I Made It There, So Now I Assume I Can Make It Anywhere

This is a repost from 2009, the last Spring break Spawn and I spent together. This month is his last "real" semester in college (he has two classes to take this summer to finish), and next week is his last Spring break. It all made me think of this trip. I never had more fun with him.

Flight landed twenty minutes early. EARLY. That’s never happened to me. The new Indianapolis airport is empty (feels a little like it's throwing a party and nobody's arrived). And clean and nice. Shelves in the bathroom stalls for your stuff. At LaGuardia, the ground transportation counter woman called my shuttle reservation number three times while I wasn’t paying attention. She finally came up to me and asked, “1017?” loudly in my face to get my attention. Thanks to her, we got right on the shuttle to the hotel. I can’t say enough positive things about the Westin Times Square. We were upgraded. Had a southern view above 42nd Street so I could watch all the people going to work and home again at the 42nd Street Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was perfect. Quiet. Completely non-smoking and renovated. Big rooms for the city. Ideal location for us. Nice, helpful people. Fast and yummy room service. Super lathery soap (very important).

Day One: Walked up 8th Avenue a hair and stopped for a Nathan's hot dog, kept walking to Columbus Circle to the Barnes and Noble on Broadway. Walked through Central Park (stopping to rest at the skating rink and listen to a sax player under a bridge) to Park Avenue and over to Lexington for the heck of it. Walked back to 5th Avenue to the Plaza Hotel (shame on you Plaza Hotel owners for the horribly stained carpet at the 5th Avenue entrance) and sat in the lobby for a minute or two. Walked down 5th Avenue to see the stores. Sat in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, awestruck by the ceilings and the windows and the altars. Lit a candle and said a little prayer. Austin dipped his fingers in the holy water and gestured the sign of the cross. (I laughed at him, of course, because he makes fun of me for any sign of faithfulness. He minimized it all by saying, “It’s magic. I’m not going to turn down magic.”) Walked to Rockefeller Center where I could’ve stayed all afternoon. Found the Magnolia Bakery by accident (the whole trip was full of “where is X, we need to look for X” only to turn around or walk a few steps and find it) and stopped for chocolate butter-cream cupcakes. Walked back to 42nd Street and the hotel for a “barking dogs break”. Had a nice dinner at Shula’s in the hotel, and then walked around Times Square a bit to see the lights at night.

Day Two: Caught a cab to the Flatiron Building, then NYU and Washington Square Park. Walked through Greenwich Village and SoHo (where I swear I could live even though Austin thinks not). Caught a cab to the WTC site. Walked to Wall Street (Austin’s favorite part). Caught a cab to Katz’s Deli in NoHo for lunch. Saved room for a walk to Chinatown and a dumpling sample. Or two. Walked along Canal Street and bought a tote bag, some tourist crap and a fake Dolce and Gabbana purse for Katie, my lovely dog/house-sitter and really good friend of Austin’s. Caught a cab back to Times Square where we got Junior’s Cheesecake supplies and went to the hotel for a late room-service dinner.

Day Three: Snow?! Luckily, it stopped by 10am. Walked to Grand Central Station (now we know what’s at the beginning of Damages each week) and the Chrysler building. Caught a cab to Pier 78 for the NY Waterways Harbor Tour (Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan Bridge, Statue of Liberty (and up-close, too!), Governors Island, Ellis Island, etc.). Walked back (wanted to take a cab, but the Empire State Building looks close until you start walking towards it when it gets farther away each block – glad we did, though, because we saw a lot on the way) to the Garment District, Penn Square/Station, Madison Square Garden, Macy’s, the New Yorker Hotel and finally the Empire State Building Observatory. Caught a cab to the United Nations Building, then another to the hotel for another “barking dogs break”. Got dressed up for a dinner at Keen’s Steakhouse for the best Porterhouse steak and creamed spinach and crab cakes I’ve ever had, even though it was unnerving being the only woman among twenty men my age in the Teddy Roosevelt Bull Moose Room. Caught a cab to the hotel and one last Times Square at night experience.

Memory One: I remember waking up in the middle of the night between Day Two and Day Three and remembering where I was and thinking “Oh god, I have to do NYC again tomorrow”. My back hurt on Day Two but was fine by Day Three, and I didn’t want to leave by Day Four. But leave we did.

The shuttle to LaGuardia drove by the Ed Sullivan Theater where Late Night with David Letterman is taped and took a back route through Queens, so we got to see some of that area complete with a just-opening flower and fruit market. Perfect flight back to the still empty Indianapolis airport.

Memory Two: Austin seeing Times Square for the first time and saying, “This reminds me of Tokyo.” The bastard. :)

Memory Three: Waiting on the shuttle back to LaGuardia in the first floor bell captain area, I learned that there can be as much happening on the 5am side of darkness as there is on the 9pm side. Four scary-looking men – two had huge hoods on hiding their faces – walked up to the glass at the hotel window right by us. One hit the glass as hard as he could. Then, they headed for the revolving door to enter. One of the security guys immediately picked up his walkie-talkie-thingie and said something like “21 to dispatch. Backup. Standby.” One of the bellmen, in his full-length black overcoat, sped over to them all Breakfast Club Judd Nelson / Matrix like and stuck to them like glue until they acted right and left. Then, the Matrix bellman came over to apologize to me and asked if I was alright. Big brown eyes, dark hair and complexion, full-length black coat and a New York accent asking if I was okay. I damn near fell out of the chair and faked a dizzy spell. When the shuttle came 16 minutes late, said bellmen took our bags before I was thinking straight and told the driver, “You’re 16 minutes late. You told her 5:30. You shouldn’t make the lady wait.” I had to hold onto the door for support. This was a New York highlight for me. I loved every minute of the whole trip, but this was an unexpected mama bonus and all it took was a few hoodlums and a 5am wakeup call.

• Best pre-trip purchase: Cross-body tiny purse
• Personal space violations: One in the cupcake line by a man who should’ve been in the cookie line and one on the NY Waterways boat trip by a middle-aged father who was narrating over the tour guide to his family
• Mother vs. son street fights: Six, but fairly clean and inconspicuous (usually caused by Austin saying “Mom!”, me saying “What?”, him turning away from me to point to and explain something, then me saying, “I can’t hear you when you talk in the other direction”, then him saying, “Then you need to listen”, then me trying to explain why I can’t hear him and him getting mad that I might be anywhere near pointing out an error).
• Lessons learned: Study your East River and Hudson River locations before getting mad at any cab driver. Austin and I can still crack each other up. And keep moving in Times Square.
• Next time: Ellis Island, the MoMA and the burroughs
• Final tally: Three pounds lighter (despite eating my way through town) replaced with an increased level of wanderlust that might be harder to work off.

All in all: Happy dog. Happy spring-breaker. Happy mama.

Clay and Sean's Message of Courage and Inspiration from Another Country

This month marks the sixth anniversary of the deaths of Clay McKemie and Sean Wilkinson from Rome, Georgia. Clay and Sean were my son's age at the time, and I connected with their smiling, school-picture faces on CNN. There were so many things that went wrong that day, all results of poor preparation and judgment of one man, the school's trip leader, Steve Hall. The final blow was dealt when Hall, due to bad weather, changed the trip's course to include the use of canoes and kayaks in the choppy ~50-degree ocean waters. Hall's only means of communication on this trip was his personal cellphone, and in this part of the ocean, there was no service. Clay and Sean were doomed when they got separated from the group. Yet, Hall supposedly had 20+ years of "expert" experience. (Though he was solely responsible for their deaths, not only did Hall not have his license revoked, but he has gone on to work for Wasatch Academy, a private boarding school in Mt. Pleasant, Utah, in an official capacity as Outdoor Recreation Coordinator.)

We, as parents, often let and encourage our children to take part in school and extracurricular activities that are character building. Sometimes, we even sign disclaimers acknowledging our acceptance of certain risks. And, we're rarely experts. The parents of the children on this trip didn't even get the opportunity to approve of Mr. Hall's egomaniacal plan. I also think that, because this was a private school situation, certain assumptions were made about the caliber of equipment and employee in charge, and rightfully so. But what if a parent at Hall's current school wanted to find out about his experience and past? Don't they have a right to know about Clay and Sean?

Every year around this time, I am convinced that the boys reach out to me. Over the weekend, Nick Crowhurst, who was camped about 30 miles from Suwanee when the tragedy occurred, posted here. He and his wife have written a guide book to sea-kayaking on the part of the ocean where Clay and Sean were killed called "Florida's Hidden Coast". It can be found here: http://www.hiddencoast.blogspot.com/. I want to repost here, with his permission, some of what Mr. Crowhurst wrote (his original comment is here). He has given me courage to keep the information here about Hall and new inspiration to learn what can be done in this country to provide resources for parents so we don't have to put so much trust into school leaders about whom there is no formal place for public information. Thank you, Mr. Crowhurst. And thank you, Clay and Sean. 

"I have been haunted by this dreadful incident throughout the period since it occurred. To explain why I am posting this, and my qualifications for so doing, I need to explain some of my history....have spent the last thirteen winters exploring this region by sea kayak, and the past fifty years paddling, offshore sailing, rock climbing and mountaineering whenever work permitted. Our book details 16 sea-kayak day paddles, one of which details the trip the boys were attempting to make, from Suwannee to Coon Island. I have British Canoe Union qualifications in sea kayaks (4*) and canoes (2*). I retired after a career in the British Police Service, latterly as a Chief Superintendent.

Risk cannot be eliminated from our lives, but it can be managed. We accept the risk of allowing our children to travel in motor vehicles, even though this is a major cause of child deaths. Children need to learn to deal with risk, and to balance these risks with the rewards gained. Some risk-taking is thus beneficial, within limits. My son, when a young teenager, followed me on many multi-pitch high grade rock climbs in circumstances which would horrify most parents who lacked specialist knowledge. I will happily take a granddaughter through the early stages of kayak training, and then introduce her to waves and rocks on the sea, when, of course, she is wearing a wetsuit, a crash helmet, a PFD and a sprayskirt, and has a ratio of two supervisors to the one child. Incidents of danger still occur. I give these details to indicate that I seek the adrenaline of risk, but only when the "dumb risks" have been eliminated. These can be eliminated by gradual training, good and appropriate equipment, increasing experience, and, above all, humility in the face of the immense power of nature.

Parents of children offered the chance to partake in such "adventure activities" are in a very difficult position, as they will probably lack the specialist knowledge required to assess the risk of the activity. I, for instance, could not assess the risk involved in a school trip involving horse-riding. In the case of a suggested trip from Suwannee to Coon Island for my young son, I do have the necessary knowledge, so I would seek answers to these questions:

1. What are the qualifications and experience of the trip leaders? (I would require advanced and appropriate qualifications from the ACA (American Canoe Association) or BCU and for first aid from a minimum of two supervisors for this trip)

2. How many support craft will there be, and, if powered, do they have auxiliary means of propulsion in case of breakdown, as well as anchors, flares,smoke signals,lights, strobes, compasses, GPS? (Two support craft would be a minimum in this case)

3. Are there several fall-back plans to deal with bad weather, illness, exhaustion or lack of emotional control? In strong offshore winds, which appear safe but are a greater danger than onshore winds, alternative campsites could be pre-arranged at Suwannee, Munden Camp or Cat Island, very close to the mouth of the Suwannee.

3. Are the boats supplied fit for purpose? Canoes are out of the question on this coast. They are too much affected by wind, and would be uncontrollable by young inexperienced children. Are the kayaks fitted with watertight buoyancy, reflective tape, sprayskirt, towing facility, deck-lines, and are they of suitable design and condition?

4. Have the children received prior training to fit them for the purpose? ACA and BCU approved training will provide whatever levels of skill are required. At a minimum, capsize and escape and rescue procedures, and basic stroke-making need to be trained.

5. Will the children be properly clothed and equipped for the worst case scenario of immersion in the anticipated water temperature after capsize? Wetsuits would be a minimum, with wind-proof outer garments, skull-caps and gloves and well-designed specialist PFDs. Each child should wear a strobe, and carry a waterproof torch, and have proven ability to swim 50 yards in the clothing. Spare dry clothing in drybags and emergency food and water should be carried.

6. What are the communication arrangements, either routinely or in emergency? Each supervisor should have a waterproof hand-held VHF set with an agreed boat to boat working channel on dual watch with channel 16. A spare VHF set and batteries should be carried within the leaders.Cellphones should be carried, in waterproof containers, but cellphone coverage in this area is the exception, rather than the rule.VHF communication, which is line-of-sight, with a range of perhaps 4 miles from a small boat, is problematic in this remote area. In case of emergency, an EPIRB or PLB is vital in each support craft. My current PLB cost about $250. At the touch of a button, the international marine rescue organisation is alerted by satellite of my identity, my accurate GPS position, and that I am in distress. It also sends out a VHF signal for homing-in on my position. This is an incredible facility, particularly at the price.It is the ultimate "get out of jail" card.

7. Who is the shore contact in possession of the float plan and details of the party, to act as an information point for parents or the Coastguard, and how is that person contactable?

I could go on with a list of further questions, but I think I've made my point. The non-specialist parent cannot hope to know all this detail. So, what's to be done? A very similar tragedy occurred in England in 1993, near where we live. It is known as the Lyme Bay Canoe Tragedy, and Googling will find many references. One excellent one is here: http://www.aals.org.uk/lymebay01.html This describes the prosecution of the adults involved, and the eventual setting up of a national statutory body to regulate such activities, and help prevent such disasters. This may give food for thought to those considering these issues in the USA.

In the absence of such controls, I would advocate that parents should obtain as much information as possible about a possible trip, and submit these details to an independent qualified source for comment. For example, a well-qualified ACA or BCU instructor would look to be satisfied that all the above questions, and more, were satisfactorily covered. As to the future, extra political control and public expense via legislation is not likely to be popular, I guess. A website could contain recommendations for each sport for parents making such decisions. Each entry would need to be created by someone with particular experience in each activity, of course. I am deeply grateful for your original posts. I could not believe I was alone in my incredulity at this incident, nor could I understand the lack of judicial inquiry."

My Birthday New Yorkers

A really nice friend and I recently had a lunch conversation that included a mention of my love for The New Yorker. She divulged that she had an attic slap full of the things dated back to the 30s. Even though I was serious, she laughed when I asked about moving into her attic for the better part of 2011.

In an email the next week to check in as usual, she asked me when my birthday is. I told her and didn't think anything about it because it's in July and this is January. I told her that I knew hers was in September, because we had lunch last year to celebrate a particular milestone around her age. 

When we met again for lunch a couple of weeks later, she brought me two New Yorkers - one from the Friday before my Wednesday date of birth and one from the Friday after: July 13th and July 20th, 1963.

They were 25 cents each. There were ads for American Airlines' Astrojet, a Kodak camera with a new fangled auto-rewind feature, Marlboro cigarettes, Holiday pipe tobacco, Ferrara candy, all-polyester weatherproof Alligator coats, tequila, scotch, creme de menthe and more than a few brands of gin. Full-page ads for Haig and Haig Pinch, my father's Scotch of choice. Cordoroy was in. And so was Hawaii. Lots of ads for Hawaii. Ford and Sunbeam had new models with roll-up windows and lockable doors. Ventura had new lightweight luggage with keyless combination locks. You could go on an 8-day cruise from NYC to the Bahamas for $195 or take an "Around the World in 80 Days" cruise which stopped in 22 of the world's most romantic cities for $2,700.

The cartoons were timeless, albeit a bit sexist, of course. But what fascinated me the most were two articles of a three-part series written by Calvin Trillin, whom I've only known and loved as a poet, entitled "A Reporter At Large, An Education in Georgia", about two Negro (a word used often enough to make me uncomfortable) college students' experiences at the University of Georgia, which was apparently known for not being altogether welcoming to this sort of change in its population. I grew up in Georgia and attended UGA from 1982 to 1984. Trillin wrote about Atlanta and Athens and their newspapers and colleges and neighborhoods. He even mentioned Marist, my high school in Atlanta, which at the time was a pretty well-known all-boys Catholic military school. I was admitted to Marist's first class that allowed girls in 1977. Up to then, I had had some fairly decent character-building life experiences at home, but this was an initiation into the public kind and the Catholic guilt (and I'm not Catholic) that both continue to this day.

There was a heartbreaking story entitled "A Leave-Taking" written by Shirley Hazzard that made me google her. She is an Australian author of fiction and nonfiction, and her 1970 novel The Bay of Noon was shortlisted for the Lost Man Booker Prize in 2010, according to the Wiki. So, what's a girl to do but see about finding this book at the library? My to-do list never ends, I tell you.

I'm sad that I have to return these treasures at lunch tomorrow. But I'm just so fortunate to have a friend who gave me this New Yorker glance into that week around my birth! I just found out that anyone can see the NYer covers online here, and subscribers can also flip through the magazines online after providing their account information. I prefer touching and holding and smelling books and magazines as I read them, but I understand you "e" types. Either way, it was a lot of fun and I highly recommend it!

I Know. Yet Another Post About the New Year. But This One's Brought to You by the Car Talk Boys!

If you know me at all, it could come as a surprise that I'm a huge fan of Tom and Ray, the NPR Car Talk boys. (If you ever want to know how to do a Website bio right, read theirs here.) I don't do electronics. Is a car an electronic? I've no idea. Anyway, while we respect and appreciate each other, technical things and I avoid any deeper relationship. I don't want to know how they tick any more than they want to know about me.

But Tom and Ray (or Click and Clack, as they call themselves) are adorable and funny and charming and very Massachusetts-y. So, when folks call in with car troubles, I sift through the gear and shaft and oil and cylinder talk for the good stuff and the reason people REALLY listen: they're just so darn fun.

Naturally, I cut out their interview in November's Yankee Magazine and pinned it up on my desk. My favorite part went like this:

"...He told us this whole story about how he drove his old Chevrolet from Minnesota to Alaska. The car had 350,000 miles on it, and he'd made a major repair using a barbeque grill. He wanted to know if he should drive the car home. We told him, "Go for it."

Some of our best calls are from people who are trying to go on some kind of adventure and need encouragement. A lot of people lead predictable lives and don't take any risks. But if you don't, then you won't have any stories to tell your kids. You don't want to do something that's going to end your life, but it's good to do stuff where things can go wrong.

If something happens, and it creates an adventure, you'll remember it forever. I remember one guy who was going to take a trip with his father and brother. They were going to drive some old Dodge Dart or some other old clunker. Doug [Berman, the producer] was in our headphones suggesting that we tell these guys to rent a newer car. I said no. The best thing that can happen is you break down every hundred miles and you get into arguments and everything goes wrong. It'll be the greatest trip you ever took."

**The whole interview is here: http://www.yankeemagazine.com/issues/2010-11/features/the-big-question/1

Gretchen Rubin of the Happiness Project likes to have a one-word theme for each year. How simple and to the point. I like that pretty fine, so about a week ago, I came up with mine for 2011: ME. Yup, Me. I do know that this sounds horribly selfish, but we'll just have to live with that for a year. After that, it will be YOU. Seriously and I mean it. YOU. And maybe, if there's time left, a good cause or two.

This past week, I organized ME into specific categories and goals as suggested by Chris Guillebeau of the Art of Nonconformity and I developed a workable timeline which I divided into quarters. Then today, I spotted Ray and Tom's interview on my desk. They're so right about what makes for the best times in life and the best memories when we have to look back upon it. And adventure does fit right into my ME theme (into the theme, but not quite yet into the non-willy-nilly gal that is me).

So, how to have both? A year's worth of specifics while having a year's worth of adventures? I've really no idea, but I think I'm going to have a plan and a non-plan. To kick that off, for example, I've looked up the definitions of fun and spontaneity, and I've just scheduled a trip without a play-by-play itinerary. (Dear God, typing that sentence just gave me a hive.) If all this means I get lost or stuck on a road in the middle of nowhere, then so be it and lucky ME!! Right? Yea. Must remember to breathe. And tape iPhone charger to body. ME is clearly a work in progress.

Cheers to YOUR 2011!!! That's it, though. Must get back to ME now. ;)

Christmas 1970. Again.

It's a nostalgic time of year, so here's another holiday-themed repost from 2004. It's probably my most favorite memory of my father.  

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I was seven years old and at the age when, way back then in simpler and slower times, most children just begin to seriously contemplate the logistics of Santa Claus’ annual visit. I had asked a million questions that Christmas season, but no explanation made sense.

I announced at the dinner table that Christmas Eve that I would be staying awake all night. I intended to prove once and for all that there was no Santa. After all, I was too grown up for this nonsense. With whom did they think they were dealing - a 5-year-old?

My parents agreed to the plan, but insisted that I still go to bed on time, explaining, for yet another year, that Santa only visited sleeping children and thinking, of course, that I wouldn’t last too long anyway once my head hit the pillow.

I reluctantly participated in their charade but I was confident that I would prove how silly this whole concept was. I knew there would be no signs of Santa that night.

I lay in my bed with the drapes open, staring out my window. I watched. I listened. And I waited. And waited. I refused to give in. I would not fall asleep! I was sure hours had gone by.

All of a sudden, I saw a tiny red light moving slowly across the sky. I jumped out of the bed and ran to the window for a closer look. Then I heard the bells. I saw the red light travel to the top of our neighbor’s roof and stop. The jingling stopped too. It was dark and I couldn’t see much, but there was no mistaking that light.

After a bit, the light took off again for the sky and the sound of jingling bells got louder. I couldn’t tell where Rudolph was going next, but I was positive that he was headed for my roof. I ran back under the covers and pretended to be fast asleep. I sure did hope that Santa didn’t see me watching him from my window!

Needless to say, I was a firm believer in Santa Claus for two more years.

_______

My father told me when I was a teenager that he and his best friend who lived next door had done all this from his friend’s deck. We were positioned on a corner lot and the back of our house faced the side of theirs. I had a perfect view of their roof and deck from my room. They had actually lain down on the deck so I couldn’t see them and shone a flashlight with red bulbs across the sky and onto the roof. My mother always insisted on a ridiculous amount of Christmas decorations, so they had no problem finding loud bells to jingle.

Today, I am the same age that my father was in 1970. As a parent, I can appreciate the desire to preserve our children’s innocence. And, as a middle-aged adult, I understand the power of Crown Royal on a winter night and the intense need for something fun, silly, and different to do.

Used Books

Today's Black Friday trip to the used book store reminded me of this post past (2006). It still makes me smile, so I'm playing it again. I'm redundant when I wanna be.

=============

They were at least in their seventies. The wife was looking at paperback novels, when her husband spotted a chair near the window.

“I think I’m going to go sit down. I can hold the books you’ve picked out while you keep looking if you’d like.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he assured, and took a seat in the chair opening his arms so she could fill them with the dozen or so Agatha Christie books she had selected to take home.

She laughed. “You know, I really have enough here. I don’t need any more.”

He looked at her and smiled. “You go ahead and get as many as you want.”

She accepted that with a nod and a smile and went back to the shelves, but just for a second.

She came back to him and started to thumb through the book spines, giggling. “I can’t remember what I already got.” He smiled and repositioned the stack so she could see more easily.

She returned to her search and, in just a few minutes, came back to him and said, “I think I’m through looking. I really do have all I need.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She smiled at him and said she was. They went to the cashier, walking side by side, him carrying her books for her.

The Thanksgiving Gift That Keeps on Giving

This time of year takes me back to the trip north to Indiana. I'm pretty sure it always will.

On Thursday, October 17th, 2002, I received a telephone call about a job in Indianapolis, Indiana, working as a contractor for Eli Lilly. Eleven days later, I moved and started my new job. I left my son with his nonworking father, who had ever so graciously agreed to temporarily move into my house and “baby-sit” his son so he could finish the Fall semester at school. I felt better leaving him there until I had organized our new life into some semblance of a routine. It took almost two months to just recompose myself, so this turned out to be a smart plan.

Nothing seemed the same to me: the streets, the stores, the businesses, the weather (I needed a coat AND GLOVES in October!), the nicely kempt midwestern people with absolutely no accent (how do they do that?). I participate in this craziness now, but when people in these parts give directions, they actually use east and west and north and south, rather than right and left, as in “Go south on Meridian, then west on Fall Creek”. Imagine! It really requires a lot of unnecessary thought as far as this Southerner is concerned.

But it turned out that driving confusion would be the least of my worries. The movers arrived in Indiana at 1:30AM. Yes, A.M.  Then, I ended up moving twice because my first apartment was a nightmare. Sign-on monies and paychecks wouldn't come until the end of December. When you're from out of town, new bank accounts require a 10-day deposit hold, and little things like rent checks require in-state checking accounts. Indiana has something called "hard water", and it's just nastiness. Did I mention cold? The 2002-2003 Winter season resulted in the highest snowfall record for the city this century. I could go on and on.

I was sleeping almost an hour each night and, by that weekend, I had developed a newfound attachment to crying. I’m typically not one to express too much emotion or admit defeat, but I told a bestest friend, Sheila, who was back in Memphis about my problem. I told her that I had no idea if it was due to the haze of overwhelming change, the feeling of loss from my son not being with me, or just plain worry about me, about him, about whether or not this decision would go down in the books as right or wrong for us.

She asked me what we were doing for Thanksgiving. There really was no logical way to spend the holiday with my son. Driving to Mississippi and back twice to bring my son to Indianapolis was too much for the four-day break. I couldn’t stay with my ex-husband in my house, and he certainly had no plans of meeting me halfway. She asked about flying my son from Memphis to Indy. She even offered to take him and pick him up at the airport. He had flown before, so his “unaccompanied minor” status wasn’t an unfamiliar concern. I was touched by her generosity, but I couldn’t do it. I was so close to broke by this time and still had to pay for my second move.

The next day, I received an e-mail from American Airlines notifying me that I had been given a gift certificate from Sheila and three other friends she had recruited to donate to my cause. My son and I spent Thanksgiving together, and he was actually excited about the new digs. By spending those four days together, it eased his mind and mine, and helped us both begin to think of this change as a fun adventure. And I finally stopped crying.

What's funny is that I recently had to refresh Sheila's memory about this kindness, while I think about it often and with gratitude just as intense today as it was then. For me, she was God showing up when I least expected Him and so much prettier, too!!

The Morning After Drunk-Dialing The One at the Library

Being a fan of Susan Kennedy, aka SARK, and her Juicy Pens, Thirsty Paper book full of crazy fun writing and creativity exercises, I, of course, subscribe to her newsletter. Her loving mantra is that we are wondrous gifts to the Universe and that we would be selfish not to share ourselves with others. Her newsletters often include information about folks who complement her message and might be of interest to her readers. A recent one had an invitation to a free tele-class offered by Calling in The One duo, Claire Zammit and Katherine Thomas. I'm going to explain what this is in serious terms first. Or try, anyway.

Claire and Katherine have come up with a program that teaches women how to release all sorts of blocks and defeatist attitudes that prevent them from finding their ONE true love in this great big universe. The program options include a book, a tele-class, online courses, and what they call "transformational coaching".

Now, a little about me. I'm a strong proponent of and believer in the possibilities of romance and attraction and liking someone and even loving someone and, dare I say it, committing in some form to a boy in a neighboring town, perhaps, maybe, well, then again...no, maybe, it would be nice, yes, maybe. But this idea that I have this ONE magical Soulmate whom I need to "call in" like I would call in a dog from the yard or a kid for dinner? And that I'm missing out on this ONE special someone who just happens to be at the grocery store eyeing the same pickled okra, because I'm blocked or wounded? (Show me an adult who's not wounded, and I'll let you pet my unicorn.) What about tired? What about really just wanting to go home, not shaving my legs, and watching Jersey Shore (yes, I said it, I have no pride anymore) with a Dove bar (the chocolate kind, not the soap kind)?

This is when Claire and Katherine would squeak out (yes, they do squeak) a few of their 1,000 examples of success stories and how a simple attitude adjustment could free me from what they just know is my avoidance and manless misery. After all, according to the website, Sasha attracted her Soulmate in 6 weeks by making her "I'm not Safe" belief conscious or some such thing. Laura attracted her Soulmate in just 2 weeks by unblocking her inner source of something. It's like Name that Soulmate Tune.

All this fodder was just too good to pass up for a Post-Single Motherhood meetup topic. There just had to be an appletini-drinking or cheesecake-eating game around this.

Is this going on and on? Too long? And I haven't even gotten to the funny part. Am I protesting too much? Do I sound bitter? I'm really not. Did I mention that I absolutely do believe in The Law ofAttraction and that I really do like boys and do believe in nice romantical things? I do, really I do. Okay, I feel better.

Back to the story. I needed to research a little more if I was going to incorporate this in an upcoming meeting, so I reserved their book at my neighborhood library. When it arrived, I hunted for it in my usual spot on the shelf. But no book. My call in to The One was disconnected by not being able to even call in the Calling in The One book. I really am blocked.

At this point, I should've just gone home. But I had seen a sample online and the first chapter was about being vulnerable to a man if he offers assistance, say in the airport as you're accidentally *wink* *wink* dropping something near his carry-on, and this was information I could use. When would we drink or cheesecake-eat? Maybe every time they use the words "be open" or "heal" or "heart" or "block"? I needed these details!

So, I handed my card to the library lady and asked, "Hi. I reserved a book that's not on the hold shelf. I looked everywhere near my normal spot. Would you mind checking on it?"

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. Maybe it's on our cart. What's the name of the book?"

Oh jeez. If only I'd thought this through. Can't we just not speak while you take a minute to look it up on the computer? She stared at me for an answer. I leaned in to whisper in my most private and appropriate library voice, "Calling in The One".

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than it popped up on her screen. "Oh, yes, I see it here on your account. Calling in The One: 7 Weeks to Attract the Love of Your Life." And she was not whispering. And she glared at me, I swear she did, which sent me into my let-me-explain-before-you-start-forming-opinions-about-me tizzy.

Trying my best to laugh, "Yes. Funny, right? It's research for a group I belong to. We're going to use it to make up games and funny, sort of like opposite stories. Because it just seems so ridiculous, this book..."

"Uh huh."

Of course, the book was not on the cart.

"JOANNE? Have you seen...um...what was the name again, honey? 7 Weeks to Finding the Love of Your Life? JOANNE???"

"WHAT?" Oh, Joanne, no.

"A BOOK. Calling in The One. SEVEN WEEKS TO FINDING THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE."

"Listen. It's no big deal. Can we just cancel the hold?"

"Oh nooo. It's here somewhere. We'll find it. Just hang on." She was so obviously thinking I was in desperate need. She couldn't send me home alone. It was just too sad. Any minute, she was going to talk to me about rescuing a puppy for the company, I could feel it. 

A line was forming behind me. Two more library ladies appeared from the back to offer assistance, if needed.

"This lady reserved a book that's not on the hold shelf and not on the cart. Have any of you seen it?" She reads the computer again. "It's called "Calling in The One: 7 Weeks to Finding the Love of Your Life"."

"Oh, I could use that book, too!!! Let me write that name down real quick." 

"Me, too! What's the name again?" I want you to know that not a damn one of 'em was using her library voice.

"Ladies, please. While I appreciate the effort very much, this was NOT that big of a deal. I'm not really signing up for the plan. It's fine. In fact, it was going to be used in an opposite sort of irreverant way for a local group. Really. Not a big deal at all. Let's just forget about it, okay? Please, God? I beg you."

There was no calling off these women. The book's name was shouted out a few more times and one other library lady showed up to participate in the hunt. Yes, that made five. And no, the book was never found.

I left a humiliated and misunderstood, yet wiser woman. I learned that the vulnerable, admitting you need help thing still doesn't work that well for me. I learned that I shouldn't be so sarcastic and judgmental about a couple of squeaky ladies trying to help women call in Their Ones.

Most importantly, I learned where the second most convenient library is and moved all my pending book requests to that location. I can't go back. They all think of me now as the woman who won't ever have The One because she doesn't have the book. And I know I was dinner conversation that night. I just know it. I mean, what else do library ladies talk about at dinner other than odd books and obviously pitiful customers?

I did leave with my new Dennis Lehane and Lewis Black books, though. And Jersey Shore Season 1, Disc 1 came in the mail a couple of days later. Wonder what THAT all means. As if I don't know. Maybe someday soon I'll heal from this newest of wounds and go okra shopping. With a smile and an open mind and heart. And my unicorn.

It Really is a Small and Sometimes Unprofessional World

I've been a contractor and freelancer for eight years now. This means that I have done more than my share of interviews and conference calls. So much so, that I've kept a running tab and have just done my 57th since 2002. I'm fairly good at them now. In fact, I could pretty much interview myself while they just take notes. The plus here is that the interviewer has a lot less work to do and they can be appreciative. The minus is that I can be too comfortable, which brings me to Wednesday.

Five people from all over the country. 50 minutes into the hour-long call, we finish up and say our goodbyes and thank yous and we'll-be-in-touches.

Hiring Manager(HM) in Charleston, SC: Soooo, you don't sound like you're from Indiana.**

**It feels a little like this was obvious on my resume, but people don't often go back that far.

Me: No, I was born in Memphis and spent most of my life in Atlanta.

HM: Atlanta? Really? What part?

Me: In a suburb called Dunwoody.

HM: Really? I grew up in Dunwoody!

Me: SHUT UP!!**

**This is where the too comfortable part begins - this shouting SHUT UP to the guy in charge. 

HM: Yep, I lived across from Dunwoody High School.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!! I lived across from Vanderly Elementary right next door to the high school, in Meadowlake subdivision.

HM: No way. I TOO lived in Meadowlake subdivision.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Did you go to Dunwoody High?

HM: No, I went to Pius.

Me: SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  YOU DID NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!**

**There's no turning back now anyway.

HM: Why? Did you go to Pius? Please don't tell me you went to Marist!!**

**Pius and Marist were THE rival Catholic high schools in Atlanta at the time, which was convenient since we were also the only Catholic high schools at the time.

Me: Yep, Marist. 1981.

HM: Pius. 1980.

Me: Well, this is just nuts! But, it's a really good sign. I mean, you have to hire me now, right?

HM: Well, I don't know. I remember Marist kicking our ass on the football field every weekend and the pain is still pretty fresh.

Me: Well, that's not how I remember it at all. I remember us as best friends.

I haven't thought much about high school since leaving it, and it has never even remotely come up in a conversation, much less an interview in Indiana. After a little more laughter, we talked for a minute about football games, college, Atlanta, how true it is that you can't go home again, and what a small world it is at times. Even though I'm pretty sure I won't land this project, all is not lost. I do have a new and very valuable Note to Self: No matter how much they shock ya, don't tell "The Decider" to shut up.

Update: Score! Did get it. Currently working out details.

A Fond Look Back at the Welty Symposium

As I write this, the Mississippi University for Women's annual Eudora Welty Writers' Symposium is in full swing. The event honors one of the MUW's most famous alumnae by offering a slew of Southern writers to read from their works and tell a little about themselves. I've attended twice - in 2001 and again in 2007, but my experience in 2001 was one that I can still feel today.

In 2001, I was an Application Developer for MCI Worldcom, which was a good job that supported me and my son. I was also attending school to finish a Bachelor's degree (my first attempt in the 1980s was interrupted by a boy - well, me and a boy). To put it lightly, I was a horrible Developer and an even worse CS student. I am still friends with folks who will attest to this fact. And I was miserable.

My first loves have always been writing and reading and studying and researching. These are the things that jazz me. So, when I stumbled across an event that combined all that with a college steeped in Southern history and writers who write about all things Southern in a place that I could get to without too much maneuvering around babysitters, I signed up.

It was held in Poindexter Hall. To get to Poindexter, I had to walk and walk through the campus.  October. Fall. 120-year-old campus. I could barely breathe. Inside, I found a seat I liked, away from the collections of college kids who were sitting together like fish in a school (ha) probably mandated to attend for class credit, and readied myself for the program to begin.

Poindexter is over 100 years old and three stories tall and round inside, with huge floor to ceiling windows and a beautiful stage and wonderful acoustics. It is the musical heart of the school - and the town of Columbus, for that matter. The building has been maintained meticulously and perfectly. Looking around, I thought of the years and years of performances and audiences and...and then?

Of course, I spontaneously burst into tears. A writer hadn't even spoken yet. But it happened and would happen again during the program, despite all the logic I threw at myself. (Kleenex has unprotected sex in my purse and I was almost alone on my row, so I was able to be fairly quiet and inconspicuous.)

The writers read from their books and told stories about their paths to their writing lives. Each one better than the next. Then? She spoke. Elizabeth Strout (who is in no way Southern, but could be). At the time, her first novel, Amy and Isabelle (one of my absolute favorite books - I still miss the characters), had just been published. She read a few excerpts and then talked about her windy path of a writing life. She was unassuming, shy, self-deprecating, and funny when she recounted her disastrous 6-month law career. She said that even though she had loved writing since high school, she went to law school to avoid failing as a writer only to end up failing as a lawyer. (She went on to win the Pulitzer in 2009 for Olive Kitteridge. That says so many wonderful things about me, doesn't it?)

To this day, I swear she was reading my mind and talking just to me. The theme of the conference was “A Kindred Soul to Laugh With”, and I could not have felt more connected to her. I wanted to tell her about me, about my life, about how bad I was at my job and my schoolwork, about how much I wanted to sit at her kitchen table and listen to her stories about her life and her characters. But rather than stalk the poor woman, I came home and wrote her a fan letter. I had never done that and haven't felt the need since. She's the one for me. Well, there's Tom Jones, but that's a different kind of connection entirely.

In formulating what I wanted to say to her, I came to the conclusion that this day at the Symposium was divinely orchestrated to show me how far I had veered from my meaning of life - that interdependence of authenticity, spirituality, and nurturing of one's soul. I realized that I was ignoring it and dishonoring God at the same time and had for most of my life. I still had a pretty expensive child to raise, but I knew what I must do. I had this picture framed to remind me. I take a small version of it to every cubicle gig I've had since. And will until. And I look at it and look at it, and I write in the meantime.

I will always regret missing the 2002 Symposium. That year, Jeanne Braselton, Rome, Georgia, author of A False Sense of Well Being, read and spoke about her life. She killed herself the following Spring after losing her husband the previous year. Life and logistics kept me away until 2007. By then, they had moved the event to Cochran Hall, which is no Poindexter (it's new and attached to a dormitory), believe me. But Nan Graham spoke and told the most hilarious story of her trip to the Symposium, and Ellen Douglas read and said, "Thank ya'll for being so proud of me," and I felt like a member of this special little MUW club again.

I hope Dr. Dunkelberg knows what a gift he's given us and that he is able to keep this Symposium going for years to come. I swear I'm going next year. I'm long overdue for a slow, warm, enveloping, Southern hug.

My October Mother of a Ghost

October 17th will be the 30th anniversary of my mother's death*. It took me many of those years to figure out that she was not only not the bad guy in our doomed little family, but, in fact, she was the only person to devotedly mend that thread by which it always hung. In my own defense, I was 17 when it happened and in my most rebellious, I-hate-you years. When a parent dies when you're a teen, you can often experience arrested development. I am fully aware that in a lot of ways, I'm forever mentally 17, and I don't need anyone to point this out to me (leave me alone, you're not the boss o' me, Foghat rules). I like to believe that my mom somehow knows this and waited patiently all those years from her vantage point in the Beyond for me to come around to see her side of things.

About five years ago, I started reflecting on some of my biggest life moments. You know how you do, after the thrill of turning 40 is gone and you're just left with time marching on. And, you may not believe this but stay with me anyway, I stumbled upon a definite and undeniable pattern to things. When moments of sometimes gentle and sometimes traumatic nudging towards life-altering change have happened in my life, they’ve consistently fallen on or right before or after October 17th, the first of these being the day I learned I was pregnant with my only son, Spawn, and last year's being the manifestation of my Post-Single Motherhood Website, a pretty big article being published in a trade magazine, and the Fall realization that I was living on the street of my dreams (not actually IN Ogunquit, but looking eerily similar to it). Call me crazy, but I think maybe my mother had been harboring hope for her sometimes emotionally lost and struggling daughter all this time.

I don't know what she has in store for me this year, but I'm busy readying for her visit. I'm thinking about her and talking to her, about our first five years together before everything started to go wrong, and I'm remembering and appreciating how hard she tried for every one of our 17 years together. Sometimes, that's the best part of a parent - knowing that he or she cared enough to try. For her unwavering, seemingly annual, help in my finally recognizing that, I will always be grateful. Sorry that it took me so long to see, but most grateful. October is my favorite month what with the cooler weather and the changing leaves and football and sweaters, but she's made it even more special for me. I don't mean because she died, but because she lives again, in me.  Thanks, Mom.

*The Death: She and my father were at a week-long business convention in Chicago. That night, at a big dinner, she started feeling ill. She and her best friend, Rita Rogers, whose husband worked for my father, went to the restroom together and when my mother got worse, Rita called 911. She died not long after at Northwestern University Hospital. Massive heart attack. Her last words to my father were, "I'm too young to die". She had just turned 50 the month before, but at her funeral, my father made sure that she was referred to as 49. They were both some kind of fucked up about things like age and appearances and the proverbial Joneses, but even I can't deny the love in that. I made a lot of the funeral arrangements and all of the phone calls to family and friends and took care of my screaming grandmother who had just lost her only child after losing her husband less than 5 years before, but I have never cried. I should have, but at the time, I didn't think she'd cry for me, so there (see arrested development/forever 17 above). I saw my father cry once, then get drunk a lot, and then never mention her or my brother's death (or his life, now that I think about it) 13 years later. For him, we all never existed that day. He moved on in every way. Ah, the Irish. No wonder I like to write stuff down. 

If a writer falls in the forest, does anyone hear her dog making fun of her?

If Thoreau fell at Walden Pond, would he have found further inspiration or just assumed the mangled position and enjoyed the silence? I know he wrote about dogs, but I'm not sure he had one faithful companion in particular to call his own and accompany him on his many walks. If he did and had he fell, I bet HIS dog would have immediately gone into protector mode and barked and barked and run for some sort of help without a moment's complaint.

My dog? Not so much.

I couldn't sleep the other morning, and I've had a gnawing frustration about not being able to complete a particular writing/visualization exercise, so I took Sabrina, the 14-year-old crank of a beagle mix, and headed to the forest. Well, the woods.

My condo community is nestled in a little patch of nature and is very nice to be amidst. It's never far from civilization, though. In fact, you're always just a stone's throw from seeing a bit of house or deck from most directions. (Hey, Thoreau wasn't exactly in the wilderness himself, truth be told.) But there are trees and slopes, and a creek, and lots of little critters to ask about life. And now that bug season has subsided, I'm really good outside.

Anyway, I'm a firm believer in the manifestation and "write it down, make it happen" schools of thought, and the exercise I've been working on for well over a month now is this: "What would you like? Visualize your ideal situation one year from now. Know where you're going and take the straightest way there."

I can't count the hours I have stared at this. Every once in a while, I have started writing only to realize at some point into it, that I really don't want what I'm writing at all and return to the proverbial mocking blank page. I don't know what's thrown me off so, but I'm pretty sure it's the whole thing. "What would I like?" Sayyy whaaa? Having been a single mom for so long, that question hasn't even entered my mind, and to be honest, it still throws me for a bit of a loop.

Anyway again, I took the dog and my little notebook to nature in hopes of some transcendental inspiration. Half-way up the second hill, about 20 minutes into things, it was bound to happen. In my own defense, it is acorn-falling season, which makes it even harder to keep ones footing.

I landed on my shoulder. I think. It hurts today in a way that makes me think I may have to give up my shot-putting dreams. My arm and leg are pretty scraped up, so there was sliding, too, I guess.

But while on the ground holding my arm cursing the heavens through the pain, I looked over at Sabrina. She sat down and doggy-sighed and, had she had opposable thumbs, would have started filing her nails. We should be walking, after all, not sitting down. This is how the conversation went as I remember it:

"Seriously? I got my leash on for this? We haven't even been gone 20 minutes."

"Sabrina. I am in pain. Can you not see that or doggy-sense it or something?"

"Um, no, not really. Just get the hell up. You look ridiculous."

"Maybe something's broken and I need help."

"I've lived through two wars and numerous lost squeaky balls. I'm too old to get help."

"Fine. Let me try."

"Yea, you do that. I'll be over here. Sniffing things more interesting."

I'm writing this, so obviously I got up, admitted defeat, and walked home to clean up. Today, I'm still sore and still staring at a blank page. Although, I do have a temporary handle on what I really want: a dog who still gives a shit and, in the words of one of my favorites, grace, eventually. Besides that? A full page. Maybe tomorrow.

Nova Scotia Bound, Sort Of

If you know me at all, you know that I've talked about going to Maine once my Spawn had swum upstream to do whatever it is people in their twenties do these days. I have never had an explanation for it, but it's just always been on my mind. Sort of like a calling. I don't know what's calling me exactly - black flies, snow, lack of jobs - but something still does.

Knowing my current contract is on its last legs and a job I'd had my eye on hasn't panned out, I've started my perpetual search for work. Nothing's happening here in Indiana, and though I will always think of it fondly, we've never really been each other's types, so I've been venturing out. Sometimes, it's overwhelming to have nowhere to be, no ties, no anchor. But most of the time, I like it pretty fine.

Just for fun a couple of weeks ago, I paid $4.80 for an astrological/numerological chart that might give me a hint at where to look. Silly, sure. But believe it or not, my red zone (red indicates a good place for vocation, culture, creativity, and a little romantical acSHAWN, if you know what I'm sayin') was in Nova Scotia!! A hop, skip, and a jump from the Maine I've had my eye on.

So, Nova Scotia, it is. Just one tiny problem. The zone doesn't include a cool town like Halifax. In fact, it's not really over that whole pesky land part. It's in the stinkin' ocean. Okay, all may not be lost. I could buy a boat. I could dock in Halifax and still get my groove on. But I get seasick. Near death seasick, in fact. That's not going to be very attractive for all that creative work and romance.

It did dawn on me that the zone runs north and south, so I could do just fine in, say, the Bermuda Triangle. But the problem I see with that is that I could very well be groovy and nobody'd ever know it.

So much for my $5 plan. Maybe I need to take baby steps and think about something like Chicago for now. I hear it's toddlin'.

Vegas, baby.

I haven't been feeling old enough lately, so I signed up for a trip to Vegas on my first gal-pal trip in well over 20 years. Mission: Tom Jones show at the MGM Grand.

Honestly, I didn't have very high hopes after the 4-hour plane ride with the married couple who apparently didn't know each other AT ALL. They never, ever, EVER stopped talking. The yard, the cars, the neighbors, the basement, the girls, the soccer team, the scouts, the school, the shoes, the shut the hell up. (I was never happier for my iPOD.)

But, once we got through the very confusing hotel check-in process and did a thorough bedbug check, it worked out to be a wonderful trip and one for which I will always be grateful.

I doubt I'll go back in this lifetime (unless Tom makes me), but I enjoyed a lot of things about Vegas. I talked to my son one night and told him that I thought he'd like the town very much. "There are lots of girls with very little clothing on." He said, "Well, duh. It's hot as hell there."

Best Meal: Tao. Period.

Best Snack: Gelato in Ital...I mean, the Venetian Grand Canal Shoppes

Best Dessert: Apple Crisp at the Grand Lux Cafe

Best Drink: Still looking

Best Vibe: Bellagio Cafe/Gardens/Fountains

Best Casino: They weren't all the same?

Best People-Watching Perch: The Venetian casino on a Friday night. My neck is still not itself.

Best Surprise: Dior mini-makeovers

Best Moment: The surprise birthday gift from Sheila - the most creative and thoughtful gift ever

Most Memorable Gal Conversation: The Will-Call line at the Venetian

Most Memorable Boys: Boothbay Harbor firemen in the hotel check-in line and the fine, upstanding one helping his elderly mother at the Vegas airport gate

Best Laugh: Deciding that the reason nobody waited on us in Jimmy Choo was because Sheila was wearing her sandals from the Tractor Supply store, not because of my JC Penney purse

Best part of the airplane experience: The man in the middle who reached up and adjusted my air for me on the way home. "Is that good?" "More?" "Here?" It made us laugh.

Best Show: Phantom of the Opera (That dude who plays the Phantom could sell ice to eskimos with that voice.)

And the Best of the Best of the Best brings me to Tom, of course: Oh. My. God. Worth the entire credit card bill. The charisma, the machismo, the sex that oozes off that man. It's just more than this old gal can handle. When he asked, "Is it hot in here or is it just me?", the whole audience shook its collective head and said practically in unison, "It's just you, baby, it's just you." Typical man, though. Wasn't long enough. I just thought I was addicted to him before. Now I've moved on to Tom hoarding. And, no, thank you very much, I do not need nor want an intervention.

Next stop...somewhere sitting down. Maybe even lounging. With Cape Cod Cabana boys fetching us the perfect drinks.

Awfully Quiet, but for a Good Reason

I've been working on a new Website intended to be a supportive community for Post-Single Mothers, like myself. The years right before and after my son left home for college were paralyzing for me, and I'm still a struggling work in progress. In the meantime, I have given the situation a name and conjured up a way to hopefully connect and share with other women in the same boat.

If you have had a child leave home recently (or know someone who has), I hope you'll visit and share your experiences! The Website is here: http://www.psming.com (PSM is short for Post-Single Motherhood)

Life beside Miss Honey's Posse

It’s official. The Universe is trying to tell me something. And it’s one of two things:

•  Don’t you ever tempt fate again by saying something like, “It can’t possibly get any worse than this place.”

OR

•   GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!!!!!!!!

I can’t decide which one to think about first.

I’ve mentioned Miss Honey before, but she became a non-issue for 6 weeks when she was out with her self-inflicted (smoking alcoholic that she is) heart attack. But, she’s been back to work for 2 weeks now, culminating in yesterday’s 10-hour free-for-all.

It was a state government PARTY. At her house (aka, cube). Since my iPod wouldn’t cover it up, I had to hear. They were all giddy about the big department lunch scheduled for 11:30 (when the state bell rings, I have gathered). So, starting about 8:30am, they printed the restaurant menu from the website and had discussions about what they’d order, what they liked and didn’t like AND WHY. “Do you like spinach?” “Well, I like raw spinach like in salads, but not cooked spinach.” “Yea, I don’t like cooked carrots, but I like raw carrots.” “Really? Now, see, I like cooked carrots.”

This spawned other hours-long discussions, you know, as office discussions among productive members of society tend to do, about food shopping, recipes, operating the TiVo, AT&T, golf, unclaimedmoney.com, death certificates, the pub (her haunt) and throwing up but not really being sick discussions.

The one that stopped everyone in their tracks, though, was about crepes on the restaurant’s menu. It confused ‘em. They all asked each other, “What’s a crepe?” “I don’t know.” “Do you know?” “No, I don’t know.” “Well, let me look it up,” Miss Honey said. Which she did and then became the crepe spokesperson. “It’s like a tortilla,” she explained. “Ohhhh,,” they all said in unison. But they all decided they didn’t want to order crepes. Or tortillas.

I had such hope that they’d wear themselves out and be quiet(er) after lunch, but no dice. Discussions after lunch were around the soup, the bill, the tea, the walk there, the weather, mowing the grass, and on and on and on. Until quitting time when they all said things like, “One more day down” and “Will Friday ever get here?” and “What a long day” and “I’m so tired.” Parties can wear out a yayhoo.

By 5pm, I can’t even stand myself. I leave the work trailer for the home trailer. I’ll save this for another day, because I can only handle so much of my own whining. But just this: I complained to the condo’s Board representative about a man whose dog attacked my dog, Sabrina, for the third time last week. The Rep directed me to contact the President (blowing me off by knowing that he’d just blow me off, too). But I looked up the President on the FaceBook. He’s 75 if he’s a day, way too into karaoke and his every other wall post is about either getting drunk at the Blue Martini or having fun on Percocet, which he’s taking for his back, ha ha (his haha, not mine).

I got home last night to a tweet from one of my favorite people in the world, Cynthia Morris, that said, “Your intuition has no agenda other than your ultimate well-being. Always listen to it!”

This morning, I parked my car in the garage lot and prayed. And tempted fate again by realizing I could declare to God and his baby Jesus that, “I will never, ever, ever, in this lifetime sit through another 8-hour day like yesterday. If that means homelessness or a $25,000 debt (I have one more year of college to pay for, which means I need a steady income until August 2011 that provides an extra $25,000 cash), bring it on, you stupid Universe, because I’m just old enough to not give a shit.” (That too old to care thing is new, but I think I’m going to really dig it.)

So, take that, trailer park. My stay here is getting more temporary every day. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Never.

Blog Post Titles are Hard

I don't know how the real bloggers do it. I am hard pressed most days to find anything to talk about in real life, much less write about here. I had no idea my last post was in April. Oh well, not much has changed. (Don't worry, THAT is a good thing.)

But today is a writing day. On a specific project I'm working on. So, here I am. Writing on this silly thing. And washing bath mats. And my ring and watch are soaking in the jewelry cleaner as we speak. My umbrella has rain spots, so that's gnawing at me, too.

And I'm a little sleepy. Sabrina, the dog, is always a problem this time of year. She hates storms, has allergies that make her gasp and cough and snort, and is just cranky (almost 14). So, if she wants to jump off the bed at 2am for a little drink of water, then holler and cry when she's good and damn well ready to get back on the bed again, you better oblige. And toot suite. (She can jump off, but can't quite make it back up at this age. Or maybe she can, and it's a test. Bitch.)

Last weekend, we had stress over a lightning bug stuck between the window and the screen. It must've looked like the lightning of the previous umpteen nights and she wasn't having it. Up, down, up, down. Finally, down. And a pit-stop for a TYlenol PM for mama. I was over it. It was a fucking lightning bug. I explained until I was blue in the face, but no sale.

I was rewarded once again, though. The last time I took T-PM, I hung out with Craig Ferguson. I have mentioned this before. This time...........Tom Jones. No, I'm serious. I've never been happier. I have mentioned my obsession before and since.

We were in his homeland of Wales. He had a castle or something. Beautiful green countryside. He had a few days off between shows or something. Why was I there? I'm not sure. He liked to cook, he liked to lay around and watch movies, he liked to eat, he liked to go for walks, and he liked to talk. So much in common, except, I like to listen, not talk. Sympatico. There was a "thang" goin' on, but I'm a lady and not going into details. He was the age he is now - not the young Tom. So, he was slower, more philosophical, calmer, deeper, and too tired for the Wilt Chamberlain numbers of the past. I must have liked him an awful lot because I was leaving too and I was very sad. Clingy, almost. He wasn't. He was kind and seemed to like me, too, but not in a clingy way. He just wanted to eat dinner, really.

Maybe I'll take a T-PM late this afternoon and hook up with Colin Firth. I am overdue for a visit, he has complained. Now, wasn't this fun? A whole lot of nothing after 2 months of nothing.

Maybe I'll dust the baseboards now. Or organize my desk drawers. I'll close with this: Jorge Cruise is a horrible, horrible man, and I'm pretty sure I could take him in a fight over a piece of sheet cake.

Pacer Fans?

This is a picture from the local newspaper of folks watching Indiana’s professional basketball team’s final game of the season last night.

Well, not really watching, because everybody is looking at the camera.

The folks are actually the team owner, manager and president, which maybe makes it a little less funny, but not really.

A Salute to Hugh MacLeod

Sometimes, I find it pretentious when bloggers post things they recommend, because it can sound all I-know-so-much-and-am-so-cool-and-have-everything-under-control-and-you-can-only-wish-to-be-as-fancy-as-me. But this is different, I swear. Firstly, I’m not really a blogger. I mean, I have a blog, but am I a blogger? gapingvoid.com daily cartoon 3/24/2010 I get the definition connection, but….oh dammit, back on topic. Second, I get distracted. A LOT. How I fit that into my already packed schedule of negative self-talk and procrastination, I’ll never know.

Hugh MacLeod of gapingvoid.com knows me. In fact, he reads my mind every day and takes time to send me a brilliant little cartoon accompanied by some magical words every morning. Thanks, Hugh. Marry me immediately, if not sooner. Even if you do live in an adobe in the middle of nowhere. We can work through all that.

Thing is - and this hurts a little to type out loud - he will speak to you, too. I get a lot – okay, a fair number - of hits and emails related to freelance writing and building portfolios and an online presence, so I hope you might find this to be a fun pick-me-up and addition to your daily creative process, too. He’s all over that procrastination, negative self-talk, and distraction stuff.

Now, where’s my dog’s squeaky ball? I know she’ll want to play ball with me.