Cherchez La Femme

When Push Comes to Shove

2006-09-27T11:53:00.000-07:00

Why do we so often wait for an external stimulus that may not be coming? We all do it, at different times to varying degrees. The moment will come. Something will happen that will change things. Get in shape, change jobs, ditch that deadend relationship. In time, when the moment comes...

Maybe it's fear of failure, maybe it's laziness or maybe it's a refusal to give up something that may not be good for you but has become oddly comfortable and familiar.

I don't think being diagnosed with diabetes was that moment for me. I think it was the moment when I said, "The moment isn't coming." The day after my diagnosis I signed up to work with a personal trainer 3 times a week at the gym. I also signed up to work with a registered dietician once a week for the next 10 weeks.

To think it has only been a week. It feels much longer. It feels like a lifetime ago.

For the greater part in my life I have been carefree and happy and I have been that through some pretty hard things. I was used to taking care of myself. Didn't feel broken before. Up until 2 years ago. The last two years were in many ways the the worst thing that happened to me. And the best. The aftermath left me vulnerable, weak and insecure. I let go of my defenses and never got them back. Not that letting go of my defenses was necessarily a bad thing but losing it, and losing myself, was.

I got over T some time ago. I even got over my mom's health, career setbacks and financial losses. And now I think I am finally forgiving myself.

It's okay to screw up, feel vulnerable, show your emotions, rely on outside help and not always know how your life is going to turn out. It's okay to be weak. It's okay to fail. As long as you can pick up the pieces and move on. I am.

To my faithful reader community of 1 and occasionally 2 - I started a separate blog to track my workouts and nutrition as I work towards my goal of running a marathon some day so I probably won't be posting as much here. Not that I currently do. :-) But I will be posting here, and in case I lose you before I get my next post up, I just want to say thanks. For reading and for your words of encouragement.

Fears and Getting Over Them

2006-09-18T22:58:00.000-07:00

I made that list in my head as I was driving back from my doctor's office today after finding out that I have diabetes. I have probably had it for some time, at least a year. We are guessing a year because my last blood test a year ago was normal and I started gaining weight around Dec which according to my doctor could have been an early sign of insulin resistance which left untreated developed into full blown diabetes. Being genetically predisposed to the disease probably didn't hurt either.

Deepak Chopra says we fear most that what has already happened to us. I guess it's true. It's definitely true in my case. On the drive home I made a list of all my fears. It was triggered by a comment my doctor made about not being afraid. To my surprise my biggest fears turned out to be those that have already come to pass. Not that that makes it any better or more bearable or the possibility of it happening again any less frightening but knowing that you have come through one thing does make you believe that maybe you can come through another too and even simply admitting to yourself that you have fears but knowing you haven't let them hold you back makes you feel stronger.

And then, of course, a little voice in your head pipes up and petulantly asks, "But how much longer? And why me?" But thankfully, that voice is easily suppressed. For today.

There are days when I would really like to wake up and find that it has all just been a bad dream and my life is flawless. Perfect. Like a hothouse flower carefully grown in a climate-controlled environment and transplanted with great care into a gilded vase - beautiful, blissful, untainted. And for years to varying degrees I have rejected reality and pretended I was living some kind of a metaphoric Cinderella story. The glass slippers were just twinkling around the corner waiting for my feet. But, somehow, I don't think so. I think this is it. And I think I am finally growing into the fact that this is my life and I just have to make the best of it. Not that I haven't but for the last few years it has been easier to break down than to break mold. And then, for a while afterwards, it was all happiness all around because things weren't as bad as they had been. "Things could be worse." "My life doesn't completely suck." "Many people don't even get this. Who am I to complain? What right do I have?"

And now? Now I guess is the next revolution. Whatever that may be.

And Life Goes On

2006-07-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

Wow, it has been over a month since my last post. My, how time flies when one is not anguished. I think this is the first time in the last few years that I have not felt confused, conflicted or unhappy about some thing or the other in my life and it shows. Someone once said that pain was the essence of all great creation and although that seems like a rather morbid viewpoint to take on life I do kinda get it. It's those emotional unheavals and inner turmoils that we would like to avoid in life that give it its color. Which, depending on whether you are just a happy, go with the flow kind of person by nature or the soul-searching type, will either sound horrible or make the most perfect sense of all.

Not that everything is smooth sailing. For one, I just switched jobs and adjusting to the new one is turning out to be harder than I thought. Technically, it was an internal transfer but my company's idea of internal transfers is to subject employees to 8-10 hrs of gruelling interviews so that by the time you are done you are so turned around that you kind of forget where you are. But it's still the same company, the same vision and some of the same people and so you think transition has to be a breeze. Only not so in reality since you all suddenly realize at the same time that being part of a newly formed group means the old reporting structures no longer work and the power seats are up for the grabs. In a tidal pool of type A's who are all the best in class in some way or the other in a company that only loosely relies on a structure preferring instead to reward innovation and self-direction it creates for some interesting inter-dynamics that can last a while.

My marathon training isn't going too well either partly thanks to long hours. Nor is my rebellion against commercial diets since I seem to have managed to lose the exact same 2.5 lbs 5 times in a row and I am back squarely to where I started. Matters not particularly helped by my mother who said I was getting fat and that it sickened her (love you too, mom!) to which I characteristically responded by eating ice cream because I am too much of a wimp to tell someone I love to their face when their comments hurt me for fear of hurting them.

If the weight doesn't do me in, my pathological desire to please everyone just might as amply demonstrated by the fact that when my brother suggested that he may need to borrow considerably large sums of money for his UK exams and trip later this year I rushed into a gushing "Of course!" even though I had a sinking feeling at the bottom of my stomach because I knew it would mean cutting back on a lot of my own plans.

So, yeah, not all smooth sailing in all quarters. But, the work situation is temporary, there's always a personal trainer to shift my marathon training (and hopefully, weightloss) into the next gear and helping my brother won't exactly leave me indigent which is a lot more than many people can say. So for the time being I am just happy that the sun is shining, that I am smiling and that life goes on.... because I know that things can be much worse.

The No-Diet Diet, 7 Day Recap

2006-06-29T19:31:00.000-07:00

Foods eaten - 6 bowls of cereal, 6 cups reduced fat milk, 1 Denny's pancake breakfast with real butter and syrup and 1 cup of coffee; 3 grilled chicken salads, 2 veggie wraps and 2 boxed lunches at company seminar; 2 cilantro burgers with salad, 2 Trader Joe's frozen Thai Green Curry, 1 Morton's Steakhouse NY steak and salad, 1 Bertolli's sausage and rigatoni and 1 trip to the Dim Sum place with friends; 1 tin of The Chocolate Factory bittersweet chocolate, 6 pcs of sugar-free butterscotch candy over the week and 1 chocolate covered vanilla ice cream bar to celebrate Sunday; - approximate calories: 1 million

Total workout - 7.5 hours of biking, 2 hours of dancing and 4 hours in a sweltering hot kitchen; - approximate calories burned: at least a half million

2.5 lbs lost in 1 week - priceless.

Okay, so I am not going to win any new diet revolution award but turns out eating the way your mother taught you along with exercise actually works. Who would have thought?

The Duck Story

2006-06-26T23:18:00.000-07:00

When I was a young girl, no, I did not drink ale but I sure as hell tore up a lot of paper.

Ever since I have been writing I have been faced with the same problem. I would write something down only to find two days later that I no longer liked it. Either I had changed my mind or time had given me a new perspective or what was of utmost importance two days ago was of no consequence today. As a result what I wrote often felt out of step with my recollection of things and having paper documentation of the way I felt/thought/saw life two days ago only conspired to mess with my perception of reality at the moment. For this reason I have never kept a diary or what most people would call a diary which is a chronological recounting of events and emotions.

However, I did write. I wrote fiction. I wrote short stories. I wrote chapters for novels. I wrote reflective pieces, essays and narratives. I did from time to time write down things that had happened to me during the day, the week, the month too but only rarely and only generally to tear out the pages later. Reality in retrospect has always been my reality.

I don't know whether this is normal or healthy or a form of escapism and I am not about to start a debate on the presence or absence of any absolute truth which by extension implies a presence or absence of an absolute reality thereby making reality in retrospect either a completely irrational or the most rational viewpoint to have depending on how you look at it. What I know is that the way I remember things is to me a more honest reflection of how I have lived my life than a factually correct account of events in motion.

Now I am not talking about deluding myself to what really happened. No, I don't mean that the facts change or should be changed to fit into the kind of memory I would like to have. What I mean is that events in isolation can take on a greater or lesser meaning and they have to be put in the right context for full understanding and that that context often does not appear until days later.

For example: Over this weekend a guy cut me off pretty badly on an expressway which made me really angry at the time. The next day I saw a duck fly overhead in a parking lot.

If I was keeping a diary in the most prevalent sense of the word I would most certainly have had to write about the guy on the expressway. And years ago I would have only to tear up the page two days later and write about the duck instead because by day two the anger would have subsided but the surprise at seeing a duck fly overhead in a grocery store parking lot would have remained and I would have come to realize that two, ten, or twenty years from now the duck memory would still make me laugh while the expressway story would be relegated to a non-event that barely deserved a mention.

Of course, I realize this is not true of everyone. There are people who are capable of being inspired/awed/surprised/enraged/enthralled/excited in a moment and recall the same emotions in retelling. Clearly I am not one of them. My mom says she never knows what to cook for me because by the next time she sees me I am sure to have a whole new set of likes. And today Dave didn't bat an eyelash when after he offered to come with me to look at the condo upgrade options I first said yes, then no, then maybe and then no and then maybe again. I left him at maybe at 7:30 looking completely unsurprised.

So, maybe, it's not so much that events need context as that I am inconsistent and I don't want constant reminders. Fortunately the eletronic media is a lot more forgiving than paper diaries which have long memories in the form of reproachful clumps of torn pages that stare back at you from inbetween unblemished ones, their presence mocking you with silent homage to forgotten events.

But the duck story stays.

Far from the Madding Crowd

2006-06-23T13:54:00.000-07:00

Watching a man bump into a woman today as I made my way across a crowded street at lunch I realized for the umpteenth time just how far I had come from New York. The man apologized, the woman accepted the apology and no profanities were exchanged. It was politeness all around. And although I still love and miss New York and its general apathy and lack of consideration for anyone but the supreme self (or the extended self in the case of coupled individuals who actually like their other halves) I realized something else for the umpteenth time - that although I still missed New York I no longer missed my New York ex.

This isn’t necessarily cause and effect but there is correlation. Up until a few weeks ago I would not have been able to think of New York without thinking of T. But now my love for one has nothing to do with the other. T could be happy, sad, coupled, single, cheating, faithful. He could remember me or forget me altogether. It doesn't matter. There are no triggers that bring back memories. No tears. No "How could he do this to me?" that eventually gives way to "How could I let this happen to myself?" Not because the questions weren't important or because you have all the answers but because they have lost their edge.

What no one tells you about a bad breakup is that afterwards there comes a point where you don’t want anyone anymore. And it’s not like the way you didn’t want someone when you were younger and carefree or the way you might not want someone whom you didn’t love. It goes deeper. It’s something intangible etched in your psyche pushing you away from intimacy. It’s not fear. Not at surface. Maybe if you took a deeper look. But you don’t want to look because you have finally stopped riding the emotional wave and it’s a nice place to be for a change. And because a part of you wonders if the not wanting anyone new is not really a different spin on a familiar feeling, that of wanting someone old.

And then, some time later, you come to another bend in the road where you no longer want to start anything new but not because you still want someone old. You are done with that part. It’s over. And it makes you neither happy nor sad because it’s neither a happy nor a sad realization. It’s just there.

In a New York State of Mind

2006-06-20T01:14:00.000-07:00

And just when I thought New York had finally faded out of my consciousness and into the majestic mountains that surround me, it's back. The longing.

I wasn't born in NY, it is inarguably not the cleanest, safest or the nicest smelling place in the world and I am not even sure I liked it all the time while I was living there. -- I know I did not like the time I got gum stuck to the bottom of my pants in Times Square. I did not like the time some 6 ft 200 lb guy pushed me out of the way to grab the cab that I had hailed. And I definitely did not like it when after a really long day at work my train got stuck on the tracks due to some mysterious "mechanical problem" for the third time in one week. -- And yet I miss it. What is it about the city? It's like a guy you can't forget except the guy-you-can't-forget does eventually fade from your memory but the city lingers on.

I guess the thing about New York is that you have a sense of belonging that you don't have in other places. Most cities are just places to live while New York can feel like home. And as someone who will never visit her childhood home again because it no longer exists maybe what I really miss is a place to call home. What I have to remember, what I need to remember, is that it's people who make a home, not places.

What I Want Now

2006-06-09T18:34:00.000-07:00

6 drawer Havana lingerie chest

I have stopped obsessing about buying a place only to start obsessing about decorating it. Never mind that the "place" is not ready to be decorated or will be for at least 6 more months. But thanks to a little thing called floor plan coupled with an imagination that, unlike reality, is not constrained by either a budget or lack of space I have found a way around that: the internet. The internet, that last frontier in vicarious living brought to you by rapid mouse clicks, my ally, my friend, ... and a surprisingly non-judgmental one at that who, unlike real friends, will never say things like "You can't buy that!" nor pipe up at the most unfortunate moment with an "You can't afford that" to ruin my pleasure. Okay, so yes, I don't need a roomful of new furniture but it's cheaper than therapy.

Home, Sweet Home

2006-06-07T18:24:00.000-07:00

Every time I get upset or stressed I develop writer's block. I can post afterwards, a recap if you will, or during if sufficiently inebriated as I have already proven once, but generally when sane and sober I find it hard to talk or write about things that are bothering me. And then one day things turn around, the block lifts and it becomes an exercise in hyperbole to see how many words I can fit in without really giving away any details at all. It becomes a rhetoric, a summary, or a collection of "previously"s but from an altogether different vantage point than the one that has the most relevance of all, the vantage point of someone living the story rather than merely observing. Some day I may be able to write about things more honestly, for want of a better word, but for now recaps will have to do. If nothing, they do chronicle the before and after state of an event.

Yesterday’s post wasn’t really about yesterday. It was more of a commentary on the inner state of my mind over the last few weeks leading up to the moment of change. A turning point. Hopefully, one that will stick.

There isn't much I can or want to do right now about my relationship status but there is something I can do about my living situation. 1. Buy my first home .. and so, for the last few weeks I have been out house hunting. And yesterday I found one.

It’s very New York in the heart of the Pacific North West. A beautiful 1 bedroom with a den large enough to sleep two guests in a 5-story red brick building with residential units set above ground floor shops. I almost chickened out. And then, I didn’t. Today I signed the papers.

My apartment (I guess I should get used to calling it a condo) is a third floor unit overlooking the park. It's a preconstruction scheduled to close end of December. In the plan it has a real working fireplace with a brick surround and a white wood mantlepiece. The floors are a rich, dark walnut and the walls are finished in eggshell with white satin trims. The kitchen is a dream in state of the art stainless steel appliances and a full granite countertop with the same granite theme carried to the bath vanity with its his & her dual sinks below a full wall to ceiling mirror. And the best part? A view of the mountains from the charming little balcony off the master bedroom.

I still have some doubts. Only 1 bedroom. What if I have a house full of guests? And the wait? Will I even be here next year?

When I first moved here I told myself it was going to be temporary. Too many memories. I needed to be away from the east coast for a while. But now I am not so sure. I like the rugged simplicity of the North West. Life seems less complicated and although my troubles are by no means all far behind me it’s a start. A New York apartment set among the hills. Coffee and white water rafting, both within a short reach. A girl could do a lot worse. And as for guests, that’s why they invented the pull-out couch.

Dissatisfied

2006-06-07T00:04:00.000-07:00

I am like that monkey on the pole. 1 ft up, 2 ft down. Or in my case, 1 step forward, 2 steps back. From restless and frustrated to confused but complacent and back via the scenic route.

Have you ever felt dissatisfied with your life? Chronically dissatisfied with your home, health, career, clothes, relationships, money all at the same time? Like nothing is going your way. Did you maybe tell yourself that you shouldn't resist? Give in and accept the status quo. Get a cat. Get used to being unhappy at your job. Stifle your sense of right and wrong.

Hide. Put on some weight. Put your head down. Give up the dream of owning your own home or of being successful in your career. After all, why not? Isn't that the lot of some 6 billion people in this world? What makes you think you deserve better?

Well, maybe it is that you just don't like giving up. Maybe what you do or do not deserve has nothing to do with it. You want what you want and nothing less will do. Maybe what makes you stand apart from some 6 billion people in this world is that no matter how many times life gets you down, sooner or later you get up... But first, you need to stop wallowing in self-pity.

Wishlist for next birthday (June 2007):

1. Buy my first home
2. Become more car-savvy
3. Find a job that excites me again
4. Lose a few pounds and get a makeover

Optimistically Pessimistic

2006-05-05T08:23:00.000-07:00

Isn't it funny how certain things can bring you right back? I had all but forgotten about the blog until yesterday. Not to say I had forgotten it completely, but with other things happening and with the cloak of security somewhat rent it had stopped being the place of refuge it had been before. And then something happened that made me think, "I have to write this down." So I am back.

My mom's doing okay all things considering. I hate the fact that she is getting old. She is not going to get miraculously better as the years go by and I wish I could spend more time with her. Of course, when we are together all our little differences bubble to the surface and all these warm fuzzy feelings get lost.. for a bit anyway. But the thing about me that I both like and resent is that I can never, for any great amount of time, ignore the misfortune of others to focus solely on my own plights. I wish it weren't so because self-absorption is like a cloak of protection around you that prevents you from ever feeling too deeply about anything. Empathy on the other hand brings with it the added burden of other people's sorrow and the weight of the world on your shoulders. But what's the point in dealing with coulda, woulda, shoulda? I am who I am. I can't change that. And no matter how my life has been when I think that her time is running out and things aren't going to get a whole lot better for her I can't but feel sorry.

Is anyone ever curious why so many of the world's philosophers that we are so fond are such pessimists? From Socrates to Sartre, from Emerson to Thoreau, what I have noticed is a kind of quiet despair, an almost fatalistic view of the world as uniformly petty and of people as small. I wonder if pessimism goes with empathy because the ability to feel and see more than most gives you an insight into life that isn't always pleasant. I don't know. I am rambling. What I do know is that in many ways I am a pessimist and it's a comfort. Philosophical pessimism has a built in release valve of optimism in it. If you don't expect things to get much better you don't really get hugely surprised or disappointed when they don't and that is okay. The problem with my mom is the she is a diehard optimist. Disappointment reigns supreme in her life.

Of course, another way of looking at it could be that she needs something to believe in, a glimmer of hope, given how her life has been, while I, having through tenacity and opportunity climbed out of the hell hole I was born in, can afford the luxury of pessimism. Then yet another way of looking at it could be that because of her happy and secure childhood she had reasonable expectations of the same in her adulthood while I had none.

The second thing I love and hate about myself is my ability to argue against myself.

Anyway. I am back to being me, which for the most part means conflicted, confused, introspective, generally pessimistic, occasionally optimistic and gratefully single.

Some people seem to crave relationships the way a junkie craves a hit. Me? Not so much. It could be argued that that's because I haven't found the right person yet. It could be argued that that's because I have unrealistic ideals of romance. It could yet further be argued that that's because I am scared to be in love which is probably the truest statement of all. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that I would much rather have peace of mind and I generally don't have that when I am with someone. So, yesterday, I ended things with two guys and celebrated with champagne. But this time without tears, with chocolate and with a philosophical acceptance that maybe I don't want the same things as everyone else. And that is okay.

Events Of The Non-Event Kind

2006-03-19T19:18:00.000-08:00

And life goes on. After a rather hectic week at work training my replacement among other things I am finally all ready for my leave. I will only be gone for 6 weeks but it is amazing how many things there were to hand off. I have been looking forward to this because it would be nice to spend more time with my family of course. But now that it's here I feel oddly reluctant to leave. I keep thinking I am forgetting something. Maybe it's just travel anxiety. You know, like when you are halfway to the airport and can't stop freaking out about leaving the stove on? Even though you haven't actually turned the stove on in 2 & 1/2 years? Yes, that kind of anxiety.

On the subject of blogging and privacy, yes, I realize that this is a rather open medium but that doesn't preclude an individual's right to privacy or expectation thereof. However, there are people, both in real life as in the internet, who clearly have a different definition of social propriety than me. And I still want to keep blogging for reasons of my own so I guess I will have to deal with the comments as they come. I considered turning comments off altogether and I may still do that or turn moderation on but for now I am not changing anything. Most people, as several commenters pointed out, are nice.

In random events of the real life kind - John's driving me to the airport again, I bought some new clothes for the trip (my mom would be pleased!) and I have suddenly become a photography enthusiast. Oh and coffee guy, who incidentally happens to be a photographer by hobby and profession (and my inspiration), woke me up at 2 am this morning to play James Blunt's "You are Beautiful," then drunkenly said "thassyou" or something to that effect and hung up. We have hung out a couple of times and I have the greatest time when I am with him but I have yet to decide whether this is adorable or creepy.

I guess I now have 6 weeks to figure it out.

I can't bring myself to write.

2006-03-10T00:28:00.000-08:00

Edited June 23rd: Because I obviously can bring myself to write again. However, the reasons that prompted this post originally and the vulnerability displayed in it (although cringeworthy in retrospect) were much too real for this post to be removed altogether.

A Word

2006-03-09T07:35:00.000-08:00

To anyone reading this blog, there are a few things you should know about me. In this blog, as in real life, when I come across an inappropriate comment or an offensive remark my tendency is to either ignore it or reply nicely in an attempt to deflect the tone. Not because I can't think of anything else to say but because by nature I am polite first. It's not encouragement to post inappropriate comments. I say this because I have had to delete a few comments lately that crossed the line. This blog is essentially my home in the cyberspace. I didn't create it to generate traffic, in search of my 15 minutes of internet fame or to finagle a book deal in some incredibly circuitous way. This is a glimpse into my life. A privileged glimpse if you will if you happen to be here by chance. If there are things you wouldn't say to a new neighbor you have never met in person you probably shouldn't say them here either. Please be respectful and courteous.

And to the majority of my readers who are already courteous and polite - thank you. I appreciate it.

Paris Fashion Week

2006-03-03T17:36:00.000-08:00

In honor of today being the last day of the Paris Fall Fashion Week I have decided to spend tonight rummaging through my wardrobe. I have two dinners this weekend, not to mention laundry and all the other typical weekend errands, so doing this over the weekend is out. Plus, there is no greater motivation than tall, thin, lifeless dolls languidly walking down a narrow runway in the latest Chanel or YSL couture when it comes to a wardrobe makeover.

My personal style is fairly simple. I have and will always prefer a cute shirt or a fitted tee and a great pair of jeans or a little black skirt to the entire rack of new arrivals at Banana Republic. But at the same time, I have been feeling a little stuck in fashion rut lately. Part of this is reflective of the internal state of my mind. Color therapists will tell you that when you are in a gray mood you are more likely to pull on something dull and gray. To cheer yourself up you are supposed to do the exact opposite and pull on something bright and colorful. Easier said than done because bright bottle green when you are feeling restless just seems incongruous. Besides, as a ninety year old toothless man once told me, I look good in gray! But then again, what do I know. I am not a color therapist (and neither was my ninety year old admirer I am pretty sure), so I am going to give it a try.

If you are reading this, consider this fair warning. This post, with a few exceptions, will almost entirely be about fashion.

Fall 2006 Paris Runway Show

Those (above) are my favorite looks from this year! From top to bottom: row 1 is Stefano Pilati for YSL, row 2 is Olivier Theyskens for Rochas, row 3 is Tischi for Givenchy, row 4 is Isabel Marant, row 5 is Jean Paul Gaultier and row 6 is, from left to right, Hussein Chalayan (#1 & #2), Sophia Kokosalaki (#3 & #4) and Ann Demeulemeester (#5).

The difference between fashion and style is that fashion is very much of the moment whereas style is timeless. Style is all about adapting fashion trends to suit your personality rather than borrowing looks straight off the runway. Much as I love every single one of the above looks I would look ridiculous if I walked out of my home looking like a style.com picture not to mention the fact that I will probably go bankrupt if I tried.

YSL

I love what Pilati has done for YSL. It's very French chic revival meets S&M and what's better, the looks are accessible. I am not crazy about the shapeless jacket in the first picture or the fur collars in 1 & 3 for that matter but I can wear the cropped pants and the ankle boots with regular turtlenecks or buttondown shirts. The third ensemble is fine on its own if you remove the fur collar and I love the little black dress and those goth glam shoes in the middle picture. What's better, I already have the turtlenecks, buttowndown shirts, wide black belt, the little black skirtsuit and the ankle boot so all I need are the cropped pants and the dress & the shoes (or similar ones) in the middle picture.

Rochas

I loved everything by Rochas. Theyskens said his look was inspired by chimney sweeps. Clearly I am in the wrong profession. I should be a chimney sweep! The first picture was wishful thinking on my part because even my most glamorous holiday parties don't call for anything so glamorous but the second and the third outfits can easily go from work to evening. Unfortunately, I don't have any of these pieces so I may have to buy them. But, the good news is that they are versatile, will work well for Spring as well (at least the the pants and the top) and will mix well with what I already own. Growing up I was so used to getting only 1 or 2 new outfits a year that it was important for my clothes to multi-task. Now that I can afford more I still like things to multi-task. Some lessons just stay with you.

Givenchy

Givenchy was one of the few houses to deviate from the black & white theme preferred by most designers for fall. They didn't exactly go too far but the pale blues and the splashes of red really stood out. I already have the black skirt and I have a pale blue shirt (no one said, when adapting a runway fashion to your wardrobe, you have to stick to the exact same item - a pale blue top can be replaced by a pale blue shirt, that is unless you do have the budget to go buy everything new every season). I just need a semi-sheer red blouse and a wide red belt. I think I will pass on the white pumps, gorgeous as they are.

Isabel Marant

I love the stark black & white of Isabel Marant. It's so quintessentially French. All these looks, however, seem to be geared towards teenagers so much as I love them I think I will stick to what I already own except for 2 things. I am getting a black satin belt like the one in the first picture to use with my sleeveless white sheath dress and a black & white print skirt to wear with my black turtleneck.

Jean Paul Gaultier

I really liked these when I first saw them but now that I am looking at them again I am not so sure. They are simply not my style. I do like the yellow dress in the third picture though except maybe with less feather. And minus a poodle.

Hussein Chalayan, Sophia Kokosalaki and Ann Demeulemeester

Another designer I love, next to Pilati and Olivier Theyskens, is Hussein Chalayan. I want everything from the first two pictures. I would wear them unaltered, just as they are. From the rest I like the long black skirt and the silver tube top (except without the fur collar) from the 3rd picture, the boots in the 4th picture and the skirt in the last one. I have a long black skirt but none of the other items.

Just one problem I can see from the above is that famous designers, like me, seem to prefer the monochromatic theme. Not a whole lot of color up there, is it? So, I guess, I am on my own on that.

The Nature Of Regrets

2006-03-02T19:27:00.000-08:00

Since it hasn't even been 36 hours since I was waxing eloquent on the subject of regrets and time misspent it is only fair that I should turn around and start regretting the way I am spending my time.

I haven't cooked since last Tuesday. I haven't done any drawings since the last one weeks ago. I haven't been to the gym since last Friday. And so on and so forth. Of course, there are many things I have done but that's not what this post is about.

It's kind of funny that when I think of regrets, even think back really hard, those are the things I can think of. Somehow I don't regret meeting T or the last 4 years. I don't regret my childhood with poverty as its constant companion. I don't regret anything about the 16 school years despite so many things not going my way so many times. I don't even regret the 8 years in Big 4 consulting even though I was always gone and missed many opportunities to connect with friends and family and would be lovers. It's the not cooking since last Tuesday that I regret.

I guess as regrets go there are worse ones.

John & I have plans to go bowling again tonight. We made plans on Monday but I have been thinking of cancelling because I have so much to do. My upcoming leave is less than 3 weeks away and then I will be gone for six weeks. I want to straighten my apartment, learn to cook, sign up for Salsa lessons, stick to the marathon training schedule, list some things on eBay, weed out some old clothes to donate to charity and maybe buy some new ones. Excuses. Reasons to not go out and do something fun. But I can't help but accept that I tend to regret the things I don't do a lot more than the things I do no matter what the outcome.

So, the cleaning will have to wait for tomorrow, drawing I will have plenty of time for when I am back home and Salsa lessons will still be here when I get back. Tonight I go bowling. Because as regrets go, not cooking since last Tuesday is a lesser one than not going out with a guy I like because I am afraid.

Who Moved My Tiara?

2006-03-01T14:41:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I ran into an old classmate at an airport. I was on my way back from a client site and she was on her way out of town. I was wearing a black crew neck sweater, blue jeans and slightly high heeled black boots. My hair was in a low ponytail with a side part and my only makeup was a pinkish nude lipstick. She was wearing a short skirt, a deep V sweater with a peekaboo bra and makeup that screamed for attention. She recognized me immediately. I didn’t recognize her.

Over coffee we caught up on the intervening years. We both had decent jobs and boyfriends but while I was still pretty much the same she had gone from wallflower to consummate party girl. We were as different then as we had been years before in high school except her pendulum had firmly swung from one end to the other. It was an interesting phenomenon.

She wasn’t the only one either. Over the years I have noticed that half the people I run into either seem to be trying to recapture their high school glory days or compensate for the fact that they didn’t make as much of an impression as they would have liked back then. Sometimes I wonder how many people are still stuck in those years. How many times do we do things because we feel we should or to impress others?

Last night I turned down two offers to go out, came home and unclogged the bathtub drain. Yes, glamorous. I had noticed in the morning in the shower a small pool of water cheerfully nipping at my toes. After I had peeled myself off the ceiling I knew I had to do something and fast. For whatever reason, I am happy as a newborn seal in a drawn bath but the idea of standing around even in 1 inch water when I am showering makes me shudder. (It is one of those delightful inconsistencies that make me, me. Or so I like to believe.) Of course, in keeping with my ignorance of all things domestic I had absolutely no idea what to do and I didn’t get much time to research online at work. So, my first order of business on coming home was to log on and try to figure out where to go from there.

I poured myself a drink, kicked off my shoes, dropped my tote and laptop onto a chair and cozied up to the glowing screen with a box of bon bons I save for special occasions. No reason why one can’t be comfortable as she makes her foray into the jungle of cleaning products. A few soft taps and swishes of the mouse later I was deep in literature on drains and pipes. What a fascinating world! I never knew it existed. After an hour of being immersed in the world of drains and clogs which somehow led to a 5-page article on the one thousand and one uses of baking soda (the little overachiever!) which in turn led to a website offering homemade recipes for salt scrubs and bath bombs which led to a few excited minutes with my credit card ordering supplies for making my own personal care products (it looked like fun) I reluctantly pulled myself away from the screen and made a quick run to the store for supplies. Later, I ate yummy Chinese food directly from the take out containers in-between pouring cleaner down the drain and chatting with a friend on the phone as I half-watched Gilmore Girls and Supernatural on WB. The evening flew by. And then I realized that it had been just as much fun as last Tuesday night with John. (No reflection on John!)

Some days I feel disgruntled about life, some days I feel impatient, restless. And then there are days like these when I feel grateful. High school was good to me but popularity was neither something I sought nor rejected. Maybe that’s why I have moved on. I feel glad that I am propelled by neither the need to relive my youth nor to make up for it and staying in can be as much fun as going out ... because the worst kind of regret? Is the regret of time misspent.

All's Well That...

2006-02-28T01:11:00.000-08:00

In my entire life I have only had three dreams that involved people I know or know of. Generally, I never dream about friends, family or coworkers. I don’t even dream about strangers on the bus or movie stars.

The first dream, from high school, involved a boy in my class I had only noticed in passing until then. He was nice but a little quiet and not part of my group. The dream wasn’t about him. I am still not sure what it was about. In the dream I had long wavy hair (my hair was short at the time) and I was running around in a sun-drenched meadow on bare feet wearing an ethereal white dress. Not running around like I was trying out for an Olympic gold but in a dreamlike, surreal sort of way. And then suddenly the meadow fell away and I was standing in the middle of this long, narrow stone walkway jutting out into the ocean. The vibrant sunlight was gone too and the world was shrouded in a blanket of pale gray while a soft rain fell in a fine drizzle. I stood there on the walkway, cold from the rain, my hair and dress whipping around me in sudden gusts of wind. And then, just as suddenly, I was back in the meadow and it was bright and sunny again. That’s where I saw the boy and he said to me, "Not that way. You are going the wrong way." I was about to turn left or right but when I heard this I turned the other way.

I don’t remember the rest of the dream. I don’t remember if it affected any of my decisions in the next few days or what the outcomes were if it did.

The second dream was way too obvious and Freudian.

The third dream was Sunday night.

I was sitting at a bar when George Clooney came up to me and struck up a conversation. We started flirting, engaging in some very witty verbal repartee(which I do not remember much of but it was all very clever and scintillating at the time and he was completely captivated, you will have to take my word for it). The rest of the dream was him pursuing me with flowers, gifts, even serenading me from the street below as I stood on a really crappy, narrow fire escape and yelled at him to go away. Of course, in true Hollywood fashion we still ended up locked in a passionate kiss at the end of it. (Sell out!) But then I redeemed myself by turning him away at the last minute.

And then last night, after work, I reluctantly went to a happy hour. I protested that it was Monday, that I had to hit the gym because I skipped the last two days and I am falling behind on my marathon training, that I didn’t really like any of them enough to hang out with them after work (all true statements) but to no avail. So, I went, watched my coworkers get drunk, ignored the advances of a few other drunken men, chastely sipped my diet coke and then came home.

And ignored the blinking light on the side of my phone that indicates I have messages.

God, I get more unsocial every day. Even in my dreams.

Amerimacka

2006-02-26T22:16:00.000-08:00

After last night’s alarming and untimely tears, and much of the night spent tossing and turning, I decided to take myself shoe shopping today. What worries me about the tears is that this is fast becoming my reponse to guys I like followed by withdrawal and that can’t be healthy. (Neither is obsessive shoe shopping but who am I to go against the wisdom of generations of women everywhere.) So, shoe therapy it was. Besides, I figured the only place where T wouldn’t creep into my thoughts unbidden had to be amidst a sea of girly pink shoes all waiting to be co-stars in the filmstrip of my life.

At the mall I made an unplanned detour to my favorite day salon. It’s been a while since I have been there and occasional pampering is a little piece of heaven that no girl, woman or child, no matter how dazed or confused, should deny herself. Sitting there, flipping through a back issue of Glamour while my friendly neighborhood pedicurist caught me up on her life (bloody Pedro! He has been fooling around on her. I was about to tell her exactly what she could do to his genitals when I remembered my own serious lack of coolness in similar situation and decided to shut up and play empathetic listener) I felt my worries - mom, work, men - falling away from me like loose clothes at the end of the day. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness clearly never got a pedicure.

After I had paid and tipped generously (still cheaper than a shrink’s couch) I took myself over to Nordstrom. This must be how a recovering alcoholic feels when he suddenly walks into the middle of a Harvard frat party. Other than the knee-high Spanish Harlem boots in Chicago last week I haven’t had any fashion indulgences in a while. Guess my self-imposed exile extended beyond men. Not that I was ever in the habit of overshooting my means but I wasn’t quite the minimalist I seem to have become lately either. It was like coming home.

Several hours later, during which two very charming young men in Nordstrom’s dark navy suits slipped shoes on and off my feet, I felt even better. There is something about a cute guy in a suit at your feet that is very modern day Cinderella. Or maybe it is the ego boost, the power trip. I have always fancied I would look good with a 6 ft Royal Bengal tiger purring away at my feet. (Seriously. At age 10 when other girls were begging their parents for ponies and puppies I was demanding to know why I couldn’t have my own tiger as a pet.)

Later as I was threading my way back to the main entrance, newly pedicured toes encased in a new pair of shoes, my old pair snuggling up to the fresh new meat in the large shopping bag, I looked around. Women of all shapes and sizes going in and out of stores, some with bags, some without. I wondered if shopping, like cutting or alcohol binges, was not a form of escapism. Shoes, even though they sometimes squeeze your toes to within an inch of their life, rub the skin off your heels and give you painful blisters, do not let you down the way people do. And as any cutter can tell you, physical pain is often easier to bear than its emotional twin.

But then again, sometimes shoes are just shoes. They’re pretty, fun and the right ones can make you feel instantly glamorous. Like my new babies below.

(Photos courtesy Nordstroms.com, except for the green ones - they didn't have them online so this is the closest match from another site.)

Breakdown Lane or Road To Recovery?

2006-02-25T23:55:00.000-08:00

I came across a post where a woman admits to sleeping with another woman’s boyfriend. She writes about enticing him despite his rebuffs and making several encore attempts afterwards all while he was still with his girlfriend. She ends on a tone of humor noting that he wasn’t interested after all in the end and a certain amount of charming helplessness that this has happened several times before attributing it to some special pheromones of which she is possessed that undoubtedly make men forget fidelity around her.

Personally, I think the constant encouragement might have had something to do with it too.

I learned something about me today. I am capable of despising a complete stranger.

I had a date of sorts with my neighbor, the one I almost ran over a few weeks ago. Instead of coming after me with a bat or threatening to sue me as would have been befitting he had offered me his coffee thereby claiming a permanent spot in my heart. This kind of humanity (or is it insanity?) is not something you come across everyday. It deserves to be rewarded. Still, in keeping with my strict serial monogamy theme I wasn’t planning on dating anyone until I figured out where things were going with John.

That is, until I went to Target.

Is Target the new hotbed of action? Who knew. I got asked out twice - once in the towel aisle and once in the kitchen aisle. I guess appearance of domesticity is a turn on for some men. The towel guy didn’t actually come out and say anything. He just followed me around asking for advice on towels and hinting at things. The kitchen aisle guy was more direct and incredibly attractive in a Luke Wilson kind of way. Charming too. When I said I wasn’t dating for the second time he smiled disarmingly and said he had to give it the old scout’s try. (Aww. They are finally teaching boys scouts some real life skills these days.)

It wasn’t until I was on my way home that any of this sunk in though. I refuse dates on autopilot. On the drive home I found myself thinking. I saw a Dr. Phil episode once, the only one I have ever watched, where he told a woman that she had to go out more and that if she kept hiding a guy will have to throw himself in front of her car for her to meet him. So, when Coffee Guy caught up with me right after and said I owed him a cup of coffee I figured why not. He has come as close to throwing himself in front of my car as anyone. I will just buy him a damn cup of coffee. Which I did, at 2.

I just got home. It’s past 11. We went to this nearby place that has a video game parlor, a multiplex movie theater, a Barnes & Noble, several coffee shops and one of my favorite restaurants. And somehow we managed to hit all of them. It was nice. It was better than nice.

And, yet, the first thing I did on walking in through my front door, was cry.

Growth

2006-02-24T15:43:00.000-08:00

My cousin came to visit last summer. We hadn’t seen each other in over 4 years. It was fun catching up on events, shopping, hiking, dining, checking out the local music scene etc. Before she was leaving she said she had the best time. The only thing she regretted was that I wasn’t as sharp-witted or sarcastic as I used to be. She missed my old sense of humor. I didn’t know what to tell her.

I have been trying to think about what she said. It is true but why? What changed? Did love soften me? Or was it something else? Age? Wisdom? Have I become too mellow?

Don’t get me wrong, I was never mean to everyone. For some reason I have always found it difficult to laugh at people who are generally nice or well intentioned even if their methods leave something to be desired. When my friends made fun of someone like that I would often protest. But I never had a problem cutting people down to size with a few choice words when they deserved it either. People who were being deliberately cruel or bullying others or flaunting their superiority with the sole intention of making someone else look bad. My sarcasm and blithe, cutting comments were reserved for them.

Around 2 pm I went down to the post office to drop off a package. There were two girls right in front of me in the line. In their late teens or early twenties. Very fashionable, pretty. Just in front of them was a middle aged middle eastern woman, slightly overweight, frumpy and clearly having a hard time filling in a form. She kept asking people for help. The two girls were making fun of her. It took a few moments for me to realize that’s what they were doing. They were making fun of her clothes and shoes, her complexion and her poor English. I felt my temper starting to rise. And then one of the girls turned to the other, grabbed her by both hands and in a mock pleading tone said, "Please, promise me you will shoot me and save the world if I ever start to resemble that."

I was furious. The words were at the tip of my tongue. And then I leaned around them and asked the woman if I could help. She looked so relieved. I said, "Why don’t you come join me and I will help you fill out the form. Let them go on ahead (pointing to the girls)." The woman positively beamed at everyone, even the two girls who sniggered at this, and walked over to where I was standing.

The girls rolled their eyes and turned to look at me. I could see it in their eyes, the amusement. And then they looked away. It’s easy to ridicule a poor old woman who doesn’t understand what you are saying. It’s a lot harder to intimidate an attractive and well dressed woman who meets your gaze smiling and unafraid. The amusement faded. They turned around and started talking about something else. I helped the woman fill out the form and stayed with her until she was done at the counter.

Now I know what to tell my cousin if she asks again why I am not as sarcastic or sharp-witted as I used to be. It’s because I found a better way to silence people.

Adaptation

2006-02-23T19:55:00.000-08:00

If the car in front of me is driving too slow I change lanes.

If someone is standing too close to me at the post office I move.

If a coworker is taking credit for my work I speak up or shrug it off.

If my boss is ignoring my idea I fight for it.

If my file won’t print because there is a paper jam I fix it.

If I believe in something and people are not listening I get their attention.

If a child is running around screaming in a restaurant I raise my eyebrows but smile.

If the sales assistant is chatting on the phone I find another checkout counter.

If the store is out of the ingredients I want I buy something else.

If the wind blows my umbrella away I retrieve it.

If a car splashes muddy water on my new coat I take it to the dry cleaners.

If someone is hogging a machine at the gym I move on to another workout.

If my flight is delayed I buy a book to read.

If my date fails to live up to my expectations I don’t mock him to my friends behind his back.

If he turns out to be utterly horrid I still remain polite.

If the post office is out of stamps and as a result I get stuck with a fine because my payment was a day late I accept it as my fault.

I would like people to be well dressed but I don’t make fun of the ones who aren’t.

I would like people to be well read but I don’t snub the ones who aren’t.

I would like people to be pleasing to the eye but I don’t avoid the ones who aren’t.

I would like people to be polite and pleasant but I don’t snap back at the ones who aren’t.

I would like people to be considerate of me but I don’t cut them out of my life if they aren’t.

Or in other words, I find it generally easy, most of the time, to overlook the everyday little things that seem to annoy so many people by their own admissions.

But I can’t seem to stand dating blogs.

I don’t mean the blogs that talk about dating among other things. I don’t even mean the blogs that talk mostly about dating and occasionally about other things. I don’t even mean the blogs that talk exclusively about dating and only about other things as they relate to their dating escapades, although those are borderline boring. I mean that blogs that talk about nothing but dating. I realize that may be the purpose of the blog but when you are out on a date the world doesn’t come to a standstill all around you. How does one write 1000's after 1000's of words day after day on absolutely nothing but "I went out with so & so and then I went out with so & so and then I really wanted to go out with so & so but he/she moved to China?" No mention of a street shooting or the Pareto Principle or the 44 year old trade embargo on Cuba I can understand, but no mention of the rain or a car that drove by too close or some random US survey? No observation even on the food or the bar or the napkins on the table? Do people's lives really revolve around dates to this extreme extent? I honestly thought that only happened in sitcoms and even there the characters generally have some outside interests.

I feel like a Meg Ryanish moment, "Hasn’t anyone told these girls they are supposed to have two names?" Only I feel like saying, "Hasn’t anyone told these people that they are supposed to have at least two interests?" For the love of God, get a hobby. Something. Anything. Nail polish, bricks, stones, rocks, stamps, speedos. Whatever it is. Find something. And then maybe it will be easier to meet someone worthwhile because you will have something to talk about.

What’s even more amazing to me is that some of these blogs try to give dating advice. Why anyone would want to take dating advice from people who can’t seem to hold any one person’s attention for more than 10 minutes is beyond me.

I am being critical, I know. I am just annoyed that 9 out of 10 times when I click a link I seem to end up on another dating blog. Much as I adored Bridget Jones and her delightful brand of airheaded unidimensionality there is only so much of it one can take. It's not like I can't sympathize. I know heartache all too well. It's the singlemindedness that gets to me. The exclusion of everything else. Maybe I am afraid that I might turn into them one day. Or maybe I find it annoying because it just is plain annoying. But that's my problem not anyone else’s. So, from now on, I will adapt and add one more if...

If I come across a dating blog, I stop reading.

The Door

2006-02-22T18:43:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking about that green door. There is something about that unassuming door with its little sign and the one single lightbulb swinging in the breeze that pulls at my heartstrings.

The first time I went there was right after moving here. My coworker J, when she heard that I had just relocated, said, "Oh, we have to take you out and show you around." A few days later I found myself standing in an outdoor mall with a giant shopping center on one side, a big glass-windowed restaurant on the other and a tiny green door inbetween. She pointed and said, "That’s where we are going." Since then I have been back many times.

I like that it is simple, almost defiantly so like it is daring people to keep walking past. It doesn’t want to be noticed by everyone. The door knows that someone will find it and it is willing to wait, not craving the attention of every passerby. Maybe like Shakespeare’s Bassanio I am attracted to things that do not glitter. In a world so driven by fame, fortune and attention it is rare to find things or people that are willing to stay hidden. Like a dew drop on a blade of grass that traps a rainbow inside, a simple green door that opens to a crowded restaurant or a meagre lead casket that hides the portrait of the beautiful Portia there are treasures secreted in the simplest, most easily overlooked things. And those are the ones that interest me the most. But I wonder, does that - the secret, the solitude - heighten my pleasure?

John told me this morning that the food was good but not great which surprised me because I have always thought it was the best in town. Maybe the ambiance has something to do with it. Maybe there is something about the path not trodden by many feet that has a certain appeal. Or maybe it is the quiet confidence of a deliberate simplicity that defies anyone to judge it by the common rules. Whatever it is, it just works for me.

In A Sudden Fit Of Inspiration

2006-02-22T01:28:00.000-08:00

I have gone from wanting to make omelettes to wanting to cook smothered lamb chops in homemade garlic-butter sauces with sides of shiitake mushroom and tossed green beans with slivered almonds and finely diced shallots. Now I remember why I don't cook more often. The last time I tried I went directly from boiling water for tea to wanting to make an authentic 99-step 3 hour risotto.

A few hours ago I was standing in my kitchen, at the end of an uncharacteristically (for me) long day that started with a 6 am wake up call to give me time to compose and post my first ever digital photo collage followed by a 9 hour workday, 2 hours of gym, ½ hour of grocery shopping and several hours of random obsessesive photographing of anything and everything, contemplating my newly acquired Whole Foods Market bounty and a random assortment of spices that *sounded* like they will go well with lamb trying to figure out how to convert all this raw material into a delightful finished product when, thankfully, John called.

I have been told on what I assume to be good authority (i.e. by self-proclaimed dating experts) that you are not supposed to accept invitations from men at the last minute but when you are standing in the middle of your kitchen at 8 pm staring at raw meat you can't always be picky. Now that I think of it, I am not even sure John actually asked me to dinner. I just said yes.

We went to this little Japanese restaurant. I like this place. From the outside all you see is a very ordinary green door with a small, aged restaurant sign directly overhead dimly lit by one lone 40 watt lightbulb. It is kind of squashed in between a big international grocery store and a swankier eatery so that most people would probably walk right by without even noticing it. Inside it is just as tiny and cramped as you would expect it to be from the outside. But the food is amazing. The broiled swordfish steak with wasabi sauce is to die for, the hamachi is really spicy (which is how I like it), and the fatty tuna practically melts in your mouth. I think what I like best about their food though is that it is simple and unpretentious yet complex and tasty. If I were food that's the kind of food I would want to be.

After I got back home I realized it was a good thing I went out. I don't know how to make smothered lamb chops in homemade or any other garlic-butter sauces.

Admissions Of A Non-Cook

2006-02-20T18:50:00.000-08:00

My mother has a point, as mothers sometimes do. For the record, my wardrobe is both fashionable and, when it has to be, formidable. I may not be paying constant homage to the label Gods as some people are wont to do but I don’t sacrifice quality or style. That said, fact remains that I often don’t buy things with the excuse that it’s too ridiculously overpriced and as my mother pointed out yesterday, anyone who eats out practically every single day and not at fast food restaurants has no right to cite temperance or frugality as her argument.

Temperance and frugality are interesting concepts. They are decidedly unfashionable for starters. What is fashionable is to be irresponsible, well-dressed and in debt. To pass up an overpriced Balenciaga motorcycle bag in the name of saving is as horrifying as the admission that you really think it’s quite ugly. Which it is but you are not supposed to say that because heaven forbid, it’s a designer label and when was the last time a famous designer created something so revolting that it deserved to be quarantined at birth instead of being bagged and tagged and sold to the masses? Fendi spy bag anyone? But I digress. I didn’t mean to go on a tirade against monstrosities masquerading on people’s arms thanks to their cult status. Quite to the contrary, I should probably get off my soapbox and stop pretending my relative temperance in the shopping department is such a great virtue when my spending habits in other areas are so out of control. Without divulging any details let me just say I spend enough on food that I could be buying a new Louis Vuitton bag (and sometimes two) every single month of the year.

But it’s so easy to swing by the cafetaria or make a short jaunt to the quaint bistro down the road with some coworkers at lunch or check out the new Thai restaurant in town with some friends on a fine evening. In this day of modern conveniences there really is no need to cook at home. If it isn’t the cafetaria, the bistro or the Thai restaurant there are always the old standbys like Chinese takeout, Panera or Whole Foods. Even some supermarkets offer decent salad bars and since you are already there why not pick up some other stuff too. Save you a trip. Really, there is no reason to cook at home unless it is for the joy of cooking.

Ironically, modern conveniences are also the reason why cooking at home makes sense. It is economical and with the advent of technology a kitchen full of appliances like the food processor, blender, chopper etc can make short work of an otherwise intimidating recipe. There are even books on microwave cooking which cut meal preparation down to an exact science and leave you plenty of time to indulge in your favorite hobbies, whatever they may be.

One of the disadvantages of being able to see both sides of an argument sometimes is that you can get caught up in it and take a little too long to pick a side. Or maybe it is my natural disinclination to do anything that can ever bestow upon me the terrifying title of Domestic Goddess. I have this secret fear that once people find out that I can cook and clean I will never be able to go back to my old lifestyle of being the slightly sarcastic, occasionally deep, caring but free-spirited girl that people admire and will be relegated to the role of a "but-you-can-cook-and-clean-so-oh-why-aren’t-you-married-yet?" hanger on. At least now they say, "Well, she hates football and refuses to cook. And you know, she is always taking off for places unknown. How many times has she moved in the last ten years? Tsk, tsk. And all that watching jeopardy and turning her nose up at gossip. No wonder she isn’t married yet."

Which is kind of how I like it. But maybe I should start cooking. It’s not that I can’t cook at all. But, generally speaking, cooking doesn’t excite me unless I am throwing a dinner party or there is someone in the kitchen with me. And I am not in the mood for company right now. Maybe I need to start small. Like... with an omelette!

5 Weird Things

2006-02-20T12:53:00.000-08:00

I have been tagged by Coloratura. I was supposed to post 5 weird things about myself but didn't know what to post until just now as I caught myself talking to myself in the kitchen. I defy anyone to tell me that’s not weird. So here it is.

5 weird things about me:

1. My mother says when I was 3 years old one day she came upon me sitting on the floor playing with some toys and muttering under my breath. She smiled fondly and asked, "Who’s your friend, sweetie?" thinking, reasonably enough, that I had an imaginary friend. She says I looked up, rolled my eyes and said, "Mom! I am talking to myself." Self-aware at 3. Now that I am older I don’t make a habit of going around muttering under my breath anymore but every now & then my internal monologue refuses to stay trapped in my head and finds a voice.

2. Sometimes I sing aloud to the music in my car. Sometimes I dance and sing aloud to the music in my car. I also do this in the kitchen, living room, bedroom and the shower with alarming frequency, but generally only when I am alone.

3. I hate chick flicks. I have not seen Never Been Kissed, the pink-something movie with Reese Witherspoon (the one where she was a law student or lawyer), How To Catch A Man or Lose A Man or something like that (the one with Goldie Hawn’s daughter) or any other of the ilk. I can’t even remember their names. I have, on the other hand, seen every Jackie Chan movie, Chuck Norris movie, Bruce Lee movie, all the American Ninja movies, Karate Kid, The Kickboxer, Rocky, Rambo and all their sequels. I have seen Fight Club seven times, every single Tarantino movie twice and Guy Ritchie movies like Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels countless times to the point where I can glibly quote lines from them at the drop of a hat.

4. I can eat ice cream just about any time of the day, even in the middle of a bitter cold winter, and have been known to wake up past boyfriends and send them out for ice cream at 2 am in the morning on a few occasions.

5. I really would much rather stay home alone on a Saturday night than go out with some guy I am not that interested in just in the offchance we might hit if off or just to have something to do. Everyone keeps me telling me this is weird so I guess it must be.

And now, I am supposed to tag 5 people in turn but I honestly don’t know 5 personal bloggers so instead, I will leave it open. (Yes, sometimes I am a coward - my fragile ego can’t take the hurt I will undoubtedly feel if someone I tagged didn't play along so this is my way of wimping out). If you happen to read this consider yourself tagged.

Another Sunday

2006-02-19T16:35:00.000-08:00

I am packing, getting ready to go back to the city I currently call home, slowly slipping into my reflective quieter self, the party girl of Friday night retreating into the background.

I spent most of yesterday and all morning with mom. Talking, listening, often to the same repeated things. Did I see cousin P’s little boy? He’s such a little darling. Oh, and have I remembered to pack my things in the bathroom? Was I sure I wouldn’t like her to give me some homecooked food to take with me? I ate out all the time. That wasn’t good for my health. Repeated requests that I come back soon, repeated concerns that I do not, however, jeopardize my job in doing so. Old and familiar yet new and sweet at the same time. A part of me wants to stay here. Enough running around and running away. Take care of her. I need to find my roots anyway. A part of me wants to go, keep moving. My search isn’t over yet. I am coming back to visit again soon. That’ll have to do.

It doesn’t take me long to gather all my stuff. I am wearing my jeans and carrying my wool coat which really only leaves a few things. It’s a little funny. As I pack I look at my clothes. A couple of cotton t-shirts from Target. $8 each. Perfectly nice. A slightly flouncy black satin organza skirt. A green silk evening top. A red blouse. A white shirt. A cream cashmere cardigan. I am wearing the gray turtleneck to the airport. Some undergarments, skincare, and the new tall black boots. Everything else - my camera, cellphone, address book, wallet, small makeup clutch, box of pastels, keys and iPod - will go into my handbag. The drawing book I will just have to carry again. The cabin bag looks oddly deflated devoid of the gifts I had brought for my family. I know my mother is disappointed that I didn’t bring more clothes. She is always disappointed that I don’t bring more clothes. She’s disappointed that I don’t own more clothes. She wants to show me off like a barbie doll. A successful little barbie doll with an impressive job title.

Maybe it all goes back to the roof. My parents have a cute little condo now but for years we lived in a house that my friend Anne had christened the haunted house. There were exposed bricks and watermarks on the wall and vines growing on the outside. I remember standing at the door of my parents room and looking up as the roof came down leaving a foot wide gaping hole through which the rain poured freely. It was neither the first nor the last time it happened but it was the first time the bricks came down on my parents freshly made bed with its clean white sheets. My mother sitting down with the diary where she wrote down all expenses and doing the math, trying to figure out how to raise the money to get the roof fixed and wondering how long it will last.

There are plenty of carefree, happy, wonderful memories tied to that house. Even the roof made us laugh at times. Every time a pigeon flew overhead my mom would say, "There goes the roof." We all thought it was funny. But maybe it all goes back to that. To years of hurried math on the back pages of a diary to figure out how much it will cost to fix the roof.

It’s not enough that my brother and I are doing okay. My parents want other people to know we are doing okay. Sometimes it annoys us. That’s shallow. Why would we care what anyone thinks of us, particularly people who didn’t bother to acknowledge us when we were nobodies? Isn’t that what you taught us - not to believe in show? I got mad at my mom earlier today when she said, "Next time, bring some nicer clothes." These are $159 designer jeans for crying out loud. So what if the t-shirts cost $8. They are perfectly nice. Not everything has to cost an arm and leg and most certainly not for show. But I think I understand, a little.

The packing should have taken 5 minutes but it takes almost half an hour because I frequently stop and get lost in reverie. The 26 year old from Friday night has called three times. I have noticed this odd propensity in men to get attached to me out of the blue sometimes, generally when I have the least bit of interest in them. The kiss was nice but it’s not going anywhere. I don’t really have time for it. Or maybe I don’t have the inclination for it. Right now I just want to go back home, unpack, pour myself a drink and watch some TV on my couch. And pine over lost loves.

As if on cue Shawn Mullins starts to sing "Beautiful Wreck" on the radio. Yesterday I was a cracked china doll, today I am a beautiful wreck. At least you have to admit, I have a very romantic way of looking at myself.

It's In His Kiss

2006-02-19T10:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think slowly over the last few years, more so in the last few months, I have forgotten how to live. And then, every now & then, I get a reminder that I still have a pulse. Friday night was fun. More fun than I expected and surprisingly less funny than I expected, although there were the genuine moments of hilarity like when one of the BYTs gaily admitted that she thought Calendar Girls was just a movie and didn’t know that there was a real calendar with "naked, old people" on it. I tried not to laugh and when she asked me if that was crazy, truthfully replied, "Slightly alarming." Everyone apparently found this very funny. Clearly George Bernard Shaw wasn’t kidding when he said the truth was the funniest joke in the world.

We met up outside one of the clubs where BYT Original’s friend was bartending. He was getting off at 2 so we stayed at the club until 2 and then went to this other place that he said was a lot more happening. It was happening all right. All kinds of things were happening. Drugs, sex, rock n’ roll. Well, not rock n’ roll. More like some East meets West fusion of bhangra and rap with a heavy dose of trance electronika thrown in. Just what you need at 2 am in the morning.

Our party consisted of the girl who had invited me, her 2 girl friends plus the boy from the other club - the 26 year old bartender, and me. Other than the Calendar Girl moment and one of the other 27 year olds pinching my cheek and calling me cute in some twilight zone role reversal the night was pretty much as nights like these go. We danced, we drank, we screamed. Then we moaned our aching feet and went home. But not before the boy had gallantly kissed me.

I say gallantly because one does not expect such reckless bravado mixed with such charming flourish - yes, flourish - outside of movies like the Princess Bride. I was so impressed by his moves that I forgot to laugh. Or to be offended for that matter. It’s been a long time since I have been kissed and longer still since I have been kissed with such purpose.

Saturday morning I woke up with a mild headache and a feeling of foreboding. Then I remembered. T would be 47 this year and so, that would mean, if he had successfully sowed any wild oats when he was 21, which he might well have done, bless his little womanizing heart, then he would have a ... he might have a ... a ...

I didn’t finish the thought. I am resolutely not finishing the thought. I have been resolutely not finishing the thought since yesterday morning. The kiss was nice. Friday night was nice. Let's leave it at that.

Flights Of Fancy

2006-02-17T13:31:00.000-08:00

The Bright Young Thing seems to have taken a fancy to me. She called first thing this morning to ask if I could come clubbing with her friends and her. I was a little amused by the use of the word "could" in the way my school friends used to call up my mother and ask if I could come out and play but the offer seems very generous, although, for all I know I could very well be her show & tell for the evening. Observe:

BYT ushers in cherchezlafemme where 3 other BYTs are sitting sipping their cosmopolitans.

BYT1 : "Look a single 30-something. I didn’t believe they existed outside of Sex And The City!"

BYT2: "Oh, but they do, they do. In fact, they are getting more common every day."

BYT3: "Really? Interesting! We will just have to make sure that doesn’t happen to us!"

In unison: "To us. To us." (uttered in dull monotones in a Beckettian parody)

I am thinking of going. Why not? Other than the fact that we have nothing in common, that she reminds me of the other girl, makes me question the very fabric of my last relationship and is six years younger than I will ever be again, I can think of absolutely no reason not to. Besides, it might be fun.

Bright Young Things

2006-02-16T15:53:00.000-08:00

My sister in law and I decided to go shopping today. We were browsing at the mall when we ran into Bright Young Thing from my last post. She was by herself so we naturally teamed up and spent the next two hours together trying on cute outfits. Finally, laden with shopping bags filled with goodies of our choice we made our way to one of the outdoor cafes for lunch.

As we basked in the unexpected warmth of the sun on an otherwise freezing day I listened to the one-sided conversation. My sister in law like me is a little quiet at times. Bright Young Thing on the other hand was happily chatting away about some cute guy who gave her his number and some other cute guy who has promised her an expensive necklace and how cute her hair looked two nights ago and how she has the greatest Brad & Angelina scoop ever.

Suddenly in the bright sunlight I realized with a shock that she was just T’s type.

At least one of the reasons I have been finding it hard to move on is because I never understood why any of it happened. I asked T. Why? What was it? He didn’t have an answer. But I think I finally figured it out. It wasn’t his weakness or her seduction or my failing. It was because he was with the wrong girl.

I can see how he might have been mistaken. On the outside we are very similar. Bright Young Thing and I are both wearing form-fitting cashmere turtlenecks over designer jeans and high heeled boots. We both carry cute purses. We are both about the same height and weight and the same degree of pretty. But that’s where the similarities end. What drew T to me was my reserve, my reticence, my mystic. What drove us apart was the same thing because he just likes a different kind of girl. There was nothing either one of us could have done.

Not sure what I am going to do with this realization but it’s a little more than I knew yesterday.

After lunch we went back to shopping some more. Bath & Body Works was having a sale and since they just started carrying C. O. Bigelow I stocked up on some Rose Wonder Cream, Rosewater Toner and my favorite Rosebud lipbalm. I also got a yummy scented travel candle from L’Occitane. Other than that my haul of the day included a couple of small gifts for family members, a Chanel lipstick called Tijuana for myself (a very soft, pretty red - I am hoping this is the red I have been looking for) and a pair of tall black lace-up boots that I am sure will come in handy during Halloween. Kidding. Actually, the boots are totally hot.

How I Used To Be

2006-02-16T11:45:00.000-08:00

I had to go to a dinner last night. It was a family type affair and at one point I found myself in the middle of a throng of people who were talking about some fresh celebrity gossip. I tried not to look too obviously disinterested but found my mind wandering. If gossip about people I know doesn’t interest me what would I care about what's happening with some actor or actress I don't know? After what I thought was a suitable interval I quietly tried to extricate myself from the group and sneak off to wherever people weren't talking about other people's marriages. Unfortunately, my desertion attempt was noticed and clamorously drawn to everyone's attention by a very bright young person who among other things thought it incumbent upon her to inform everyone that "clearly" *giggle* "C__ didn't care for gossip."

Later as I was about to gather up my coat and leave with as little fanfare as possible I got a rather surprising and unexpected earful from a couple of elderly friends of my aunt’s who intercepted me inches from the door and well meaningly proceeded to inform me that men did not like women who were too accomplished or too sure of themselves. And since I clearly did not grasp the magnitude of this revelation they further went on to inform me that "watching jeopardy and turning my nose up at gossip" was not going to help me get married and have babies.

I find it a little hard to be mean to people when no matter how poorly delivered their message their intentions are inherently good (from their points of view anyway) or to walk away from obvious bores. So, trapped in my own social civility, I listened to another 15 minutes of what men are looking for (apparently everything I am not) and what they are not (apparently everything I am) before making my escape with a mild parting shot. I tossed a "If a man doesn't want me for who I am then chances are I don't want him either" over my shoulder and quickly slipped out before anyone could correct me.

On the walk back home I felt both like laughing and crying. In my family women marry young and I have had to put up with this song and dance for as long as I can remember. I have gone through a gamut of reactions from being upset to defensive to feeling put on the spot to nowadays simply being amused. But sometimes the amusement is mixed with annoyance.

I have always craved romance and passion, adventure too, but not marriage. This could very well be because I don't have a lot of stellar examples of wedded bliss. Or it could just be me. The idea of going skydiving or scuba diving or even cooking a meal together with someone excites me but babies and happily ever after doesn't creep into my thoughts often. And truth be told, an occasional tearful night aside, I am not that afraid of being alone. I am more afraid of not living life well. 15 minutes of lecture does not change that.

But I do wish people would stop trying to change me.

8 Femmes

2006-02-15T16:43:00.000-08:00

I love this movie. It’s a cross between a British stage mystery and a hollywood musical but told with typical French insouciance. I almost lost a friend over it though because this movie touches on a lot of sensitive topics but only to make fun of them or dismiss them casually. She thought it was offensive. I thought it was funny because, well, there are plenty of serious thought-provoking movies on all those subjects. This isn’t one of them. What it is is a somewhat oddball movie with a fabulous cast, great 50’s style decor & costumes and subtle but hilarious dialog...

Gaby - I will have to tell the police you often go out at night, and everyone knows it.
Louise - I will have to tell the police you often go out at night, and no one knows it.
--------
Gaby - If your conscience is clear...
Augustine - Is yours?
Gaby - Clearer than yours.
Augustine - Admit it, you hate me, don’t you?
Gaby - No, I am indifferent to you.
--------
Augustine runs off crying. Mamy, who up until then had been wheelchair bound because her legs are paralyzed, gets up and starts to follow Augustine to console her.
Gaby - But mother your legs!!
Mamy - Oh, I feel better. Must be the snow or a Christmas miracle.
--------
Mamy - Someone snuck into my room and robbed me. Someone who knew my hiding place.
Suzon - Under your pillow?
Mamy - How did you know?
Suzon - Mamy, everyone knows.
Mamy - Everyone? What a bunch of thieves. Stop, thief! Murder!
--------
Gaby - Someone sabotaged the car.
Louise - I wonder who.
Gaby - What does that mean?
Louise - Nothing madame, just wondering.
--------
Mamy - You belong to a book club? I thought you hated to read?
Pierrette - Oh, pardon me. Perhaps I said something I shouldn’t have.
Augustine - Not at all, not at all! It’s true I joined but I never take books out.
Pierrette - Oh, really? The chatty secretary of the book club said you check out at least 5 romance novels a week.
--------
Pierrette - As you ladies want the whole truth, I'd like to add a tidbit of information you lack.
Gaby - What is it this time?
Pierrette - Marcel and your new maid, Louise, have known each other for five years.
Gaby - What?
Pierrette - Five years of rented rooms and secret weekends. This winter you needed a maid, so Louise got hired.
Pierrette [leaning in towards Gaby] - It's called "in-home service."
--------
Gaby - But you are so common.
Louise - Maybe Monsieur had tired of remarkable women.
--------
Catherine - Suzon, I forgot one thing. I heard a strange sound. I looked through Augustine's keyhole, and I saw her standing at the mirror with something shiny. I thought nothing of it, but now I'm sure she was sharpening a knife!
Augustine - You liar! I was holding my mother-of-pearl comb and cleaning it.
Gaby - At 4:00 am?
Augustine - Combs never sleep!
--------
Louise - She [pointing to Pierrette] asked me to keep quiet and gave me 10,000 francs.
Pierrette - Which I regret, you hussy.
Louise - What?
Pierrette - Everyone knows you sleep around.
Louise - You should know, since we sleep with the same ones. Let me explain the bribe. I overheard you say to Monsieur, "Give me the money or you'll die."
Pierrette - No I said, "I'll die."
Louise - No, "You'll die."
Pierrette - My poor Louise! Your word is no good, you're just a maid.
Louise - Nor is yours. You're just a whore.
Pierrette - Which I prefer.
--------
Suzon - Mom?
Gaby - What is it? Another shocking revelation?
Suzon - No, I have told you everything.
Gaby - Tramp. You’re nothing but a tramp.
Pierrette [coming out from behind the curtain] - These things happen.
Gaby - On your side of the tracks! We get married first.
Pierrette - The tracks are gone. It’s called progress.
--------
Suzon - Mom said dad wasn’t my real father.
Catherine - It’s not true!
Suzon - Anyway, it’s a good thing he isn’t.
Catherine - How can you say that?
Suzon - You know the bun in my oven? Marcel put it there.

(They make absolutely no mention of this for the rest of the movie and Catherine later goes on a rant about how everyone takes advantage of her poor papa. This was when my friend turned to me and demanded to know, "how is this a funny movie?" I tried to explain to her, it's like feminism. It was never about the men.)
--------
Augustine - You’re understandably upset over what Gaby said.
Mamy - What did Gaby say?
Augustine - She accused you of killing father.
Mamy starts to laugh.
Augustine - What is so funny? It’s a monstrous lie...
Mamy [still laughing her head off] - It’s not a monstrous lie, my dear. It’s the truth.
--------
Mamy - You have to understand, there are different kinds of women.
--------
Pierrette - You have a lover.
Gaby - A lover? Is that your latest scoop?
Pierrette - No, my first.
--------
Gaby and Pierrette wrestle a gun and somehow end up on the floor in a passionate kiss. Suzon, Augustine, Louise and Catherine burst in upon them just at this time.
Suson - Mother, what are you doing?!
Gaby [peeling herself off Pierrette and starting to get up] - Nothing. Just chatting with Pierrette.
Pierrette - It’s not what you think.
Augustine - We don’t need to think. We can see.

I told my friend it’s farcical but it’s a celebration of woman in all her forms. She didn’t see it that way.

The Present

2006-02-14T18:13:00.000-08:00

My mother’s doing better. My father’s not at home. Not sure where he is. They don’t really get along. They have gone through love and hate and have now settled on uneasy indifference. My brother and his wife are probably at school or work.

Around noon I went down to Blockbuster and picked up a bunch of dvds. Today is Tuesday and rent 1 get 1 free with rewards card so I got 4 for the price of 2. I considered getting one of those Valentine’s bucket thingies with a cute romance video and some popcorn but I don’t feel much like watching sappy love stories these days. Not that I ever did come to think of it. I must have been the only person in the theater during Titanic crying out of sheer annoyance. So instead I got La Cage Aux Folles (the movie that inspired Birdcage), 8 Women (the movie that I am always surprised hasn’t inspired an American remake yet) and 2 movies I hadn't seen before - Chutney Popcorn and the 1998 Angelina Jolie starrer Gia.

Back home I settled onto the couch with a small bowl of popcorn, a tall glass of diet coke, a sandwich I made (2 pieces of lightly toasted bread, a slice of cheddar cheese and some ham) and a half box of Nestle’s ice cream cones that I rescued from the back of the freezer.

So, for Valentine’s day I ate odd assortments of food on my parents couch by myself, watched a movie about two middle aged gay Frenchmen, a campy semi-musical whodunit with 8 French women snowbound in a house with a murdered man, a tale of inter-racial lesbian relationship with messages of tolerance, acceptance and cultural reinvention interwoven into the plot and the tragic rise & fall of 70’s supermodel Gia Marie Carangi who was one of the first women to have been diagnosed and die of AIDS.

It was a lot of fun.

I love Valentine’s Day. Yes, I know it’s a huge cliché and I am supposed to say cool and clever things like how I am pioneer woman with 195 IQ and a defiant feminist who believes in paying her way through the world and stick my nose up at Valentine’s Day (which is kind of ironic since I do have a decent IQ, I do believe in equality and I am paying my way through the world) but I do. I like Valentine’s Day and every clichéd thing it stands for. I like the candlelit dinner and the staring into each others eyes while our song plays in the background and big, romantic gestures like a dozen red roses.

But I also like this. Just sitting on the couch by myself eating popcorn and watching quirky but interesting movies.

Halfway through Chutney Popcorn I paused the movie and opened John’s gift. He had handed me a small box at the airport with a slightly embarrassed air and asked me to open it on Tuesday. I was just so relieved that he said "Tuesday" instead of "Valentine’s Day" (what do you know, I am pioneer woman after all) that I had forgotten all about it (which is highly uncharacteristic of me since when someone hands me a wrapped gift and asks me not to open it the first thing I want to do is open it).

It was a keychain. I had told him during bowling how my keychain wouldn’t stop blinking and how I may have to get another one because it was driving me crazy. That must be where he got the idea.

T was into big gestures. He would have booked a fancy restaurant and tried to buy me jewelry. Except the restaurant would have been booked by his secretary and the jewelry would have been picked out by his sister or one of his many women friends or a cute sales assistant who modeled selections for him. Never mind whether I wanted jewelry or not.

I was in love with T. I am not in love with John. But this is quite possibly going to be my favorite Valentine’s day present.

Hobbies

2006-02-13T18:15:00.000-08:00

or I Need A Hobby - Part 3: The Conclusion

On Sunday morning I went down to a local art store and picked up some supplies. A sketch book and some pastels. The pastels are beautiful. Creamy, soft and smooth with incredible color payoff. The sketch book is twice the size of a normal drawing book. Yes, I got a bit carried away there as I found out when it came time to pack. The bloody thing wouldn't fit into my cabin bag. But oh well, you got to live a little. (and yes, my idea of living it up is clearly very different from most people's). I did this drawing on the plane. The stems need work but my in-flight neighbor seemed to regard it (and me) with awe and admiration so it can't be too bad (he could just have been the easily impressed kind though). Besides, the sheet was white so I did the whole textured, aged background thing too.

Other things to try in 2006:

1. Photography
2. Jewelry making
3. Dress design
4. Daytrading
5. Herb gardening
6. Dance lessons - salsa, tango
7. Scuba diving or sky diving (or both)

That is, in addition to the things listed in my *Things* post.

Some people get back at their exes by making out with a lot of people. I am going to get over mine by becoming very accomplished at a lot of little things that probably won't matter to anyone but me. How's that for a plan!

McDonald's Drive-Thru

2006-02-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

"Yes, hi. I will have the spicy chicken sandwich please."

"Just the sandwich or the meal?"

"Just the sandwich."

"The fries and drinks are free from 11 am to 2 pm."

"Oh, okay. Well, in that case I will have a small drink. Diet coke, no ice."

"It come with medium fries and drink."

"That’s okay. I don’t want the fries and I will just take a small drink."

"So you no want the free value? Just the sandwich and drink?"

"Um, no. I want the free value but just hold the fries and give me a small drink instead of medium."

"It come with medium fries and drink."

"Right. Well, can you substitute the medium drink for a small one?"

"You no want the free value?"

"Yes, just sub ..... Yes, yes, I do. You know what? I was mistaken. I very much want the free value. Medium fries and medium diet coke with no ice please."

"One spicy chicken meal with diet coke no ice. Thank you. Pull up to the window please."

Whew!

Perfections And Imperfections

2006-02-11T14:36:00.000-08:00

When I am not trying to write the words flow so effortlessly, tripping over each other in their haste to jump into my consciousness. Then I sit down to write and sometimes putting thoughts to words become a chore. So I abandon it and let the words flow. And very often I end up writing something completely different than what I had intended.

Vic used to joke about my crushes after in a moment's impulse I confided in him that up until the age of 22 I had only been in love with characters from books. He used to tease me about that and say, "No wonder we poor mortals can't compete. We don't have the luxury of the kind of perfection that comes from our lives being encapsulated in 300 pages, all our virtues played up and our vices reduced to footnotes." He used to say, "You are in love with words." I would dismiss it. What did he know? He was just a boy and everyone knew boys were immature.

But maybe he had something there. For as long as I know I have been in love with an ideal. It's all very good to say you should love who you are with but to me that sounds suspiciously like settling. Why should I force myself to love someone I am with when I can be with the one I love? Ah! The inarguable logic of a romantic idealist.

Last night was fun. John & I went bowling. We got our shoes, grabbed an alley and sat down. He got us some pizza and drinks. I kept bowling gutter balls, he kept bowling strikes. I kept pouting and he good-naturedly tried to lose a few times. We had a good time. Halfway through a couple of his friends showed up. I had met one of the guys at John's super bowl party. He was shamelessly flirting with me on Sunday and picked right up where he had left of, which made me laugh. It was casual and fun all around although at one point John did shove him a little and say, "Go get your own girl!" We all laughed at that too. It was oddly reminiscent of a simpler time, of school, of back when I could hang out with cute boys and laugh because they were just boys and everyone knew boys were immature and they didn't interest me the way men in books did.

Before adult relationships and heartbreaks.

I have written several paragraphs without writing what I had meant to write. John offered to take me to the airport tomorrow which was both strange and sweet. We seemed to have bypassed dating and moved straight into some kind of a pseudo boyfriend-girlfriend relationship. I don't know why, where, when or how it happened or what to do about it for that matter but right now I don't feel like trying to analyze this. So I am letting him take me to the aiport. Next week when I am away from here and have more time I will figure it out.

But that's not what I had meant to write either. I had meant to write about the nightmare. The terror, the paralyzing effect it has/had on me.

I woke up like I always do from one, suddenly but quietly. Lying there wide awake, unmoving, barely breathing, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark, struggling against the tears. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat, my muscles shaking but afraid to move in case there was someone in the room, in case my motions betrayed my existence. Maybe if I laid very still they would go away. I stayed like that for almost half an hour wishing I could dissolve into the sheets, fighting the blinding panic, before I got up the nerve to raise my head and look around. No one.

I got up, drank some water. Then I pulled on my favorite sweater, a big, thick, very warm, cashmere tunic that falls just past mid-thigh, and went out onto the balcony. A minute before I had been afraid that there was someone in the balcony. But no. It was empty. I sat there in the moonlight. Was it full moon last night? It was beautiful. Outside the world so quiet and peaceful. The moon looked like a polished piece of glistening sugar hard candy. It looked so real and small and smooth and perfect. For a second I honestly thought I could reach out and touch it, pluck it out of the sky and pop it in my mouth.

I don't remember when exactly I came inside and fell asleep again. When I woke up this morning it was 11:30. The sun was out, bright and shining.

On a clear day you can see the mountains from my living room. Today is a clear day. I can see the entire shadowy silhouette of the range topped by its white peaks. Sometimes I wonder about night and day. I know how it works, scientifically. But I wonder about the two, so different, blending, melding into one another and making a whole. I wonder about the nightmare and the bright morning. Perfections and imperfections, opposites, side by side. Crazy world.

2006-02-10T23:56:00.000-08:00

I want a puppy.

I Need A Hobby - Part 2

2006-02-10T15:35:00.000-08:00

Around noon today my boss, very graciously and probably not a little out of a sense of guilt for having previously given me grief over my request for time off to go see my ailing mother, offered to let me take the rest of the day off so I could pack for my trip. This was both generous and somewhat surprising but remembering the old adage of not looking a gift horse in the mouth I accepted with alacrity and a sincere word of assurance that I would, indeed, be trying to fit in some work inbetween packing too. He amazingly dismissed this and said, "Nah! Just take the rest of the day off. And don't worry about putting it on vacation either."

Will wonders never cease? Someone does love me today. Or maybe this is what the universe was trying to tell me all along through my telegraphing keychain.

After I got home an hour ago I kicked off my cute new work shoes, poured myself a really tall glass of soda and watched half of an old favorite (Sabrina) curled up on the sofa. The things that make a girl feel wonderful sometimes. I felt like a million dollars. Maybe it is something about not working on a Friday afternoon that makes a working girl suddenly feel like a pampered princess.

So now I am seriously considering lying around as a potential hobby. Can that be done? Can Friday afternoons spent sipping tall drinks (even if they are the PG-13 kind), watching old movies from the couch and giving myself a manicure be considered a leisure activity? Probably. Assuredly. But since I can't count on my boss's generosity every week or a slow enough day where I won't get frantic calls mid-movie if I were to just take off like that I think I should stick to my resolution of finding a new hobby.

Knitting - Recommended by two commenters and my friend Heather who promises that once I get started I will never stop. As a bonus my aunt is always knitting sweaters and scarves so I can definitely reach out to her for help while I am still learning to count stitches.

Hiking - Another great suggestion and one that I enjoy doing, weather permitting. Unfortunately, weather here is not very reliable.

Writing/Blogging - Writing is something I have always done. Over the years I have written everything from a childish rhyme (when I was six - it made the school magazine) to a burning piece on feminism (which made headlines in the school paper and for some bizarre still-inexplicable reason endeared me to half the guys in my year) to a short story that my teacher made me stand up and read in class (oh, the horror!) I kind of stopped after I got busy with work and I am really glad to have this now. But a lot of the writing that I do here is introspective and self-exploratory and kind of private so I still need a day hobby, one that I don't feel compelled to hide from people.

Planting/gardening - Sounds great except I have the .. what's the opposite of a green thumb? I killed a potted plant once. I have considered planting a small herb garden on my balcony though. I saw this cute Ikea gardening table a few years back, aluminium top with wooden legs and big silver baskets to hold supplies on a shelf underneath. I ran to it and stood there dreamily fondling the surface for about an hour before reluctantly walking away because back then I was living in a tiny windowless closet that sometimes passes for apartment in big cities and it seemed cruel to bring living objects into that tepid air and sunless existence. But now, maybe. Besides, herbs are supposed to be fairly low maintenance so there's less of a chance I would kill one.

Wheel throwing/pottery making - This sounds absolutely fascinating and makes me dream of sensual evenings a la the Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze scene from Ghost. Except I know next to nothing about this and I keep thinking I need the gigantic loft shown in that movie and my own pottery wheel and plentiful supply of mud readily lying around and I hardly have the space for that.

Reading/Movies - While great for enriching one's mind, nourishing one's soul, lifting one's spirit or just making one laugh it's someone else's creativity and I am only the receiver. I like both reading and watching movies but more as recreations than hobbies. (I know I am splitting hairs but I want something that allows me self-expression the way writing does)

Music - Same although I could probably make a hobby out of burning custom mixes and stay busy for the rest of my life. And then there's the fact that I have always wanted to play the guitar.

Crafts - I would love to design and create some beaded jewelry. Maybe a little charm bracelet.

Photography - This sounds like fun and I have the supplies. A digital camera, photo paper and printer may not exactly be Ansel Adams but it's a start.

And, finally,

Drawing/painting - I used to do a lot of this once. A few of my pastels even found their way into exhibitions thanks to overenthusiastic art teachers. I think I even won some prizes. But over the last few years running from city to city, lugging luggage and a laptop bag around airports and catching up on bills and sleep during the weekends left very little time for much else. Typing this suddenly makes me realize how much I have missed it.

Suddenly I feel like I have so many things to do. I am going to pick up some drawing supplies this weekend and maybe some jewelry beads for starters. Later I would like to try all the above ideas.

God Loves Me

2006-02-10T10:55:00.000-08:00

Last night when I parked in the garage below my building and got out the Coldplay song "Talk" had just come on. I wanted to stay and listen but I had some things to do so I had reluctantly turned off the radio and headed up. Besides, I have the cd. But later when I went to play it I couldn't find my X&Y cd. I felt a little blue. Then when I turned on the car radio this morning the first thing I heard was Coldplay singing "Talk."

God does love me!

On a not even really tangentially related news I am madly in love with the Train song Cab. It's a bittersweet song...

The days are better, the nights are still so lonely. Sometimes I think I'm the only cab on the road.

And yet it somehow makes me smile. I don't know if it's the piano or the orchestra which you don't find that often in a lot of rock songs (and yes I have heard Bohemian Rhapsody.)

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.

Yes, blogging can definitely be considered my new hobby. I find myself wanting to write - important things, inconsequential things, anything and everything - all the time. But it's sort of a secret hobby, one that I do not and have no intention of sharing with anyone I know. This is my secret garden.

Things

2006-02-09T14:55:00.000-08:00

I want to do this year

1. Run a half marathon
2. Volunteer 1 more day a month
3. Brush up on my French
4. Take up (or re-take up rather) yoga or pilates or both
5. Donate, sell or give away 50% of my belongings
6. Go to Paris

Be

1. Kinder to those I love/like and more tolerant of those I don't

And want

1. The perfect red lipstick
2. Small beige new Gucci Classics bag with off-white trim
3. A crisp white shirt, just the perfect fit
4. A silk scarf or a pair of chandelier earrings
5. Shoes
6. New clothes

Post-Meltdown

2006-02-08T17:45:00.000-08:00

I am seriously beginning to consider the possibility that I am addicted to McDonald's chocolate coated vanilla cones, the universe is still sending me cryptic messages through my keychain and John and I are going bowling on Friday. Or in other words, life goes on.

The last few days were bad. I got rearended, then I got thrown in the middle of all of John's neighbors, friends, family and his ex - deja vu aside, I felt like I had walked out onto the stage in the middle of a play and didn't know my role - and then later that night I got the news about mom. Then my boss blew me off when I tried to discuss taking time off, we found out that my parents insurance won't cover the expenses, I got my license suspension notice, my bloody keychain wouldn't stop blinking (all these coded messages and signals from the universe really should come with a manual) and as I was rescuing my travel suitcase from under a pile of clothes in the closet I found T’s old t-shirt, the one he had loaned me once to sleep in and then kind of became mine from that day. It made me remember how he was really good at just shutting up sometimes and being there when I was upset about work or family. And frankly, I miss being held and cuddled and teased and kissed and being told I am special.

So I had a champagne- and tear-fest.

I called John this morning. No, I am not ready for a relationship. I think we established that last night. But I owed him a phone call. I apologized for being a flake, which I am at times. And told him that I am quite possibly an emotional nutcase, which I also am at times. He didn't seem to mind too much and I just want to get out and do something. So. We are going bowling. But I told him he couldn’t bring his whole neighborhood around.

I also got my leave through HR. It is unpaid but this way my boss can’t try to throw a wrench in my plans. Not that he would have blatantly stopped me from going but if I was still pursuing the vacation route he would have delayed his approval, spouting more passive-aggressive bullshit and driving me crazy for as long as he could. Leaving my job, charming and reckless as it sounds, is not the best option for me because my parents are partly financially dependent on me and although I realize it is decidedly uncool to want to take care of one’s parents and I probably should make my poor mother scrub some toilets to raise money for her surgery, I just can’t bring myself to do it.

Catharsis

2006-02-08T01:19:00.000-08:00

I have 3 blinking messages from John in the mailbox which I have played a hundred times but not returned, medical expenses coming up for mom’s surgery (which I will have to pay because my parents need their meagre savings for their future), the possibility of unemployment looming closer (I have decided that if they don’t give me leave then fuck them I am quitting) and I have been crying non-stop thinking about my Ex, my grandmother and Aikda.

I know it’s pathetic to whine about your Ex 7-8 months after a breakup but oh well. At least I am not calling him.

The first time I said I was leaving him was about 8 months after we met. I never asked him to be exclusive. He said he had broken up with her, the other girl he was seeing, so he could be with me. He said he couldn’t see himself with anyone else. He said, "Je ne sais quoi. I have been trying to think, what it is about you." He said, "You are not like any other girl. You are special." He said, "I kept picturing you naked in the shower and got distracted in the middle of a board meeting. What are you doing to me?" Then he said, "I went to see her." He said he couldn’t help it. She was crying and calling every night and begging him to come see her. One thing led to another. I froze, then I cried, then I ranted and stormed. This went on for weeks. When I calmed down I said it was over. He begged me not to leave him, said it was a mistake, it didn't mean anything. But how could it not?

I left. And then I missed him. Horribly. I missed not sharing stories or hearing his jokes or his laughter. I missed his arrogance and even those stupid prior conquest stories he insisted on telling me. So, 3 months later, and lots of roses, apologies and grovelling on his part later, we got back together. And then we broke up again. I don’t even remember what it was this time but it doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason it was only a convenient excuse. The damage was done. It was always there between us. We never recovered from it. Initially, he apologized profusely. Later he said, "What’s the big deal? I am not the first guy to mess up. How long are you going to keep bringing this up?" He said he would call but didn’t. For days, even weeks. Then he said, "If you are going to leave, just leave."

So I left. And again I missed him. My grandmother died. I turned to the one guy I had opened up to like I had to no one else. He was comforting, sweet, thoughtful. He said he was happy to see me again. He seemed changed. Maybe he was. But the ghost was between us, unspoken. I got gifts, jewelry, roses but not him. I gave them back. I didn’t want gifts, jewelry or roses. I wanted him. This time he called when he said he would. He finally came close but I withdrew. He said, "I don’t know how to fix this. I am beginning to think we can’t." So, for the third and last time, we left each other.

This is the final breakup. We have not tried to contact each other. Not even to say sorry. There are things I said that I shouldn’t have. Harsh, cold, cruel. But I can’t say sorry. Why open old sores? For all I know he is okay now.

But I don’t know how to heal. I don’t know if I can. I am afraid. Trust is a problem with me. I haven’t had a lot of people to rely on. I was more my parents guardian than they were mine. My brother always had me to turn to. I didn’t really have anyone. I know this sounds like late night melodramatic bullcrap but it’s pretty much the truth. He was my sanctuary. My escape from the world. The one place where I thought I would be safe. And I wasn’t. That changed everything. Now I don’t want to risk it again.

Still it wasn’t this bad. The month after the breakup I cried a lot. The month after I cried a little less. Then slowly I stopped crying. Until last Sunday. Suddenly I can’t stop crying. Why?

It’s a date, I keep telling myself. Not a relationship. Just a date. It’s not like I have never dated before. But. Maybe I can’t "just date" anymore. A date implies possibilities.

There is a woman in my office. She’s 39, divorced. She says she’s not looking for love, just sex. Maybe that’s my future. I don’t know what kind of a future that is but it’s gotta be better than crying your eyes out in front of a computer monitor at 1 in the morning, swilling champagne straight from the bottle, in his old t-shirt that he conveniently left behind and your old panties that you wear because it makes your ass look cute even though there is no one around to tell you so anymore.

My worst fear? Is that he has forgotten me. He seemed so distant towards the end. Like he was not even there anymore. He said it didn’t matter anymore, one way or the other. So here I am drowning in my own tears and for all I know he has moved on. I don’t care if he has and is happy. There was a time when I wanted him to suffer for all of eternity but now I want him to be happy. The only thing that kills me is not knowing if he thinks of me at all. What if he doesn't? What if he has forgotten me? What if it never meant as much to him as it did to me?

What if this is it? This is as good as it gets?

Another Train Song

2006-02-06T23:22:00.000-08:00

Kinda poor sound quality thanks to my cellphone but love the song.

Two dreams collided maybe
We got too excited for our own good
No more - hold on we can make it
No more holding our breath while the truth all breaks it
Move on you know
We'll be stronger in the end
Hey wait hey don't you know that
This is where the whole thing went wrong
Hey wait hey don't you wanna hear
What I have to say
Hey wait hey don't you know that
This is where the strong go on
And all I ever wanted...
Was you

The Incongruity Of Life

2006-02-06T20:58:00.000-08:00

Have you noticed how sometimes everything seems to happen at the same time? Like life has accelerated all around you and suddenly you have been reduced to playing the role of a very small and helpless spectator. That’s how I have been feeling all day.

My mom has been sick for a while and this weekend she collapsed. So I finally decided to apply for leave of absence. I went to talk to my boss. Instead of empathazing he decided to give me an impromptu lecture on perceptions.

"You have to understand, in this business perception is reality. Without perception we are nowhere. Good perception can make you and bad perception can break you. It’s all about who’s in your value network and how they perceive you. You have to be in it to win it."

What is this? A bad parody of corporate Americanese? After 10 years I know all the lingo there is to know. I also know this is total BS people spew when they don’t want to give a clear answer or are just trying to strongarm you into doing something you don't want to do. Do I get the leave or not?

I don’t get a clear answer. I get, "I am supportive of your needs if you are supportive of mine." Whatever that means. As I leave his office I think of what Sartre said: L'enfer, c'est les autres. Hell is other people.

This Saturday a woman rearended me in the grocery store parking lot and then took off like a bat from hell. We were parked in facing spots, tail end in. We both get out of the store and into our cars at about the same time. But while I decide to pull out of my spot like a normal person she decides to back into me. I see her coming at me in the rear-view mirror, panic, go to step on the gas, notice a couple with a child about to walk in front of my car, decide becoming a triple murderess in the course of avoiding being rearended probably won’t fly well as defense in court and resign myself to being hit. She slams into me. I park my car and get out. The lady shoots off. Peels off like a freaking Nascar driver in training!! It was impressive.

After I get home and call mom I try tracking down the driver. I had managed to take down her license number and after some calls get a phone number for the car’s registered owner. I call the number and she answers. She says she’s sorry and that she’ll take care of any damages. She wants to keep insurance out of it because she has too many strikes already. I am just relieved she is going to pay so I say that’s fine.

That was Saturday. Then this afternoon I suddenly get an unnecessarily irate call from her. She says I have no proof that she was the one who rearended me. How did she know this wasn’t some ploy to get money from her and her allegedly rich husband. What was I up to and she won’t pay.

To think my trust in people’s humanity was on shaky grounds.

When I get home I open my mail. One is from the DMV helpfully notifying me that my license is being suspended for failure to comply with the conditions of a traffic infraction. I groan inwardly.

This so called traffic infraction happened 5 months ago now. I did commit this horrible crime aka going over the yellow line but there were mitigating circumstances in the form of a giant SUV the size of a small football field practically blocking my entire side of the street. Under the state law I can contest such tickets in mitigation court which, having cleverly remembered to snap some photos with my cool new camera phone while the unusually perky cop was writing up the ticket, I decide to do. So I file by mail. Then I get a suspension notice.

I call the clerk’s office and find my mitigation papers were never received. Armed with the USPS receipt I go down to the court but I am told there is nothing they can do. They are not responsible for postal mishaps. I guess I am. I return home to find on top of everything an FTA (Failure To Appear) notice.

So now I have to write a show cause letter to the judge and also request - ah, the irony - a mitigation hearing for the suspension notice.

Like a good little girl (a determined and slightly angry good little girl) I promptly dash off two letters. And then I resubmit the mitigation papers, in person this time, and also post bond for the amount of the traffic ticket plus any accrued fines. (Posting bond - just fyi in case anyone’s wondering - helps you avoid FTAs since essentially the traffic ticket is prepaid. If the court decides you are at fault they keep the money. Otherwise they send it back to you in a check.) A week after this the sun starts to smile on me. I get a notice from the DMV saying the license suspension has been removed and my driving privileges restored. Yay me! Then three weeks later I get a notice from the mitigation court saying my ticket has been knocked down to $55. Double yay me! Things are starting to look up.

And then I get a notice saying my mitigation hearing has been scheduled to get my driving privileges restored. Now I am confused. I already got a note saying my driving privileges have been restored. What happened? So I call the registrar’s office and I am told to write a letter. Again I write a letter. Then I notice there is a second number to go with the hearing details. So I call the number (at this point this is an exercise in masochism. I just want to see how far things will go.) and I am told to write a separate letter this time to the hearing attorney. So I write another letter.

But I guess I was late and he must not have received my letter in time because I am now holding a letter (is anyone keeping track of the number of letters here?) advising me that the hearing attorney has found me guilty for reasons of non-appearance and my driving privileges have been suspended for the second time for a ticket that I didn’t derserve in the first place and have since twice contested, partly won and already paid.

Ah, life. Mesmerizing, beautiful, angsty, inconsistent.

Hindus & Buddhists believe in reincarnation. They have the same concept of heaven and hell as most of the other religions but it’s tied to the theory of re-birth. So it’s not a straight heaven or hell kinda deal. The way it works is that you are born, you come to many forks in the road during your lifetime (choices) and depending on the choices you make and the outcome of those choices 1 of 3 things happen when you die. Either you ascend to a higher form and eventually go to heaven or you descend into a lower form and eventually go to hell or you are reborn into your next life. In this next life you are faced with tougher or easier choices depending on how you lived your last life. If you were good essentially you get a break. If you were bad you don’t. And you remain in this cycle of birth, death and re-birth until you break free of all worldly desires and are ready to pass into eternal peace, the state called Nirvana or Moksha.

So, by the above theory or belief it would stand to reason that I must have wielded some serious crippling power over my fellow human beings in my last life, wouldn’t it?

Years ago, when I was in school, my friends and I went to this fair. There was a fortune teller’s tent where a woman in eastern garments was reading people’s past lives. Naturally, being a gaggle of giggling girls of an impressionable age, we rush in to find what myriad pleasures and woes befell us in times unknown. She reads some cards and scribbles some symbols as each of us sit in front of her by turns nervously awaiting the big reveal. A friend is told she was a learned scholar in a past life, another that she was a gifted courtesan and a third, a princess. Then comes my turn. I wait with bated breath.

I was a peasant’s wife, widowed young to boot. My life full of hardships, suffering and sacrifices.

I remember feeling a little annoyed. Hey lady, how come my friend gets to be a princess and I am a peasant’s widow? Years later I think, but wait, that would mean in this life I get rewarded for all that hardship, suffering and sacrifice.

It doesn’t add up. Not like my life is all that bad. What, you mean penury, paedophilia, attempted assault and a depressive mother repeatedly trying to commit suicide in front of you and trying to set a match to your clothes doesn’t happen to everyone? Go figure.

Maybe I was cruel to the farm animals or something. Ran after the chickens with a stick. Scared them out of a year’s growth of feathers. That would explain it.

Somedays I think life is too hard.

Then I buy a $1.29 chocolate dipped vanilla ice cream cone at McDonald’s and think, life isn’t that bad.

(Yes, I regularly have incongruous responses to things. Like this afternoon. I thought about the Sartre quote when I left my boss’s office at 11 am. Then around 4:30 pm I checked Waiter Rant for new posts and came across the same line. The moment I saw it I felt upset. Like a kid in a playground who’s had her ball snatched away by a bigger kid. I thought, he used my quote! A minute later it struck me - it’s not my quote and that was funny. Besides, he makes better use of it.)

For the last half hour I have been driving around. The radio, the open road and me. I kept asking myself. What do I do? And then, like a tiny beacon of red hope, the little light at the end of my keychain goes on. It's a miracle!

Okay, so it was a bad battery connection. It was happening a lot a month ago. But I sort of fixed it and it hasn’t happened since so when the light twinkles on like that all of a sudden it still startles me. Besides, if you believe the eminently erudite Deepak Chopra, there are no coincidences in life. Someone out there is sending me a message through a bad battery connection.

The guy at the McDonald’s drive through calls me señorita rolling his rrrrs and wishes me a good evening as he hands me my ice cream. It makes me smile.

I have decided to contest the license suspension in court, call the nascar-woman back and try to talk to her and bypass my boss and go to HR for the leave. Maybe it'll all turn out okay. And if not, it's not the end of the world.

There was a china doll in my grandmother’s house. Cracked. It looked so fragile. People kept expecting it to shatter. It didn’t.

Angels With Silver Wings

2006-02-05T21:17:00.000-08:00

John invited me over for Super Bowl. There were about 40 people milling about. Friends, neighbors, some people from work. It was noisy but inviting. Normally I don’t pay much attention to football but I always get caught up in Super Bowl. The squares, the pre-game show, the ads, the halftime, the cheering, the jeering, even the game itself. Suddenly I find myself paying attention.

During the game my cell rings. My uncle calling to see if I am watching the game. He always does that. Every Super Bowl. Except the year his son, my cousin, went missing.

Sometimes I think my mom’s family is cursed. My other uncle lost his son in a 3 day fever. My aunt, my mom’s sister - she’s the one I wrote about earlier - loves kids but can’t have any of her own. My mother lost a son too. My older brother. We never talk about him just like we never talk about what happened to me when I was 4. He was only months old when he died. He would be 35 now.

After some time I start getting a little bored with the game so I get up and wander onto the deck. John has the most amazing view. The view from my apartment is cute. Tall city buildings to one side, a small strip mall in front and a slice of water flanked by the mountains in the background. But it’s nothing compared to the view from his deck. Here the mountains are majestic, the snow glistening on the peaks, descending into the dark raggedy green below. Jagged seams of light and dark plunging at each other.

I get a little lost in the view until he comes out. He asks if I am having fun and starts to apologize about the crowd. I say, "Oh no. No, no, no. It’s great. I lost track of time. Your view is amazing." He still looks worried so I go inside.

Towards the end. Everybody is yelling. It’s Seahawks 10 to Steelers 21 now. Pretty much a given game. The biggest margin recovery record is 10 points. They mentioned that during the game when it was 10 to 14 I think. John leans over and whispers in my ear. Pasta marinara. I am impressed. A guy who can cook pasta marinara. He says he plans to boot everyone out after the game. And then he goes into the kitchen. A short time later I follow to see if he needs help.

I find him standing in front of the stove. Tara, his ex - he’d introduced us earlier - standing next to him. Close. Her hand in his back pocket, leaning into him either whispering or about to whisper something. She must have seen me out of the corner of her eye. She turns and looks at me. We look at each other for a half second. Then she turns back towards him and I go back into the living room.

Later, after the game when people are leaving I get up and get my coat and scarf. He starts to ask what I am doing. I intercept the question and say I just remembered I have to finish a presentation for tomorrow. He looks like he’s trying to decide how to react. I give him a peck on the cheek and leave before he has time to make up his mind.

I am back in my apartment. Sitting in the balcony on a chair, my feet propped up on the cold metal railing. I am wearing my green cargo capris and a cropped pink tee that says "1st Place Bikini Contest - Daytona Beach." It has a picture of palm trees and a cartoon beach. I didn’t win it in any contest. Saw it on Target and thought it was cute. The sleeves are short, cap sleeves. My arms are bare and freezing. So are my feet. The laptop is on my lap, the only warmth, the screen casting an eerie soft white glow in the night. Next to me on a small table is a tub of Edy’s slow churned coffee ice cream and a large stainless steel spoon.

John’s not my ex. One has nothing to do with the other, I tell myself. But how can I be sure? If A led to B led C once can’t A lead to B lead to C again? And then what? Rinse and repeat? Rinse and repeat? How many times?

I am irrational. Wound up and wounded. I think, I can’t do this again. I used to be stronger. Resilient. Bent but not broken. Not anymore. Every little hurt, real or imagined, brings tears to my eyes now.

I look at one man and see another. It’s not fair to anyone. And I don’t see the good, only the bad. Only the bad? This is not how I want to remember.

I know I am blowing things out of proportion. I barely know John. I don’t even know if I like him. But can I afford to wait until I find out?

I keep thinking back to a Post Secret postcard. It said, "I would much rather have peace of mind..."

I think about people whose lives revolve around sex and shoes. That’s got to be easier. But then, everbody thinks that about other people's lives.

From the open door on my right I can hear Depeche Mode singing Precious on the music system ... Angels with silver wings shouldn’t know suffering ...

Not singing about me.

On nights like these I feel the most like writing. On nights like these I am also the most afraid to write for fear of what I might reveal. Thoughts and feelings that weren’t meant to be committed to words. Daylight chases away doubts and worries. Darkness ushers them back.

Or maybe daylight creates an illusion and darkness reveals the truth.

It’s not in my nature to confide that much in people. Happiness I can share. Troubles I keep to myself. Maybe that’s why this breakup is so much harder. Now I think, I don’t want to tell my stories to anyone who is not going to stick around.

Or maybe there is some truth to the 6 months healing time for each year of relationship myth. By that calculation I only have 13 more months to go. Almost there.

I don’t know how I will feel about this post tomorrow. Probably silly, embarrassed, uncomfortable. Thank God for anonymity. But for right now. Well, there it is. Me. Raw. Exposed. Without my wings.

Crazy Is In My Blood

2006-02-04T15:15:00.000-08:00

I just came home to this message from my mom:

"Hello? Hello? Honey, where are you? Why aren't you picking up? Are you angry with me? Pick up.... pickuppickuppickup... Are you ill? Hello? Why aren't you picking up? You know I am sick ... (in a lower voice, murmuring to someone in the background, probably my dad or brother) .. This is very aggravating."

Sigh. I switched to voicemail 3 years ago. And for the last 3 years I have been explaining to her that I can't hear her message while it's recording, even if I am at home. And for the last 3 years I have been coming home to messages like the one above.

For some reason, even though it is frustrating that she keeps doing that I love her more at times like these.

Lost & Found

2006-02-03T22:29:00.000-08:00

It’s Friday night and I am at home. When John called this morning and asked me if I was free tomorrow night, I said no. Then he asked me if I was free tonight. Again I said no. Then he asked me out for Sunday and I said okay. I am free. I said no not out of anger or petulance or in some twisted attempt to gain control over him. Sometimes I just want to be alone. In some odd way it makes me feel more at peace than when I am with people. So tonight I am at home. I am not sure what I am going to do or why I need to be alone but it’s an expanse of time, a blank slate, for me to fill the way I please. For a few hours this evening I get to write my own story.

I am caught between many worlds. Sometimes I know which world I choose. At other times I don’t.

There is the work me. She wears Theory pants and J Crew turtlenecks and carries a smart purse. Her shoes are stylish but practical. Her hair and makeup are subtle, neutral. Over the years she has gone through bad bosses and unfair reviews and coworkers stealing her ideas and passing them off as her own. Sometimes she has cried locked up in a bathroom stall at work and then gone to a meeting and casually, dismissively, explained the red eyes as allergy. People rely on her to get things done and she usually does.

Then there is the daughter/sister/friend me. She wears jeans and t-shirts and big movie star sunglasses and small fake diamond earrings. She picks up prescriptions for sick friends and buys groceries when she’s visiting her parents. She loans her brother money for medical school. She raves over her aunt’s cooking, listens half-smilingly as her uncle tries to explain football to her for the umpteenth time, plays with her nieces and nephews and spends whole afternoons laughing.

Then there is the flirtatious, outgoing me. She likes going to parties and dances and nightclubs. She likes attention and dangly earrings and sparkly pink lipglosses, the kind that says kiss me. She knows how to push a man (although she has been in hibernation for a while. A long, long, long while.)

There is also the label-conscious me. The one who loves Marc Jacobs handbags and Jimmy Choo shoes and likes the cachet of pulling out a Chanel compact, even if it doesn’t match her color exactly, and swears by Chanel lipsticks even though she knows she can find the exact shade for 1/3 the cost in a drugstore brand.

And finally there is the volunteer me who goes as much to bury her own demons as to help others fight theirs.

But which one of the above is the real me? Sometimes I slip into one or the other like I am slipping in and out of clothes. Effortlessly, perfected through years of practice. At other times I resist. I don’t want to be this or that but practice kicks in there too and suddenly I am transformed.

Most people only know me as one or other. The only person who came closest to knowing the real me was my ex. But he wanted me to be something particular. I couldn’t. So I became something else. The relationship me. Strong and weak, indifferent and emotional, secure and insecure, stubborn and pliant. Abused and the abuser. Angel and the bitch. I said "I hate you" when I wanted to say "I love you and I am afraid" and "I still like you" when I really meant "You’re not who I thought you were."

Tonight I spent 7 minutes on the phone directing my food delivery lady when she got lost and then another 5 minutes chatting with her about my balcony. After she left I showered, put on a white t-shirt, a pair of pink boy shorts, a clay mask and ate biryani with my fingers, licking the sauce off my hand, lying on bed propped up on my elbows with a pillow under my chest while I flipped through the pages of the new issue of Vogue lusting after the many beautiful things and listened to the Train cd start to finish several times. In the middle of track 4 I got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and found myself starting to sway to the music, dancing alone. Later I cleaned and took the garbage out. I did not want to wake up tomorrow to an unclean house.

It's 10:29 pm and I am about to go to bed. I know the doubts will come back, the wondering will resume, the restlessness will find its way in again. C’est La Vie. That is life. But for now, just for tonight, I know who I am.

A Play In 1 Act

2006-02-03T12:19:00.000-08:00

Friday morning 10-something am
La Femme's office cube

The setting: A desk, a potted plant, a girl behind a computer masking some obvious disgruntlement over something. A cell phone lies next to her keyboard. The phone rings.

Girl, our heroine of this little story, reaches for it, then pauses for a moment, her hand hovering just over the phone. She picks it up, glances briefly at the caller id and suddenly starts to frown. Then she smiles a smile of quiet satisfaction. I have got you now. Now you are going to pay.

Girl, speaking nonchalantly on the phone: "Hello."

Disembodied male voice: "Hey, it's me. It's John."

Girl: "Oh, hi John. How are you doing?" Nice, polite, indifferent.

Disembodied male voice, faltering a little as a sudden chill sweeps over him: "Good, good. Hey, I called you. I don't know if you got it." His voice trails off. "Just wanted to make sure... uh, How's your forehead?"

Girl, still nice, polite, indifferent: "Fine. Getting better. You?"

Disembodied male voice, cheering up a little at this small sign of humanity in Girl: "Not too bad. I have been telling everyone I got into fight with a biker named Bubba." Laughs at his own joke. Then stops abruptly as no reciprocating laughter joins him.

Disembodied male voice, speaking again: "Look, you are probably busy ..."

Girl, interrupting, suddenly alert, ignoring everything else: "What do you mean you called?"

Disembodied male voice: "I called you Wednesday. See how you were doing and ... I left you a message on your cell. Didn't you get it?"

My English teacher told me that good short stories and short plays share two things in common. Abrupt beginnings and abrupt endings. So, in the interest of abruptness, we will end this play here and return back to 1st-person narrative.

I have a problem with cell phones. I hate them. The last time I charged mine was two weeks ago and if it wasn't for a near-death experience a couple of days ago (an SUV tried to kill me) I wouldn't have charged my phone last night. Actually, that's not the reason I charged it. I did it so I could upload the song in my last post. Goes to show. I have my priorities in order.

I finally check my messages. One from John Wednesday afternoon telling me it was the most fun he had on a date.

Figures. Beautiful and crazy.

CAB

2006-02-02T21:59:00.000-08:00

On my way back from work today I was stopped at a traffic light when this song came on the radio. I remember looking out of the window at this little patch of gray sky as it started to play. For some reason it made me smile. It made me feel happy. Which isn’t very logical because this isn’t a very happy song. And then, of course, it made me cry. So, because life is as much laughter as pain, and because I like it that way ... here's Train playing Cab.

I Need A Hobby - Part 1

2006-02-01T22:44:00.000-08:00

I have decided to take a hobby. I considered taking a lover but that seemed like too much work. Actually, I considered taking several lovers (a certain promiscuity is in order after years of strict serial monogamy) but, alas, that seemed like even more work. Plus, after last night and given my history of the last few years I am not sure I should be considering men in any capacity for regular inclusion into my life right now. So I have decided to play it safe and go with a hobby instead.

Switching gears for a second, let me explain where I am coming from. Life isn't about the shoes, the bags or even the anger, rage and depression that eventually overtakes all of us at some point or another. It's about finding a purpose and a calm within. It's about accepting you for who you are. I have known this all along. For better or for worse. But I haven’t always been able to put it into practice. My sense of self-worth has never been tied to the superficial, thankfully, and I haven’t given in to the darker moments in life but those things, the outward influences, have altered my perception of reality. And over the years they have subtly but surely changed me so that I find myself today, at the dawn of reawakening, asking of no one in particular, Who am I? Who have I become? And how did I get here?

I don’t know the answers. I have fragments of memories floating around in my head in a surreal manner defying all conventions of gravity, time and chronology. Maybe if I took the time to sit patiently and stitch a pattern out of them they will yield some enlightenment but as it is it’s a little hard to say, "this is how I got here and here’s why."

So where does the hobby come in? I need something, a thread of continuity in my life. I don’t know if it will help me with any great epiphany but it’s time I found some other constant than work. (Even more important since work is often a large part of my daily stress to begin with.)

But what? It’s easy to say I am going to get a new hobby but the actual selection process is fraught with complications. I have done many things before but none seem to quite fit anymore. I need something new, something now, something that should be fairly easy (so I don’t get discouraged too soon), repeatable (skiing in Aspen sounds fun but really, even funds permitting, how often will I be doing that?) and at least marginally enjoyable (scrubbing the bathtub may sound like a great daily activity .. IF you like that sort of thing.)

How To Date Like A Superstar

2006-02-01T12:59:00.000-08:00

I had a date with John last night. I think everyone (and by that I mean the 2.4 people who read my blog) knows this by now. What you don’t know is how it went.

The problem with blind dates, particularly blind dates who can write somewhat charming emails or sound somewhat charming on the phone, is that you start picturing the man (or the woman) at the other end of the modem as the smartest, wittiest, sexiest thing alive and needless to say, totally head over heels for you. This has some natural pitfalls. Typically reality comes hot on the heels of such fantasies in the form of someone too young/too old, too hairy/too bald, too gay/not enough gay, too kooky/not kooky yada yada and you realize the love of your life isn’t coming. Not tonight anyway.

I am nothing if not self-aware. I may project my fantasies onto some guy I have never met but I do this fully conscious that I am doing it. This, however, creates a slight little problem as a sense of impending doom seems to invariably settle over me just before any actual meeting (part of the reason I avoid blind dates as a rule.) And to compound my woes this time there is also the fact that my last official first date was with my now ex boyfriend more than 4 years ago. To say I have been out of the loop and a little out of practice is to put it mildly.

So, naturally, when I step out of the car last night outside the charming Italian bistro we had picked for our rendezvous I take a little longer straightening my skirt and adjusting my blouse than is strictly necessary. Finally, unable to delay the inevitable any longer and partly out of a sense of fatalistic resignation I spur myself into action and find myself standing in a dimly lit bar.

Right off the bat, I decide to start things off on the right foot. I do this by introducing myself to the wrong guy. As a bonus I do this within earshot of the right guy. Then after I finally locate John I realize to my utter shock and dismay (this kind of thing isn’t supposed to happen on a blind date) that he's drop dead gorgeous. Tall, lanky, beautiful. This is quite unheard of. In The Blind Dating Rules From Hell, chapter 2 verse 3, it is clearly stated that blind dates should not be gorgeous. In fact, if possible they should all wear one eye patch, have a few teeth noticeably missing and freely spit food on their dates while chewing with their mouths open. Shaken to the core by this anomaly (and the fact that my date is actually prettier than me) I proceed to salvage my lost composure the best I can by telling him he is pretty and then asking if he is smart too.

Not sure what I was going for there. Some kind of breezy careless elegance or brazen humor perhaps. Unfortunately, it doesn't come out either way.

After we recover from this brief sitcom-pilot-gone-horribly-wrong intro we both manage to make it to our table without any further mishaps. And then I sit down and decide it would be hilarious to regale him with a joke I had just heard. It involves dead people. (dead people = funny)

It is very funny until he gently mentions that his grandmother died last month.

At this point, flustered by this series of missteps I reach for my wine glass for a bracing sip and promptly knock it over. Now there’s an art to knocking your wine glass over in a restaurant on a first date. a) You have to make sure it’s red wine, b) You have to make sure the tablecloth's pristine white (better to see you with, my love) and c) For triple points you should also try to make sure it’s all happening in an über-sophisticated, the Queen lunches here on her days off kinda place where people never ever do anything like this.

Luckily I manage to hit the holy trifecta. (Yes, I am a chronic overachiever.)

When the main course arrives I find myself oddly subdued, partly struck dumb by my date’s irrepressible good manners in the face of this continued hilarity and partly struck dumb by my own sudden social ineptitude. But not for long.

Halfway through dinner I notice him gently gesturing towards my hair. Now I have pretty hair even if I do say so myself. It is soft and shiny and immensely touchable. (I should know. I keep touching it) As a special treat for this day I had worn it sleekly styled, straight, parted on the side and falling in a sweeping curtain, a waterfall, framing my face.

I cheer up a little thinking he is complimenting my hair only to look down and realize that the tips of my hair had been happily swirling around in one sauce-y corner of my plate.

I freeze in horror. (By this point I had given up all pretenses of sophistication. It’s a little hard to pull off with alfredo sauce in your hair anyway.) I stare at my hair morosely until he brings me out of my funk with a proffered napkin which I accept with a mumbled word of thanks that could have been in Swahili for all you could tell and become utterly engrossed in the act of cleaning. (Cleanliness is next to Godliness!)

I cheer up again when the dessert comes. I figure, this could be the last time a guy voluntarily buys me food.

And then, as a grand finale, because nothing up until then had been quite exciting enough, when he walks me to my car and gallantly reaches for the door handle I decide to intercept him with a swift ninja move of mine and proceed to jam the corner of the car door squarely in his chin. Only I don't notice this because I am too wrapped up in my own head. So while he is bleeding on his beautiful blue shirt I get into the car, adjust the mirror, pull the seat forward and shift into drive. He continues to stand and bleed onto the pavement unbeknownst to me. I finally look over ready to say goodbye. And scream. There is a two inch gaping hole where his chin used to be. I quickly shift back to park, tap into my inner healer, jump out of the car, realize halfway out that it must have been the car door that hit him and jerk it back to avoid hitting him again, hit myself in the forehead in the process, fall back with a cry, reach up with a trembling hand and realize that now I too am bleeding from a cut on my forehead.

The nurse at the emergency room looks us up & down and asks, “What have you two kids been up to?”

We tell her, "A date." But I don't think she quite believes us.

It's Raining .. Men?

2006-01-30T12:24:00.000-08:00

It was raining when I woke up this morning. I could tell by the way the cold felt a little damp and by the gentle tapping on the windowsill. Even before I had opened my eyes I knew it was raining. Then, after I got out of bed and made the long hard trek to the kitchen 3 feet away, I got another shock. I realized I was out of coffee.

Because of all this by the time I reached my car I was feeling a little grumpy. Monday morning, a cold wet slippery drive to the mountains and the prospect of a 2 hour staff meeting without coffee. What can be more lovely?

I pull out of my spot a little recklessly, lost in the little world in my head, and almost wipe out my neighbor. Okay, so I notice him a split second after I start backing out and slam on the brakes immediately but it was closer than I would have liked. I half expect him to jump over a puddle and start yelling. Instead he leisurely walks over to my window, smiles and taps on the glass.

This is odd but I know him. We have said hello a few times in the elevator. Plus he doesn't look crazy and he’s cute in an adorably artistic, non-threatening way. So I roll down the window - a little tentatively because in the city you still never know - and peer up at him. He bends down and beams, “Hey!”

Now people here, although they are nice people, still don’t behave quite this way. They are more likely to hop in their cars and try to run you down. The “Hey!” completely throws me. I stare at him, then find my inner goddess and bestow a dazzling smile on him, a reward for not attempting to run me down. He offers me his coffee.

This too is very unexpected as despite the fact that there are seventeen Starbucks within one block of where I live people here are naturally very protective of their coffee. I have even seen fights break out in the line. You don’t believe me? Go on a Monday morning around 9 am and see for yourself. Anyway, I find myself starting to stare again when he says, “I was just carrying an extra cup back to my apartment but I don’t need it. Here, it’s yours.” I protest. He insists. This is bizarre.

As I get closer to the mountains my mood significantly improves. I don’t know if it was the coffee or the guy or the rain or Ani DiFranco on the cd player or all of the above but I find myself humming happily. What’s a little rain on a beautiful Monday morning.

At work I park my car, gingerly step around some puddles, climb up the flights of stairs, hang a left at the paintings and start to make my way to my desk past the long line of cubes. Halfway through I notice someone speaking to me. I turn around and it’s some guy asking me if I am so & so. I am so I say yes. He introduces himself and says he hopes we run into each other again. Again, bizarre.

At my desk I intercept a note from Dave – a handwritten note – asking if I am free Wednesday. Lunch? Dave and I have gone on many work lunches, generally arranged over email or IM, so this too is puzzling. I call him and he says he thought I would like to go check out this new restaurant he's discovered. Yummy food, great ambience. He says, “It’s time, don’t you think?” What does he mean? We have been kind of innocuously flirting for months but I never thought of it as much more than that. Is it?

After standing John up Sunday morning I had emailed him to apologize and explain that I had a bit of a family emergency. He was a perfect gentleman. He replied that he hoped everything was okay and asked me if I was free Tuesday night. So now I have a date with John tomorrow night, Dave (possibly) asking me out, cute guys introducing themselves in corridors and offering up coffee.

Is this Spring? Restlessness? Or am I wearing a sign on my forehead that says I am ready to go back to dating again? Because I just realized something... I am.

Love & Gratitude

2006-01-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

I had a huge fight with my parents this morning. I needed them to get hold of some papers for my job and fax them over to me. My dad said he couldn’t do it. No reason, no explanation, just that he couldn’t do it. My mom said she didn’t know what to do and progressively got more anxious as I tried to explain. Then she finally said, "Don’t ask me. You know I am no good at things like this." Any other time I would have given up halfway through and said, "Okay. You know what. Forget it. I will find another way." But today I didn’t. Today suddenly years of anger and pain found a voice.

I have been more or less taking care of myself since I was 11, I have been fully financially independent since I was 18 and I have sent a lot of money home over the last 10 years, money that I could have put towards my own future. They owed me this. For every time my mother yelled at me that I ruined her life by being born, for every time my dad missed a school play or a birthday which was pretty much every single time, they owed me this. For not being able to protect me from the bastard across the hall when I was little, they owed me this.

All these words came rushing out. Tears of rage and fury flew with abandon. And then I cut my mother off as she started to say something and hung up.

I felt horrible afterwards but I blamed my parents for that too. Years of emotional blackmail has left me unable to even express justified hurt without beating myself up. Nothing I said was untrue. Why would I feel bad? I wasn’t going to apologize.

I stubbornly ignored the blinking message light knowing it was my mother. I also knew that she was bound to say something that’d make me feel worse. So I unplugged the phone and went shopping. I was supposed to meet John at the gym today. I had emailed him yesterday, he had emailed back, we had spent some time on IM and then agreed to meet up at the gym at 9. I didn’t go. Instead I went to first Nordstrom, then the grocery store and then to Blockbuster.

After I got back from the store I put the groceries away and put in Laws of Attraction. I have always wanted to see it but never got around until today. But I couldn’t concentrate. Halfway through the movie I paused the dvd unable to take anymore and started thinking.

Once there were two young kids very much in love and with great dreams for the future. But fate had other plans for them. They got married and embarked on what they thought was going to be a life of sweet romance and happy songs. Instead, the boy got caught up in student revolt and went to jail. It was the end of 60’s - early 70’s after all. The girl gave up med school to take a job as a bank clerk so she could care for her crying infant.

He came from a long line of blue bloods. Elitist arrogance and sense of entitlement from years of privileged existence permeated their very being. She was an immigrant, a refugee’s daughter. Her family had once been revered for their honesty and generosity in their community. They were pillars of the society in their own land. But here they were nothing. They lived in a cramped one room living quarters trying to decide how many kids the parents could afford to send to school while working with dogmatic persistence to make something of themselves.

It was cupid’s little joke. That chubby diapered freak thought playing with my parents’ life would be a great laugh.

Both sets of parents begged them not to get married. They didn’t listen of course. They thought love would conquer all. It didn’t. My dad’s family never accepted them. My mom’s family tried to help the young just-marrieds but their means were meager at best. Very soon the young couple was trapped in an existence that battered them from every side, thwarted their dreams, crushed their spirit, stole their youth and left them with nothing but heartache and despair.

I feel this in my veins. I know what my parents have been through. How can I be mad at people who have had so little? Just because I have had hard times doesn’t mean I have any right to ignore the plight of others. Just because some bad things happened to me doesn’t mean the things that happened to them do not deserve acknowledgement. Maybe my dad should have been there when I needed him. Maybe my mom shouldn’t have said I ruined her life. But what kind of a life did they have? They deserved happiness, they deserved the finer things in life. They never got those. Is that fair?

It is so easy to get trapped in your own existence, think of no one but yourself. We are all guilty of that at one time or another. But my life would be a bigger waste if I got so wrapped up in myself that I couldn’t see other people’s pain. My mother gave up her dreams, took care of us (my dad never quite got back to life. He was imprisoned for his ideals. That’s hard enough to deal with. His family who had enough clout to have helped him did nothing because they didn’t want their name associated with him, even more so after he married my mom. That was harder.) She gave up her dream of being a doctor to work as a bank clerk and put up with jerk bosses, sticky situations, years of bad pay and humiliation so my brother and I could have some semblance of normalcy in our lives. At times, beaten by life, they let their anger show. And now I am repaying them with mine.

I finally picked up the phone just now and called home. Sympathy is cryptonite to people who are not used to getting much of it. I knew one word too nice and my mom would break down. So I just said, "I behaved badly. I am under stress and I took it out on you. I had no right to do that. You have been there for me all my life. Maybe not the way I wanted but they way you could. I am sorry mom." She started to cry and then, of course, she forgave me. Like she always has for every stupid thing I have ever done.

I am not as good a person as I can be and most days I don’t care. And then there are days when I do. For all my faults and all their mistakes my parents must have done something right for me to have that 1 ounce of awareness. That’s the best gift they could have given me. They don't owe me anything more.

Existential Angst

2006-01-27T08:48:00.000-08:00

When I woke up this morning my whole body ached.

Last night I got home at a decent hour, also known as before 7 pm. On my way back I stopped at the grocery store and picked up a rotisserie chicken, bread, some lettuce and a jar of mayonnaise. It was freezing outside. When I got home I turned on the lights, turned up the heat and then went into the kitchen. I dropped my mail on the counter, took out the food and crumpled and tossed the empty bag in the trashcan. I made myself a sandwich, poured a drink, carried them into the living room, switched on the TV and put the food down on the coffee table. Then I went to shower. Afterwards I got out, towel dried my hair and pulled on an old t-shirt as I walked back into the living room. I sat down, switched to channel 7 just as CSI was starting. Watched for a few minutes, took a couple of bites and drank a little wine. Then I lay down on the couch, my head propped up on two cushions, another clutched to my side and fell asleep.

When I woke up it was halfway through Without A Trace. I looked over at the blinking light on the DVD player. It said 10:21. I turned around, fell asleep and woke up again at 7:49 am with a hangover like headache, unexpected aches, the TV buzzing merrily in the background and the realization that my life has become dull.

I was never the girl who drank herself into near-stupor or danced topless on a bar. But I was there, somewhere in that bar, surrounded by friends, generally watching the tableau unfold in amusement or dancing myself (just not topless). I used to go ice trekking and swimming in the ocean and to book clubs and parties. I have lived in or been to NYC, Chicago, Seattle, Cleveland, Denver, Dallas, Bangkok, Amsterdam, Paris, London, Delhi and Calcutta. And I have met interesting people along the way. Now all I do most days is work, come home and crash.

This, my friends, is what's called existential angst.

John

2006-01-26T23:10:00.000-08:00

"Hi xxx,

My name is John, I work with Tom and both he and his wife thought our mutual obsession of all things Rock n' Roll (do people still say that or am I dating myself?) might give us something to talk about.

I wanted a better opening but I couldn't think of anything that didn't sound awkward, too familiar or just plain lame so I am keeping it simple. Hope you don't take this as a sign of disinterest and do write back.

-John"

I haven't replied.

Learning To Fly

2006-01-25T18:58:00.000-08:00

When I ran into an old friend on Sunday I thought this might happen. Married people everywhere are determined to see me married. It is their sole purpose in life. They are on a mission. They stand unflinchingly united in this despite all my protestations. The fact that I may not be ready or may not want it does not discourage them at all. If anything it spurs them into action. I am the last frontier to be conquered in the jihad of marriage. (Ok, I admit, that was badly mixed metaphor)

Luckily, after years of practice I know how to dodge people's attempts to set me up on blind dates. It is one of my many talents. (Others include burning toast, parallel parking, being able to flawlessly paint my right fingernails with my left hand - I am very proud of that one - and the ability to stun crying babies into silence with impromptu renditions of Roadhouse Blues in the middle of crowded coffee houses.)

When my friend calls I am ready. The standard excuses roll off my tongue smoothly. "Oh, that's so sweet but I am taking a break." "I need some me time." "I am thinking of becoming a lesbian." "I was kidding. I am a lesbian." "I am moving to Massachusetts."

Sadly it doesn't work.

After I hang up I feel oddly upset and restless, even tearful, and not just because I hate blind dates. Since the breakup I have shied away from male contact unless it was work related. Outwardly there is no change in me but inside I know things are never going to be exactly the same again. After I hang up I start to think. It's been seven months. How much longer am I going to mourn? And why am I mourning anyway? Men jump from relationship to relationship all the time. Yes, I know, not every guy is a heartless unfeeling bastard but let's face it, men are better at moving on than women are. Maybe it's time I stopped hiding from the world and started living again.

I keep thinking back to last night in the car and to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers singing "Learning To Fly."

The good ol' days may not return
And the rocks might melt and the sea may burn
Some say life will beat you down
Break your heart, steal your crown
So I've started out for God knows where
I guess I'll know when I get there
I'm learning to fly, around the clouds

Maybe I will find my wings are clipped for good. And then again, maybe I will find that they are not.

All Apologies

2006-01-25T11:57:00.000-08:00

When I was younger and someone praised my achievements I would get horribly embarrassed. I would say, “Oh, I just got lucky.” Or I would make a joke about it. “Yeah, I am good at fooling people.” “They just haven’t figured out how much I don’t know yet.”

And then yesterday I came across a post that made me want to get very angry. (The post wasn’t directed at me or anyone in particular – it was an old post – it just found a mark) It started out well. I was agreeing with the author. And then it said people’s success in life is mostly just "plain dumb luck." That annoyed me. We are all unhappy with our own lives at some point or another. We all feel compassion (or most of us anyway) towards those who are less fortunate. But to denigrate the accomplishments of those who have persevered against odds and to reduce their success to a heaping dose of serendipity is unnecessary.

I took it personally. I related to all the people whose accomplishments the author so succinctly reduced to nothingness with that one sentence. I felt like writing a scathing reply. Then I thought better of it. Maybe I am not angry at the post so much as at myself. Compassion is a many edged sword. Maybe not for naturally saintly people but for flawed humans like me. It cuts you coming and going. I am caught between wanting my dues and feeling apologetic for my small success.

This morning I saw a garbage truck. Have you ever seen one? The front car is like the ones you see on cranes at construction sites but the back portion is a tubular shape with a flattened top. On top of the front car are two giant claws with pincers. In repose the claws stay tucked close to the sides of the body of the truck. In action, they swing up and around to the front. The pincers slide into two long slits on the sides of the trash collector, hoist it up, two doors on the top open up and the claws empty the contents of the dumpster into the gaping void inside by turning it upside down and shaking it a few times. Afterwards the dumpster is placed down on the sidewalk (or yard or wherever that particular dumpster happens to be), the pincers slide out and it is pushed back into its resting place.

I watch the garbage truck. The guy inside is wearing a fluorescent lime green jacket with white/off-white stripes. Regulation issue I would say. I can’t see his face. I wonder if he’s happy at his job. Does he have the time to be unhappy with a stranger’s perception on the internet? Or is his time taken up worrying about how to feed his family?

A few blocks down from the garbage truck I see another, with a big front car and a flatbed. I stop to let him make a turn and the guy waves a thank you. I wave back. Then I see a FedEx truck. A little later I see another big truck. The kind you see most commonly with the big rectangular box on its back. Nearing the mountain I see a coal truck. It’s black and grimy. I wonder if it really is black or if it’s the soot.

I have no parental boons or silver spoons to attribute my success to. I have suffered setbacks in my career because I didn’t want to compromise my integrity, I have suffered setbacks in life because I stood my ground. The fact that some people are driving trucks or waiting tables does not detract from my accomplishments. But the fact that I am proud of my accomplishments does not detract from their daily pain either.

My boyfriend and I broke up in June. It was over a long time ago. Or maybe it never was. All we did for three and a half years was drive each other crazy. Crazy with love, crazy with anger, pain, frustration. Six months later I still find myself fighting back tears for absolutely no reason in the middle of day or night. I don’t understand it. All of it. None of it.

Maybe that’s how it is. Life is as much a game of roulette as precision engineering. Some luck, some accident, some hard work. In the end, an Og Mandino quote says it best for me: “Each misfortune you encounter will carry in it the seed of tomorrow's good luck.” After that ...

Life In A Cube Farm

2006-01-24T22:50:00.000-08:00

Sam comes running in, "Dave’s asking for the document," he says unhappily. "It’s not even due this week." "I will talk to Dave," I assure him.

I just got in. It’s 8:50 on a slightly overcast morning. I drove to the mountains through a thick fog. It hung soft, gray and still. Feist was singing on the stereo about how she finally figured out why winters are lonely. I drop my purse on a chair, snap my laptop onto the docking station and pick up the phone.

"Hey, have you been scaring my people?"

"Well, yeah, you know. I got up this morning and asked myself how I can give you a hard time." Which is probably true enough. Dave and I have a slightly flirty, slightly competitive relationship.

"And that was the best you could do?"

"I am slipping." He admits regretfully.

We play verbal ping pong for a few minutes. Then I tell him he can’t have the document.

"You were in the planning sessions. You signed off on the schedule. You know the dates. I am not going to randomize my team unless this is on critical path. Is it?"

"Define critical path?" he says wishy-washily, which is code for no. If it was urgent he would have said so.

"Sorry. You will have to wait." I take a moment to relish the satisfaction any normally sweet natured girl gets from occasionally putting an alpha male in place. Then I yield in the interest of maintaining workplace harmony and because I am feeling gracious at having won the previous battle, "But I will make sure Sam sends you a draft by the end of the day."

"You are much too kind," he says, half-sarcastically, half-teasingly.

After I hang up I realize I am smiling. I like this part of my job. I am one of the three women in a group of 40. All three of us are managers. I keep the card I got from my team last year on my desk. It says "You are the best Boss!" When I hear some people pontificating on whether women have progressed in sixty years or calling other women sell-outs for choosing a professional career I look around me at my women colleagues. The circle I move in does not define itself by designer shoes or handbags or any other status symbol. We do not frown upon motherhood or women who have chosen a different path. But we do take pride in our jobs and make sure we do it damn well. Maybe this is why despite my occasional longing for a greater purpose or for horizons unknown I am still here. Sure Big 4 was different. More competitive, more politics, more emphasis on appearances. It was partly the reason I don't work there anymore although I could have and did handle it while I was there.

At lunch I don’t feel hungry so I decline a couple of invitations to join people for lunch and go for a walk. Winter day is not the best time to walk around in the mountains but there is no snow here. It’s chilly but the sun is out. I make my way to a Starbucks several blocks away. Unlike the city where there is a Starbucks crammed 3 to a feet here you have to walk almost a mile to get to one. But the walk is invigorating and when I get there I notice they have these mini plastic shotglass type cups filled with a sweet caramel concoction topped with mounds of whipped cream. I sip one. It's Heaven! I finish my mini glycolic overload, order a Short (which is the unadvertised small size baristas don’t tell you about because they want to sell you more) to go and head back to work.

At work the afternoon goes by in a blur of meetings. Issues meeting, risks meeting, synch meeting, review meeting, tech meeting, spec meeting. Then someone from finance comes over to discuss some budget issues. Very soon it is dark outside. The bustle of end of day fills the corridors. People start powering down laptops, gathering up their stuff, putting on their coats. You hear the shuffle of feet as one by one they leave.

Sam comes by and says, "I sent Dave the draft like you asked." I smile at him. He’s a solid worker. I say, "Thanks Sam! Good work. Have a good night."

A minute later Dave calls and says he got the draft. It looks good.

My coworker Beth stops by on her way out and asks if I am ready to leave, we can walk out together. We make our way down the serpentine corridors, the 4 flights of stairs, the ½ mile stretch of now empty parking lot. We laugh about some ridiculous suggestions someone made in one of the meetings, discuss a persistently annoying rep she works closely with who is driving her crazy and make fun of bad movies. "God! Was that boring or what?" "Tell me about it! I would have gladly shot them both just to end my own misery!"

On the drive home I half listen to Tom Petty singing "Learning To Fly."

Life in a cube farm has its moments.

Hold My Hand

2006-01-23T19:46:00.000-08:00

Years ago we had to stage an intervention for a friend whose drinking had gotten a little out of hand. At first it was a couple of beers after class on the football field. Then it was a couple more over a late night card game. Finally a few at the start of the day to prop him up, physically and psychologically, for the drone of the day ahead. We, his friends, alternated between concern and alcoholic jokes with the typical sympathy of teenagers. Then one day after a night of dancing some of the boys went up to the roof of the dancehall for some more drinking and smoking. It wasn't until he stepped off the ledge and hurled himself into space that anyone realized how far things had gone. Next morning I came upon a heavily bandaged, bloody eyed, suddenly sober, suddenly scared lonely little boy and the realization that everyone has a skeleton in their closet.

Earlier that year I had my first brush with betrayal. Betrayal had always been there, since my birth, circling me like a snake about to strike, biding its moment. That year it found its mark.

It was towards the end of the freshman year of college. We were eighteen and still carefree and happy. I was best friends with two girls. One day one of them came to me and said, "Hey, do you know what Anne has been saying about you?"

"No, what?" I asked.

"She's calling you the Dumpster Princess. She's been telling everyone that you walk with your head held so high when you live in a ramshackle home that has weed growing on the walls and your mother walks around in tattered robes with holes in them."

I said, "Oh. Ok." What else could I have said?

Later that day I told them I didn't feel like going to the library and went to the ball field. There were trees around the circumference every few yards. Circling the trunk of each tree was a raised brick seat. I sat on it, crosslegged, reading a book. That's when Ari came over. He was part of the most sought after group in our class. He came over and said, "Is this seat taken?" We hadn't really spoken before and I was a little surprised. Before I could answer he had jumped up and sat down.

I went back to reading but after a while I gave up. He was providing a running commentary on the ball game. "There goes Big Billy Joe. Big Billy Joe is reputed to have been raised by baboons from the east coast of Madrika. He is a plantation plantain fed boy, and quite well fed at that. Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, his early days with baboons has left a distinctly baboonish cast on his face, not to mention his general disposition." I looked over at him and started to laugh and asked, "Is there even a place called Madrika?" He said, "Who cares? It sounds good doesn't it?"

We kept talking and watching . A little later Jane, another girl from his group, came over. They were friends at the time. Later, they would get married. After the game they invited me to come to the cafetaria with them. I hesitated for a minute. Then said yes. Next day I found myself part of a new group.

A few days later Anne cornered me after class and said, "How did you muscle your way into the A-team? What's your secret?" I felt like saying, "Backstabbing friend." but I didn't. Instead I said, "I don't know. It just happened. Hey, we are going to meet in the library in a few minutes. You wanna come."

Anne came to the library that day. Hung around, chatty, happy. After she left everyone made fun of her. I kinda thought that might happen. It was the reason I had invited her. Revenge. I thought it would make me feel better. It didn't.

Ray was one of the guys in our group. A senior wrote a rather graphic piece of fiction starring me. Yes, I am not making any of this up although I am retelling as a writer would, in a language that flows and with voids in dialogue filled in with words that fit. Ray had the story whisked off campus over night. I don't know how he did it. He never even told me he had done that. I found out years later from someone else. There were several times when I was a bitch to him over the next few years but not once did he say, "You owe me. I did this thing for you." He was the one who jumped off the roof. It was a really bad week for all of us. Trying to make sense of it all. But we got through, in some ways weakened but in other ways strengthened by it.

At my first job one of the first things we were asked to do after we had signed necessary forms was to set up direct deposit. I had no idea how to do that. I didn't even know how to open a bank account. My mom was a clerk at a bank and normally she took care of all that. But I was 3000 miles from home. Fortunately, they gave us the names and addresses of a couple of banks. I figured okay, can't be too hard.

Some of the other people in my group decided to go together. V ... let's call him Victor, Vic for short, came over to ask if I wanted to come with them. I said, "You guys go ahead. I will go later." He said, "Why? Is your account more special than ours? You are coming with us." So he dragged me to the bank and one of the girls, Ivonne, helped me fill out the form. Over the next few years they would be my closest friends. I'd have had a hard time without them at the bank that day.

A week ago, just days before I started this blog, I was walking down Main Street on my way back from posting a letter when a kid came running up and grabbed my hand. I laughed and said, "Where are your parents?" He pointed to a couple waiting at the crossing furiously beckoning at him. I said, "You better go." After he ran off I realized. People have been running up to me to hold my hand all my life, sometimes when I didn't even know I needed them.

My other friend, the one who told me the things Anne had been saying behind my back? We stayed friends, hung out, studied together at times. But I never invited her into my new group and she and Anne kind of fell out. I should have been a better friend to her. I should have held her hand.

Life, Or Something Like It

2006-01-23T08:52:00.000-08:00

Last night I was at the grocery store bending down to rescue a can of peas from the deepest confines of the bottom rack when I suddenly feel a sharp hard pinch on my behind. I jump up, can in hand, ready to turn around and shove it down the throat of my molester only to see a sweet old lady standing there with a vague smile. I think, “No way. It can’t be her. Look at her. So little and harmless. Aww. Maybe it was a kid who ran away.” And as I am thinking this I suddenly see her hand start to dart out towards me again, fingers taking form, getting into position for another pinch. I yelp and jump back. Damn! It was her! The little lady, suddenly startled, starts flailing her arms about and making panicked sounds. I am torn between laughter and concern.

Turns out the little woman, 90 if she’s a day, had wandered off from her posse, strolled into the canned goods aisle mistaking it for the produce section and seeing me bent over like that had suddenly developed a hankering for watermelon. You can’t really blame her. I was wearing a green pinstriped suit. Besides, as her family apologetically explained, grandma’s a little senile and nearly blind.

Moral of the story: Sometimes life happens when you are not looking, sometimes it catches you square in the face, sometimes it passes you by and sometimes it pinches you in the butt in the middle of a grocery store aisle. There are messages everywhere - opportunities, cues - waiting for you to pick them up.

I just wish I knew what the message was last night.

Sunday Revelation

2006-01-22T10:55:00.000-08:00

I know a woman who loves children. She doesn’t have any of her own. They tried for years, saw specialists and then they gave up. Now she reads, writes, paints, goes on vacations. Her husband reads, debates, follows the market, cleans the house. They’re both in their early sixties. They are quite happy.

The above reverie was prompted by a rather unexpected encounter this morning. I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in six years. It was just outside a Starbucks. I was about to go in when I noticed a young woman with a baby. The baby had a cute baby smile. The mother had on old sweats and a frazzled expression. I smile at them even before I realize it is my friend. And then we both scream. Now if you think that’s odd you are either a man or just a very remarkable girl. Thing is, we scream. Girls scream. It doesn’t matter how old or young we are. We also cry, pout, stomp our feet, shriek, giggle and whimper. It’s our signature really, just like serial killers. And just like serial killers we have an excellent although slightly less disturbing reason for doing this. We do it to differentiate ourselves from men.

After we had screamed and gone inside I hold the baby - a cuddly little boy who seems delighted to have found a new neck to nuzzle (Isn’t it amazing how similar babies and men are in this regard?) - I hold the baby to give the mom a chance to rest her arms. We sit down with our drinks. And then I stupidly say, "Wow. You with a baby!" My friend bursts into tears.

"I hate my bastard husband for doing this to me! He's ruined my life! I can't do anything. I can't go anywhere. I am not fun anymore. I am trapped!"

Now I have experience with this. Almost every one of my friends had cried out those same words a few months after having their babies. Not because they don’t love their husbands or their children but because it’s a big change and even if they were ready, even if they had wanted this exact change there comes a time in every new mother’s life when she realizes the days of carefree girlhood are gone. The grass on the other side starts to look greener. Eventually, this will be replaced by a certain sense of content superiority and comments like "You should get married" and attempts to set you up with all their single male friends will follow but right now she needs consoling.

I start patting her on the back and telling her she wanted this, she loves her baby and one day she will look back and realize this was the most wonderful, most fulfilling moment of her life. It’s all crap. I don’t believe in this fulfillment through motherhood shit but it generally works. She cries louder. The baby who had up until now been alternating between staring at my face in curious fascination and making gurgling, slurpy noises against my collarbone, suddenly also starts to cry. I think, shit! I start to rock the baby. I try to think of a lullaby.

It’s a coffee shop. It’s Sunday morning. There are people lounging about. A young guy alone with his laptop. A man with his newspaper. A group of three in a table around the corner. Baristas bored behind the counter wishing they were anywhere but here on a Sunday morning. And in the middle a young woman, clearly a new mother by her stained sweats and harried expression, crying copious tears into her cup. Next to her another young woman, professional by the looks of her - you know the type. The Working Girl. You can always tell her from The Heritage Princesses and The Trophy Wives. They may wear the same clothes, carry the same designer handbags but there are telltale signs that give her away. She sits a little straighter, says thank you a little too quickly and looks oddly grateful when a stranger is unexpectedly nice to her. Yes, that type - looking worried and faintly amused. She is patting the mother on the shoulder with one hand and rocking her friend's baby with another when the baby starts to cry. She looks around momentarily panicked and then bursts into the first song that comes to her mind which in this case just happens to be Roadhouse Blues by Creed... "Let It Roll, Baby, Roll."

The guy across from us drops his newspaper and looks at me like he’s about to burst out laughing. The baristas take notice. The baby stops crying in surprise. My friend raises her tearstained face and says "What the fuck?" And we start laughing.

On the drive back home I think. I think about the two women. The grass looks greener from where you are standing because the light plays tricks on your mind. Life is a weave. Pleasure and pain, triumph and disaster, joy and sorrow, woven together like threads through a loom. It’s all there. No one’s exempt from it. And it’s not a bad thing. You need to experience it all to find meaning in your life.

I think, pregnancy’s hell but babies are not so bad. They are soft and cuddly and they love you. True they lunge for your chest at the most awkward moments (I am telling you. Babies and men. The similarities are uncanny) but they are just so cute. If they would only stay that cute and not cry so much maybe I wouldn’t mind having a couple someday. Then I think, painting's good too.

"Tout doux, tout doux, tout doucement, toujours, tout doux, tout doucement, comme ça, la vie c'est épatant."

Water, Water Everywhere

2006-01-21T15:51:00.000-08:00

I was 7 or 8 years old. It was all around me. The soft green water, cool against my skin, swallowing me. I could see the sunlight rippling on the surface just a few feet above my head. To my right the light streaked into the water creating interesting patterns. When I moved my hand through them the patterns broke up and scattered like children in a playground. When I squinted into the water in front of me I could see fine grains of sand swirling about. I floated trying not to disturb anything, my lips pursed, my cheeks puffed out from having to hold my breath. My little white swimsuit billowed around me. And then the wave was gone and I was gulping for air in the bright sunlight.

We were staying at a humble little hotel on the beach. I spent all the time I could in the ocean. My parents were fed up. They would be yelling at me from the sand, asking me to come out. Finally my mom would come to the water’s edge and issue me an ultimatum. You come out right now or else. She never finished that sentence. I should have asked, or else what? But a child’s imagination can conjure up horrors that an adult’s can barely conceive so when she said "or else" I obeyed. Maybe she knew that. That’s why she didn’t finish the sentence. Or maybe she didn’t want to commit herself to any one form of punishment.

We had bread with a little pat of butter and some water. I got angry. She pulled me out of the water for bread? Bread was all we could afford.

Afterwards I went back into the water. I came out of my own volition when it started to get dark. Suddenly the soothing green jello dissipated into sinister black shadows. I ran out of the water and inside.

That was the night the beetles came. They came in a swarm, each as big as a football. Okay, so there were only five and they were a little larger than normal.

We had the window open because of the summer heat. My mother was entering today’s expenses in her diary where she always wrote down everything we spent. She used to write down every penny. I was asleep next to her. Suddenly the beetles rocketed in through the window in all their splendored glory. I am surprised they didn’t drop down dead from collective shock at what followed. My mother screamed. I woke up and screamed. My aunt next door heard us and screamed. Her daughter woke up, cried out and screamed. My other aunt across the hall heard our screams and screamed. Her husband woke up and screamed. Sympathy screams everywhere. Outside dogs barked. Somewhere a baby started to cry. The beetles turned on their heels and flew right out into the comforting arms of the wild night.

The Storm

2006-01-21T15:10:00.000-08:00

The storm came. Everybody thought they were going to die or at least be cooped up for a long time. So they went to the store to buy supplies. I did too. It was total pandemonium. After being elbowed in the ribs for the second time I thought, "Screw it! If I die I die. Could be the solution to my problems. Short cut." So I bought a bag of chips, some water and went home. Next day the storm passed. I thought, "Isn’t that funny? There are people sitting on top of mountains of bread and garage full of bottled water and no storm to hide from."

Girl Friday

2006-01-20T12:05:00.000-08:00

Today I got up at the first sound of the alarm. Normally I would burrow deep under the sheets and whimper in protest of an unjust world that expects me to get up at 7 every morning. But today I bounded up, turned off the alarm and ran into the bathroom. Once there I stayed for a few minutes staring at myself in the mirror. If I was still with my boyfriend he would come in around this time, see me standing there smiling at my reflection and start splashing me with cold water. I’d squeal, laugh and try to grab his hands away from the faucet. Not a bad way to start the day.

On the drive to work I reflect. I love my morning commute. A few months ago when my office decided to move to another building away from the city I was disappointed. My commute went up from 10 minutes to 35 minutes one way. That’s 50 lost minutes a day. But then after I had grumpily got into my car, looked over the directions one last time, started driving and suddenly seen the mountains appear in front of me I knew I was going to love it. It gives me time to think about all the things we don’t have time to think during our busy days.

These days I read “Bridget Jones Diary” and “The Devil Wears Prada.” I don’t read “The Keys of the Kingdom” or “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” anymore. Those books have some weird kind of power over me. They have the ability to make me sleepwalk through life for days afterwards. I smile on cue, laugh at jokes, eat, drink, sleep, go to movies and parties. But it all seems distant. Sharp, clear, in focus yet far away. There is another world, a vague, shadowy, elusive world that whispers to me. Intoxicating, enticing, confusing, alluring, magical. A world where passions endure and adventures nourish both the body and the mind.

Sometimes I just want to pack up and go. Feed the orphans in India, climb Mount Everest. Lie on the beaches of the Riviera and kiss on the streets of Paris. Ride an elephant in Thailand. Go scuba diving off the Great Barrier Reef. Gamble away a fortune in Reno. Paint one great picture. Write a short story.

Some of these I have done and would like to do again. Some I haven’t.

I think, this can’t be my destiny. Work, home, watch a movie, dine out. Work, home, watch a movie, dine out. I know I am extremely fortunate. I have the life that a lot of people want. A nice car, a roof over my head, a salary that will hit six figures this year. People who love me. But I want more. A different kind of more. I feel like a butterfly trapped in a caterpillar’s existence.

Then I remember retirement, aging parents with no savings. A brother still in school. Dreams recede and pragmatism takes its place. Besides, I like my life. I like my work too. I have had my ups and downs, good years and bad, but that’s par for the course. Life isn’t meant to be devoid of misery or adversity. It is those experiences that make us stronger. I have been more fortunate than most so what am I complaining about?

The caterpillar chews on a blade of grass.

Insanity

2006-01-19T23:14:00.000-08:00

I have never been in therapy. I know some people who have. Maybe I should have been too. As it is I have high hopes of total insanity for myself. I can just see myself in my twilight years. Small, hunched over with age, wisps of gray hair escaping the bun at the nape of my neck to frame my wrinkled face. I walk with faltering steps. Suddenly I stop and look up at my companion. He is a nice young man. Always dressed in white. Always polite, walking me to my room. Sometimes I suspect he doesn’t want me wandering around too much. I screw up my face, concentrating. Something I meant to do. Oh yes. I remember. My face brightens with happiness. I remembered. There are giant swallows under my bed. He will take care of them for me won’t he, I ask, anxiety starting to cloud my face again. They keep me up at night. Of course, he says reassuringly. Such a nice young man. Always dressed in white.

There is no insanity in my family. None that has been diagnosed anyway. But I wouldn’t be so quick to call them sane either.

My mother thinks the solution to aches and pains is to throw herself into increased physical labor. One day her knee was bothering her. So she hopped on a ladder and started to take down the curtains for washing. What do you think happened? She fell down and broke her leg.

My brother went to buy potatoes. Normally groceries were my mom’s department but she was busy planning a party so she sent him off with some money. He came home with a bunch of rock hard tubers at 10 cents more per lb than they normally sell for. Turns out having reached the store he politely asked the grocer whether the best potatoes were hard or soft. The grocer said hard so he carefully picked out the hardest he could find. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he decided to haggle for the best price. The grocer wanted $1.40/lb but my brother, not having completely mastered the metric system yet, mistook 40 to be the same as 40 on the time scale where 40 minutes comes after half hour. He shrewdly offered one and a half instead. Needless to say the offer was gleefully accepted.

And then there’s my dad who has these days taken to walking around the house with his glasses perched on top of his head looking for his quite unsurprisingly missing glasses. This one time my father and mother both got into the spirit of the search. I came upon them walking around in a circle in the middle of the room. "They were here a moment ago." "How strange. Nobody will believe this."

And me? I went to work wearing two different colored nylons today. I put on a skirt, my little blue sweater, slipped on a pair of black pumps over stockinged feet. Everyone seemed to really notice me today. Then around midday I looked down and realized why. I had one black and one brown leg.

I blame the furnace guy. He distracted me.

But then, I’d rather be a little crazy than have nothing to laugh about at the end of the day.

Flirtation

2006-01-19T12:25:00.001-08:00

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“You know, I have been at this number for 6 months and there is no XYZ heating here.”

“Did they move?”

“I don’t know. I guess so. Sorry.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry. They moved.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry. They moved.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry. They moved.”

“Do you know where?”

“I am afraid not. But maybe you can try 411. They may have the new number.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry, they moved. But I can give you their new number. I got it from the exchange.”

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry, they moved. But I can give you their new number. I got it from the exchange.”

I have been getting these calls asking for XYZ heating ever since I moved into this place. At first I was annoyed. Wish they’d stop calling me. Sometimes it was 2 am in the morning for Christ's sake. Then I realized the calls won’t stop anytime soon and if someone was calling at 2 in the morning it was probably because they had an emergency. So I called 411, got the new number and now when someone would call asking for XYZ heating I would give them the new number. By now I have the routine down pat, refined over time. And then this morning the routine changed again:

“Hello. XYZ heating?”

“No, sorry, they moved…”

“Shit!! Sorry.”

“That’s okay. I can give you their new number. I got it from the exchange.”

“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”

“No problem.”

“You are not a heating company by any chance are you?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“I am thinking of starting one.”

“Really?”

“I am already providing customer service.”

He laughs. “May not be such a bad idea.”

“Not at all. This could be my destiny. Fate has been sending me all these phone calls at 2 am for a reason.”

Laughs again. “Are you available?”

“What, to fix your furnace?”

In the silence that follows I frantically search my brain. Could that be construed as a sexual come on? Could a furnace be euphemism for something else? There are so many oblique, arch references to male genitalia it’s hard to keep track sometimes. Maybe I should hang up. But then he has my number. He can call back. Crap, what if he’s a psycho? That’s when I hear the laughter. “No, I was asking if you are single.”

“Hang on. I’ll ask my boyfriend.”

“Bummer.” he says.

In the one and a half years I have had this number I have not called the heating company to tell them I am receiving their calls. Maybe I like these fragmented exchanges. Sometimes they last 10 seconds, sometimes longer. Sometimes I get a glimpse, a brief glimpse, into another life, another personality.

On my drive to work I start to think. I wonder who he was. A building super, a store manager? A young harried father indulging in some harmless phone flirtation? Or maybe a confirmed bachelor living in a swanky bachelor pad. I will never know.

Maybe it's better this way.

That First Day

2006-01-18T23:26:00.000-08:00

I remember my first day at work vividly. Actually, no that’s not true. I barely remember it at all which is kind of ironic considering how big it was to me at the time. I remember bits and pieces. I remember gathering in the lobby with a bunch of other recent graduates, secure in the arrogance of youth but nervous and fidgety at the same time. We were all given clipboards and some forms to sign. Afterwards, we were taken around the office by a regular old curmudgeon. Walking past the rows of cubes where people tapped on their keyboards, fielded phone calls or held impromptu meetings in the corridor, so assured of themselves, was both nerve wracking and titillating. I had stepped into this exciting grown up world that previously existed only in my imagination.

I don’t remember much more about that day. I remember the day after we had to go to this other location where we were given our training schedules. That’s where I met V who would become one of my best friends over the next few years until we slowly drifted apart through vagaries of fate and the intervention of time.

The first day I do remember vividly is from a few years later. The wide eyed wonder had been replaced by a quiet confidence, the wide eyed girl of early years by a somewhat poised young woman. I was on a flight to Dallas. The day had started the same as always with a 3 am wake up call, a mandatory groan, a quick shower and a fast drive to the airport. By then the long lines were familiar territory. The laptop was out before I reached the gate and coins and keys were tossed into one of the little plastic mesh jars kept in numbers by the gate before anyone had to prompt me. I knew exactly what to wear. No stilettoes or buckled belts as the metal would set off the alarm. A smart but simple black suit, sometimes with the jacket on, sometimes off. Black loafers with a slight heel. A periwinkle blue shirt or maybe a red tank top if I was feeling daring. In that outfit I could roll off the ramp, drive to work and be ready to stand up and give a presentation to a room full of executives at a moment’s notice.

In the plane I normally just flipped through the in-flight magazine if it was a short trip. For longer trips, I brought a book or I worked on my computer. Sometimes I had the window seat and I would look outside at the mechanics walking around doing their pre-flight inspection. Sometimes when it was cold I would watch the machine spraying the green stuff to melt the ice off the wings. If I had the aisle sit I watched people as they walked in or I read until a flight attendant wheeled the refreshment cart over and asked if I wanted a beverage. "Just water, thank you. And no ice, please." Smile. I never sat in the middle seat. It’s the most depressing seat on a plane when you don’t know any of the people on either side.

When I got into Dallas that day I collected my roller at the gate and marched purposefully towards the rental car exit. I knew my way around airports by then. A bus would come every 10-15 minutes to carry all the people waiting under the little blue rental car sign to the rental car lot. From there you are on your own. You can go inside and book a car or if you happen to be a frequent traveler with a membership number you can proceed directly to the little kiosk to check your reservation and then pick up your car.

By the time I pulled into my client’s parking lot that day it was a little after 11. I had a noon meeting which gave me just enough time to park, rush upstairs and power up my laptop. Waiting for it to warm up I made casual chitchat with two of my coworkers. Weekend plans, incidents during the flight, that kind of stuff. For the next two hours we discussed schedules and dates. We discussed scope, hotly debated "key strategic decisions" and bandied around a few more choice words deeply entrenched in the consulting lingo. It was two weeks before a major delivery and every one was a little on edge. A few tempers flared, a few egos blistered, a few fingers were pointed. I bit back a few angry responses myself and at 2 we went back to our desks.

It was a long day. By the time it was 7 pm I was ready to leave. I think that was the first day I didn’t feel like joining anyone for dinner at yet another quaint restaurant that someone had discovered. Instead, I told them to go on without me and went to check into my hotel.

I was staying at the Intercontinental. I had been going there for the last few weeks and I absolutely loved it. A small town girl from a lower middle-class family hotels had always been a luxury for me until I started working. I still liked them. At the hotel, I checked in, went upstairs and I remember that week I had a room with the most glorious view. I could see thousand little twinkling lights from my window. I stood and stared out the window while I ordered room service and even after I hung up I stayed there for a while. Then I unpacked, shaking out my 1 champagne silk blouse for impromptu fancy dinners, a pair of khakis for Friday, a couple of tops, a nightie, a little plastic bag with lotions and potions and a big round hairbrush that I had just bought the weekend before. By the time the room service knock came on the door I was sitting at the edge of the bed, wet hair stringing down the back, flipping through TV channels. Maybe one of the reasons I remember that day is because that was the day hotel service staff became my extended family.

I don’t remember her name, the woman who came to deliver my food, but she was nice and a little concerned to find me all alone in a hotel room. It’s funny. I have never been able to explain to people that sitting alone has always been one of my favorite activities. We chatted for a few minutes as I signed the bill. She asked me if I had been around the city and I said no. I work and I leave. There never really was much time for sightseeing. The modern day version of Veni, Vidi, Vici! Her anxiety for me seemed to only increase at this despite the fact that I was laughing when I said that. Before she left she gave me directions to several places nearby, a mall, a something else. Things to do, scribbled on the back of some blank hotel bills. Later when I called to tell them the cart was ready for pickup she came back with a bowl of butter pecan ice cream and some butterscotch toffee sprinkles on the side. I tried to protest but she said it was on the house. She was about my mother’s age and probably felt I needed a little mothering that day. When I went to bed at 1 am in the morning I had the curtains open so I could still see the lights.

Why Cherchez La Femme?

2006-01-18T08:10:00.000-08:00

Somewhere between the rebellion of youth and the responsibility of adulthood I lost track of who I was. The carefree days of climbing trees and hiding our schoolyard giggles behind our palms was replaced by long work hours, financial worries and myriad relationship woes. Or in other words, the same old same old story. But maybe not exactly. Every story is a little different.

A little under 10 years ago, a solid degree under my belt, great GPA and the confidence of youth, I found myself wide-eyed and eager at the bottom rung of a corporate ladder ready to take on the world. To say disillusionment followed soon would be a morbid exaggeration, to say I lost myself would be melodramatic but to not admit that those things did happen would be a bigger lie. At first the perks were sweet. Frequent flyer miles, first class hotels, power lunches and fancy dinners, all paid by the firm. The feeling of being on top of the world.

The realization that all that came at a price took a while to sink in. The realization that there may be something more to life took a little longer. And then, one day, I left my Big 4 career and moved to a less demanding job. I finally had time to do all the things I thought I wanted to do... only to realize six months later that that wasn't quite what I wanted either.

I find myself at a crossroads. It's time to reinvent myself but I don't know how. So here we are. There is no growth without awareness, no progress without understanding. Cherchez la femme is a glimpse into my past, present and future. It's as much an observation of the incongruities of human life (particularly mine), a collection of Freudian slips and a continuous essay on cognitive dissonance as it is a search for the woman within. The stories are real, the names are fake and the reflections are mine. But the journey is one I know I share with people everywhere.