That was then and this is now

I got my ears pierced Friday night. I’m probably the last holdout on the planet to have avoided doing so, and you know it’s not fear of needles, right? My girl desperately wanted hers done when she was 10, and I finally reluctantly relented when she was 12. I later let her persuade me take her to get her belly button pierced at age 14, but forbade her to get a tongue stud. I noticed the flash of silver in her mouth over the Thanksgiving holiday when she was 15. Well, it was done, and her theory of forgiveness over permission worked again. Honestly, she learned that theory from me, so what could I say? She found out from natural consequences that tongue piercing is rampant with difficulties; exactly like the doctor and the dentist I took her to beforehand told her. That bit of jewelry is gone, but the navel ring is still intact, although I doubt that she’ll ever forget throwing up and passing out when she had it done. See, child rearing is easy if you just relax and let nature do the teaching. Of course, it took years for my headstrong little Aries to transfer that lesson over to other areas of her life, but patience is the other quality essential in a parent. Don’t worry if you have none and want children. You will either grow to the job or go insane, or maybe a bit of both.

So, you ask, and I assume you do, why did I wait so long to get my ears pierced? Evidently both my parents had to be dead first for one thing. The fact that I defied them in every other area of my life does not seem the least bit illogical to me. We all have symbols, and for some reason my Mother associated piercing with “gypsies” and the requisite implication was of licentious and even criminal behavior. I had never seen a gypsy in my life, but I do remember Mother being horrified by a babe in arms with tiny gold hoops and soft curly hair. I made the assumption from the look on my Mom’s face that these were the nomadic people of whom she had warned me. My sister scurried close behind her to keep from being stolen, but I rather like the idea of living with people I imagined danced around a campfire at night, so I stood staring bold as brass. Later I found it slightly confusing when my Mom dressed my sister and I in what she said were gypsy costumes for Halloween. I asked her about the earrings of course, but only my sister was trusted with Mom’s jewelry or allowed to wear her hair hanging loose. Mother must have seen the longing glance I gave that curly haired baby and her laughing mother. I had to content myself with wicked bright red lipstick, and an outfit that looked quite a bit more pilgrim than prostitute.

Dad agreed with Mom on any area of morality as long as she lived, and then to honor her, held onto the symbols until his own death. Like him, I remained symbolically obedient, if not actually embracing any of their Baptist, Republican, conservative philosophy. Hell, they were the ones who sent me away to get an education. Did they not realize someone would teach me logic? I know what you’re thinking about my logic about now, but after a while my opinion on piercing just snowballed. I dug my heels in about jewelry in general and specifically the kind that required punching needles into my flesh to wear. My daughter compensated by getting an additional 5 holes in her ears, one on her eyebrow, and one through her right nostril, and for about three years went about sporting a whole arsenal of urban tribal hardware. If she had any other areas of her anatomy done, I thankfully never knew. At age 25 she has matured and parted ways with all but one set of holes for earrings and the naval hoop.

I know I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, and one of them was holding onto my virgin earlobes for reasons that were lost in the dawn of my relationship with my mother. As I have gone through my changes, I realize that no matter how cool a Mom my children say I am, history has a way of repeating itself in Mother-Daughter relationships. I’ve held my tongue, but my girl always knew what my opinion was, just like I did with my Mom. My Mother left an onus on my heart, but there is plenty of time for me to remove any burden I have placed thoughtlessly on my girl. When she meets me at Heathrow in April she’s going to know that I have let go any vestige of the silent battles we fought when she was younger. This is my promise to her, and I have sealed it with little silver hoops. Even if no one else understands what it means, she will see and know. Perhaps we shall both dress up like gypsies and paint the town red when I get there.

I'm sorry, but does this drive you as crazy as it does me?

I've been carrying this around in my pocketbook all week. Who says Americans don't get irony?

On The Other Hand...

He told me last night that when he met me he thought I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen…and he still feels the same way.

He asked me if I would like a new diamond and wedding ring, since the diamond from my original set is somewhere in the septic system in our yard, having come out when I was doing laundry about 15 years ago.

He has heard every word I told him about the problems with our marriage, and has finally stopped drinking, lost weight, and the most amazingly, as of this week, has gotten off the sleep medication he has been addicted to for the past 10 years. That should take care of the sleep walking, amnesia, and passing out in strange places in the middle of the night. I had previously attributed those things to alcohol and only found out about the medication problem when the drinking stopped.

We are talking, a lot. Lo and behold, the TV remained silent Friday night after we came back from dinner, and again on Saturday evening. I know one weekend does not make up for the past years of neglect, but is a significant beginning.

We laughed, we talked about the past and mistakes that were made by both of us, and we planned for the future and the kind of life we want together.

He reminded me of something I said when we first moved in together. I had forgotten that I told him he was free to see other women as long as I had all I wanted. He told me it seemed like a very generous offer at the time until he realized that I was going to keep him too tired to stray. We both knew what was being said between the lines of that conversation, and we both wisely left it unspoken.

He remembers the girl I was because she is in front of him again, and he has fallen in love with her once more. He acknowledges his role in suffocating her spirit and understands that I will never allow that to happen again.

I won’t be forgetting that there are things about him I will never be able to change. I would be happier with a more assertive man, a stronger man, a less oblivious man, but that’s not the man I married. The man I made the promises to is kind, generous, slow to anger, and unconscious to a lot of things going on around him. I respond to the motherless child in him, not really the healthiest of things to do, but it is our contract.

I know I could start again, but the life we made together, the children, the friends, the shared experiences—I won’t be finding those outside this door, but the door is not locked. I think I'll stay.

Well, at least we're talking

Now the man has a Master’s degree and an IQ of over 151, no lie. I should just start a comic strip…

On arriving home …

She Said: Hi, I’m home! How was your day?
He Said: (looking up from the TV and seeing her standing there in a sweat soaked shirt, stretch pants, sneakers, and holding a gym bag.) Did you work late?
SS: Honey, honestly, where have I been?
HS: (defensively) I just thought you worked late. Oh (the light begins to dawn). Were you at the gym?

SS: (eye roll, mental shrug)

Later, in the kitchen…

He said: Where did you put the milk?
She said: It’s in the refrigerator.
HS: I can’t find it.
SS: (trying hard not to sound sarcastic) Honey, it’s a rectangle about 5 by 3 feet. It’s not even that full. Just look on the top shelf where it always sits (As she talks, she walks over and moves a carton aside).
HS: Oh, you put it behind the orange juice.

At the table, discussing the events of the day…

He Said: I got a new parking spot today that I’ve been wanting for over a year.
SS: Is it closer to the office?
HS: No, it’s further away so I can get some exercise.
SS: Really, how much further?
HS: About 50 yards.
SS: Sigh.

Yeah, I'm laughing and it's my so called life.

With This Ring

I used to hate Sunday when I was a child because we weren’t allowed to do anything. The Lord’s Day you know, and although he abhors sloth, he demands it one day of the week. I bet there are some tricks to getting around the six other deadly sins too, but that seems like a post for another day. I had a wonderful time last night and you can read the family friendly version on my other blog. The outfit I wore was working for me because my husband never even let me go to the bathroom without trailing after me. There were two great looking guys right behind us both wearing cowboy hats, which I found tres amusant. The most interesting event of the evening was that my husband finally noticed I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. If you’ve been following this melodrama you know I took it off early in September, five freaking months ago. I put it in the box on my dresser where it has sat alone, shinning like a searchlight ever since. He asked me where it was, took it out of the box as soon as we got home, and put it back in place. I kept looking at the chain design this morning and I found it so distracting that I took it off again. It’s just a symbol of course, but so is a flag, a swastika, and an extended middle finger.

When our first child was born the hospital staff told me I had to take the ring off and I refused. They put tape over it and made me sign a release form saying I would hold them harmless if it were lost. I remember the action, but I cannot capture the feeling that made me stubbornly decline to be parted with the little chain around my finger. I know everyone is tired of hearing about it, and I’m actually tired of talking about it, but there it sits. Indecision is not a place where I feel at home, but no matter how many times I pack my bags in my mind, I don’t seem to get further than a hotel room. I know certain people would be more than happy if I would just talk about that and quit whining, but I suppose I think too much. One thing I’m thinking is that he didn’t ask me why I took it off. Anyone want to take a bet on how long it will take him to notice this time?

So, Don't Mess With Texas

I love beginning sentences with “so”. It has a nice comfortable conversational tone, don’t you think?

So I turn on my cell phone on the way down in the elevator at work and put it back in my pocketbook. It immediately starts playing its little message song, irritating as hell. All the other people in the elevator dive into bags and pockets for their phone, then they all turn to look at me. “Oh, that’s mine, huh?” I say as I fetch it out again. It’s a message from my husband recorded a few minutes earlier, so I call him back before I venture outside the building into the cold wind. Now you must understand that my husband hates going out in the evening, despises paying for restaurant meals or booze, and refuses to stand in line for a table anywhere. Imagine my surprise that it’s Friday, prime time for dinner, and my spouse is asking me out on what can only be called a date. My last call of the day had been to a man from Texas. He had some minor Asthma problems but he is a blacksmith, one of those good old two stepping country boys, 6’3’, 200 pounds, and probably mostly muscle from wrangling those horses. After I got off the phone I knew more about him than his wife. He told me if I was out his way I should drop in anytime. I’m thinking about how much fun it was listening to that accent when my husband asked me where I wanted to go.

An hour later we are sitting at the bar of the Texas Roadhouse, an upscale redneck joint near the local mall, listening to Texas boot scooting music competing with car racin’ on the big screen TV. My husband is incredulous as we nestle down at the bar between a 50 something man called “Tweety” and a woman in a black leather jacket with fringe, big 80’s hair, and a tee shirt that says “Dixie Melons” across the ample chest. There is a 40 minute wait for a seat, but Tweedy wants to talk and so does Dixie, so we’re all set. In 10 minutes I find out that my seatmate is a “regular”, loves the music they’re playing, probably has COPD (my diagnosis after listening to the constant cough and raspy voice), has three children and two grandchildren, does sales for a construction equipment, and had been married 33 years when his wife left him and took everything he owned. Dixie and her friends got a table and moved on, so my husband starts talking to much safer looking couple that replaced them. I’m still not wearing my wedding ring, so I guess I’m giving the tweetster ideas. I am obviously with someone, but he’s had more than 5 beers in the half hour while we sat there and is emboldened. When our table number comes up on the board, and my husband goes to get the waitress, Tweety’s arm slips around my waist and he attempts to kiss me. I’m on my feet pretty quick, dodging the bullet, and envisioning the hysterical redneck scene that would ensue if my husband had turned around. The waitress seats us within sight of the bar and Tweety keeps his eye on me the rest of the evening. He stops by the table when my husband goes to the bathroom to tell me I’m a real pretty lady and he sure would like to see me again sometime, so I guess he’s looking forward to our second date.

Back in the car I tell all to my hubby, we laugh our butts off about the whole experience, but decide that once was enough, even though he did say the steak was outstanding. Back at home I pull a vase of pink tulips out of my car and he questions me about where they came from.

“Don’t know,” I reply. “They just appeared on my desk along with a stuffed pink elephant (oh the irony) and a card with no signature.”

I’m not sure he believes me although it is the god’s honest truth. Now would I lie to you? He muses on that a bit and suggests we do something tomorrow too.

“How about we drive to DC and visit some of the museums?” He asks this in a perfectly normal tone and I immediately reply.

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

This man would rather have two root canals than drive in northern Virginia traffic, but he’s offering because he thinks it’s something I might like. I’m not sure if it was Tweety or the flowers, but I seem to have his attention. I’m not really in a museum mood, plus I have to do the taxes tomorrow since we’re actually getting money back this year because of my Prius. I tell him we need to think of something else. He was up at 8 this morning, went to the grocery with me, carried the laundry downstairs, and came up with a plan for the evening. We’re going to Ashland Coffee and Tea, and listen to the advertised all American Mongrel Music of Page Wilson with Reckless Abandon. Okay, not really my first choice, but a bit classier than the Roadhouse, and the cliental should be a much better class of rednecks, Ashland being a college town and all. Quite a week all in all; the boss hits on me, I get random flowers, my husband is courting me again, and, well, I’m not counting Tweety except in the drunken amusement category. February is turning out to be a much more interesting month than I imagined.

So… I think I’ll wear that new black dress tonight.

UH, YOU MIGHT WANT TO WATCH WHERE YOU PUT YOUR FOOT.

I’m sure it’s paranoia on my part, but I’m taking this post out. If you want to know what it said, email me.

Note to self: Buy new candles

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light.


Edna St. Vincent Millay wrote that in the 1920’s, a time most of us believe must have been quite placid and unhurried. No computers, no jetting around the globe, no cell phones, no TV, no traffic jams; in fact none of the hundreds of things that seem to suck up our time in the modern world. Yet, she says it perfectly, and I bet all of you can identify with her sentiments. I have definitely been sitting in a blaze of light for the last 7 days, letting the rushing press of time and my desire to do it all overwhelm me. I won’t bore you with the before dawn to long after dusk details, but trust me, the candle burned down to a flicker and a puddle of wax by week’s end. What I find most frustrating is that my time for writing has been broken into short segments, none of which give me time to craft my stories the way I want. So what are the important things I have to show for the last 7 days of my life?

- A handwritten note from the vice president of my division praising my work ethic, thanking me for applying for the job, and encouraging me to try again.

- A clean house, even though no one but myself gives a damn.

- Three more pounds gone, and finally being able to squeeze into my last pair of formerly too small jeans. Time to go shopping!

- Ten, count them, ten new stories, started but unfinished, sitting in my “get your ass in gear” folder, making little whimpering noises.

- Twenty four miles on my treadmill and three hundred on my car.

- One delicious afternoon devoted to hedonism.

It’s all about balance, now isn’t it?

Revelations

Selivankova, the very sexy Russian nurse I know casually from work, told me in the break room today that a married woman who never had an affair was not considered much of a woman in France. I'm not sure why she choose to advise me in this matter, because moments earlier we had been discussing coffee. I do have strong feelings about coffee and was telling her that I buy organic free trade beans and grind them right before they go into my French press brewer with the filtered water. Perhaps I sounded a bit passionate as I explained to her that caffeine is one of my few vices, since I have no addiction to drinking or smoking and have conquered my food issues. “Ah”, she says, in that way she has of making everything sound erotic, “what about affairs?” I tell her I am married, so she gives me the European maxim and says that she lived in France for several years. I have never asked her about husbands or lovers, but I assume that a smart and attractive Russian emigrate probably married her way into the relatively cushy life of the US. I would certainly like to find out more, but the break room is small and public, plus this is work, and I know when to keep my lines drawn. Selivankova is no longer young, but she is slim, stylish, and exotic, with a thick Russian accent and a full length fur coat she wears on winter days. She has noted the changes in me in a casual sort of way over the last several months, so perhaps she has drawn her own conclusions about the reasons for the improvement.

Some of my bolder friends have come right out and asked me if there was a new man in my life, and I have made it very clear to them that my motivation is coming from within, not without. Regardless of what I do in my free time, if my incentive was external it would be subject to the caprice of other people, something I have sworn on my life to avoid in the future. Whether by upbringing or nature I seem to have an inordinately strong instinct to please others before myself. Some of this is mere kindness, some habit, but a lot of it is enabling behavior that sucks the motivation right out of people around me. I am capable of acting in my own best interest, and indeed, everyone including myself is generally happier when I do so. Even though I have issues with her fur coat, I still admire women like my Russian friend that seem to know this instinctively, or learned it very early in life. I wish I had gotten it sooner, but better now than not at all. For anyone out there still struggling, even though lightening may strike me out of a clear blue sky, I think a bit of scripture is in order.

He who hath an ear to hear, let him hear…

Happy Sunday.

A Female Fox is Called a Vixen

Well, good news, I played this one perfectly. I didn’t get the job and I was so gracious and professional in my defeat, I almost believed myself. They were impressed with my excellent analytical skills they said, but I didn’t really sell myself enough, they said. I told them that I didn’t understand. I hadn’t done anything above and beyond what was expected, and then I mentioned half dozen things that met that criteria. They mentioned a half dozen more after I jogged their memory and they told me I was mistaken if I thought all the others made the same effort. Why didn’t I mention them in the original interview they asked? I was humble, thanked them for their feedback, and told them I would certainly take all of their suggestions into account the next time. They were suitably impressed and said they looked forward to the next interview. So do I, boys, so do I.

Thanks, I needed that

So my son took this picture on the road to somewhere between Seattle and San Francisco. I forget the specifics. I probably should ask him cause I need a place for all my imaginary friends to stay. That would be what my other son calls my blog friends. It’s good that I have children to keep me straight on this shit.

THE LONGEST MONTH OF THE YEAR

It is a dull, dull, day. The sky outside my office window is some shade of gunpowder all day, and even the seagulls that haunt the parking lot, weaving through the branches of the bare trees, behave like they are trapped in a cage. The reason I have time to look out the window is because I am free from training for a few days and only have to be on the phone; simple, easy, I can do it in my sleep. After a few hours the automated dialer crashes and we’re logging into the old phone system doing inbound calls only, double yeah. Like dogs chained in the yard, the people around me stretch to the very end of their phone cord, pulling the spiral curls of their attached shackle to the maximum extension for reasons I cannot fathom. I stand gazing out into the grey, testing the limits of my imagination instead of my physical boundaries. When the dialer starts again I am cheerful, professional, empathic. I hear my friend in the next cube tell someone he will keep them in his prayers. Fifteen minutes later I hear him telling the same to another member. Maybe he means it, I don’t know, but I think he’s just in the moment like me. Empathy sells. The grey seeps through the window and surrounds me like a fog.

Lunch is provided at the trainers meeting I attend at 2. There is nothing I can eat, so I munch the apple I brought along and listen, contribute, push forward my ideas. The manager takes notes just like he did during the job interview I had with him yesterday. Four other people in the room interviewed for the same job, including my friend who prays for our customers. I actually hope he gets it because I have another stepping stone in mind on my way forward, and that would eliminate my only real competition for the job I prefer. I wonder if he is thinking the same. Back at my desk I am patient, compassionate, understanding. I tell a member I will keep them in my thoughts, since I have no gods listening in on my private moments nowadays. As I pull on my coat to leave I only remember the difficulty she had speaking because of her stroke. By tomorrow that will fade, and by next week she will blend with all the other voices in the endless stream of wounded people.

My cheerful red car cannot compete with the sea of grey as I navigate homeward. Do people buy all these grey cars to be in stealth mode on these dreary days? The news on NPR is about suicide bombers, political bickering, global warming, and how goes the war. No sunshine there, so I switch to my ipod. It’s my dark depressed favorite to complete my day, L. Cohen.

I smile when I’m angry, I cheat and I lie.

I do what I have to do, to get by.

But I know what is wrong, and I know what is right,

and I die for the truth, in my secret life.

Damn, I hate February.

It was on fire when I lay down on it.

Not sure if this bit of annoyance belongs to the cat or my husband, but hell, the man’s an easy target:

On arriving home at 8:30 I find him sitting on the couch watching TV and reading the paper. He’s been home since 5:30. I stay in the kitchen getting dinner ready, putting dishes in the dishwasher from the sink, and preparing things for lunch the next day. When I head to through the family room to hang up my work clothes he warns me,

“Watch out for those two piles of cat barf in the floor.”

There they are, right in front of the TV like he says. I just give him one of those looks, navigate deftly around the mess, and continue my trip to the bedroom to change. The barf is still there.