, surprising me with a call to my home one night to say she had noticed my work and wanted to speak with me. Because of Vickie's faith in me, I left the sad, belittling atmosphere of the Gazette, and now live in the nicest house of my life to date, in economic conditions better than any I have previously known. Vickie is my first role model. I wrote all this down, printed it on nice stationary and sent it to her. Vickie's letter was planned. Even at that, I procrastinated the actual writing, and cranked it out with greater speed than she deserved.
Yesterday, she left a message of thanks. Never in her life had she gotten such a letter, she said. I could hear her voice crack even though Vickie was, as always, smiling as she talked. She planned to frame it, she said, and hang it in her new office for a while. She wanted to talk to me, see how things were going, to stay in touch and for me to know how much she treasured our friendship. I saved the message.
These three responses don't make me feel proud but humbled by the power of words. I wonder at all the opportunities I've missed. The quick e-mails I should have written, saying thanks, offering a compliment, suggesting an outing. The e-cards I should have sent, phone calls I might have made, letters I pondered writing and let fall to the sidelines of my busy days.
I think about the small acts of kindness that bolster me. Something so recent as a woman walking out of the grocery store the other day who said, "That dress looks so good on you!" Something so long ago as a man behind me at a convenience store in my college town, plunking down the change I lacked to pay for a candy bar. I was deeply depressed, weeks away from hospitalization. That single act restored my faith in the kindness of others.
All of this has a domino effect, I think. When someone does some small thing for us, that spot of happiness enables us to smile at another, put more effort into our jobs, to do something nice for someone else.
Imagine what would happen if we all took the time to do just one of these things, once a week, for those we know best. Imagine if we extended it to include a few of those we don't, by doing something so simple as complimenting that stranger at the grocery store. Imagine the difference we could make. In these small ways, we truly could change the world.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Nationwide, our company laid off at least 300 full-time employees Thursday.
I was not among them. But trauma such as this hits with bomb-like effect, impacting those at its center most dramatically, then pulsing outward to touch everyone within its radius.
I didn't even particularly like Julie. Most days, I felt her face could have served as a vivid illustration for the word 'sourpuss.' She spoke to me according to her mood and traveled in a very tight circle, one that through glances and silence suggested its members had reached conclusions about each employee, and that I was not among the favored few. I wasn't in the office consistently enough to care about that.
But on the more-important professional level, Julie also fell short for me. Our boss repeatedly suggested I travel with her on a ride-along to witness her role in the company so that I could better promote it as a service to our members. Julie always said OK. Julie never found time or space for me in her car. Lacking a clear understanding of what she did, I avoided talking about that feature of our plan. This to me represented a serious gaffe on Julie's part.
But Julie also had a quick mind, a hearty laugh and a casual, tomboy style. I suspect that once the crusty surface broke, she was fairly good company.
This week, our company cut the service and all those who provided it.
I'll never know for sure whether I was right or wrong about any of those things about Julie.
Thursday, it didn't matter.
Julie stood in the hallway when the rest of us emerged from a required all-staff meeting during which we'd repeatedly heard words and phrases like "streamlining," "efficiency," "opportunity," and "changing with the times." Faces typically lit with smiles were tight with fear. Since the receipt two weeks ago of an ominously worded e-mail that stated our Fortune 50 company was "not performing well," rumors had raged. I'd felt ridiculously safe and warm; my boss had reminded me we were "pretty tight already," and said that my position was safe. Belatedly, I realized she'd surely told everyone else the same.
I realized, too, this was not just a meeting, but a carefully planned and executed production.
Our local president, a nattily attired, graying-at-the-temples 40-year-old possessed of an eerily unwavering calm and a flawless command of the corporate American language, (a co-worker and I speculated he made love with the same precision and lack of imagination, perhaps even donning white gloves for the required act), spoke from notes neatly typed on a small sheaf of papers. Ten or 12 lines among the many on each page were highlighted yellow. With never an 'um' or other sign of human imperfection, he read from the sheets, looking up regularly to meet and hold every employee's gaze.
The performance was smooth, appropriately void of emotion and overall impressive. Had the venue been different, I'd have been moved to applause.
Earlier in the day, in a smaller meeting, an employee had stated her opinion about the pending changes. "I agree," he said, then gave a rare smile, this one slightly embarrassed. "I'm off script," he apologized, then went on, "I hear what you're saying."
He was good. And I stood in constant awe of the fact that the man was not just my age, but four years younger. How had he become what he was? How could we possibly have lived in the same world all these years? While I was puking in the bushes in the 2 a.m. darkness of a Wisconsin campus university, his surely was the study light shining in the figurative dorm seven states and an Ivy League beyond me. The family photos in his office were black-and-whites of young girls in elegant dresses loosely clasping flower bouquets. My most recent favorite Robby photo depicted him, mouth open and hair askew, hanging upside down from a swing at the park. And why was I, at the heart of it, so incredibly uninterested in Bror's life?
But this is the stuff of another blog. I digress.
Suffice to say the meeting was tough and surreal.
While I said I was not among those laid off, that was only partially true. A co-worker and I were instead transferred to another department, added to another payroll, handed a new job description and a pay increase. I heard news of the salary bump with tinged joy. Based on the job description and the brief welcome-aboard from our new boss -- "Expectations will be quite high" -- I do not know how long I will be able to hold onto this fatter check.
The worst news of all Thursday was that the woman -- the single best role model of my life -- is leaving the company. This, too, is the stuff of another blog.
The shock and surprise of the morning, the break to that long-held tension, all spun like a tomahawk into Julie. She was not just a woman who'd lost a job, she was the visible symbol of all those emotions.
I walked out of the meeting room behind a wave of other people and found myself in a line.
I heard sobs, muffled words, the sounds of bodies meeting in a firm hug. I saw Julie at the front of the line. Three people stood around her, faces somber, words soft. One by one, the employees in line merged into this small gathering, enfolding Julie in a hug.
Julie had never bothered much with makeup or her appearance in general. But now her face was raw. Red, blotchy, nose running, tears shining in the lines beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open in a struggle to breath. Julie was, at that moment, misery defined. Unapologetic, vulnerable, naked misery.
No one could see that much pain and be unaffected.
I stepped out of line because I could not move closer. The intensity of her emotion was a wall of fire. Its heat drove me back.
"Are you OK?" someone asked me.
The question took me by surprise. I was economically safe. My new position had almost nothing to do with the service we'd lost. I didn't even know Julie well. And my boss, who had accepted a job with our competitor, seemed happy about the impending change.
But my face must have said something different. I looked at the co-worker who'd queried me and saw that her face didn't look right either. In fact, everyone's expression appeared slightly twisted.
Eventually, I moved close enough to give Julie an awkward hug and to tell her I knew she would land on her feet. The words sounded trite the moment I said them, but they were genuine. A statement more than an opinion.
These moments aside, Julie was of strong stock, with vast knowledge in a specialized field.
And while I had never much admired her before, I did so fiercely Thursday. Because while everyone else who played out that morning's events gave flawless, politically correct performances, Julie broke the mold. Julie reacted genuinely, with an emotional abandon rarely seen in the corporate world. Julie, in short, was human.
I was not among them. But trauma such as this hits with bomb-like effect, impacting those at its center most dramatically, then pulsing outward to touch everyone within its radius.
I didn't even particularly like Julie. Most days, I felt her face could have served as a vivid illustration for the word 'sourpuss.' She spoke to me according to her mood and traveled in a very tight circle, one that through glances and silence suggested its members had reached conclusions about each employee, and that I was not among the favored few. I wasn't in the office consistently enough to care about that.
But on the more-important professional level, Julie also fell short for me. Our boss repeatedly suggested I travel with her on a ride-along to witness her role in the company so that I could better promote it as a service to our members. Julie always said OK. Julie never found time or space for me in her car. Lacking a clear understanding of what she did, I avoided talking about that feature of our plan. This to me represented a serious gaffe on Julie's part.
But Julie also had a quick mind, a hearty laugh and a casual, tomboy style. I suspect that once the crusty surface broke, she was fairly good company.
This week, our company cut the service and all those who provided it.
I'll never know for sure whether I was right or wrong about any of those things about Julie.
Thursday, it didn't matter.
Julie stood in the hallway when the rest of us emerged from a required all-staff meeting during which we'd repeatedly heard words and phrases like "streamlining," "efficiency," "opportunity," and "changing with the times." Faces typically lit with smiles were tight with fear. Since the receipt two weeks ago of an ominously worded e-mail that stated our Fortune 50 company was "not performing well," rumors had raged. I'd felt ridiculously safe and warm; my boss had reminded me we were "pretty tight already," and said that my position was safe. Belatedly, I realized she'd surely told everyone else the same.
I realized, too, this was not just a meeting, but a carefully planned and executed production.
Our local president, a nattily attired, graying-at-the-temples 40-year-old possessed of an eerily unwavering calm and a flawless command of the corporate American language, (a co-worker and I speculated he made love with the same precision and lack of imagination, perhaps even donning white gloves for the required act), spoke from notes neatly typed on a small sheaf of papers. Ten or 12 lines among the many on each page were highlighted yellow. With never an 'um' or other sign of human imperfection, he read from the sheets, looking up regularly to meet and hold every employee's gaze.
The performance was smooth, appropriately void of emotion and overall impressive. Had the venue been different, I'd have been moved to applause.
Earlier in the day, in a smaller meeting, an employee had stated her opinion about the pending changes. "I agree," he said, then gave a rare smile, this one slightly embarrassed. "I'm off script," he apologized, then went on, "I hear what you're saying."
He was good. And I stood in constant awe of the fact that the man was not just my age, but four years younger. How had he become what he was? How could we possibly have lived in the same world all these years? While I was puking in the bushes in the 2 a.m. darkness of a Wisconsin campus university, his surely was the study light shining in the figurative dorm seven states and an Ivy League beyond me. The family photos in his office were black-and-whites of young girls in elegant dresses loosely clasping flower bouquets. My most recent favorite Robby photo depicted him, mouth open and hair askew, hanging upside down from a swing at the park. And why was I, at the heart of it, so incredibly uninterested in Bror's life?
But this is the stuff of another blog. I digress.
Suffice to say the meeting was tough and surreal.
While I said I was not among those laid off, that was only partially true. A co-worker and I were instead transferred to another department, added to another payroll, handed a new job description and a pay increase. I heard news of the salary bump with tinged joy. Based on the job description and the brief welcome-aboard from our new boss -- "Expectations will be quite high" -- I do not know how long I will be able to hold onto this fatter check.
The worst news of all Thursday was that the woman -- the single best role model of my life -- is leaving the company. This, too, is the stuff of another blog.
The shock and surprise of the morning, the break to that long-held tension, all spun like a tomahawk into Julie. She was not just a woman who'd lost a job, she was the visible symbol of all those emotions.
I walked out of the meeting room behind a wave of other people and found myself in a line.
I heard sobs, muffled words, the sounds of bodies meeting in a firm hug. I saw Julie at the front of the line. Three people stood around her, faces somber, words soft. One by one, the employees in line merged into this small gathering, enfolding Julie in a hug.
Julie had never bothered much with makeup or her appearance in general. But now her face was raw. Red, blotchy, nose running, tears shining in the lines beneath her eyes. Her mouth was open in a struggle to breath. Julie was, at that moment, misery defined. Unapologetic, vulnerable, naked misery.
No one could see that much pain and be unaffected.
I stepped out of line because I could not move closer. The intensity of her emotion was a wall of fire. Its heat drove me back.
"Are you OK?" someone asked me.
The question took me by surprise. I was economically safe. My new position had almost nothing to do with the service we'd lost. I didn't even know Julie well. And my boss, who had accepted a job with our competitor, seemed happy about the impending change.
But my face must have said something different. I looked at the co-worker who'd queried me and saw that her face didn't look right either. In fact, everyone's expression appeared slightly twisted.
Eventually, I moved close enough to give Julie an awkward hug and to tell her I knew she would land on her feet. The words sounded trite the moment I said them, but they were genuine. A statement more than an opinion.
These moments aside, Julie was of strong stock, with vast knowledge in a specialized field.
And while I had never much admired her before, I did so fiercely Thursday. Because while everyone else who played out that morning's events gave flawless, politically correct performances, Julie broke the mold. Julie reacted genuinely, with an emotional abandon rarely seen in the corporate world. Julie, in short, was human.
Friday, June 20, 2008
On 44 ... (Bridget Jones style)
Weight: 127 (Two pounds above ideal, weight in hips seems to be settling in somewhat alarmingly different ways, acceptable overall)
Alcohol units: 1.5 (including three sample microbrew shots at mega liquor store)
Boyfriends: 0 to .3 (.3 being generous)
Job: 1
Number of times during job have held pleasant conversations with people who smell like urine: 13
Child: 1, 12 years, male. Still cuddly, interspersed with increasing moments of sassy
Pets: Three. One big, smelly, aggressive and aging dog; two young cats, one psychotic
Residences: 2
Mortgages: 3
Friends: Many
Problems: Relatively few
Confessions: 1. The above photo is from my 42nd birthday but I've been trying to figure out a way to work it into a blog and damned if it doesn't seem perfect here
This then, is my life at 44. I celebrated the big double-quad digits about a week ago. It was a boring birthday on the most boring day of the week: Tuesday. So I worked, like any other American on any other Tuesday in early June.
And in the evening, my son and I hopped Denver's light rail to downtown, where we wandered companionably along the 16th Street Mall. We ate a meal more remarkable for its people watching than its food on Chili's sidewalk cafe, spooned creamy gelato -- prompting memories of Italy -- from small plastic neon dishes, annoyed a security guard for sliding down slide-shaped outdoor architecture and reveled in the breezy, summer glory of an 85-degree post-sunset evening.
The mall's usual suspects did not disappoint us. Christmas, an elderly, Santa-hatted and wheelchaired man who parks outside the downtown Walgreen's most evenings, watched us coming. We kept walking, waiting, indeed hoping, for some recognition.
"Mother and son! It's a beautiful thing!" he cried. "Santa's watching, young man. Mind your manners, be nice to your mother, clean that scary room! Ha-ha-ha!"
Robby and I looked at one another and laughed. "How did he know we're mother and son?" I asked.
Robby rolled his eyes. "Well, duh," he said.
I thought about the pair of us, both thin, Robby tall for his age to my 5'9", our matching large, brown eyes, Robby's darkening hair. I took strange pleasure in the idea that we were recognizable as mother and child.
A black man as frightening for his height as his width leaned against a brick building a few blocks down. He, too, took us in as we approached.
"Love your mother!" he shouted to Robby. "She's all you got. Love her!"
I thought of stopping to point out that this child had a father as well, but it would have ruined the moment.
"Why are they all picking on you?" I asked him.
"Yeah! That's what I wanna know," he said in mock vexation.
We passed buskers, one playing a lone drum solo on two large white paint cans and one small metal one, another on trumpet, a pair of cellists. Flowers tumbled from hangers, foamed over the tops of planters, works of art every one. A horse-drawn carriage sailed smoothly down the street. In the carriage, a couple cuddled, smiles broad. Pedi-cabs - bicycles drawing small carriages of their own - passed us. One cyclist, standing on the pedals, calves bulging with effort, transported four teen-agers - a tangle of limbs and laughter - down the mall.
There was so much to see, yet I found pockets of time for reflection.
If anyone had told me a year ago the last half of my 43rd year would be so happy, I would not have believed them. Forty-three dawned fat with anxiety and unhappiness. I hated my job. The man I thought I loved responded to e-mail - our only remaining form of communication - sporadically, suggesting get-togethers upon which he never acted. Yet I could not let go. It darkened every corner of my life.
In December, I let go. In December, I reached out to another; six months later, we are still reaching out for one another.
I left for Italy hating my job. Inexplicably, I came back liking it.
In the last half of my 43rd year, I found a church I love.
And my son told me he wants to go to high school here, calming one of my greatest fears - the prospect of a court battle; still possible but with this pronouncement far less likely - of the last several years.
We lost a beloved pet during that tumultuous first half of 43. With the second half, we found two more, one of them spring-loaded with personality, so much so that I sometimes slip and call our new Pete by his irreplaceable predecessor's name, George.
New friends came and went, new friends came and stayed, old friends reconnected, old friends faded further.
I fell more deeply in love with my neighborhood, at the friends it yielded for my so-long-searching son.
I began to hate my car.
This then, is how 44 begins. Stay with me for the ride.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
What I learned in my survival class: I will not survive a night alone in the woods. Nor do I care to.
It's not that I want to die, just that I don't want to know how to build a shelter in the woods using the supposed "tools" nature gives me, or experience sleeping on pine boughs - particularly as part of a course for which I paid money. And I especially do not want to carry the 40-pound day pack required to stave off a woodsy death.
On a whim about six weeks ago, I signed up for Wilderness Survival School through the Colorado Mountain Club I joined in late April. I joined the club to hike, but one uneventful night, perused their class offerings as well.
The problem was, there had been too many uneventful nights. My social life had withered somewhat in the last few months. I'd come to depend too much on Roger for it, and this was unwise on multiple levels. My Denver trio of single friends juggled schedules even more hectic than mine; a biweekly Happy Hour seemed a small miracle. Complicating matters, the alcohol-focused gatherings of the singles groups in which I'd dabbled had lost their appeal.
I needed something different, challenging perhaps, and I needed it soon. I skimmed the description of the survival class. This was a Tuesday night. The first class began the following evening. I signed up.
The first three weeks, a series of lectures in the comfort of the club's auditorium, were not too bad. We learned about the stages of hypothermia, complete with gory pictures of people who fell victim to it. We watched survival scenarios and self-tested on which of the meager tools were most important in each case. Note: Matches and a pocketknife trump rum and muscle relaxers. We were lectured on nutrition: Gatorade? no! Water? Yes. And received a lengthy sermon from an alpine rescue leader, who said, in summary: Don't be stupid.
But as the lecture series neared an end, I began to feel uncomfortable. The main event was a Saturday overnight in the mountains west of Denver.
We were to bring our day packs with our 10 Essentials. Some of these were easy. Sunglasses, sunscreen, food, toilet paper, matches and water. But 2 QUARTS of water? This seemed excessive - and heavy - to me. A rain parka and rain pants, extra layers of clothing, a pocketknife, a headlamp and first aid supplies. Other recommended items included a pad - no more than 3/4-inch thick - cords, a safety blanket (a supposed miracle item that looks like glorified tin foil), signaling mirror, map and compass, small axe, those tablets that make that wild and crazy natural water into a safe source of hydration. And the rest I forget. I think a chain saw and a tire swing maybe as well.
What's important to understand is that I am a minimalist. When Robby was a baby, I took off with a diaper and a bottle stuffed into the tiny purses I've long favored. A frequent winter mountain driver, I carry in the trunk of my car a quart of oil. Period. I feel truly prepared for a hike if I remember to bring the fanny pack, in which I can fit a small bottle of water, my car keys and the cell phone. I hike in Teva sandals, no socks.
I can see why I should expand my essentials list to include a smattering of the items listed above. But only the light things. Hiking is supposed to be fun. A beefy backpack defeats the purpose.
But I would go, I thought. I could borrow the remaining 10 Essentials and more from my neighbor, a frequent winter hunter. I would prove to myself that I could do this.
That seemed like a fine idea until the night before the trip -- last night -- when I considered further what the experience would be like. I would be cold. My back and neck would hurt. An insomniac under the best of circumstances, I anticipated absolutely no sleep. The single plus was that the class was full of men with a smattering of manly women. But without hair product, cosmetics and sleep, I could simply not stay cute for 24 hours. The final nail in the coffin: We were to meet at 9 a.m. Saturday morning and return the next day. My weekend, along with my back, brain and looks, would be shot.
I left a message for the instructor that I could not go. Work, I explained. Sudden, unexpected. I had to work Sunday morning, and there was simply no way I could get back, shower and make it. I was not surprised when he called back. "What if you just come up for the day? You'll still learn a lot. It'll be fun. Everyone that takes this class says it's fun."
I caved. This morning, I was at the appointed Park & Ride, gathered in the parking lot with a bunch of men wearing navy, black and khaki, bulging backpacks with labels I did not recognize laying at their feet.
I was wearing a cotton T-shirt - a faux pas for sure. Water-sucking cotton is the bane of all outdoors people, I had learned. But I had chosen this particular T-shirt specifically because it had a touch of spandex, which made it cling slightly, and this was important when hanging out in the woods with a bunch of men. Besides, it was gray. A respectable, outdoorsy color if ever there was one. And my pants - $60 wind- and wrinkle-proof REI-brand, as well as my $100 Keens hybrid sandal/hiking boots - were more than respectable. Never mind that I'd purchased both specifically for travel through Italy. These were serious outdoor clothes. I moved my well-prepared feet such that they blocked my backpack, with its American Tourister label, from view.
I'd counted on a solitary drive during which I could listen to the conclusion of the romantic Nicholas Sparks' book on CD I'd been following. But at the last moment, Ed, the leader for the after-work hikes in which I'd participated, asked to carpool. Quickly, I threw Nicholas Sparks under the seat. I was only mildly annoyed about this. More so, I realized that the other men likely believed Ed and I were together. This was a misconception I did not want.
Ed was the only mountain club member with which I had any familiarity. He was a nice man with an unusual appearance. Everything about him struck me as angular. He was beyond six-feet tall and skinny, with a long, narrow, pale face and a mouth that rarely turned upward into a smile. But I knew the subjects he liked: hiking, hiking equipment, the girlfriend I had met and finances, so I knew talk wouldn't be too much of a problem. It went like this: I asked the questions. He answered. It was not so much a conversation as it was me queing Ed to talk. But he seemed happily unaware.
Early on in our drive, he commented this his girlfriend was "probably short term." Kate was Thai, here on a work visa and due to go back to Thailand soon. She didn't speak English well, he said, and it was difficult for them to watch movies or do other normal couple things together. She also was not much of a hiker. She tired easily and was, worst of all, ill equipped.
I offered little comment, except to remind him that she was adorable.
Somewhere along the drive, it occurred to me that Ed was scoping me out as a possible replacement. I shoved the thought aside as irrelevant.
At the campsite, we were instructed to sit in a semi-circle for yet another lecture, this one from a 60-something survival expert, retired from Special Forces. Even if he had not told us his background, his military style was evident. Nick divided us into two groups for question and answer. If one person in the groups answered a question wrong, the entire group would stand until another member answered a question correctly.
I had not studied the handouts. I slumped down in the back row.
"What are the three P's?" he belted out, singling out a woman from the first group.
I could think of not a single one. I could not even recall discussing it.
"Planning ... preparation," she said. "And ..."
He waited. Then made a loud honking noise and commanded, "Everybody in this group - stand!" They rose. The woman glanced around apologetically.
His gaze shifted to our group. His pointing finger circled in the air, then came down, extended arrow straight. At me.
"Jane, stand up!"
I directed a whispered "shit" to the ground and stood.
"What are three devices you can use for signaling?"
"A mirror," I said with confidence. Mirror signaling was our next exercise; I felt proud of myself for remembering. "Um ... fire."
"Yes!" he said. "That's two!"
All eyes turned toward me as I thought, silently, while Nick's internal clock ticked. I remembered the survival videos, the idiot hunter who'd fired frantic shots into the air and fled, in a hypothermic fit of insanity, from snowmobiles that could have shuttled him to warmth and safety.
"A gun?" I offered it not as an answer, but a question. While ours was not exactly the Sierra Club, a gun surely was not an acceptable mountain club response.
"Yes! A gun!" He rattled off several other possible answers and I sank back to the ground with relief.
For the next three hours, we listened to Nick's booming voice, practiced mirror signaling and studied the shelters our expert leaders had made as examples. They consisted of tarps, strung creatively between trees, over fallen trunks, behind bushes and rocks.
The construction appeared simple, but armed with even my limited knowledge, I knew it was not. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had chosen not to stay.
Finally, Nick dismissed the class members to start work on their shelters. This was my cue to leave. Unfortunately, there had been no time for socializing all day; the next few hours were prime time for getting to know my fellow survivalists. But the tradeoff - struggling ignorantly through construction under the oversight of a military commander - just was not worth it.
I thanked the instructors and made for my car, relieved again at the thought of my audio book.
"Wait!" I heard Ed say. "I'm not feeling all that well. I think I'll go, too."
Ed threw his massive backpack, hiking poles, pad and parka into the trunk. The small space left was precisely enough for the American Tourister.
We headed down the washboard, gravel road toward civilization. I thought about what the instructor had said, that everyone agreed the class was "fun". For me, not a single moment of it had been fun and I could see that the night would simply have been torture. But at least I had come. I had taken in enough knowledge that perhaps, in an emergency situation, I could tap into my memory bank and salvage most of my fingers and toes. Class was over, and that was enough.
I queried Ed about the Wilderness Trekking School, a more basic class considered semi-essential for CMC members. Without certification in the class, members could not go on the more difficult C and D rated hikes. The class consisted of five field trips over the course of a few months, Ed said, focusing on desert, mountain and snow hiking and survival. "You get to learn how to roll down a snow bank with a pick axe," he said. "It's sort of fun." There was that word again: Fun.
I nodded. A lifetime of A and B hikes, hopefully with people who did not find SPF-rated clothing a mandate for sunny adventures in the great outdoors, sounded splendiferous.
But there was still the matter of Ed himself, who mentioned again how poorly equipped his girlfriend seemed to be for hikes.
I could no longer stay silent. "Until I bought these shoes, I hiked in Tevas," I said.
"Tevas? If you showed up for one of my hikes in Tevas, I'd tell you you couldn't go," he said, his tone a mix of shock and disgust.
"Really? Well, on nice summer days, I probably still will hike in them. It just keeps my feet cool."
The rest of the drive passed in near silence. I was daydreaming of my bed and my sleeping pills. And Ed revealed his thoughts as soon as we drove back into cell phone range. "Kate?" he queried into his phone. "What are you doing tonight?"
It's not that I want to die, just that I don't want to know how to build a shelter in the woods using the supposed "tools" nature gives me, or experience sleeping on pine boughs - particularly as part of a course for which I paid money. And I especially do not want to carry the 40-pound day pack required to stave off a woodsy death.
On a whim about six weeks ago, I signed up for Wilderness Survival School through the Colorado Mountain Club I joined in late April. I joined the club to hike, but one uneventful night, perused their class offerings as well.
The problem was, there had been too many uneventful nights. My social life had withered somewhat in the last few months. I'd come to depend too much on Roger for it, and this was unwise on multiple levels. My Denver trio of single friends juggled schedules even more hectic than mine; a biweekly Happy Hour seemed a small miracle. Complicating matters, the alcohol-focused gatherings of the singles groups in which I'd dabbled had lost their appeal.
I needed something different, challenging perhaps, and I needed it soon. I skimmed the description of the survival class. This was a Tuesday night. The first class began the following evening. I signed up.
The first three weeks, a series of lectures in the comfort of the club's auditorium, were not too bad. We learned about the stages of hypothermia, complete with gory pictures of people who fell victim to it. We watched survival scenarios and self-tested on which of the meager tools were most important in each case. Note: Matches and a pocketknife trump rum and muscle relaxers. We were lectured on nutrition: Gatorade? no! Water? Yes. And received a lengthy sermon from an alpine rescue leader, who said, in summary: Don't be stupid.
But as the lecture series neared an end, I began to feel uncomfortable. The main event was a Saturday overnight in the mountains west of Denver.
We were to bring our day packs with our 10 Essentials. Some of these were easy. Sunglasses, sunscreen, food, toilet paper, matches and water. But 2 QUARTS of water? This seemed excessive - and heavy - to me. A rain parka and rain pants, extra layers of clothing, a pocketknife, a headlamp and first aid supplies. Other recommended items included a pad - no more than 3/4-inch thick - cords, a safety blanket (a supposed miracle item that looks like glorified tin foil), signaling mirror, map and compass, small axe, those tablets that make that wild and crazy natural water into a safe source of hydration. And the rest I forget. I think a chain saw and a tire swing maybe as well.
What's important to understand is that I am a minimalist. When Robby was a baby, I took off with a diaper and a bottle stuffed into the tiny purses I've long favored. A frequent winter mountain driver, I carry in the trunk of my car a quart of oil. Period. I feel truly prepared for a hike if I remember to bring the fanny pack, in which I can fit a small bottle of water, my car keys and the cell phone. I hike in Teva sandals, no socks.
I can see why I should expand my essentials list to include a smattering of the items listed above. But only the light things. Hiking is supposed to be fun. A beefy backpack defeats the purpose.
But I would go, I thought. I could borrow the remaining 10 Essentials and more from my neighbor, a frequent winter hunter. I would prove to myself that I could do this.
That seemed like a fine idea until the night before the trip -- last night -- when I considered further what the experience would be like. I would be cold. My back and neck would hurt. An insomniac under the best of circumstances, I anticipated absolutely no sleep. The single plus was that the class was full of men with a smattering of manly women. But without hair product, cosmetics and sleep, I could simply not stay cute for 24 hours. The final nail in the coffin: We were to meet at 9 a.m. Saturday morning and return the next day. My weekend, along with my back, brain and looks, would be shot.
I left a message for the instructor that I could not go. Work, I explained. Sudden, unexpected. I had to work Sunday morning, and there was simply no way I could get back, shower and make it. I was not surprised when he called back. "What if you just come up for the day? You'll still learn a lot. It'll be fun. Everyone that takes this class says it's fun."
I caved. This morning, I was at the appointed Park & Ride, gathered in the parking lot with a bunch of men wearing navy, black and khaki, bulging backpacks with labels I did not recognize laying at their feet.
I was wearing a cotton T-shirt - a faux pas for sure. Water-sucking cotton is the bane of all outdoors people, I had learned. But I had chosen this particular T-shirt specifically because it had a touch of spandex, which made it cling slightly, and this was important when hanging out in the woods with a bunch of men. Besides, it was gray. A respectable, outdoorsy color if ever there was one. And my pants - $60 wind- and wrinkle-proof REI-brand, as well as my $100 Keens hybrid sandal/hiking boots - were more than respectable. Never mind that I'd purchased both specifically for travel through Italy. These were serious outdoor clothes. I moved my well-prepared feet such that they blocked my backpack, with its American Tourister label, from view.
I'd counted on a solitary drive during which I could listen to the conclusion of the romantic Nicholas Sparks' book on CD I'd been following. But at the last moment, Ed, the leader for the after-work hikes in which I'd participated, asked to carpool. Quickly, I threw Nicholas Sparks under the seat. I was only mildly annoyed about this. More so, I realized that the other men likely believed Ed and I were together. This was a misconception I did not want.
Ed was the only mountain club member with which I had any familiarity. He was a nice man with an unusual appearance. Everything about him struck me as angular. He was beyond six-feet tall and skinny, with a long, narrow, pale face and a mouth that rarely turned upward into a smile. But I knew the subjects he liked: hiking, hiking equipment, the girlfriend I had met and finances, so I knew talk wouldn't be too much of a problem. It went like this: I asked the questions. He answered. It was not so much a conversation as it was me queing Ed to talk. But he seemed happily unaware.
Early on in our drive, he commented this his girlfriend was "probably short term." Kate was Thai, here on a work visa and due to go back to Thailand soon. She didn't speak English well, he said, and it was difficult for them to watch movies or do other normal couple things together. She also was not much of a hiker. She tired easily and was, worst of all, ill equipped.
I offered little comment, except to remind him that she was adorable.
Somewhere along the drive, it occurred to me that Ed was scoping me out as a possible replacement. I shoved the thought aside as irrelevant.
At the campsite, we were instructed to sit in a semi-circle for yet another lecture, this one from a 60-something survival expert, retired from Special Forces. Even if he had not told us his background, his military style was evident. Nick divided us into two groups for question and answer. If one person in the groups answered a question wrong, the entire group would stand until another member answered a question correctly.
I had not studied the handouts. I slumped down in the back row.
"What are the three P's?" he belted out, singling out a woman from the first group.
I could think of not a single one. I could not even recall discussing it.
"Planning ... preparation," she said. "And ..."
He waited. Then made a loud honking noise and commanded, "Everybody in this group - stand!" They rose. The woman glanced around apologetically.
His gaze shifted to our group. His pointing finger circled in the air, then came down, extended arrow straight. At me.
"Jane, stand up!"
I directed a whispered "shit" to the ground and stood.
"What are three devices you can use for signaling?"
"A mirror," I said with confidence. Mirror signaling was our next exercise; I felt proud of myself for remembering. "Um ... fire."
"Yes!" he said. "That's two!"
All eyes turned toward me as I thought, silently, while Nick's internal clock ticked. I remembered the survival videos, the idiot hunter who'd fired frantic shots into the air and fled, in a hypothermic fit of insanity, from snowmobiles that could have shuttled him to warmth and safety.
"A gun?" I offered it not as an answer, but a question. While ours was not exactly the Sierra Club, a gun surely was not an acceptable mountain club response.
"Yes! A gun!" He rattled off several other possible answers and I sank back to the ground with relief.
For the next three hours, we listened to Nick's booming voice, practiced mirror signaling and studied the shelters our expert leaders had made as examples. They consisted of tarps, strung creatively between trees, over fallen trunks, behind bushes and rocks.
The construction appeared simple, but armed with even my limited knowledge, I knew it was not. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had chosen not to stay.
Finally, Nick dismissed the class members to start work on their shelters. This was my cue to leave. Unfortunately, there had been no time for socializing all day; the next few hours were prime time for getting to know my fellow survivalists. But the tradeoff - struggling ignorantly through construction under the oversight of a military commander - just was not worth it.
I thanked the instructors and made for my car, relieved again at the thought of my audio book.
"Wait!" I heard Ed say. "I'm not feeling all that well. I think I'll go, too."
Ed threw his massive backpack, hiking poles, pad and parka into the trunk. The small space left was precisely enough for the American Tourister.
We headed down the washboard, gravel road toward civilization. I thought about what the instructor had said, that everyone agreed the class was "fun". For me, not a single moment of it had been fun and I could see that the night would simply have been torture. But at least I had come. I had taken in enough knowledge that perhaps, in an emergency situation, I could tap into my memory bank and salvage most of my fingers and toes. Class was over, and that was enough.
I queried Ed about the Wilderness Trekking School, a more basic class considered semi-essential for CMC members. Without certification in the class, members could not go on the more difficult C and D rated hikes. The class consisted of five field trips over the course of a few months, Ed said, focusing on desert, mountain and snow hiking and survival. "You get to learn how to roll down a snow bank with a pick axe," he said. "It's sort of fun." There was that word again: Fun.
I nodded. A lifetime of A and B hikes, hopefully with people who did not find SPF-rated clothing a mandate for sunny adventures in the great outdoors, sounded splendiferous.
But there was still the matter of Ed himself, who mentioned again how poorly equipped his girlfriend seemed to be for hikes.
I could no longer stay silent. "Until I bought these shoes, I hiked in Tevas," I said.
"Tevas? If you showed up for one of my hikes in Tevas, I'd tell you you couldn't go," he said, his tone a mix of shock and disgust.
"Really? Well, on nice summer days, I probably still will hike in them. It just keeps my feet cool."
The rest of the drive passed in near silence. I was daydreaming of my bed and my sleeping pills. And Ed revealed his thoughts as soon as we drove back into cell phone range. "Kate?" he queried into his phone. "What are you doing tonight?"
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Fern Hanson handed me a sheet of paper with hands that shook slightly. "Can you help me?"
It was a bill for an MRI totaling $436. "I don't mind paying $10 here and there, but I can't afford this," she said.
She looked at me from still lively green eyes, the best feature of a face that was partially frozen. Fern was a stroke victim, but among the most cheerful I've met. She is already a member of our company's Medicare health plan and came to our open house last week not to complain about our company and her unpaid bill. She came seeking help.
Normally, I think I would have said 'no.' I would have told her to call Customer Service, that this was not my bailiwick. All of which would have been true. But almost no one had ever approached me with such a request. And Fern was looking to me with confidence and trust.
Hair permed and white, shoulders slightly stooped, wearing loose gray slacks, beige walking shoes and a button-up-the-front blue blouse, Fern told me about her stroke with no trace of pity. It had happened, she said, one night while she was sleeping. She hadn't even known about it, she said, until two or three days later, 'when someone said, 'Your mouth is crooked'," Fern told me. "I looked in the mirror and my mouth, my eye, my eye socket, it was all wrong."
Fern did not say this with surprise or horror, as I would have -- no matter how many times I'd told the story. She said it matter of factly.
I admired that but also was stunned by something else she'd said. She hadn't looked in the mirror for two or three days! How did any woman do that? In two or three days, all sorts of nasty things might be growing out of a plethora of inappropriate places: a small gang of stray eyebrows, a shiny glaze of white chin hairs, a pair of black, porcupine-stiff mole hairs. The thought gave me the willies.
Fern had since had plastic surgery on her eye. "It looks good, I think," she said.
The skin under her eye was pulled tight and slightly shiny. Nothing moved. If this was good, I didn't want to see bad.
Even if I couldn't completely understand her calm about her altered appearance, Fern had earned my respect. My sympathy, too. I felt oddly protective.
"Let me see what I can do," I said, taking the paperwork and my phone into a room removed from the group of chatting seniors.
I called Customer Service and gave all Fern's pertinent information to the woman on the other end of the line. But this wasn't enough. The woman asked to speak to Fern, standard procedure to verify the caller wasn't someone attempting identity theft.
The problem was, Fern is hard of hearing. After several moments of the woman asking Fern how to spell her last name, the elderly lady pulled the phone away from her ear. "What's she saying?" she asked me. I took the phone and held it up to my ear in time to hear the woman scream, "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" I relayed this to Fern, who shouted back to me, "Fern Hanson!" We carried on this way, handing the phone back and forth, Fern attempting to listen, me repeating the woman's words, Fern screaming, through several questions: Medicare number, address, date of birth, before the woman conceded it was her and that she had given me permission to speak for her.
"I never make fun of the old folks," the woman laughed. "I know I'll be there myself someday.
"OK, we already paid that company. They cashed the check on March 10 for the agreed-upon, contracted amount. They sent that bill when? April 3?! She owes $10, and nothing more. You call and you tell them that." Her tone was no-nonsense but cheerful, sending waves of pride and competency over the satellite signal.
The woman gave me a reference number. But she wasn't through. "If they give you a hard time, you tell them you will be calling Medicare and you will file a complaint against them for harassing a senior citizen."
Suddenly, I wanted to meet this woman. I wanted to have a beer with her. I wanted to introduce her to Fern.
"I'm not saying they're going to object?" she said. "But I always assume the worst. So if they go there, you go there. You know what I'm saying?"
I did. Completely. I was riled up now, not just ready to go to bat for Fern but to threaten someone for her. I felt an adrenaline rush, and realized I wanted the confrontation. I wanted to say the words she'd offered to me. I wanted to be Fern's heroine, slaying medical system dragons to ensure her financial well-being and deep, dreamless sleep.
I called the company that had given Fern the MRI and mentally unsheathed my sword.
Within 30 seconds, I reluctantly tucked it away.
Because this woman, too, was the sole of kindness and concern. "They did send the check? Let me see here," she said. She was silent a moment. "OK, we've got that corrected. Is there anything else we can do?"
Be difficult, I wanted to say. Instead, I thanked her.
I found Fern in the other room, worry still creasing her brow. It might have creased the skin under her eyes, too, but, well, at least one side wasn't having it.
"You're set," I said. "You might have to pay $10 but Medicaid probably will pick that up for you."
Fern beamed. "Oh, thank you! I've been worried sick about this for two weeks!
"Can I have your card" she asked.
The elderly gentleman next to her leaned forward. "Can I have your card, too?" he asked. "I seen what you just did for her."
Fern handed me a Readers Digest she'd had sitting in her lap. "Do you read this? Would you like it?"
I wasn't sure if Fern had finished reading it herself. I hesitated before realizing she wanted me to have it. It was her way of saying thank you.
I wanted to tell Fern and her companion that it had been nothing, just a couple of phone calls and conversations with the right people. But I didn't. So I hadn't slayed dragons for her. I was still, to Fern, her heroine and to both of them, some kind of small miracle worker. It felt good. And for just a moment, I let myself bask in that.
It was a bill for an MRI totaling $436. "I don't mind paying $10 here and there, but I can't afford this," she said.
She looked at me from still lively green eyes, the best feature of a face that was partially frozen. Fern was a stroke victim, but among the most cheerful I've met. She is already a member of our company's Medicare health plan and came to our open house last week not to complain about our company and her unpaid bill. She came seeking help.
Normally, I think I would have said 'no.' I would have told her to call Customer Service, that this was not my bailiwick. All of which would have been true. But almost no one had ever approached me with such a request. And Fern was looking to me with confidence and trust.
Hair permed and white, shoulders slightly stooped, wearing loose gray slacks, beige walking shoes and a button-up-the-front blue blouse, Fern told me about her stroke with no trace of pity. It had happened, she said, one night while she was sleeping. She hadn't even known about it, she said, until two or three days later, 'when someone said, 'Your mouth is crooked'," Fern told me. "I looked in the mirror and my mouth, my eye, my eye socket, it was all wrong."
Fern did not say this with surprise or horror, as I would have -- no matter how many times I'd told the story. She said it matter of factly.
I admired that but also was stunned by something else she'd said. She hadn't looked in the mirror for two or three days! How did any woman do that? In two or three days, all sorts of nasty things might be growing out of a plethora of inappropriate places: a small gang of stray eyebrows, a shiny glaze of white chin hairs, a pair of black, porcupine-stiff mole hairs. The thought gave me the willies.
Fern had since had plastic surgery on her eye. "It looks good, I think," she said.
The skin under her eye was pulled tight and slightly shiny. Nothing moved. If this was good, I didn't want to see bad.
Even if I couldn't completely understand her calm about her altered appearance, Fern had earned my respect. My sympathy, too. I felt oddly protective.
"Let me see what I can do," I said, taking the paperwork and my phone into a room removed from the group of chatting seniors.
I called Customer Service and gave all Fern's pertinent information to the woman on the other end of the line. But this wasn't enough. The woman asked to speak to Fern, standard procedure to verify the caller wasn't someone attempting identity theft.
The problem was, Fern is hard of hearing. After several moments of the woman asking Fern how to spell her last name, the elderly lady pulled the phone away from her ear. "What's she saying?" she asked me. I took the phone and held it up to my ear in time to hear the woman scream, "WHAT IS YOUR NAME?" I relayed this to Fern, who shouted back to me, "Fern Hanson!" We carried on this way, handing the phone back and forth, Fern attempting to listen, me repeating the woman's words, Fern screaming, through several questions: Medicare number, address, date of birth, before the woman conceded it was her and that she had given me permission to speak for her.
"I never make fun of the old folks," the woman laughed. "I know I'll be there myself someday.
"OK, we already paid that company. They cashed the check on March 10 for the agreed-upon, contracted amount. They sent that bill when? April 3?! She owes $10, and nothing more. You call and you tell them that." Her tone was no-nonsense but cheerful, sending waves of pride and competency over the satellite signal.
The woman gave me a reference number. But she wasn't through. "If they give you a hard time, you tell them you will be calling Medicare and you will file a complaint against them for harassing a senior citizen."
Suddenly, I wanted to meet this woman. I wanted to have a beer with her. I wanted to introduce her to Fern.
"I'm not saying they're going to object?" she said. "But I always assume the worst. So if they go there, you go there. You know what I'm saying?"
I did. Completely. I was riled up now, not just ready to go to bat for Fern but to threaten someone for her. I felt an adrenaline rush, and realized I wanted the confrontation. I wanted to say the words she'd offered to me. I wanted to be Fern's heroine, slaying medical system dragons to ensure her financial well-being and deep, dreamless sleep.
I called the company that had given Fern the MRI and mentally unsheathed my sword.
Within 30 seconds, I reluctantly tucked it away.
Because this woman, too, was the sole of kindness and concern. "They did send the check? Let me see here," she said. She was silent a moment. "OK, we've got that corrected. Is there anything else we can do?"
Be difficult, I wanted to say. Instead, I thanked her.
I found Fern in the other room, worry still creasing her brow. It might have creased the skin under her eyes, too, but, well, at least one side wasn't having it.
"You're set," I said. "You might have to pay $10 but Medicaid probably will pick that up for you."
Fern beamed. "Oh, thank you! I've been worried sick about this for two weeks!
"Can I have your card" she asked.
The elderly gentleman next to her leaned forward. "Can I have your card, too?" he asked. "I seen what you just did for her."
Fern handed me a Readers Digest she'd had sitting in her lap. "Do you read this? Would you like it?"
I wasn't sure if Fern had finished reading it herself. I hesitated before realizing she wanted me to have it. It was her way of saying thank you.
I wanted to tell Fern and her companion that it had been nothing, just a couple of phone calls and conversations with the right people. But I didn't. So I hadn't slayed dragons for her. I was still, to Fern, her heroine and to both of them, some kind of small miracle worker. It felt good. And for just a moment, I let myself bask in that.
Thursday, May 08, 2008
I hate the freight elevator. It's one of four in our office building. From the outside, all four look alike. Smooth, sleek, with brushed metal and some kind of light wood. Golden oak? Heck, I don't know. The only wood I know for sure is pine and it's not pine.
Classy anyway, like the lobby with its one-and-a-half story contemporary fountain. The fountain is really just three steel cylinders. Water doesn't cascade or splash or laugh in this fountain. It just sort of slicks down the outside of the tubes.
All very sophisticated, you see. The building was constructed when times were good and it reflects robust economic health. Once it was full of businesses, with a swanky top-floor penthouse apartment.
Now it's just us, our two separate divisions on two separate floors, and perhaps a few other businesses scattered here and there among the other 11 floors. I really don't know for sure. I've never ventured outside the world of Floor 6, my division, and 4 - snack machine.
I'm told the penthouse is now nothing but office space, no longer the least bit impressive. But someday, I'm going to press the big black P in the elevator and go see for myself. What's silly is I'm saving this adventure for some time down the road, like a treat.
But back to the elevators. Three of them are just as stylish inside as out.
The fourth is the freight elevator. First off, it's drafty, no doubt from numerous excursions to the basement, another floor of which I have no knowledge. It also has 8-foot-tall dark green pads attached to its walls, covering the brushed metal and pretty, undetermined wood. Finally, the sea foam green carpet is invisible under a layer of cardboard. The cardboard is dirty, covered in scuffs of dirt and something that looks like chalk.
It's not pretty, like the other elevators. And it's certainly not appropriate for white-collar types. Heels and ties deserve better quarters, even for the 10 seconds or so it takes to ride from ground floor to 6.
I've tried to ignore it, to outsmart the thing. Waiting for the doors to close, then hitting the button again, hoping another elevator will come to my aid. But no, the freight elevator remains ready to serve. Trying again not for mere seconds, but for more than a minute before hitting the up button and waiting with bated breath.
The freight elevator yawns open. Like welcoming arms, its doors stretch wide, graciously inviting me into its ugliness. I turn up my nose.
I've even thought of taking the stairs to avoid the thing. But I can't quite go that far. Particularly in heels.
Eventually, I step in and hope for no fellow riders who might crowd me to the edge and force me to brush against the walls. Eew.
These are the tiny quandaries and mini-events that I'm pretty sure run through all our heads all day long. Petty and amusing, a few seconds worth of seemingly senseless thought and debate. Therefore, these musings probably read like a rant, a bitch about nothing, perhaps an example of a negative thought pattern.
But I beg to differ. Because the small annoyance of the freight elevator leaves me open to a fleeting bit of happiness. On some days, even most days, the freight elevator is otherwise occupied - no doubt hauling cattle or something equally disgusting. When I hit the call button, the doors of one of those three handsome elevators slide apart for me.
And at this, I am almost ashamed to say, I feel an absurd jolt of white-collar joy.
Classy anyway, like the lobby with its one-and-a-half story contemporary fountain. The fountain is really just three steel cylinders. Water doesn't cascade or splash or laugh in this fountain. It just sort of slicks down the outside of the tubes.
All very sophisticated, you see. The building was constructed when times were good and it reflects robust economic health. Once it was full of businesses, with a swanky top-floor penthouse apartment.
Now it's just us, our two separate divisions on two separate floors, and perhaps a few other businesses scattered here and there among the other 11 floors. I really don't know for sure. I've never ventured outside the world of Floor 6, my division, and 4 - snack machine.
I'm told the penthouse is now nothing but office space, no longer the least bit impressive. But someday, I'm going to press the big black P in the elevator and go see for myself. What's silly is I'm saving this adventure for some time down the road, like a treat.
But back to the elevators. Three of them are just as stylish inside as out.
The fourth is the freight elevator. First off, it's drafty, no doubt from numerous excursions to the basement, another floor of which I have no knowledge. It also has 8-foot-tall dark green pads attached to its walls, covering the brushed metal and pretty, undetermined wood. Finally, the sea foam green carpet is invisible under a layer of cardboard. The cardboard is dirty, covered in scuffs of dirt and something that looks like chalk.
It's not pretty, like the other elevators. And it's certainly not appropriate for white-collar types. Heels and ties deserve better quarters, even for the 10 seconds or so it takes to ride from ground floor to 6.
I've tried to ignore it, to outsmart the thing. Waiting for the doors to close, then hitting the button again, hoping another elevator will come to my aid. But no, the freight elevator remains ready to serve. Trying again not for mere seconds, but for more than a minute before hitting the up button and waiting with bated breath.
The freight elevator yawns open. Like welcoming arms, its doors stretch wide, graciously inviting me into its ugliness. I turn up my nose.
I've even thought of taking the stairs to avoid the thing. But I can't quite go that far. Particularly in heels.
Eventually, I step in and hope for no fellow riders who might crowd me to the edge and force me to brush against the walls. Eew.
These are the tiny quandaries and mini-events that I'm pretty sure run through all our heads all day long. Petty and amusing, a few seconds worth of seemingly senseless thought and debate. Therefore, these musings probably read like a rant, a bitch about nothing, perhaps an example of a negative thought pattern.
But I beg to differ. Because the small annoyance of the freight elevator leaves me open to a fleeting bit of happiness. On some days, even most days, the freight elevator is otherwise occupied - no doubt hauling cattle or something equally disgusting. When I hit the call button, the doors of one of those three handsome elevators slide apart for me.
And at this, I am almost ashamed to say, I feel an absurd jolt of white-collar joy.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
This is my photograph of a fig-leaf wearing statue just outside the Sistine Chapel. Is it just me or does this guy look like Jimmy Carter?
In the last couple of days, I’ve written a rather lengthy Italian travelogue for my siblings and other close, patient, indulgent friends. While it’s hard for me, as a writer who finds my every word precious, to do so, I’ve cut it not nearly enough and present here the highlights of our two-week journey.
My friend Lane and I stayed in Rome two days after we arrived. Saw all the things you’re supposed to see: the Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s and a half dozen other impressive cathedrals and miscellaneous ruins. We also think we saw the pope and since we can neither conform or deny it was him, we’re saying it was indeed the man. St. Peter's square was clogged with people, apparently engaging in some sort of rally. Hundreds of people were sitting in folding chairs, some waving flags once in a while. We could faintly see several figures sitting in a row up front, and big screens were set up around the plaza so you could see who was speaking. Mostly, it was a guy in red robes, but briefly a guy in white who I thought had the sunken eyes and round head of Pope B. The guards, who were standing around doing nothing, had no interest in explaining to us what was going on and feigned not knowing English when we asked. Then they'd laugh when people like us walked away.
We also saw the Coliseum, where the Romans used to spend lazy Saturday afternoons watching lions eat criminals. Rather than an open area as some people imagine it, the center is a maze of high walls where they'd turn loose lions and other exotic animals and drop the criminals in for a game of cat and mouse.
From there, our hosts John and Stephanie went with us to a little hill town outside of Rome called Orvieto. This is in the Umbria region, one of the wine districts, although there are vineyards EVERYWHERE in Italy, on even the smallest patches of land. Orvieto has a massive duomo (Italian for cathedral). These places are unimaginable in detail and in the amount of time and effort it must have taken to build them. But frankly, after seeing four duomos in Rome, I was duomo'd out by the time we got to Orvieto. The town is small and cute, refreshing after the chaos of Rome.
Orvieto specializes in white wine and I actually found some here in our local mega liquor store. Since the writing on the bottle is in Italian, I bought a couple as souvenirs for my pet sitters and made out that I schlepped them all through Italy. They were most impressed and I felt only a little guilty.
Orvieto is where Lane broke her wrist, on the third day of our two-week trip, falling on a black marble step hidden in the shadows of a dark hotel hallway. She wanted to pretend it was OK, but Stephanie and I could see from the cock-eyed angle of her hand that something was seriously amiss.
So, off we went by cab to the Orvieto hospital! We were in and out in three hours, but as it turns out, not with the finest treatment. Italy has socialized medicine and in an apparent effort cut costs, they gave Lane no painkillers, only a local when they reset the bone. She came out with an enormous plaster cast and no sling. Instead, she used a scarf all through the trip and popped ibuprofen like candy. We also left with no bill whatsoever.
Yesterday, Lane went to the doctor who told her it was a severe break, hasn't been set quite right and will need to be reset with two screws and a pin that will stay for good. So, I guess you get what you pay for. I've asked Lane what she thinks of universal health care now, but she hasn't responded.
Anyway, Lane was damn impressive in that she did not let it slow her down. I helped her with things here and there, but she complained almost not at all and just powered on. Since they only sell ibuprofen in packs of 12 in Italy, we became familiar with all the "farmacias" in all the towns we visited and Lane can now say ibuprofen in perfect Italian.
Steph and John went back to Rome after Orvieto and Lane and I went on by train to Siena. As Siena was a disappointment, we’ll skip right on by it.
Thankfully, the best was next.
From Siena, we took a series of three trains in one day to Cinque Terre. This is a series of five small towns along the Ligurian Sea, which feeds into the Mediterranean. They call Cinque Terre the poor man's Italian Riviera. These towns are small and funky, with not houses so much as apartments built one on top of the other in narrow valleys. The buildings are pastel-colored pink, orange, yellow, blue and green, administered over by a town Supervisor of Good Taste. I swear this is true! I think his good taste could be questioned because while it's all cute, it looks random and unplanned and it could be argued the color scheme is questionable. In all five towns, these buildings appear to lean on one another like, as guide book writer Rick Steves says, "drunken sailors."
The train travels to these five towns through a series of tunnels. You pop out of one tunnel and suddenly, after seeing nothing but dry land for hours, the sea is lapping at cliffs out-of-sight underneath the railroad tracks. It's a happy shock.
Pulling into Vernazza was like stepping off into an enchanted land. The train plopped us down in the middle of the town's Main Street - actually its only street. Cute little shops line the pedestrian-only street. Laundry flies overhead from lines attached between buildings. The hills that cradle the town are terraced with vineyards.
The rains that had chased us across much of Italy had abated, and by the time we settled into our room, sunshine splashed across the hillsides. Lane wanted to rinse our some underwear - we had been unable to find a laundromat as we'd planned - and I wanted to hike. Before I left, Lane and I found a line in the bathroom hanging from the shower. It had a red plastic oval piece on the end. Since the Italians seem so enamored of clotheslines, we decided this must be an indoor clothesline, and figured out how to secure it such that Lane could hang some underthings on it.
I climbed up innumerable narrow stone steps on the first hitch of the trail from Vernazza to the third town, Corniglia. Because it was late, I didn't plan to go very far and maybe hiked 20 minutes before turning back. But it was a stunning 20 minutes. From the top of only the first section of steps, you could look back and see Vernazza spread out below, and ahead, the sea crashing into jagged cliffs. Cacti of various varieties clung to the sides of the trail. Lemon and olive trees lined it in others, the olive trees eventually easy to distinguish because of a growth pattern that leaves their limbs twisted and often horizontal.
I found a spot to sit on a rock wall and sat there taking in the scenery and thinking deep thoughts about my life. Where am I headed? Will this weird, stupidly well-paid job I have always be so unfulfilling? And what of Roger? Is this really what I want out of a relationship? Is there such a thing as a soul mate and if so, where is he; I'm 43 for God's sake! And finally, why are my pants soggy on this one side?
I stood up to see a clump of white, about the consistency of sour cream, on my right buttock. Unfortunately, I swiped at it with my hand and immediately recognized the greasy feel. Bird shit. And really big bird shit, likely from a seagull. Nice.
Meanwhile, far below in Vernazza, Lane was having her own bizarre encounter. Upon rinsing out her things, she hung them on the line. No sooner had she sat down to relax than came a frantic pounding on the door. Lane went to the door to find the hotel owner, a panicked expression on her face, asking, "Are you OK?!" When Lane said yes, the woman pushed her way in and said, "Can I see the bathroom?" Upon entering, she began flinging Lane's underwear from the line saying, "It's ringing the Interpol!" Lane watched in horror.
The problem, it seems, is that the string - which we later noticed was in EVERY hotel room in Italy - is an emergency cord in the event of a fall in the shower.
I discovered Italian hospitality when I got lost on the trail one day. Each section has an upper and lower trail and because of recent rain, the lower trail was closed between two of the towns. Not wanting to miss any of the hikes, I opted to do the upper trail. A couple of Californians (and Rick Steves readers) told me it was easy to find -- "Just followed the white arrows and red-and-white trail markers." I managed to get lost three times before I had really even left the first town.
After a frustrating hour or so, I emerged in a clearing next to a tiny utility shed of some sort. I saw a town of Manarola truck there and a guy working near the shed. He didn't see me and I trudged on past, following faded white arrows that marked an abandoned trail. Since I was now going away from the sea, I knew this couldn't be right and turned around. Admitting defeat and needing help, I surprised the town employee -- who again had not seen me coming. He spoke almost no English but managed to understand my destination and tell me to go back down, turn right and walk to the church.
I turned right on the same road I'd crossed some 45 minutes ago, following a fresh, white arrow. But then I saw a sign ahead for a town, one I'd never heard of. Never mind that there was a church there. Jane's logic said this couldn't be right, and I turned back around to retreat - a failure - to the train station.
A horn honked behind me. I scooted a little further onto the shoulder and did not look back. Suddenly, the town of Manarola truck pulled up next to me and there was my Italian friend, shaking a finger at me. He leaned across and opened the door of his truck. I got in wordlessly. "Is up here," he said, turning his truck around and taking me back to the church. He pulled into a parking spot. From there, I could see the trail sign. But by this point, he had no faith in me whatsoever. He turned off his truck, walked with me to the trailhead, put one hand on my shoulder, extended his other arm toward the trail and said, "Arrivederce," a rather formal Italian way of saying goodbye. Or in this case, "Goodbye you stupid American girl. I'd be surprised if you made it home alive."
Our final destination was, of course, Venice. Venice had captured my heart completely during my first visit there in 2000. We had spent a day-and-a-half there, a span of time that had seemed criminal. Eight years later, Venice surprised me as I imagined an old lover would, someone you'd anticipated running into again for years and whom you found was different somehow, no longer charming. He’d acquired a spare tire and had gone from selling high-end real estate to cars. Decent cars. Even new cars. But cars just the same.
I felt that sad surprise throughout most of our stay, most notably but for late on our first night, when we sat with a handful of other people at St. Mark's square. From across the plaza, an orchestra played. Lights glowed from the elegant old buildings that framed the square. We stared in awe at St. Mark's Cathedral, the only Italian church that truly moved me. Described as Byzantine architecture, it is elaborate, vaguely Eastern with mosaics of gold and jewel tones.
While our three days in Cinque Terre seemed long - though not long enough - and leisurely, the three days in Venice felt short and hectic and at the end of the day, Lane and I found ourselves asking, "Just what did we do today?" At Rick Steves' suggestion, we tried to get lost on the back streets of Venice, where we could get a taste of real Venetian culture. But all Venice alleys lead to St. Mark's. Purposefully winding our way down alleys that seemed further and further removed from the rat race, we'd suddenly round a corner and find ourselves staring at the same jewelry display we'd seen half an hour before. In these failed expeditions, we found McDonald's and the Disney store. Car salesman, like I said.
Venice did her best to seduce us. On our last night, we stepped onto a water taxi and simply stayed on, destination unknown. Under a full moon, we rode into Venice's little known industrial section and back out, most likely buzzing past those back streets we'd failed earlier to find. We felt like witnesses to a secret Venice. But all water roads lead to St. Mark's, too, and after an hour of tooling around Venetian canals, the ride ended in the massive cathedral’s moonlit shadow.
Unable to find any nightlife in post-9 p.m. Venice, we spent our last night there in our hotel room, drinking Limoncello and watching “Shrek 2” in Italian.
Back to Rome. The American Academy felt like home, John and Stephanie like family. They welcomed us back and took us to dinner at a family-owned restaurant in which the wine came in bottles without label or cork. Locally fermented to be sure.
Monday morning, we loaded our bags into a taxi bound for the Rome airport. Including layovers, 19 hours of travel lay ahead of us and, to boot, the entertainment system in the airplane was out of order. It didn't matter, though. My Arizona seatmate had a daughter Robby's age. She, along with half the women on the plane, wore an Italian scarf. Five of them were packed in my suitcase. We exchanged notes about our trips - where we went, what we ate and drank, what was best and worst, where Rick Steves went wrong.
After two weeks without the words "Hillary" and "Obama," we stepped off the plane in Philadelphia to the excited patter of newscasters gearing up for the Pennsylvania primary. I heard "Democratic battlefield," "super delegate" and "multi-million-dollar campaigning" all in one breath. We waited out our layover in the airport bar in the company of 16-ounce pilsner glasses of dark beer and Philly cheese-steak sandwiches. "Bad Moon Rising" blasted from the bar's stereo system. Italians love American music like they love their beer – light. Classic rock sounded astonishingly sweet.
We were home. And to my surprise, I was thrilled.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Less than 60 minutes later ...
No sooner had we seated ourselves for dinner, than Morley Safer made a beeline for our table and the one seat still available there. I avoided my friends' eyes; we were all fighting back laughter.
Sadly, this is as good as the tale gets.
Morley was a perfect gentleman, a bit of a mumbler but an overall fabulous conversationalist. And a snappy dresser to boot, attired in a royal blue dress shirt, suit jacket with what I can only assume was a silk kerchief peeking out of its breast pocket.
My friend Lane, sitting closest to him, asked him several questions, which he answered without hesitation and in detail. Friends Stephanie and John struck up an immediate and lively conversation. The other woman at our table, another invited guest at the academy, also interjected several pithy comments. He made eye contact with each of them, giving them what appeared to be his full attention.
Me? The one dying to make an impression, the one who threatened to be outrageous ... I sat there like a bump on a log, unable to think of a single thing to say - captivating or otherwise. I tried drinking more wine, and quickly, but this did not provide my hoped-for inspiration.
In short, I suppose I owe Morley a blog apology. My attempted Safer smear campaign has been halted in its tracks like a punched stopwatch. Morley is once again simply the television news correspondent with the everyman face and the voice warm as a flannel shirt who was a weekly guest in my childhood home.
There's still a small spark of hope. We'll stay here the night before our plane departs later this month. I don't expect any more potentially emotional encounters with Morley. Instead, I'm keeping my fingers firmly crossed in the wild hope that Parker Stevenson has an unpublicized artistic streak.
It is now 10 days until we return. The clock, once again, is ticking.
No sooner had we seated ourselves for dinner, than Morley Safer made a beeline for our table and the one seat still available there. I avoided my friends' eyes; we were all fighting back laughter.
Sadly, this is as good as the tale gets.
Morley was a perfect gentleman, a bit of a mumbler but an overall fabulous conversationalist. And a snappy dresser to boot, attired in a royal blue dress shirt, suit jacket with what I can only assume was a silk kerchief peeking out of its breast pocket.
My friend Lane, sitting closest to him, asked him several questions, which he answered without hesitation and in detail. Friends Stephanie and John struck up an immediate and lively conversation. The other woman at our table, another invited guest at the academy, also interjected several pithy comments. He made eye contact with each of them, giving them what appeared to be his full attention.
Me? The one dying to make an impression, the one who threatened to be outrageous ... I sat there like a bump on a log, unable to think of a single thing to say - captivating or otherwise. I tried drinking more wine, and quickly, but this did not provide my hoped-for inspiration.
In short, I suppose I owe Morley a blog apology. My attempted Safer smear campaign has been halted in its tracks like a punched stopwatch. Morley is once again simply the television news correspondent with the everyman face and the voice warm as a flannel shirt who was a weekly guest in my childhood home.
There's still a small spark of hope. We'll stay here the night before our plane departs later this month. I don't expect any more potentially emotional encounters with Morley. Instead, I'm keeping my fingers firmly crossed in the wild hope that Parker Stevenson has an unpublicized artistic streak.
It is now 10 days until we return. The clock, once again, is ticking.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
Thing about the 60 Minutes clock. Now don't just think about it, hear it. Got it? Is it ticking through your brain? I know, it's sort of annying. But just for the duration of this post, keep it in your mental background.
This was the sound I heard every Sunday night in the living room of my childhood. It was not, for me, a pleasant sound. At around 5:30 every Sunday evening, my sister and I began arguing with, cajoling, and always in the end begging my father that we watch The Hardy Boys instead of 60 Minutes. Parker Stevenson was my first crush, Sean Cassidy my sister's. We wanted to watch the boys strut their sleuthing skills, not listen to Morley Safer drone about current events, or to Andy Rooney rant bitterly in a manner that my parents found inexplicaby amusing. Sometimes we won. Most of the time, we did not. The sound of the stopwatch ticking meant it was too late; my father had asserted his will.
Yesterday, I had lunch in Rome with with my nemisis -- older and smaller than I'd expected, but unquestionably Morley. I expect to share dinner with him this evening.
Morley fancies himself a painter. He, along with I'm guesstimating 20 to 30 other people, resides temporarily at the American Academy in Rome. He is among a select group of artists, architects and other intellects chosen to live and work here. We suspect Morley's celebrity may have played a role in his selection. But since I have not, and likely will never, see Morley's work, a suspicion it remains.
One of the architects in residence at the academy for six months is married to my dear friend, Stephanie, with whom I worked for years at the Summit Daily. It is here, on the first leg of a two-week journey through Italy, that my friend Lane -- a two-decades past fellow journalist -- and I are staying.
It is enough to be surrounded by people of stunning and varied intellect. Morley is an unexpected perk.
The bummer is that Morley does not seem particularly nice. Yesterday, Stephanie snared the three of us seats in the academy dining room at Morley's table. The sight of his face didn't strike me as particularly strange. We had already spent countless hours together. Sixty minutes at a time.
I felt not the thrill of being so close to a celebrity, only the urgent sense that I must engage him in conversation, that I simply had to make an indelible impression on one of the world's most well-known journalists.
But upon Stephanie's introduction, I deduced that Morley was completely unimpressed with our journalistic backgrounds and, by extension, with us. In fact, I believe he disguised a yawn with a skill that can only come from years of learned, on-camera behavior.
So I tried the approach that's virtually guaranteed to garner the attention of any human: I asked him about himself.
"What do you paint with?"
Perhaps I should have been more specific. "Watercolor or oils, Morley, which is it?" After all, don't we journalists want specifics? Yet somehow, I thnk Morley got my question and chose an answer that might have been intended as merely humorous. Or might not have.
He shrugged, smiled crookedly. I had seen that expression on that very face hundreds of times over the course of my life.
"Colors," he said.
His answer gave me a second's pause, but I did not give up. Sometimes doors open by mere slits before they are flung wide.
"What are your subjects?"
"Primarily landscapes," he said.
And that was the end of our conversation. Three words.
Morley turned to a fellow painter also seated at our table and the two shared notes throughout the rest of the meal.
But now, Morley is under my skin. In my mind, our conversation has only just begun, the opportunity for us to bond not yet lost.
Yes, yes, the Coliseum was fascinating, the Sistine Chapel a marvel, the fact that we saw Pope Benedict an amazing coincidence.
But I still want Morley to notice me.
Only now, it's become a malicious mission.
Lane, Stephanie and I start our stop watches whenever his name comes up in conversation. Thumbs crooked over hands grasping invisible stopwatches, we "tick-tick-tick-tick-tick" our way through the academy's hallways and down Rome's cobblestoned streets. We dare one another to begin ticking in Morley's auditory range. Certainly, no one has had the gall to do this before, have they? But certainly, Morley would find it as funny as we do ... wouldn't he?
Perhaps tonight, we shall find out. Tonight, we will eat our first evening meal in the academy dining room. Lunches are dry. Dinners are not. Wine is free. It will flow along with conversation, loosen tongues as well as inhibitions.
The invisible stopwatch, I fear, will begin twitching in my hand. You're on vacation in a foreign land, I may tell myself. Be free, be outrageous, become a story academy students will pass along for decades. And most of all, ensure that Morley finds you absolutely unforgettable.
Ciao!
This was the sound I heard every Sunday night in the living room of my childhood. It was not, for me, a pleasant sound. At around 5:30 every Sunday evening, my sister and I began arguing with, cajoling, and always in the end begging my father that we watch The Hardy Boys instead of 60 Minutes. Parker Stevenson was my first crush, Sean Cassidy my sister's. We wanted to watch the boys strut their sleuthing skills, not listen to Morley Safer drone about current events, or to Andy Rooney rant bitterly in a manner that my parents found inexplicaby amusing. Sometimes we won. Most of the time, we did not. The sound of the stopwatch ticking meant it was too late; my father had asserted his will.
Yesterday, I had lunch in Rome with with my nemisis -- older and smaller than I'd expected, but unquestionably Morley. I expect to share dinner with him this evening.
Morley fancies himself a painter. He, along with I'm guesstimating 20 to 30 other people, resides temporarily at the American Academy in Rome. He is among a select group of artists, architects and other intellects chosen to live and work here. We suspect Morley's celebrity may have played a role in his selection. But since I have not, and likely will never, see Morley's work, a suspicion it remains.
One of the architects in residence at the academy for six months is married to my dear friend, Stephanie, with whom I worked for years at the Summit Daily. It is here, on the first leg of a two-week journey through Italy, that my friend Lane -- a two-decades past fellow journalist -- and I are staying.
It is enough to be surrounded by people of stunning and varied intellect. Morley is an unexpected perk.
The bummer is that Morley does not seem particularly nice. Yesterday, Stephanie snared the three of us seats in the academy dining room at Morley's table. The sight of his face didn't strike me as particularly strange. We had already spent countless hours together. Sixty minutes at a time.
I felt not the thrill of being so close to a celebrity, only the urgent sense that I must engage him in conversation, that I simply had to make an indelible impression on one of the world's most well-known journalists.
But upon Stephanie's introduction, I deduced that Morley was completely unimpressed with our journalistic backgrounds and, by extension, with us. In fact, I believe he disguised a yawn with a skill that can only come from years of learned, on-camera behavior.
So I tried the approach that's virtually guaranteed to garner the attention of any human: I asked him about himself.
"What do you paint with?"
Perhaps I should have been more specific. "Watercolor or oils, Morley, which is it?" After all, don't we journalists want specifics? Yet somehow, I thnk Morley got my question and chose an answer that might have been intended as merely humorous. Or might not have.
He shrugged, smiled crookedly. I had seen that expression on that very face hundreds of times over the course of my life.
"Colors," he said.
His answer gave me a second's pause, but I did not give up. Sometimes doors open by mere slits before they are flung wide.
"What are your subjects?"
"Primarily landscapes," he said.
And that was the end of our conversation. Three words.
Morley turned to a fellow painter also seated at our table and the two shared notes throughout the rest of the meal.
But now, Morley is under my skin. In my mind, our conversation has only just begun, the opportunity for us to bond not yet lost.
Yes, yes, the Coliseum was fascinating, the Sistine Chapel a marvel, the fact that we saw Pope Benedict an amazing coincidence.
But I still want Morley to notice me.
Only now, it's become a malicious mission.
Lane, Stephanie and I start our stop watches whenever his name comes up in conversation. Thumbs crooked over hands grasping invisible stopwatches, we "tick-tick-tick-tick-tick" our way through the academy's hallways and down Rome's cobblestoned streets. We dare one another to begin ticking in Morley's auditory range. Certainly, no one has had the gall to do this before, have they? But certainly, Morley would find it as funny as we do ... wouldn't he?
Perhaps tonight, we shall find out. Tonight, we will eat our first evening meal in the academy dining room. Lunches are dry. Dinners are not. Wine is free. It will flow along with conversation, loosen tongues as well as inhibitions.
The invisible stopwatch, I fear, will begin twitching in my hand. You're on vacation in a foreign land, I may tell myself. Be free, be outrageous, become a story academy students will pass along for decades. And most of all, ensure that Morley finds you absolutely unforgettable.
Ciao!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
