Recently, I moved with my job to our new location. We're expected to follow some of the rules of the establishment we're joining. One of the rules there is that staff takes a half-hour for lunch. If they'd said that we will have to pay them to work there, the uproar might have been less.
For years, I ate mostly at my desk. I read books, wrote letters, played on the internet - and ate. This suited me fine; after all, I'd spent the morning listening to others and some solitude was welcome. Until George came.
I'd always gone into the lunch room to get my lunch from the fridge and possibly heat it in the microwave, and usually there was no one else there. Slowly, however, the back table began to fill up with people who were chatting and laughing and I was intrigued. So one day I sat with them. Most of these people I had worked with for years but I barely knew them. George, I didn't know at all, as he was new there. Yet he went into the lunchroom every day, hoping for company. He'd eaten alone for decades during his time in private practice, and now he wanted conversation.
At first, George basically held the floor. He is charming, intelligent and tells wonderful jokes. He was born in Romania and has traveled the world, so he has a never-ending supply of fascinating tales. We listened, enrapt, and learned. George also, over time, has a way of drawing people out, and we began to know each other. Ruth is a listener. She relished every moment there (she's since moved away), but was far happier as an audience member than taking center stage. Nonetheless, she began to share details of her family life, her history, and dreams, and when I said one day, "I'm going to Europe next year - anyone want to join me?" she signed up and went!
Adam is known as "the quiet one". (Or, as he prefers to put it, "A Man of Mystery".) Turns out that quiet, Clark Kent-like exterior hides a brilliant wit, delightful sarcasm, and keen observation. Another of the "quiet" ones was Marianne (who left for part-time work). She'd happily talk about her decorating or vacations, but otherwise, she listened, coming most alive when the subject of food arose. Her mantra? "I don't eat that." We finally had her list the foods she will eat! Navneet, on the other hand, chatters happily on all sorts of topics but is best known for sharing her food. She loves to see others eat things she enjoys and sometimes I think most of her lunch ends up in other's stomachs.
Then George retired. It is not exaggerating to say we had a period of mourning and we all bound together at lunch to keep his spirit with us. That's when we realized that we were no longer gathering just because of George, but because we'd become a sort of a family. As families do, we lost people and added people. Those we "lost" still gather with us for brunch or drinks or parties with some regularity; they are still family, after all.
The additions are also wonderful. Deb, whose mantra is "That was before my time" (she's the youngest) delights in being "snarky" though she's truly a beautiful soul. And then there is Frank.
Frank is a brilliant psychiatrist. He is also unfailingly kind and thoughtful, and totally without filters. We will be discussing European travel and Frank will interject with a question about flatulence. In the midst of a conversation about documentaries, he'll note that getting married in a nudist colony would save the cost of wedding apparel - and then pass out clown noses. Stream-of-consciousness is his favorite art form. And we adore him.
Others join us from time to time. We welcome newcomers, grieve when someone leaves, and are constantly grateful for the time we have together.
Oh, that rule about half-hour lunches? The Powers-That-Be decided early on to abandon that one. Who in their right mind would take on a family wearing clown noses?
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
What truly is important
I was recently reading a friend's Facebook note about what he would be willing to give up a year of his life for and it made me think. A year of my life, or even something far less drastic - for what and for whom would I be willing to make real sacrifices? And then it hit me - all of us DO give up weeks, months, even years of our lives, for those people, causes, etc., that are important to us.
No, the odds are that I'll never get the opportunity to die one year earlier in exchange for something that's important to me, but that doesn't mean I can't sacrifice for those things. When one spends time listening, perhaps for the 40th time, to the same stories a favorite uncle tells ... and smiles and laughs on cue, one is giving up time from one's life. When one adopts an animal and spends the next 10-20 years caring for it, feeding it and loving it, one is giving up huge chunks of time from one's life. When we do volunteer work, spend hours on the phone with a brokenhearted friend - all of these are gifts of our time - gifts of time from our lives.
No, the odds are that I'll never get the opportunity to die one year earlier in exchange for something that's important to me, but that doesn't mean I can't sacrifice for those things. When one spends time listening, perhaps for the 40th time, to the same stories a favorite uncle tells ... and smiles and laughs on cue, one is giving up time from one's life. When one adopts an animal and spends the next 10-20 years caring for it, feeding it and loving it, one is giving up huge chunks of time from one's life. When we do volunteer work, spend hours on the phone with a brokenhearted friend - all of these are gifts of our time - gifts of time from our lives.
So I just want to say to all of the people for whom I make time in my crazy life - would I give up a week, a month, maybe a year of my life for you? Yes. And it's pretty obvious that you give up time from your life for me. Thank you.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
A good stalk of....
Is it just me or does the world seem to be filled with stalker-types all of a sudden? No, I'm not (necessarily) talking about the celebrity-stalkers, those who have never met their prey, who are simply deranged and delusional. I'm talking about people we meet, possibly even like, and then can't get rid of. And most of the women I know have had one!
My first experience with this sort of nuttiness cannot technically be called a stalker; he's just wacky in that same sort of way. I met him when I was visiting New Orleans and some friends and I wandered into an Oriental rug shop that it turned out he owned. He was friendly - and gorgeous - and we all had a nice chat that afternoon. Well, the friend who lived there returned to the store and went out with him a few times. And, for some reason that I still can't fathom, gave him my phone number. I lived six hours away but he began calling me. He seemed nice enough, though I didn't understand why he was calling, so we'd chat when he reached me. And then I moved to NYC. He got my number from my parents and kept calling. Okay. No big deal. When I moved again - and again - he kept calling them for my number (no reason for me to tell them not to give it to him, right?). Well, finally, he says he's coming to NY on business and wants to take me to dinner. He shows up at my apartment on the appointed evening, looks around at my tiny studio in disgust, and tells me that a moving van will show up the next day to load all my belongings, we'll drive to New Orleans the following day where I'll move in with him and manage a dress shop he's buying. Needless to say, I died laughing! How hilarious, right? Only ... he wasn't joking!
Since he realized that in America you can't just order women to do things like this (he's from Pakistan), he spent the rest of the evening trying to convince me that this was a great idea. My favorite argument was that, since we weren't going to marry, only live together, I wouldn't have to convert to Islam! I suppose I should have just shoved him out the door, rather than head off to dinner with him, but think of what an amusing conversation I would have missed. He left - alone - two days later and I never heard from him again.
The creepiest example for me is my "British stalker". We met when my parents and I were taking a train into Howarth (a village in England's Yorkshire). The train went exactly five miles and only ran on weekends and he was a conductor. On Monday, when we were trying to return to London, and realized that the train wouldn't run again until the following Saturday, we ran into him and he guided us to the necessary bus. We had some extra time, so my father asked him to join us for fish and chips, then, with his usual annoying Southern friendliness, suggested that the BS and I exchange addresses and become pen pals.
I didn't mind writing back and forth with him, but then he came to visit. He stayed for a week in my tiny NY apartment that I shared with a roommate - and mentioned that he could easily stay a second week. I found that unacceptable! For starters (besides the tiny apartment, the roommate) he didn't talk! He was the proverbial man of few words, all the while looking at me expectantly to carry on an entire conversation. It also became clear that he had come to America with the idea of sweeping me (wordlessly, apparently) off my feet and eventually marrying me. (I had a boyfriend. He was no help. He met my BS once, sensed zero threat, and disappeared for the rest of the visit.)
This was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, but then he came to America again. With no notice. (And this wasn't someone who had money to burn on international flights. Or even international calls, back when even basic long distance was expensive.) When he called to say he was in town and wanted to get together, I explained that I was in the middle of law school finals and socializing wasn't really on my agenda. His response? To tell me that he would be in his hotel room, waiting for me to call him, hoping I could find time to see him. Really?? He came to America to sit in a hotel room waiting for me to call??
He'd always sent roses with some frequency, and now I refused them when they came. I screened my calls and refused to pick up when he spoke. Then I moved and left no forwarding address.
Skip about ten years and I get a call at work, then another at home, from my BS, asking if I were "the" woman he'd once known. Said he'd been using the British and American Embassies to track me down!! Creepy? I think so! Of course, I lied through my teeth and told him that no, I was NOT that woman, I'd never been to England and I'd never heard of him before. I also told him that if I were that woman, his behavior would frighten me and I suggested he give up his quest. He recently tried to "friend" me on Facebook. Thank goodness for ignore buttons!
I realize how hard it can be to accept that someone isn't interested in you. Just so you know, though, there are clues and I'm here to provide some of them. (Isn't that helpful of me?) When she moves away and doesn't bother to let you know, that's a clue. When she's never - once - called you, though you've called her 50 times, that's a clue. And when she denies having ever even met you, that's a clue. I'm just saying.
My first experience with this sort of nuttiness cannot technically be called a stalker; he's just wacky in that same sort of way. I met him when I was visiting New Orleans and some friends and I wandered into an Oriental rug shop that it turned out he owned. He was friendly - and gorgeous - and we all had a nice chat that afternoon. Well, the friend who lived there returned to the store and went out with him a few times. And, for some reason that I still can't fathom, gave him my phone number. I lived six hours away but he began calling me. He seemed nice enough, though I didn't understand why he was calling, so we'd chat when he reached me. And then I moved to NYC. He got my number from my parents and kept calling. Okay. No big deal. When I moved again - and again - he kept calling them for my number (no reason for me to tell them not to give it to him, right?). Well, finally, he says he's coming to NY on business and wants to take me to dinner. He shows up at my apartment on the appointed evening, looks around at my tiny studio in disgust, and tells me that a moving van will show up the next day to load all my belongings, we'll drive to New Orleans the following day where I'll move in with him and manage a dress shop he's buying. Needless to say, I died laughing! How hilarious, right? Only ... he wasn't joking!
Since he realized that in America you can't just order women to do things like this (he's from Pakistan), he spent the rest of the evening trying to convince me that this was a great idea. My favorite argument was that, since we weren't going to marry, only live together, I wouldn't have to convert to Islam! I suppose I should have just shoved him out the door, rather than head off to dinner with him, but think of what an amusing conversation I would have missed. He left - alone - two days later and I never heard from him again.
The creepiest example for me is my "British stalker". We met when my parents and I were taking a train into Howarth (a village in England's Yorkshire). The train went exactly five miles and only ran on weekends and he was a conductor. On Monday, when we were trying to return to London, and realized that the train wouldn't run again until the following Saturday, we ran into him and he guided us to the necessary bus. We had some extra time, so my father asked him to join us for fish and chips, then, with his usual annoying Southern friendliness, suggested that the BS and I exchange addresses and become pen pals.
I didn't mind writing back and forth with him, but then he came to visit. He stayed for a week in my tiny NY apartment that I shared with a roommate - and mentioned that he could easily stay a second week. I found that unacceptable! For starters (besides the tiny apartment, the roommate) he didn't talk! He was the proverbial man of few words, all the while looking at me expectantly to carry on an entire conversation. It also became clear that he had come to America with the idea of sweeping me (wordlessly, apparently) off my feet and eventually marrying me. (I had a boyfriend. He was no help. He met my BS once, sensed zero threat, and disappeared for the rest of the visit.)
This was no big deal in the grand scheme of things, but then he came to America again. With no notice. (And this wasn't someone who had money to burn on international flights. Or even international calls, back when even basic long distance was expensive.) When he called to say he was in town and wanted to get together, I explained that I was in the middle of law school finals and socializing wasn't really on my agenda. His response? To tell me that he would be in his hotel room, waiting for me to call him, hoping I could find time to see him. Really?? He came to America to sit in a hotel room waiting for me to call??
He'd always sent roses with some frequency, and now I refused them when they came. I screened my calls and refused to pick up when he spoke. Then I moved and left no forwarding address.
Skip about ten years and I get a call at work, then another at home, from my BS, asking if I were "the" woman he'd once known. Said he'd been using the British and American Embassies to track me down!! Creepy? I think so! Of course, I lied through my teeth and told him that no, I was NOT that woman, I'd never been to England and I'd never heard of him before. I also told him that if I were that woman, his behavior would frighten me and I suggested he give up his quest. He recently tried to "friend" me on Facebook. Thank goodness for ignore buttons!
I realize how hard it can be to accept that someone isn't interested in you. Just so you know, though, there are clues and I'm here to provide some of them. (Isn't that helpful of me?) When she moves away and doesn't bother to let you know, that's a clue. When she's never - once - called you, though you've called her 50 times, that's a clue. And when she denies having ever even met you, that's a clue. I'm just saying.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Maternal Instincts
Remember Furbies? Those little creatures who had some type of computer chip which allowed them to learn to repeat what was said to them, to snore, to laugh? When they came out, I had to have one! In fact, thanks to friends and family, I ended up with three. This was even better; you could have them play together and they'd talk to each other! Problem is, you actually had to spend time with them, talking to them, playing with them, for them to "learn" these social skills. It turns out that my attention span for caring for Furbies is extremely limited. The question is: Why should this surprise me?
I've never pretended to be a maternal type. As a small child, my sister and I had the requisite number of baby dolls. She carried them about, cooed to them, changed their diapers, pretended to bottle-feed them. The only way I ever played with them was to line them all up on the bed, declare the bed an adoption agency, and make my sister fill out paperwork so that she could take them home.
When it came to non-baby dolls, I was a bit better. I did actually love my Barbie dolls. Not that my sister and I could happily play together with those, either. She thought dressing and undressing them was a great deal of fun. Really??!! As the older sister, I nipped that plan in the bud! No, our Barbie dolls had lives. We sent them off to college, had them marry (in full ceremonies, using the Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer, and had them throw parties. (Periodically, I would also insist on gathering all the dolls together so that we could take up all the marbles, which we used for money, and redistribute them equally. Non-maternal, AND a Socialist - at eight.)
In my entire life, I have never voluntarily held a baby (and only involuntarily once), have never baby-sat or changed a diaper. When people show me pictures of their babies, I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. So how did people get the idea that I'm maternal?
This doesn't happen with my friends, mind you. Or if it does, that notion lasts about as long as a cactus in a flood. They know better! At work, however, other providers are constantly sending me clients who need "mothering". They say, "Oh, you're so nice, you'll be perfect for them!" Or, "They really touched my heart and I know they'll touch yours." All the while, sending me clients who lack the capacity or the will to do therapeutic work. Clients who need me to metaphorically pat them on the heads and put band-aids on their wounds.
Don't get me wrong. I can be extremely empathetic. With adults. But if, emotionally, someone is still in kindergarten, I want to put them up on a high shelf with my Furbies and ignore them.
So please - if you ever get the urge to introduce me to someone who needs mothering, squelch it. Don't be hurt or insulted - this is my issue, not yours. I just don't want you to be shocked to learn that I don't dry eyes, wipe runny noses or even make chicken soup. I admire and respect mothers and mother-wanna-be's. Just think of me as the eccentric aunt who doesn't show up until the child's twelfth birthday!
I've never pretended to be a maternal type. As a small child, my sister and I had the requisite number of baby dolls. She carried them about, cooed to them, changed their diapers, pretended to bottle-feed them. The only way I ever played with them was to line them all up on the bed, declare the bed an adoption agency, and make my sister fill out paperwork so that she could take them home.
When it came to non-baby dolls, I was a bit better. I did actually love my Barbie dolls. Not that my sister and I could happily play together with those, either. She thought dressing and undressing them was a great deal of fun. Really??!! As the older sister, I nipped that plan in the bud! No, our Barbie dolls had lives. We sent them off to college, had them marry (in full ceremonies, using the Episcopalian Book of Common Prayer, and had them throw parties. (Periodically, I would also insist on gathering all the dolls together so that we could take up all the marbles, which we used for money, and redistribute them equally. Non-maternal, AND a Socialist - at eight.)
In my entire life, I have never voluntarily held a baby (and only involuntarily once), have never baby-sat or changed a diaper. When people show me pictures of their babies, I try to smile, but it comes out as a grimace. So how did people get the idea that I'm maternal?
This doesn't happen with my friends, mind you. Or if it does, that notion lasts about as long as a cactus in a flood. They know better! At work, however, other providers are constantly sending me clients who need "mothering". They say, "Oh, you're so nice, you'll be perfect for them!" Or, "They really touched my heart and I know they'll touch yours." All the while, sending me clients who lack the capacity or the will to do therapeutic work. Clients who need me to metaphorically pat them on the heads and put band-aids on their wounds.
Don't get me wrong. I can be extremely empathetic. With adults. But if, emotionally, someone is still in kindergarten, I want to put them up on a high shelf with my Furbies and ignore them.
So please - if you ever get the urge to introduce me to someone who needs mothering, squelch it. Don't be hurt or insulted - this is my issue, not yours. I just don't want you to be shocked to learn that I don't dry eyes, wipe runny noses or even make chicken soup. I admire and respect mothers and mother-wanna-be's. Just think of me as the eccentric aunt who doesn't show up until the child's twelfth birthday!
Thursday, October 20, 2011
WTF
Usually when I sit down to write, I have a topic in mind. Something I've thought about for a while, something that I either find meaningful or humorous or both. But all that is going through my mind right now is What the Fuck.
Given my propensity for introspection, (or my propensity for being lazy - it's certainly possible that I spend so much time analyzing things only because I can do it while sitting still) I had to sit here and try to figure out what brain cells are generating this thought and why they aren't being more productive, doing something like making out a grocery list or solving today's Sudoku. And that's when it hit me.
After four years of not dating, four years of really not wanting to date, I've developed an interest in someone. Okay, it may just be a crush, but this is the first time in four years I've considered the possibility that my feelings might be more than a crush. I mean, this is scary stuff, guys!! On its own, that would be worthy of at least a couple of WTF moments. But it gets worse.
First, he's absolutely not my type - physically. He's bald, graying, and a bit paunchy. None of this is awful stuff, but I'm one of those I'll-fight-aging-with-my-dying-breath types, and I tend to like men who are slim and at least color their hair when those gray hairs begin to appear. So it makes sense that it's just a temporary crush and next time I see him I'll think, "D'oh! Of course I'm not really attracted to him!"
Except that I found him oddly attractive the first time I met him. Something to do with his openness, charm, and gentleness. Geez! Could I possibly be willing to toss aside my shallowness for this??
Next, he is totally the wrong zodiac sign for me. His chart, in fact, is all earth, air and water - not a hint of fire! I'm mostly fire, with a bit of earth and a little water - no air at all. So, you're probably thinking (unless you're thinking, "Hey, dipshit - who cares about that stuff?!"), we could compliment each other - fill in the missing spaces and all that. Maybe. But it seems more likely that we'd eventually find that we don't speak the same language - or inhabit the same planet.
Then - the coup de grace - he eats meat. As a dedicated pescetarian, the thought of innocent animals giving up their lives so I can eat them, when there are plenty of other things that will provide me nourishment without causing pain and death, causes me anguish. It's not just that I like animals; I see eating them as being akin to murder - a slaughter of the living simply because they can't defend themselves. Could I actually date someone who participates in this debacle? Just because he doesn't personally pull a trigger or slit a throat?
Okay. Now that we have all the reasons why I can't possibly be truly interested in this guy, I'm left with the disconcerting fact that I spend way too many daytime hours thinking about him. He's even been invading my nighttime hours - popping up in my dreams - in intimate ways!!
So - as incredible as it seems - I decide that maybe the sensible thing is to just see where this goes - find out if we could possibly actually have something real between us or if my senses will return and I'll revert to my normal hermit-like existence. But I can't do that!! Just about the time I had that monumental epipheny - that feeling that it might be worth it to explore this - he shows up with another woman on his arm!! Even worse - she seems like a lovely, interesting, intelligent woman. I ask you - is this fair??
I find myself attracted to someone after swearing off men for good. After going through all of the excellent reasons why I should run in the opposite direction, I listen to my heart (or whatever organ set me up for this) and decide I should check this out. And he's - poof - off the market. Really?!? What the Fuck???
Given my propensity for introspection, (or my propensity for being lazy - it's certainly possible that I spend so much time analyzing things only because I can do it while sitting still) I had to sit here and try to figure out what brain cells are generating this thought and why they aren't being more productive, doing something like making out a grocery list or solving today's Sudoku. And that's when it hit me.
After four years of not dating, four years of really not wanting to date, I've developed an interest in someone. Okay, it may just be a crush, but this is the first time in four years I've considered the possibility that my feelings might be more than a crush. I mean, this is scary stuff, guys!! On its own, that would be worthy of at least a couple of WTF moments. But it gets worse.
First, he's absolutely not my type - physically. He's bald, graying, and a bit paunchy. None of this is awful stuff, but I'm one of those I'll-fight-aging-with-my-dying-breath types, and I tend to like men who are slim and at least color their hair when those gray hairs begin to appear. So it makes sense that it's just a temporary crush and next time I see him I'll think, "D'oh! Of course I'm not really attracted to him!"
Except that I found him oddly attractive the first time I met him. Something to do with his openness, charm, and gentleness. Geez! Could I possibly be willing to toss aside my shallowness for this??
Next, he is totally the wrong zodiac sign for me. His chart, in fact, is all earth, air and water - not a hint of fire! I'm mostly fire, with a bit of earth and a little water - no air at all. So, you're probably thinking (unless you're thinking, "Hey, dipshit - who cares about that stuff?!"), we could compliment each other - fill in the missing spaces and all that. Maybe. But it seems more likely that we'd eventually find that we don't speak the same language - or inhabit the same planet.
Then - the coup de grace - he eats meat. As a dedicated pescetarian, the thought of innocent animals giving up their lives so I can eat them, when there are plenty of other things that will provide me nourishment without causing pain and death, causes me anguish. It's not just that I like animals; I see eating them as being akin to murder - a slaughter of the living simply because they can't defend themselves. Could I actually date someone who participates in this debacle? Just because he doesn't personally pull a trigger or slit a throat?
Okay. Now that we have all the reasons why I can't possibly be truly interested in this guy, I'm left with the disconcerting fact that I spend way too many daytime hours thinking about him. He's even been invading my nighttime hours - popping up in my dreams - in intimate ways!!
So - as incredible as it seems - I decide that maybe the sensible thing is to just see where this goes - find out if we could possibly actually have something real between us or if my senses will return and I'll revert to my normal hermit-like existence. But I can't do that!! Just about the time I had that monumental epipheny - that feeling that it might be worth it to explore this - he shows up with another woman on his arm!! Even worse - she seems like a lovely, interesting, intelligent woman. I ask you - is this fair??
I find myself attracted to someone after swearing off men for good. After going through all of the excellent reasons why I should run in the opposite direction, I listen to my heart (or whatever organ set me up for this) and decide I should check this out. And he's - poof - off the market. Really?!? What the Fuck???
Monday, October 10, 2011
Kissing Ken
I gave up dating in 2007. I give lots of reasons for this: I make poor choices; there aren't any "right for me" men out there; I have no time; I just don't meet eligible men. The truth, though, is simply that I ran out of energy.
My job is emotionally stressful and demanding and by the time I leave it at the end of the day, I am emotionally bankrupt. Yes, the thought of going home to someone who would rub my feet and shoulders, bring me a drink, and provide scintillating dinner conversation, while asking nothing of me is enticing, but I doubt that Stepford Husbands actually exist.
So I continue merrily along on my solo journey through life, rubbing my own feet, mixing my own drinks, and reading scintillating books over dinner. This is not a bad deal. Turns out that a partner is actually needed rarely.
Companionship? I have tons of fabulous friends, many of them male, so I get both male and female companionship regularly.
Sex? Let's just say I keep my bedside table well-stocked with batteries. (I didn't say there weren't differences; I said a partner isn't necessary.)
Moving furniture/dealing with the occasional rodent/etc.? Friends, neighbors, cats.
Truth be told, though, there is one glitch in all this. One significant glitch. Kissing requires two people. And I love kissing. I've been known to break up with wonderful men because they weren't good kissers. And to stay with ... less than wonderful men ... because they were. In my book, kissing is a true art form, a thing of beauty, something that, done right, can take my breath away and buckle my knees more surely than an incredible sunset or a stunning mountain view. Kissing isn't just the lead-up to the main event, it is A Main Event on its own. And there is no replacement for it.
So for the past several weeks, I've been walking around with a blissed-out smile on my face. I wake up in a better mood. I have happy dreams. I've been doing a LOT of kissing!
Nope, I've not had a date. I've not been hanging out in bars, making out with strangers after midnight. I've been leading my normal, relationship-free life. But I've been doing a play.
One can do tons and tons of theatre and rarely kiss others (plus, most stage kisses are brief and quite circumspect). I've been doing shows my entire adult life without ever having more than a handful of stage kisses, and none of those were particularly memorable. And then along came this play. And Ken.
The script itself calls for a lot of kissing and some of it is required to be passionate. NICE! That, however, turned out to be just the start. In general, actors might peck at each other in early rehearsals, and it's not uncommon for them to delay the actual kissing in scenes until weeks into the process. Not Ken! At the very first rehearsal, the first kiss called for in the script saw him marching over and planting one on me. And the passionate kissing became more and more passionate each time. Need I add that he is a very good kisser? (No - it's not French kissing - it IS acting.) Meanwhile, we started adding in more kisses. A scene that calls for three kisses now probably has six. We even threw one in for the curtain call! And there are the "break-a-leg" kisses before each performance, the "hello" and "goodbye" kisses each night ... apparently I'm trying to make up for a four-year dry spell in a period of two months ... and coming damned close to doing so!
True, none of these are deep, soul-searching, brain-melting kisses, but they are wonderful, nonetheless. However, these will end next weekend when the show closes. And therein lies the problem - now I'm about to be bereft of kisses once again. What to do?? How to fix this?? Anyone need a volunteer to (wo)man a kissing booth?
My job is emotionally stressful and demanding and by the time I leave it at the end of the day, I am emotionally bankrupt. Yes, the thought of going home to someone who would rub my feet and shoulders, bring me a drink, and provide scintillating dinner conversation, while asking nothing of me is enticing, but I doubt that Stepford Husbands actually exist.
So I continue merrily along on my solo journey through life, rubbing my own feet, mixing my own drinks, and reading scintillating books over dinner. This is not a bad deal. Turns out that a partner is actually needed rarely.
Companionship? I have tons of fabulous friends, many of them male, so I get both male and female companionship regularly.
Sex? Let's just say I keep my bedside table well-stocked with batteries. (I didn't say there weren't differences; I said a partner isn't necessary.)
Moving furniture/dealing with the occasional rodent/etc.? Friends, neighbors, cats.
Truth be told, though, there is one glitch in all this. One significant glitch. Kissing requires two people. And I love kissing. I've been known to break up with wonderful men because they weren't good kissers. And to stay with ... less than wonderful men ... because they were. In my book, kissing is a true art form, a thing of beauty, something that, done right, can take my breath away and buckle my knees more surely than an incredible sunset or a stunning mountain view. Kissing isn't just the lead-up to the main event, it is A Main Event on its own. And there is no replacement for it.
So for the past several weeks, I've been walking around with a blissed-out smile on my face. I wake up in a better mood. I have happy dreams. I've been doing a LOT of kissing!
Nope, I've not had a date. I've not been hanging out in bars, making out with strangers after midnight. I've been leading my normal, relationship-free life. But I've been doing a play.
One can do tons and tons of theatre and rarely kiss others (plus, most stage kisses are brief and quite circumspect). I've been doing shows my entire adult life without ever having more than a handful of stage kisses, and none of those were particularly memorable. And then along came this play. And Ken.
The script itself calls for a lot of kissing and some of it is required to be passionate. NICE! That, however, turned out to be just the start. In general, actors might peck at each other in early rehearsals, and it's not uncommon for them to delay the actual kissing in scenes until weeks into the process. Not Ken! At the very first rehearsal, the first kiss called for in the script saw him marching over and planting one on me. And the passionate kissing became more and more passionate each time. Need I add that he is a very good kisser? (No - it's not French kissing - it IS acting.) Meanwhile, we started adding in more kisses. A scene that calls for three kisses now probably has six. We even threw one in for the curtain call! And there are the "break-a-leg" kisses before each performance, the "hello" and "goodbye" kisses each night ... apparently I'm trying to make up for a four-year dry spell in a period of two months ... and coming damned close to doing so!
True, none of these are deep, soul-searching, brain-melting kisses, but they are wonderful, nonetheless. However, these will end next weekend when the show closes. And therein lies the problem - now I'm about to be bereft of kisses once again. What to do?? How to fix this?? Anyone need a volunteer to (wo)man a kissing booth?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Too Damned Nice
Recently, a friend was sharing a story about her childhood. This involved some children who were tormenting her, in true child-fashion, and about every fourth sentence ended with, "And my mother said, 'Be nice'. " That's when it struck me. We were both afflicted with the same problem: mothers who told us to be nice.
Yes, I can hear what you're thinking. "Be NICE!? Oh my gods, what a horrible thing to wish on a child!" But the truth is, it can be.
When we are told to be nice to everyone, no matter how they are annoying us, or upsetting us, we're being taught to shove our own feelings aside for the sake of others. And that can be a wonderful thing to do. But not always. Especially for girls.
What happens is that we stop trusting our instincts. After all, if we think someone is a creep, but our mother says he is someone we should be nice to, we're left assuming that he must not be a creep after all, and our instincts were wrong. If this happens enough, we lose faith in our intuition.
We also find it harder and harder to do or say anything that might hurt someone's feelings, even if they are crossing our boundaries and causing harm to us. I'm sure there are many reasons why date rape is so prolific, but my guess is that when women are programmed to protect others' feelings at the expense of our own, it becomes more and more difficult to say no in an assertive manner. After all, rejecting someone can hurt their feelings, right? And crossing the street to avoid someone who sets off alarm bells in your head might hurt that person's feelings.
It can be less harmful, but just as insidious in other ways. Have you ever found yourself laughing, uneasily, at a joke or comment that you found offensive in some way? Or retreating into silence when hearing someone insult others? Was that because you didn't care, or because you wanted to "be nice"?
Well, I'm here to tell you there is hope! In my (much) younger days, I tolerated behaviors that never should have been tolerated. But somewhere along the way, I decided that "nice" was highly overrated. And that sometimes people deserved to have their feelings hurt. So when a man approached me in my neighborhood grocery store and, sidling close to me (my initial "nice" thought was that he must come from a country that views personal space differently, so I shouldn't move away), whispered obscenities in my ear, I looked at him for a moment, then opened my mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream. He scuttled away quickly, muttering about how crazy I was, and I went calmly on with my shopping.
Some time later, I was in the Post Office, waiting in the long single line for a teller. I'd finally made it to the front of the queue and was moving toward a vacant spot when an elderly man walked in the front door and straight up to the next teller. I looked about, incredulously, then yelled at him, "You! Go to the back of the line!!" He looked at me strangely and I again yelled, "Back of the line! We've been waiting here!" He ambled to where I'd motioned him, and I took my rightful place at the teller's desk. She was laughing and I asked why. She stated that that man did that all the time; he knew better but counted on the fact that people were too polite to call him on it.
Lest you think I'm heartless, had he approached me and said he needed to go before me due to infirmity or some other reason, I'd have graciously ceded my space. But I'm no longer going to be a hostage to my mother's admonitions. My new motto: No More Ms. Nice Girl!
Yes, I can hear what you're thinking. "Be NICE!? Oh my gods, what a horrible thing to wish on a child!" But the truth is, it can be.
When we are told to be nice to everyone, no matter how they are annoying us, or upsetting us, we're being taught to shove our own feelings aside for the sake of others. And that can be a wonderful thing to do. But not always. Especially for girls.
What happens is that we stop trusting our instincts. After all, if we think someone is a creep, but our mother says he is someone we should be nice to, we're left assuming that he must not be a creep after all, and our instincts were wrong. If this happens enough, we lose faith in our intuition.
We also find it harder and harder to do or say anything that might hurt someone's feelings, even if they are crossing our boundaries and causing harm to us. I'm sure there are many reasons why date rape is so prolific, but my guess is that when women are programmed to protect others' feelings at the expense of our own, it becomes more and more difficult to say no in an assertive manner. After all, rejecting someone can hurt their feelings, right? And crossing the street to avoid someone who sets off alarm bells in your head might hurt that person's feelings.
It can be less harmful, but just as insidious in other ways. Have you ever found yourself laughing, uneasily, at a joke or comment that you found offensive in some way? Or retreating into silence when hearing someone insult others? Was that because you didn't care, or because you wanted to "be nice"?
Well, I'm here to tell you there is hope! In my (much) younger days, I tolerated behaviors that never should have been tolerated. But somewhere along the way, I decided that "nice" was highly overrated. And that sometimes people deserved to have their feelings hurt. So when a man approached me in my neighborhood grocery store and, sidling close to me (my initial "nice" thought was that he must come from a country that views personal space differently, so I shouldn't move away), whispered obscenities in my ear, I looked at him for a moment, then opened my mouth and let out a bloodcurdling scream. He scuttled away quickly, muttering about how crazy I was, and I went calmly on with my shopping.
Some time later, I was in the Post Office, waiting in the long single line for a teller. I'd finally made it to the front of the queue and was moving toward a vacant spot when an elderly man walked in the front door and straight up to the next teller. I looked about, incredulously, then yelled at him, "You! Go to the back of the line!!" He looked at me strangely and I again yelled, "Back of the line! We've been waiting here!" He ambled to where I'd motioned him, and I took my rightful place at the teller's desk. She was laughing and I asked why. She stated that that man did that all the time; he knew better but counted on the fact that people were too polite to call him on it.
Lest you think I'm heartless, had he approached me and said he needed to go before me due to infirmity or some other reason, I'd have graciously ceded my space. But I'm no longer going to be a hostage to my mother's admonitions. My new motto: No More Ms. Nice Girl!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Universe Calling
I get the feeling that the universe is trying to tell me something, only I'm not entirely sure what it is. And I suspect it may be something I don't want to know, so my inability to hear it could be the result of my putting my fingers in my ears and my atonal la-la-la'ing to drown it out. This hasn't been able to squelch the tiny rumbling in my gut, however; the tiny rumbling that indicates that - just possibly - it might be something I need to know, wants aside.
My love of stasis notwithstanding, it's become increasingly impossible to ignore the signs
My love of stasis notwithstanding, it's become increasingly impossible to ignore the signs
that things are changing, and not for the better. Sigh.
First, after things started going wacky at work, I finally had the chance to take the job I want ... only to find that it comes with an enormous salary cut. Next, I discover that the job I have is not only whacky but is getting worse - it is going to be altered so as to be unrecognizable. And then I find that they're willing to change it in ways that will improve the altered version, but still make it undesirable. I also got a job offer out of thin air - flattering and tempting in some ways, but not a job I'd get excited about every day. And there's another such possibility - same money and benefits as I now have - work I would only partially enjoy.
One of my co-workers had a heart attack. He's fine, but then another (a dear friend) dropped dead unexpectedly. A third (no, I do not have dozens and dozens of co-workers) ended up in the ER with chest pains. She's fine, too, but it's hard not to see these episodes as potent reminders that life is short and uncertain. Of course, we all know this, but living as though we know it is something else.
It should be such an easy decision; do I go with more money and benefits and settle for tolerating my job or do I do work I love with significantly reduced salary and benefits? With the former, I have more money to enjoy life outside of work - eating out, theatre, traveling, etc.; with the latter, I can get excited about what I do and feel satisfied that I make a difference for people. With the former, I can expect to actually retire someday, by sacrificing 40 hours a week for the next many years. With the latter, I'll be happy for the majority of those 40 hours a week, but may have to work till I die.
And if I were to die tomorrow? Which plan would have made the most sense?
I don't work because I want to. Given my druthers, I'd never work another day in my life. I'd do volunteer work and would otherwise just enjoy the plethora of things this life has to offer. But as my parents were unkind enough to refrain from being obscenely wealthy and as I've yet to win the lottery, even though I have played it - once or twice - if I were to quit work, I'd have to live under a bridge and root through trashcans for food, which is not my idea of enjoying life.
And if one works, and works many hours a week, how much of life can one truly enjoy if all those hours are spent in near-drudgery? In my experience, being unhappy at work drains one of the energy needed to enjoy hours spent elsewhere.
....
So, of course, I made my choice. I took the pay cut and the greatly reduced benefits and hope that I'm doing what the universe prefers, even if I'm doing it with my fingers stuck in my ears. In the meantime, don't be offended if I decline all invitations to go out - I can't afford a social life anymore.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Why Are All the Good Ones ... or As Susan's World Turns
Years ago, I explained my love of soap operas by saying that I watched them to feel better about my own life. After all, my life seemed quite normal by comparison! A few years later, I'd changed my explanation. Now I watched them to see how "normal" people live.
Okay, I suppose my life doesn't technically qualify as a soap-opera existence. I haven't had eight marriages (or any, come to think of it), a heart transplant with said heart coming from my husband/brother/arch enemy, or discovered a grown child I didn't know I'd given birth to. I've never had the kind of cat fight where I dunked someone's head in the toilet or wound up grappling in a chocolate fountain. Shoot - I've never even had amnesia!!
But if you take what I imagine the average midwestern housewife's life to be (admitting that I know no midwestern housewives, few midwesterners and fewer housewives), I think my life comes somewhat close.
Take my romantic past. Or what passes as such. First, there are the men I didn't want. The son and one of the two heirs to a jewelry dynasty that puts Cartier to shame. (He never called in advance for a date. How rude!) A charming gentleman four times my age who shared his penthouse on Park Avenue only with his housekeeper - who lived in the housekeeper's wing. (Four times my age....) A former self-proclaimed "dentist to the stars" who lived in one of the richest neighborhoods in Beverly Hills and owns the kind of movie memorabilia sold at absurd prices by snooty auction houses. (Narcissistic and boring, the type who is oh-so-impressed with himself.)
So wealth and power and prestige obviously aren't what I was after. (That's my father's voice in the background, sobbing.) What sort of men did I choose?
No, I've not fallen for drug abusers/dealer, criminals of other sorts, or even married men. But introduce me to a guy who loves musical theatre, feels passionate about sequins, and loves to decorate, and I'm a goner.
The question, of course, is why would gay men be attracted to me? It's not like I have this long litany of unrequited loves. I have a long list of ex-'s, quite a few of whom turned out to be gay. In truth, sometimes I knew they were bisexual up-front. And sometimes they lied and told me they were straight. (And who wouldn't believe that, coming from an actor/hairdresser who has a small poodle?!?)
For years I harbored a secret fear that I must be masculine. After all - a gay man dating a woman - wouldn't he want someone who is butch? Turns out, from years of casual research and talks with my gay male friends (one of whom told me he was afraid he was a closet heterosexual since he wasn't attracted to me), when gay men are interested in women, they tend to be interested in extremely feminine and usually petite women. As well as in women who are comfortable taking center stage and refusing to give it back. (Liza? Barbra? Bette?)
Still, I went blithely on my way, assuming all women had relationships with gay men until an acquaintance called me one day to tell me that my best friend's love life was the talk of half the town ... and my own love life was the talk of the other half! Granted, the tabloids didn't appear to be interested, but everyone else apparently was.
What caused this fascination with my personal life? In true soap opera fashion, I had begun doing a play where I was less than enamored with my male co-star. He was rude when I first met him, and at our first rehearsal, he was wearing more eye make-up than I was. (I later found out he'd been mugged over the weekend and was trying to cover up bruises.) As any soap fan knows, if two people dislike each other up-front, they are doomed to fall for each other. And, over post-rehearsal drinks and a shared love for singing tv theme songs, during rehearsals where we learned to trust each other totally, and in an unspoken way, fall for each other we did. If there is such as thing as "soul mates", that is what we were.
I'd convinced myself he was straight. He'd convinced himself we could be "friends". Let the cameras roll.
Pathos is required. He was swimming in new territory - he had always been gay and falling in love with a woman just didn't compute. So he would delight in my company, then avoid me for weeks. (I can be hard to avoid when I know what I want, so he was seriously determined at those times.) We would go out till 2:00 a.m. or so, then talk on the phone till 5:00 when we both got home. He would ask me to marry him on Saturday night, then call on Sunday to explain why that was out of the question. We'd have huge arguments, sometimes in the middle of the street in the middle of the night. I cared for him, night and day, when he'd been hit in the head with a cast-iron skillet and left for dead during a robbery. I broke his foot by stomping on it with my stiletto heel while we were fighting in a bar. We always, always knew we could count on each other, even if we weren't speaking at the time. We loved each other passionately, but in the end, he couldn't handle feeling that he didn't know who he was.
Our big finale: one tear-filled evening, we held each other in a long hug while admitting to each other that this simply couldn't work - not in this life-time. We both knew our connection was too strong to end, but neither of us could handle more off-stage drama and we had to walk away from each other. We promised we'd try again in our next life-time and parted with feelings of love and compassion.
Sometimes, soaps have happy endings. But they also have tragedy and misery. We saw each other only once more over the next few years; he came to town on business and we had dinner together and laughed and shared beautiful memories before saying good-by again. The next time I saw him, he was dying of cancer and he lasted only a couple of months after that.
In soap operas, death is rarely final. People fall out of airplanes, are shot dead and buried, undergo autopsies ... and still return, live and well, to pick up where they left off. In my own personal soap, I fully expect this type of "ending". Okay, not in this life, but I fully plan for us to laugh and love and fight and create scenes and pick up right where we left off in our grand romance. And I am not worried about this show being cancelled.
Okay, I suppose my life doesn't technically qualify as a soap-opera existence. I haven't had eight marriages (or any, come to think of it), a heart transplant with said heart coming from my husband/brother/arch enemy, or discovered a grown child I didn't know I'd given birth to. I've never had the kind of cat fight where I dunked someone's head in the toilet or wound up grappling in a chocolate fountain. Shoot - I've never even had amnesia!!
But if you take what I imagine the average midwestern housewife's life to be (admitting that I know no midwestern housewives, few midwesterners and fewer housewives), I think my life comes somewhat close.
Take my romantic past. Or what passes as such. First, there are the men I didn't want. The son and one of the two heirs to a jewelry dynasty that puts Cartier to shame. (He never called in advance for a date. How rude!) A charming gentleman four times my age who shared his penthouse on Park Avenue only with his housekeeper - who lived in the housekeeper's wing. (Four times my age....) A former self-proclaimed "dentist to the stars" who lived in one of the richest neighborhoods in Beverly Hills and owns the kind of movie memorabilia sold at absurd prices by snooty auction houses. (Narcissistic and boring, the type who is oh-so-impressed with himself.)
So wealth and power and prestige obviously aren't what I was after. (That's my father's voice in the background, sobbing.) What sort of men did I choose?
No, I've not fallen for drug abusers/dealer, criminals of other sorts, or even married men. But introduce me to a guy who loves musical theatre, feels passionate about sequins, and loves to decorate, and I'm a goner.
The question, of course, is why would gay men be attracted to me? It's not like I have this long litany of unrequited loves. I have a long list of ex-'s, quite a few of whom turned out to be gay. In truth, sometimes I knew they were bisexual up-front. And sometimes they lied and told me they were straight. (And who wouldn't believe that, coming from an actor/hairdresser who has a small poodle?!?)
For years I harbored a secret fear that I must be masculine. After all - a gay man dating a woman - wouldn't he want someone who is butch? Turns out, from years of casual research and talks with my gay male friends (one of whom told me he was afraid he was a closet heterosexual since he wasn't attracted to me), when gay men are interested in women, they tend to be interested in extremely feminine and usually petite women. As well as in women who are comfortable taking center stage and refusing to give it back. (Liza? Barbra? Bette?)
Still, I went blithely on my way, assuming all women had relationships with gay men until an acquaintance called me one day to tell me that my best friend's love life was the talk of half the town ... and my own love life was the talk of the other half! Granted, the tabloids didn't appear to be interested, but everyone else apparently was.
What caused this fascination with my personal life? In true soap opera fashion, I had begun doing a play where I was less than enamored with my male co-star. He was rude when I first met him, and at our first rehearsal, he was wearing more eye make-up than I was. (I later found out he'd been mugged over the weekend and was trying to cover up bruises.) As any soap fan knows, if two people dislike each other up-front, they are doomed to fall for each other. And, over post-rehearsal drinks and a shared love for singing tv theme songs, during rehearsals where we learned to trust each other totally, and in an unspoken way, fall for each other we did. If there is such as thing as "soul mates", that is what we were.
I'd convinced myself he was straight. He'd convinced himself we could be "friends". Let the cameras roll.
Pathos is required. He was swimming in new territory - he had always been gay and falling in love with a woman just didn't compute. So he would delight in my company, then avoid me for weeks. (I can be hard to avoid when I know what I want, so he was seriously determined at those times.) We would go out till 2:00 a.m. or so, then talk on the phone till 5:00 when we both got home. He would ask me to marry him on Saturday night, then call on Sunday to explain why that was out of the question. We'd have huge arguments, sometimes in the middle of the street in the middle of the night. I cared for him, night and day, when he'd been hit in the head with a cast-iron skillet and left for dead during a robbery. I broke his foot by stomping on it with my stiletto heel while we were fighting in a bar. We always, always knew we could count on each other, even if we weren't speaking at the time. We loved each other passionately, but in the end, he couldn't handle feeling that he didn't know who he was.
Our big finale: one tear-filled evening, we held each other in a long hug while admitting to each other that this simply couldn't work - not in this life-time. We both knew our connection was too strong to end, but neither of us could handle more off-stage drama and we had to walk away from each other. We promised we'd try again in our next life-time and parted with feelings of love and compassion.
Sometimes, soaps have happy endings. But they also have tragedy and misery. We saw each other only once more over the next few years; he came to town on business and we had dinner together and laughed and shared beautiful memories before saying good-by again. The next time I saw him, he was dying of cancer and he lasted only a couple of months after that.
In soap operas, death is rarely final. People fall out of airplanes, are shot dead and buried, undergo autopsies ... and still return, live and well, to pick up where they left off. In my own personal soap, I fully expect this type of "ending". Okay, not in this life, but I fully plan for us to laugh and love and fight and create scenes and pick up right where we left off in our grand romance. And I am not worried about this show being cancelled.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Joys of Summer
It is summer. For at least three - long - months, the days will be hot, humid and long. Friends talk of boating, swimming, picnics, softball, and lazy evenings spent on the porch. I talk of nothing. I can't. I have to save my energy to get through the day in spite of the sun-induced headaches and the overwhelming listlessness that comes with the sort of heat that presses down on you, forcing you to walk slowly, if not crawl.
In truth, I should be genetically disposed to love the heat. I grew up in the deep south and days in the 90's were routine for almost half the year. In my youth, I relished high temperatures. The slightest whiff of cold air would send me shivering for a sweater and movie theaters required heavy coats.
But something changed. In my early 20's I moved to NYC. In January. When making the plans for this move, I decided that I should find out early whether I could tolerate a winter up north, and if not, I could move home sooner rather than later, before making friends, getting comfortable - settling in. I arrived in early January to find snow on the ground.
The room I had rented via mail, in a hotel for women, was nothing like the charming pictures in their brochure. Those showed smiling women in sweater sets and pearls sitting and reading by warm lamp light in a cozy, nicely furnished room. They were obviously taken several decades before I arrived. The actual room - er, suite - had beaten-up furniture, a stove with two burners, one of which didn't work and the other which would not get hot enough to boil water, a minuscule sink and fridge and NO HEAT. Forget the cockroaches that fell through gaps in the ceiling. Forget the women who sat in the hallways during the day, drinking from bottles concealed in brown paper bags and screaming obscenities at those of us who passed by. There was NO HEAT. Did I mention that this was January?
Surprisingly, this did not cause me to run to the airport and catch the next plane home. Intrepid adventurer that I believed myself to be, I simply went out the next day and bought an electric blanket, which I wore around myself whenever I was in the room. I also quickly found a job which enabled me to spend my days in a heated building. Finally, I began to realize that my winter clothes had not been intended for real winters and they didn't keep me very warm. In addition, I learned that open-toed shoes in 20 degree weather, especially when worn while trying to catch a cab on Broadway post-theatre (which means there were no cabs free for a very long time) - were an invitation to frost-bite.
Still, I stayed and I learned to dress for the weather and ... slowly ... I guess my blood thickened. A couple of years down the line, I realized that my new favorite month was - February! I loved the grey skies, the cold, the yellow slushy snow - all the stuff I'd hated such a short time before. I'd walk miles in my heavy coat and hat, savoring the winds that bit my face, laughing when they whipped so hard that I had to turn my head to catch a breath. I loved the ritual of dressing to go out - the scarves, the layers of sweaters, the thermal underwear, the coat, the gloves, the hats, the boots - knowing that I would not be beaten by the elements.
So after this transition, when I had begun to loathe summer, dreading the muggy heat as much as I looked forward to snow drifts, I moved again. To New Orleans.
Then began the task of re-learning to dress for heat and not just for four to six weeks, but for months at a time. I discovered that sweating is downright unpleasant and that my energizer-bunny style of walking slowed to tortoise speed as I pushed through the steam of summer streets. My beautiful wool clothes sat on shelves, gathering dust. My heavy-with-warmth coats were used as costumes in plays. My hair refused to curl. This was not the happy heat of my childhood memories; this was stultifying, lethargy-creating leaden heat.
Of course, as humans do, I adjusted once again, though I never did regain an appreciation for temperatures above 75. In New Orleans, the heat is a character in one's life. As one tolerates a bigoted, ignorant uncle, or accepts a beyond-eccentric aunt, one comes to terms with the weather and learns to overlook the daily annoyances it causes. (One also learns that one can stay hydrated if one drinks a great deal of alcohol, as long as the alcohol is stirred into fruit juices, milk, sodas, etc.) So this new character in my life and I found something akin to a truce. I went about my days much as usual, only at 33 rpms, rather than 78, and I traded in my woolen chapeaux for straw sun-hats.
I no longer live in New Orleans - or NYC. I live between the two, in a land where summer is long and oppressive and winter comes with snow and frigid temps. In the former, as I am now, I fondly recall struggling through feet of snow and reverently stroke my cashmere sweaters. In the latter, I remind myself to treasure the moments, no matter how long the wait for the bus or how icy the streets.
Genetics, be damned!
In truth, I should be genetically disposed to love the heat. I grew up in the deep south and days in the 90's were routine for almost half the year. In my youth, I relished high temperatures. The slightest whiff of cold air would send me shivering for a sweater and movie theaters required heavy coats.
But something changed. In my early 20's I moved to NYC. In January. When making the plans for this move, I decided that I should find out early whether I could tolerate a winter up north, and if not, I could move home sooner rather than later, before making friends, getting comfortable - settling in. I arrived in early January to find snow on the ground.
The room I had rented via mail, in a hotel for women, was nothing like the charming pictures in their brochure. Those showed smiling women in sweater sets and pearls sitting and reading by warm lamp light in a cozy, nicely furnished room. They were obviously taken several decades before I arrived. The actual room - er, suite - had beaten-up furniture, a stove with two burners, one of which didn't work and the other which would not get hot enough to boil water, a minuscule sink and fridge and NO HEAT. Forget the cockroaches that fell through gaps in the ceiling. Forget the women who sat in the hallways during the day, drinking from bottles concealed in brown paper bags and screaming obscenities at those of us who passed by. There was NO HEAT. Did I mention that this was January?
Surprisingly, this did not cause me to run to the airport and catch the next plane home. Intrepid adventurer that I believed myself to be, I simply went out the next day and bought an electric blanket, which I wore around myself whenever I was in the room. I also quickly found a job which enabled me to spend my days in a heated building. Finally, I began to realize that my winter clothes had not been intended for real winters and they didn't keep me very warm. In addition, I learned that open-toed shoes in 20 degree weather, especially when worn while trying to catch a cab on Broadway post-theatre (which means there were no cabs free for a very long time) - were an invitation to frost-bite.
Still, I stayed and I learned to dress for the weather and ... slowly ... I guess my blood thickened. A couple of years down the line, I realized that my new favorite month was - February! I loved the grey skies, the cold, the yellow slushy snow - all the stuff I'd hated such a short time before. I'd walk miles in my heavy coat and hat, savoring the winds that bit my face, laughing when they whipped so hard that I had to turn my head to catch a breath. I loved the ritual of dressing to go out - the scarves, the layers of sweaters, the thermal underwear, the coat, the gloves, the hats, the boots - knowing that I would not be beaten by the elements.
So after this transition, when I had begun to loathe summer, dreading the muggy heat as much as I looked forward to snow drifts, I moved again. To New Orleans.
Then began the task of re-learning to dress for heat and not just for four to six weeks, but for months at a time. I discovered that sweating is downright unpleasant and that my energizer-bunny style of walking slowed to tortoise speed as I pushed through the steam of summer streets. My beautiful wool clothes sat on shelves, gathering dust. My heavy-with-warmth coats were used as costumes in plays. My hair refused to curl. This was not the happy heat of my childhood memories; this was stultifying, lethargy-creating leaden heat.
Of course, as humans do, I adjusted once again, though I never did regain an appreciation for temperatures above 75. In New Orleans, the heat is a character in one's life. As one tolerates a bigoted, ignorant uncle, or accepts a beyond-eccentric aunt, one comes to terms with the weather and learns to overlook the daily annoyances it causes. (One also learns that one can stay hydrated if one drinks a great deal of alcohol, as long as the alcohol is stirred into fruit juices, milk, sodas, etc.) So this new character in my life and I found something akin to a truce. I went about my days much as usual, only at 33 rpms, rather than 78, and I traded in my woolen chapeaux for straw sun-hats.
I no longer live in New Orleans - or NYC. I live between the two, in a land where summer is long and oppressive and winter comes with snow and frigid temps. In the former, as I am now, I fondly recall struggling through feet of snow and reverently stroke my cashmere sweaters. In the latter, I remind myself to treasure the moments, no matter how long the wait for the bus or how icy the streets.
Genetics, be damned!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Communal Living
Had I been born early enough, I've always figured I'd have been a Haight Ashbury type - free love, make peace, one for all and all for one. Of course, it's entirely possible that my dislike of dirty clothes, not to mention dirty hair and body odors, and my aversion to so much as holding hands with someone I find physically unappealing, might have gotten in the way. We'll never know.
Whatever might have been, I continue to see myself as a hippie-could-have-been and have always thought that the idea of a commune is a wonderful one. (As I live alone in a two-story house and shudder at the thought of sharing my space for longer than a week, I am well able to separate the dream from the reality.) So I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when my cat, Arthur, decided that he wanted to try out communal living.
In addition to my other numerous soap-box topics, I am a strident advocate of the necessity of keeping pet cats indoors. Research indicates that it is far healthier for the cats, personal history indicates that it is less stressful for the humans who know where they are and aren't worried that they've been hit by a car, and the simplest of logic indicates that it is healthier for the bird population in general. So my two roommates of the feline persuasion live an entirely indoor existence with no knowledge of the larger world outside and they've given me no reason to believe they are unhappy with this situation.
Nonetheless, they are cats, and we've all heard about cats and curiosity. So when Arthur, closed up in a room he'd sneaked into, discovered a tiny hole where he could squeeze out the window next to the window unit AC, squeeze he did and found himself on my porch roof. Who knows what persuaded him to wander off, eventually find his way to the ground, and disappear into the neighborhood, but it's hard to imagine a cat who would be unable to resist new sights, smells and sounds.
At first, I was in denial. I kept thinking that he was in the house, hiding from me, which isn't unusual, and that he'd appear soon. When I had to accept that he was gone, my brain slowly began to work and I took action. I reported him lost to the Humane Society. I made dozens of fliers (on bright hot pink paper) and put them up all over the neighborhood. I bought a live animal trap and baited it with his favorite food. And calls began coming in. A cat of his description had been seen with its four kittens (nope). A cat of his description had been seen running down the street and the caller wasn't sure where he was now (this call came in at midnight). When a friend knocked on my door late at night and said she thought he was up the hill, I ran out, in bathrobe and slippers with my keys in one hand and a bag of kitty treats in the other. I will be forever grateful that no one took a picture of me wandering the streets and alleys late at night in my robe and slippers, shaking a kitty treat bag.
Then came the call that said he was living behind a house nearby with various strays. Sure enough, there he was, hanging out with about 10 other cats. I spotted him, called his name. He stopped, turned and looked at me, and sprinted off! I climbed into the neighbor's back yard, followed him down steps, through yards and watched him disappear into a basement through the broken window of an abandoned house. The disparity between my size and the size of the window, added to my unwillingness to carry my trespassing quite that far, caused me to acknowledge defeat for the time being.
This is when it hit me. My pampered, protected pussycat preferred foraging for food, rolling in the dirt and living side by side with similar felines to coming home to me! Only I would have a cat who would choose to live in a commune!
Still, even if he doesn't have my genes, some of my proclivities must have worn off on him. No matter how much he enjoyed life in the kitty kibbutz, he kept coming back to my house. He was spotted in or nearly in my back yard almost daily. And finally he was seen lolling under my sunroom and I was able to coax him to me with those same kitty treats with which I had recently toured the neighborhood.
He did not like being captured. He became a furry whirling dervish, and while his lack of front claws terrified me when he was missing, his back claws turned out to be most effective weapons. (Tip: buy stock in band-aids.) Bleeding and battered, I plopped him into the house and announced that his adventures were officially over.
So how has he adjusted to living life indoors again? This cat who used to avoid me except at mealtimes and who, following even the slightest alteration to his schedule would hide for hours, immediately ate a can of cat food, then wandered back and forth through the house, even flopping down on the floor next to where I sat. He's been less skittish around me since and I've actually been able to pet him a couple of times - something new indeed.
Yes, I'm beyond grateful that my errant cat has come home. I was thrilled to be able to take down the fliers and say to the kind neighbors who inquired that the story had a happy ending. I'm incredibly relieved that he is safe and unhurt. And, secretly, I feel a tiny bit validated. His reactions to his return seem to prove that I was right; living in a commune is probably great fun ... for a day or two ... but it's just not the same as home.
Whatever might have been, I continue to see myself as a hippie-could-have-been and have always thought that the idea of a commune is a wonderful one. (As I live alone in a two-story house and shudder at the thought of sharing my space for longer than a week, I am well able to separate the dream from the reality.) So I guess it shouldn't have surprised me when my cat, Arthur, decided that he wanted to try out communal living.
In addition to my other numerous soap-box topics, I am a strident advocate of the necessity of keeping pet cats indoors. Research indicates that it is far healthier for the cats, personal history indicates that it is less stressful for the humans who know where they are and aren't worried that they've been hit by a car, and the simplest of logic indicates that it is healthier for the bird population in general. So my two roommates of the feline persuasion live an entirely indoor existence with no knowledge of the larger world outside and they've given me no reason to believe they are unhappy with this situation.
Nonetheless, they are cats, and we've all heard about cats and curiosity. So when Arthur, closed up in a room he'd sneaked into, discovered a tiny hole where he could squeeze out the window next to the window unit AC, squeeze he did and found himself on my porch roof. Who knows what persuaded him to wander off, eventually find his way to the ground, and disappear into the neighborhood, but it's hard to imagine a cat who would be unable to resist new sights, smells and sounds.
At first, I was in denial. I kept thinking that he was in the house, hiding from me, which isn't unusual, and that he'd appear soon. When I had to accept that he was gone, my brain slowly began to work and I took action. I reported him lost to the Humane Society. I made dozens of fliers (on bright hot pink paper) and put them up all over the neighborhood. I bought a live animal trap and baited it with his favorite food. And calls began coming in. A cat of his description had been seen with its four kittens (nope). A cat of his description had been seen running down the street and the caller wasn't sure where he was now (this call came in at midnight). When a friend knocked on my door late at night and said she thought he was up the hill, I ran out, in bathrobe and slippers with my keys in one hand and a bag of kitty treats in the other. I will be forever grateful that no one took a picture of me wandering the streets and alleys late at night in my robe and slippers, shaking a kitty treat bag.
Then came the call that said he was living behind a house nearby with various strays. Sure enough, there he was, hanging out with about 10 other cats. I spotted him, called his name. He stopped, turned and looked at me, and sprinted off! I climbed into the neighbor's back yard, followed him down steps, through yards and watched him disappear into a basement through the broken window of an abandoned house. The disparity between my size and the size of the window, added to my unwillingness to carry my trespassing quite that far, caused me to acknowledge defeat for the time being.
This is when it hit me. My pampered, protected pussycat preferred foraging for food, rolling in the dirt and living side by side with similar felines to coming home to me! Only I would have a cat who would choose to live in a commune!
Still, even if he doesn't have my genes, some of my proclivities must have worn off on him. No matter how much he enjoyed life in the kitty kibbutz, he kept coming back to my house. He was spotted in or nearly in my back yard almost daily. And finally he was seen lolling under my sunroom and I was able to coax him to me with those same kitty treats with which I had recently toured the neighborhood.
He did not like being captured. He became a furry whirling dervish, and while his lack of front claws terrified me when he was missing, his back claws turned out to be most effective weapons. (Tip: buy stock in band-aids.) Bleeding and battered, I plopped him into the house and announced that his adventures were officially over.
So how has he adjusted to living life indoors again? This cat who used to avoid me except at mealtimes and who, following even the slightest alteration to his schedule would hide for hours, immediately ate a can of cat food, then wandered back and forth through the house, even flopping down on the floor next to where I sat. He's been less skittish around me since and I've actually been able to pet him a couple of times - something new indeed.
Yes, I'm beyond grateful that my errant cat has come home. I was thrilled to be able to take down the fliers and say to the kind neighbors who inquired that the story had a happy ending. I'm incredibly relieved that he is safe and unhurt. And, secretly, I feel a tiny bit validated. His reactions to his return seem to prove that I was right; living in a commune is probably great fun ... for a day or two ... but it's just not the same as home.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Nelda, We Hardly Knew Ye
She was ebullient, beautiful and bossy. She'd burst into a Spanish song without notice and then translate the lyrics for us, whether we were interested or not. She would not hesitate to ask people to move out of the seat she'd "claimed" by leaving something on the table in front of it. She'd talk on and on but get annoyed if she stopped and someone else began talking.
And she was a drama queen. When she was upset about something (or usually, someone), she'd literally take to the couch, moaning, all the while proclaiming that she didn't want us to worry about her, that we should just eat and laugh as usual. Eventually she would, faintly, ask for a bite of food or a drink of water, delighting in the way friends would scatter to meet her needs.
So why do we miss her so much?
She had the hugest of hearts. She'd be the first to cry with you over the death of your pet whom she'd never met. She dispensed hugs more often than she dispensed prescription meds. She'd bring a present for any occasion, or just "because". She rejoiced when one of us had something good happen to us.
More than food or drink, she loved music and dancing and laughter. She could never stay sad for long and would laugh louder and longer than anyone else once her tears dried. She's the person you'd expect to see dancing on the bar before night's end and you'd know it wasn't because of alcohol - she got high on life.
Her exuberance was infectious. And when she cared about you, you knew she cared from the bottom of her enormous heart. Yes, she had faults and quirks and eccentricities, as all of us do. I see that as a positive. After all, when we truly love someone, we love them not only in spite of their flaws, but because of them, too. After all, most of our flaws are flip sides of our virtues - you don't get one without the other.
So her delight in being the center of attention was simply a component of her larger-than-life personality, her dramatics a way of embracing life to the fullest, her bossiness a way of corralling all of us who were "hers".
Today, I'd happily cede my chair to her, even if she hadn't "claimed" it. I'd be delighted to hear those torch song lyrics translated again. And I'd let her talk the entire hour if she wanted to. But what would be truly wonderful would be if I had the luxury of knowing she'd be doing those things again and again - the luxury of being able, occasionally, to be irritated by them.
And she was a drama queen. When she was upset about something (or usually, someone), she'd literally take to the couch, moaning, all the while proclaiming that she didn't want us to worry about her, that we should just eat and laugh as usual. Eventually she would, faintly, ask for a bite of food or a drink of water, delighting in the way friends would scatter to meet her needs.
So why do we miss her so much?
She had the hugest of hearts. She'd be the first to cry with you over the death of your pet whom she'd never met. She dispensed hugs more often than she dispensed prescription meds. She'd bring a present for any occasion, or just "because". She rejoiced when one of us had something good happen to us.
More than food or drink, she loved music and dancing and laughter. She could never stay sad for long and would laugh louder and longer than anyone else once her tears dried. She's the person you'd expect to see dancing on the bar before night's end and you'd know it wasn't because of alcohol - she got high on life.
Her exuberance was infectious. And when she cared about you, you knew she cared from the bottom of her enormous heart. Yes, she had faults and quirks and eccentricities, as all of us do. I see that as a positive. After all, when we truly love someone, we love them not only in spite of their flaws, but because of them, too. After all, most of our flaws are flip sides of our virtues - you don't get one without the other.
So her delight in being the center of attention was simply a component of her larger-than-life personality, her dramatics a way of embracing life to the fullest, her bossiness a way of corralling all of us who were "hers".
Today, I'd happily cede my chair to her, even if she hadn't "claimed" it. I'd be delighted to hear those torch song lyrics translated again. And I'd let her talk the entire hour if she wanted to. But what would be truly wonderful would be if I had the luxury of knowing she'd be doing those things again and again - the luxury of being able, occasionally, to be irritated by them.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Regrets
In my line of work, I hear a lot of people talking about their regrets. The marriage they regret. The divorce they regret. The marriage that didn't happen that they regret.... So I recently got to thinking about what I regret. I mean, really regret, not just times I think I probably should have done something differently. And you know what? I can only think of a couple of small instances and those are all about how I treated someone badly when I was in a bad mood.
Although some might argue that I should, I don't regret any of my past relationships. Even the worst ones gave me some amount of pleasure (and gave me an excuse to avoid the dating pool for a bit - always a plus!) From some, I learned about life; from others, I learned about myself; from all, I learned about tolerance.
There are paths I might have chosen that would have been positive ones and sometimes I went another way because of fear or apathy or because I didn't know better. But if I turned away because of fear, or any other reason, that's where I was at that point. It's perhaps unrealistic to think I could have chosen differently, and impossible to know for sure that I should have.
The larger point, of course, is that focusing on regrets is always useless - unless it is a means to learn a better way to do something in the future - and then it becomes a focus on learning and improving, rather than regretting. After I (finally) ended a drama-filled relationship of five years a couple of decades ago, my father said to me how sad it was that I had "wasted the best years of [my] life" on that relationship. I gather I was meant to regret investing so much time on a man who actually was rather a waste of air, but all I could think was, "Really?? Those were the best years of my life?? So what about the decades that lie ahead? It is time to go bungee-jumping without the cord?"
Have I ever dated another man with that particular set of flaws? No. Have I had other drama-filled relationships? Yep, and one of those remains the best relationship I ever had. (Granted, my criteria for "best relationship" may not be the same as that used by 99% of the population.)
Nonetheless, I think the important thing to do is to try to live so as to avoid regrets. Possible? LOL! Of course not, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I also think we tend to regret the things we didn't do far more than we regret the things we do. So here are some things I'll never regret missing - because I haven't missed them:
sky diving
riding a mechanical bull
singing karaoke in a crowded bar
moving across the country with two suitcases, no job, no apartment and no friends
taking trapeze lessons
dancing on a bar
changing careers ... several times
I'd love to see others' lists of the things they've made sure they'll never regret missing. I might even steal from them to add to my own.
Although some might argue that I should, I don't regret any of my past relationships. Even the worst ones gave me some amount of pleasure (and gave me an excuse to avoid the dating pool for a bit - always a plus!) From some, I learned about life; from others, I learned about myself; from all, I learned about tolerance.
There are paths I might have chosen that would have been positive ones and sometimes I went another way because of fear or apathy or because I didn't know better. But if I turned away because of fear, or any other reason, that's where I was at that point. It's perhaps unrealistic to think I could have chosen differently, and impossible to know for sure that I should have.
The larger point, of course, is that focusing on regrets is always useless - unless it is a means to learn a better way to do something in the future - and then it becomes a focus on learning and improving, rather than regretting. After I (finally) ended a drama-filled relationship of five years a couple of decades ago, my father said to me how sad it was that I had "wasted the best years of [my] life" on that relationship. I gather I was meant to regret investing so much time on a man who actually was rather a waste of air, but all I could think was, "Really?? Those were the best years of my life?? So what about the decades that lie ahead? It is time to go bungee-jumping without the cord?"
Have I ever dated another man with that particular set of flaws? No. Have I had other drama-filled relationships? Yep, and one of those remains the best relationship I ever had. (Granted, my criteria for "best relationship" may not be the same as that used by 99% of the population.)
Nonetheless, I think the important thing to do is to try to live so as to avoid regrets. Possible? LOL! Of course not, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I also think we tend to regret the things we didn't do far more than we regret the things we do. So here are some things I'll never regret missing - because I haven't missed them:
sky diving
riding a mechanical bull
singing karaoke in a crowded bar
moving across the country with two suitcases, no job, no apartment and no friends
taking trapeze lessons
dancing on a bar
changing careers ... several times
I'd love to see others' lists of the things they've made sure they'll never regret missing. I might even steal from them to add to my own.
We'll always have Prague
I have a love/hate relationship with traveling. I love being someplace different, seeing the sights, meeting the people, eating the food. I hate being away from home, living out of a suitcase, sometimes eating bad food. In the days prior to a trip I basically refuse to think about it (I pack and make all the arrangements but it's sort of like making out a will when you're young and healthy - I'm getting ready but it's not like I'm actually going anywhere!) and when thoughts of the upcoming adventure do intrude, they are pushed aside by thoughts such as "Why did I sign up to do this? I don't want to go anywhere!"
Given my curmudgeonly nature, one might reasonably assume that I never get much farther than my front porch, but one would be mistaken. Periodically, my wanderlust side triumphs over my couch potato side in this ongoing war, and I book a trip. I recently returned from a 10-day journey to Sofia, Bucharest and Prague.
The traditional Bulgarian food is fabulous. And unlike many European countries, they even have a national traditional salad! In many ways, the city still seems very poor, but someone must be shopping at the Dior and Prada stores!
From what I'd read, I actually wasn't expecting much of Bucharest. The guidebooks even said there isn't much to see there. The guidebooks clearly are trying to keep the tourists out of this city so the authors can have it for themselves! From the Parliament Building (the ironically named "House of the People" by the narcissistic leader who built it) to Ferdinand and Maria's summer castle (a ways out of the city, but so worth the trip), the eye simply cannot absorb all the beauty that artisans and craftspeople throughout the ages have created. And many are still creating beautiful things, such as tablecloths that I at first avoided, thinking they'd cost a week's wages, only to find out they could be had for the price of a pizza lunch.
Given my curmudgeonly nature, one might reasonably assume that I never get much farther than my front porch, but one would be mistaken. Periodically, my wanderlust side triumphs over my couch potato side in this ongoing war, and I book a trip. I recently returned from a 10-day journey to Sofia, Bucharest and Prague.
Don't ask why this particular itinerary, just accept that I had some resemblance of a good reason for choosing it ... whether or not I actually did. These may not all be at the top of everyone's must-see list but they should be.
So what did I find there? Sofia is a charming city filled with ancient buildings and new high rises. We stumbled on the oddest changing of the guard I've ever seen, were impressed by the complexity of the peasant costumes (all hand-made, of course, but full of delicate embroidery and beading) and would round a corner, looking for a restaurant, and happen upon a round church.
The traditional Bulgarian food is fabulous. And unlike many European countries, they even have a national traditional salad! In many ways, the city still seems very poor, but someone must be shopping at the Dior and Prada stores!
From what I'd read, I actually wasn't expecting much of Bucharest. The guidebooks even said there isn't much to see there. The guidebooks clearly are trying to keep the tourists out of this city so the authors can have it for themselves! From the Parliament Building (the ironically named "House of the People" by the narcissistic leader who built it) to Ferdinand and Maria's summer castle (a ways out of the city, but so worth the trip), the eye simply cannot absorb all the beauty that artisans and craftspeople throughout the ages have created. And many are still creating beautiful things, such as tablecloths that I at first avoided, thinking they'd cost a week's wages, only to find out they could be had for the price of a pizza lunch.
Yes, we also did a couple of the kitschy tourist things, too, such as eating at Dracula's Castle Restaurant. Where else can one get dinner and a bite on the neck by a stranger?
And finally, we caught the train to Prague. This is my third visit and I'm starting to view it as a home away from home. In my opinion, it ties with Venice as the most beautiful city in the world. (No, I haven't seen them all, but I can still express an opinion.) It's become so popular I feared that it would have also become prohibitively expensive, but no - one can still eat a ridiculous amount of fabulous food for $15 and one can buy one's (third) Bohemian glass chandelier without feeling the need to start skipping meals.
There are more wonderful places to visit than my couch potato side will ever allow me to see, but I've seen enough to have favorites. You can have Madrid. Feel free to keep Rome. And as for Paris - well, I'll always have Prague.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
I am Puma
"Cougers" have been in the news lately but it's time for them to move over. There's a new cat in town!
Puma is the new term for female pole-dancers over the age of 40. Apparently I've been cutting-edge for a couple of years now, and didn't know it. I'm still trying to absorb what being cutting-edge feels like. (Sore? Out-of-shape? Old? Nope, don't want to go with any of those.)
When I joined this craze (movement?), everyone snickered when I said I was taking pole-dancing classes. Some seemed appalled. No longer. With a name attached to us - a cool, strong, feline name at that - no one dares to laugh!
I throw out names of pole tricks (Gemini, Extended Thigh Hold, Superman) and spins (Carousel, Butterfly, One-Legged Fireman), thrilled that I not only speak this foreign language, but can actually demonstrate it. Understand, this isn't something I expected to take up - not in my 40's, 30's or even 20's. I'm the least athletic girl around. Remember grade school sports teams? When everyone got "picked" by the two teams? My best friend, Mary, and I were always the last ones left and we weren't so much chosen as used as leverage. "I'll take Mary if you'll take Susan - after all, you got Cheryl." Do I remember this with shame? With sadness? No; I always felt sorry for the team that got stuck with me. Not only was I that bad at sports, I couldn't have cared less. I was always the kid whose mother was yelling at her, "Put down that book and go outside and play!" My idea of hell was any sort of exercise that didn't involve music or mattresses (only slow music at that).
But here I am, with actual arm muscles that are not only visible, but useful, and abs that allow me to climb a pole, lean all the way back, stretching my arms to the floor, then easily pull myself back up to a sitting position. I bear no relation to the woman I have always been. So who the hell am I now? No - wait - I just found out. I am Puma. Hear me roar!
Puma is the new term for female pole-dancers over the age of 40. Apparently I've been cutting-edge for a couple of years now, and didn't know it. I'm still trying to absorb what being cutting-edge feels like. (Sore? Out-of-shape? Old? Nope, don't want to go with any of those.)
When I joined this craze (movement?), everyone snickered when I said I was taking pole-dancing classes. Some seemed appalled. No longer. With a name attached to us - a cool, strong, feline name at that - no one dares to laugh!
I throw out names of pole tricks (Gemini, Extended Thigh Hold, Superman) and spins (Carousel, Butterfly, One-Legged Fireman), thrilled that I not only speak this foreign language, but can actually demonstrate it. Understand, this isn't something I expected to take up - not in my 40's, 30's or even 20's. I'm the least athletic girl around. Remember grade school sports teams? When everyone got "picked" by the two teams? My best friend, Mary, and I were always the last ones left and we weren't so much chosen as used as leverage. "I'll take Mary if you'll take Susan - after all, you got Cheryl." Do I remember this with shame? With sadness? No; I always felt sorry for the team that got stuck with me. Not only was I that bad at sports, I couldn't have cared less. I was always the kid whose mother was yelling at her, "Put down that book and go outside and play!" My idea of hell was any sort of exercise that didn't involve music or mattresses (only slow music at that).
But here I am, with actual arm muscles that are not only visible, but useful, and abs that allow me to climb a pole, lean all the way back, stretching my arms to the floor, then easily pull myself back up to a sitting position. I bear no relation to the woman I have always been. So who the hell am I now? No - wait - I just found out. I am Puma. Hear me roar!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I'm in crush!! Make it stop!
Remember your first crush? How old were you? What did he look like? What made it special?
I remember mine, though I suppose this should be embarrassing - probably on a lot of levels! I was a bit young - three or four - and I had a crush on our paper boy. From all accounts, I had good taste - he was smart, cute and personable. (And gay, but that's a story for a different post.) Seems my parents had been trying to get me to stop using my pacifier, believing that I was too old for it, but I was devoted. One day, however, the paper boy told me that I was too big to use the pacifier and it wasn't becoming. I put it down without a backward glance and never picked it up again.
My next crush came about in kindergarden. Starting a lifelong trend, I developed a crush on the only Jewish (and gay) boy there. His mother and mine held out hope for years that this would actually lead to a romance somewhere down the line.
But I grew older ... and went into first grade. There, there were three boys who wanted me to be their girlfriend. (What is that nonsense about boys thinking girls have cooties until they reach puberty??) Two of the boys used to fight over me at recess every day. So which one did I choose? The third one - who brought me candy - of course. (None of the three were gay, so I had to resort to other methods of choosing.)
There were numerous other crushes, some of which had bittersweet endings such as the fifth grade boy who was moving away and who insisted on giving me his used notebooks as we cleaned out our desks at the end of the year; that seemed a weird sort of "present", but I took them - and spent the next few months swooning over all the "Mike loves Susan" and "Mike + Susan" notations that filled them.
Some ended sadly, with no indication of shared interest. One or two ended with a couple of dates. But the feeling was alway the same. That first moment of realizing that his presence made my heart beat faster, my eyes light up. Those hours of day-dreaming and creating scenarios in my head that led to his cliched declaration of love. The extra primping on days when I might run into him.
And - they're back!
Of course, at some point I realized that there are crushes, and there are show crushes. The latter is a concept everyone in theatre understands, even if they don't admit it. The major difference between the two is that "real" crushes develop out of nowhere, based on the person himself. Show crushes often develop from the heightened intensity of the work the actors are doing, the camaraderie born of late hours, emotions unleashed while in character, and the need to quickly form bonds that must feel real in order to appear real.
One feature of show crushes is that they often end with the closing curtain on the final performance. Someone I lust over night after night during the rehearsal and performance stage appears to me as dull, unattractive or annoying once the show closes. That doesn't mean that these crushes are silly. In fact, they can add a layer of zest to performances as a crush can make one feel more alive and cause one to work harder to impress the object of one's crush.
So - to bring us up-to-date, about a year ago, I did a show and early on developed a crush on one of the men involved. First, he's not my type. (Okay, he's Jewish, but he's not gay, nor does he have the "look" that attracts me. He's not even the larger-than-life, someone with whom I can share the spotlight type.) Second, he's not interested in dating shiksas. And third, there is a HUGE age difference. Even I, who have no problem dating men who are over a decade younger than I, see this particular age difference as daunting (from my perspective) and insurmountable (what I imagine his perspective to be, were he to consider it). But did this prevent me from finagling a seat next to him during notes? Did it stop me from seeking him out to work together during set construction? Did it keep me from finding ways to get him all to myself for stolen moments of breathing in only the air he breathed? Pshaw! It did not.
Still, shows, as do most things in life, come to an end and I figured I'd look back with fondness on this chap who had given me hours of day-dreaming pleasure as well as some charming conversations and witty exchanges. I assumed I'd be happy to count him as a friend as the crush immediately dissipated.
Alas! It's now a year later, I've seen him numerous time since, and not once have I looked at him and thought "How cute that I had a crush on him. Of course, I can't see why, now, but it was fun for a while." Instead, I look at him and think about running my fingers through his hair and wonder what kissing him would be like. Once in a while I dream about him. While sleeping. And I still finagle ways to sit next to him when a group of us gets together.
I keep waiting for him to reveal some fatal flaw that will dissolve this crush. For him to tell me that he never writes thank-you notes (though I know for a fact that he does) or that he undertips waiters (nope - 'fraid not) or disdains recycling (I've no evidence about this one, so I hold out hope - but scant hope). Instead, he shares my values, is thoughtful and unfailingly considerate of those around him, is generous and respectful, extremely intelligent yet humble, funny and unusually talented, responsible, fiscally capable, trustworthy, honest, polite and helpful. And he is straight!!
Okay. Given all of these characteristics, it's probably too much to expect that my crush is going to go away. And I'm realistic enough to know that it's not going to go anywhere else, either. But what a feat! I've managed to find the perfect guy! A guy who, a year into our friendship, still has not exhibited any close-to-fatal flaws. A guy who just seems to get better and better. I've finally managed to choose wisely. It really would be too much to expect that I could actually have him, too, wouldn't it?
I remember mine, though I suppose this should be embarrassing - probably on a lot of levels! I was a bit young - three or four - and I had a crush on our paper boy. From all accounts, I had good taste - he was smart, cute and personable. (And gay, but that's a story for a different post.) Seems my parents had been trying to get me to stop using my pacifier, believing that I was too old for it, but I was devoted. One day, however, the paper boy told me that I was too big to use the pacifier and it wasn't becoming. I put it down without a backward glance and never picked it up again.
My next crush came about in kindergarden. Starting a lifelong trend, I developed a crush on the only Jewish (and gay) boy there. His mother and mine held out hope for years that this would actually lead to a romance somewhere down the line.
But I grew older ... and went into first grade. There, there were three boys who wanted me to be their girlfriend. (What is that nonsense about boys thinking girls have cooties until they reach puberty??) Two of the boys used to fight over me at recess every day. So which one did I choose? The third one - who brought me candy - of course. (None of the three were gay, so I had to resort to other methods of choosing.)
There were numerous other crushes, some of which had bittersweet endings such as the fifth grade boy who was moving away and who insisted on giving me his used notebooks as we cleaned out our desks at the end of the year; that seemed a weird sort of "present", but I took them - and spent the next few months swooning over all the "Mike loves Susan" and "Mike + Susan" notations that filled them.
Some ended sadly, with no indication of shared interest. One or two ended with a couple of dates. But the feeling was alway the same. That first moment of realizing that his presence made my heart beat faster, my eyes light up. Those hours of day-dreaming and creating scenarios in my head that led to his cliched declaration of love. The extra primping on days when I might run into him.
And - they're back!
Of course, at some point I realized that there are crushes, and there are show crushes. The latter is a concept everyone in theatre understands, even if they don't admit it. The major difference between the two is that "real" crushes develop out of nowhere, based on the person himself. Show crushes often develop from the heightened intensity of the work the actors are doing, the camaraderie born of late hours, emotions unleashed while in character, and the need to quickly form bonds that must feel real in order to appear real.
One feature of show crushes is that they often end with the closing curtain on the final performance. Someone I lust over night after night during the rehearsal and performance stage appears to me as dull, unattractive or annoying once the show closes. That doesn't mean that these crushes are silly. In fact, they can add a layer of zest to performances as a crush can make one feel more alive and cause one to work harder to impress the object of one's crush.
So - to bring us up-to-date, about a year ago, I did a show and early on developed a crush on one of the men involved. First, he's not my type. (Okay, he's Jewish, but he's not gay, nor does he have the "look" that attracts me. He's not even the larger-than-life, someone with whom I can share the spotlight type.) Second, he's not interested in dating shiksas. And third, there is a HUGE age difference. Even I, who have no problem dating men who are over a decade younger than I, see this particular age difference as daunting (from my perspective) and insurmountable (what I imagine his perspective to be, were he to consider it). But did this prevent me from finagling a seat next to him during notes? Did it stop me from seeking him out to work together during set construction? Did it keep me from finding ways to get him all to myself for stolen moments of breathing in only the air he breathed? Pshaw! It did not.
Still, shows, as do most things in life, come to an end and I figured I'd look back with fondness on this chap who had given me hours of day-dreaming pleasure as well as some charming conversations and witty exchanges. I assumed I'd be happy to count him as a friend as the crush immediately dissipated.
Alas! It's now a year later, I've seen him numerous time since, and not once have I looked at him and thought "How cute that I had a crush on him. Of course, I can't see why, now, but it was fun for a while." Instead, I look at him and think about running my fingers through his hair and wonder what kissing him would be like. Once in a while I dream about him. While sleeping. And I still finagle ways to sit next to him when a group of us gets together.
I keep waiting for him to reveal some fatal flaw that will dissolve this crush. For him to tell me that he never writes thank-you notes (though I know for a fact that he does) or that he undertips waiters (nope - 'fraid not) or disdains recycling (I've no evidence about this one, so I hold out hope - but scant hope). Instead, he shares my values, is thoughtful and unfailingly considerate of those around him, is generous and respectful, extremely intelligent yet humble, funny and unusually talented, responsible, fiscally capable, trustworthy, honest, polite and helpful. And he is straight!!
Okay. Given all of these characteristics, it's probably too much to expect that my crush is going to go away. And I'm realistic enough to know that it's not going to go anywhere else, either. But what a feat! I've managed to find the perfect guy! A guy who, a year into our friendship, still has not exhibited any close-to-fatal flaws. A guy who just seems to get better and better. I've finally managed to choose wisely. It really would be too much to expect that I could actually have him, too, wouldn't it?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Is Anyone Hiring
Since things are iffy with my job situation, I've been doing what I do best - figuring out all the possible worst case scenarios. Now I don't just look at the downside - I look for possible fixes. First, it occurred to me that I might find two roommates and they could each rent out one of the "real" bedrooms. Surely I can live in the over-sized closet that delusional real estate agents list as a third bedroom. Granted, I can't even fit a full-sized sofa in there, much less a bed, but I can sleep on the love seat. When one can't afford food, maybe one gets shorter as well as thinner? Come to think of it, possibly I could rent that room out, too, and live in the walk-in closet if that won't disturb the renter for the master bedroom.
Second, I search for job possibilities. Naturally, no one in my field will hire me, regardless of my advanced degrees and years of experience. In fact, I'm sure there are no jobs in my field. Anywhere. So I take note that Macy's is hiring. And surely I could drive a pizza delivery truck! Given my complete klutziness, I think waiting tables would be a hospital room waiting to happen, but I could be a hostess. I know how to smile and I could probably show people to a table if I don't have to carry anything more fragile than menus.
Or I could just accept that I'm a loser and give up and move back to my hometown and live with my father and annoy him. I would be a hermit and never go out, just cook for my father (who hates my cooking) and read long Russian novels about lives filled with gloom.
Well, even I finally got bored of thinking about my doomed future and decided to think about what happened when past jobs ended. One of my early jobs was with a small newspaper in New York. The two owners ran the place and one of them was bucking for worst-karma of the century. (Shortly after I left the job, the building where the paper was housed caught on fire. The fire department evacuated the building and as this was happening, this particular owner called in. When he was told what was going on, he informed the staff that if any of them left their desks, he would fire them! That's the kind of charmer he was.) I only stayed at the job for a month, but left with some great stories, one of the best being about my departure. I gave the (other) owner two hours notice. As I was walking out, the receptionist said to me, in all seriousness, "I can't believe you're leaving! You've been here so long." A month. (We did have several people who would start at 9:00 and quit by 11:00, so I understood.)
Thing was, I didn't have another job lined up. Nada. I'm living in NYC, a somewhat expensive locale, and I was suddenly, and of my own volition, unemployed. Did I tuck my tail between my legs and flee? No. I cried for a couple of days, but had another job by the end of the next week.
A few jobs later (this was when I was young and had jobs - not a career), I was working for yet another despicable character. In truth, most of my bosses have been wonderful, but the monsters do stand out. He walked into my office and asked about a project I'd been assigned. As I'd been asking for clarification from him for weeks, and had gotten nothing, I'd made no progress. He threw a file at me and stormed out. I typed up my resignation, picked up the phone, made a call and said, "I'm leaving my job. Have anything for me?" Told that I'd start something the following week, I waited until 5:00, walked into his office, put my resignation on his desk, and left the job.
Problem is, when one is just starting out and has the youthful delusion of nothing but happy endings, one is more excited than terrified by endings. Aside from the comfort of ignorance and the fact that, actuarially, one has more years ahead in which one can fail (or succeed), is there really much difference between being in one's twenties and being in one's ... more than twenties? Granted, it's been years since I led my entire non-unionized department in a walk-out to protest work conditions (which we were successful in changing), but it was only last year that I took a trapeze class. I still take chances, even if they are different ones. And while I now more fully realize the enormity of possibilities for failure, I also more fully realize the inevitability of change and the certainty that nothing remains all good - or all bad.
Thus, with my somewhat tempered perspective, I'm trying to look at the best-case scenarios as well as the worst. Nonetheless, I have that "roommates wanted" ad composed, even if only in my head.
Second, I search for job possibilities. Naturally, no one in my field will hire me, regardless of my advanced degrees and years of experience. In fact, I'm sure there are no jobs in my field. Anywhere. So I take note that Macy's is hiring. And surely I could drive a pizza delivery truck! Given my complete klutziness, I think waiting tables would be a hospital room waiting to happen, but I could be a hostess. I know how to smile and I could probably show people to a table if I don't have to carry anything more fragile than menus.
Or I could just accept that I'm a loser and give up and move back to my hometown and live with my father and annoy him. I would be a hermit and never go out, just cook for my father (who hates my cooking) and read long Russian novels about lives filled with gloom.
Well, even I finally got bored of thinking about my doomed future and decided to think about what happened when past jobs ended. One of my early jobs was with a small newspaper in New York. The two owners ran the place and one of them was bucking for worst-karma of the century. (Shortly after I left the job, the building where the paper was housed caught on fire. The fire department evacuated the building and as this was happening, this particular owner called in. When he was told what was going on, he informed the staff that if any of them left their desks, he would fire them! That's the kind of charmer he was.) I only stayed at the job for a month, but left with some great stories, one of the best being about my departure. I gave the (other) owner two hours notice. As I was walking out, the receptionist said to me, in all seriousness, "I can't believe you're leaving! You've been here so long." A month. (We did have several people who would start at 9:00 and quit by 11:00, so I understood.)
Thing was, I didn't have another job lined up. Nada. I'm living in NYC, a somewhat expensive locale, and I was suddenly, and of my own volition, unemployed. Did I tuck my tail between my legs and flee? No. I cried for a couple of days, but had another job by the end of the next week.
A few jobs later (this was when I was young and had jobs - not a career), I was working for yet another despicable character. In truth, most of my bosses have been wonderful, but the monsters do stand out. He walked into my office and asked about a project I'd been assigned. As I'd been asking for clarification from him for weeks, and had gotten nothing, I'd made no progress. He threw a file at me and stormed out. I typed up my resignation, picked up the phone, made a call and said, "I'm leaving my job. Have anything for me?" Told that I'd start something the following week, I waited until 5:00, walked into his office, put my resignation on his desk, and left the job.
Problem is, when one is just starting out and has the youthful delusion of nothing but happy endings, one is more excited than terrified by endings. Aside from the comfort of ignorance and the fact that, actuarially, one has more years ahead in which one can fail (or succeed), is there really much difference between being in one's twenties and being in one's ... more than twenties? Granted, it's been years since I led my entire non-unionized department in a walk-out to protest work conditions (which we were successful in changing), but it was only last year that I took a trapeze class. I still take chances, even if they are different ones. And while I now more fully realize the enormity of possibilities for failure, I also more fully realize the inevitability of change and the certainty that nothing remains all good - or all bad.
Thus, with my somewhat tempered perspective, I'm trying to look at the best-case scenarios as well as the worst. Nonetheless, I have that "roommates wanted" ad composed, even if only in my head.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Musings on Happiness
Several years ago, I realized that there are three areas of my life that largely determine my emotional state at any given moment. These are not necessarily the most important, as family and health top that list, but they are crucial to what I deem my "happiness". The three are: career, love life, and theatre life, in no particular order. (Obviously, career encompasses both enjoyment and solvency.)
In order to be less-than-miserable, I need for one to be working well. In order to be well content, I need for two to be in good shape. As I can count the number of times I've had all three going right at the same time on one ... well, finger ... that's a level of bliss I dare not expect.
For a while now, though, none of the three have been going well (granted, I decided a few years ago that relationships are something I don't do well and so gave them up) and I've been pressed to probe deeper in order to keep my head above gloom.
Taking a cue from Julie Andrews, I've been relying on some of my favorite things and thought they are worth listing ... even if they have little to do with raindrops on mittens.
Here are some of the things that keep me from despair:
Snuggles with my cats
Daydreams
REALLY good chocolate
Laughter with friends
My father telling me about the women who flirt with him
Perfecting a trick on the pole that has eluded me
Remembering the words to a song I used to love
The sight of a beautiful chandelier
A warm towel after a shower
A book that is difficult to put down
The first sip of a good glass of wine
Seeing a friend whom one rarely sees but misses terribly
A good hair day
That sexy dress still fitting
A place to wear that sexy dress
A client who says you've made a huge (positive ) difference in their life
A candlelight dinner - even if it's solo
A day without a technology problem
Knowing all the laundry is done for at least a week
Going to bed without setting the alarm clock
A gorgeous guy who flirts with me, even though I know I'll never see him again.
If I never act (on-stage) again, and if my job totally falls apart and I wind up unemployed and possibly homeless, I hope to remember these things that got me through some tough times ... and I hope to develop another list to get me through that.
In order to be less-than-miserable, I need for one to be working well. In order to be well content, I need for two to be in good shape. As I can count the number of times I've had all three going right at the same time on one ... well, finger ... that's a level of bliss I dare not expect.
For a while now, though, none of the three have been going well (granted, I decided a few years ago that relationships are something I don't do well and so gave them up) and I've been pressed to probe deeper in order to keep my head above gloom.
Taking a cue from Julie Andrews, I've been relying on some of my favorite things and thought they are worth listing ... even if they have little to do with raindrops on mittens.
Here are some of the things that keep me from despair:
Snuggles with my cats
Daydreams
REALLY good chocolate
Laughter with friends
My father telling me about the women who flirt with him
Perfecting a trick on the pole that has eluded me
Remembering the words to a song I used to love
The sight of a beautiful chandelier
A warm towel after a shower
A book that is difficult to put down
The first sip of a good glass of wine
Seeing a friend whom one rarely sees but misses terribly
A good hair day
That sexy dress still fitting
A place to wear that sexy dress
A client who says you've made a huge (positive ) difference in their life
A candlelight dinner - even if it's solo
A day without a technology problem
Knowing all the laundry is done for at least a week
Going to bed without setting the alarm clock
A gorgeous guy who flirts with me, even though I know I'll never see him again.
If I never act (on-stage) again, and if my job totally falls apart and I wind up unemployed and possibly homeless, I hope to remember these things that got me through some tough times ... and I hope to develop another list to get me through that.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Technology Hell
The whole law of cause and effect really bit me in the posterior recently. It did so recently, only because I spent almost a year postponing the inevitable. (You see, I know it's always there, and avoidance is my best defense.)
Last January, my computer died. Dead. No resurrecting it. Since it was only a little over a year old, and it was the second Dell in a two-year span to just unceremoniously give up the ghost on me, I counted my pennies and decided it was time to jump ship to Mac. Off I went and bought my very first Apple computer. Now, the computer itself has been lovely, even if there are still many things I don't know how to do (not the computer's fault; I tend to learn what I need to know only when it becomes beyond urgent to do so). But the Dell printer I owned, which actually worked extremely well and with which I was content, was not compatible with my Mac. After weeks of research and downloading useless drivers, etc., I accepted this with my usual stoicism, born out of long experience with my hideous computer karma. And for 11 months, I had friends print my boarding passes for flights, I had relatives print documents I needed ... and mail them to me ... you can see that at some point, even I realized I'd avoided reality long enough and I resolved to buy a printer. Trying to shield myself from utter frustration, I found a friend who is just a little bit more technologically intelligent than I, who also owns a Mac, and who is happy with his printer and bought one just like it. Sigh. After four hours of attempting to set the printer up with my computer, I gave up and asked my friend to come help me. He only wasted a half-hour before realizing we needed the Canon people's help. Of course, this was a Sunday and the Canon people were nowhere near the office, so we waited until Monday and called. A two hour phone call later, I was told that the router was too far from the printer and once I moved it, I should call back. So I had my tenant bring the router and modem up from his apartment where it lives (due to his complete geekiness, he requires these things near him, and I haven't cared till now) and called Canon. Another two hour phone call later, I was told that the router is the problem. So I tried to hook this up using the USB port, but even that didn't work. (Though I was able to make far more progress than before.)
I am now torn between two options:
1) I haunt antique stores and thrift stores and eventually buy a typewriter. My understanding is that they have limited scanning and faxing ability, but I have a better chance of doing either on an old-fashioned typewriter than I do on my up-to-date brand-new printer at present.
2) I refuse to give in. Tomorrow, I dedicate my day to getting this thing hooked up and I either get it hooked up or die trying.
I will probably go with option 2. Details of my memorial service will occur on someone else's blog.
Last January, my computer died. Dead. No resurrecting it. Since it was only a little over a year old, and it was the second Dell in a two-year span to just unceremoniously give up the ghost on me, I counted my pennies and decided it was time to jump ship to Mac. Off I went and bought my very first Apple computer. Now, the computer itself has been lovely, even if there are still many things I don't know how to do (not the computer's fault; I tend to learn what I need to know only when it becomes beyond urgent to do so). But the Dell printer I owned, which actually worked extremely well and with which I was content, was not compatible with my Mac. After weeks of research and downloading useless drivers, etc., I accepted this with my usual stoicism, born out of long experience with my hideous computer karma. And for 11 months, I had friends print my boarding passes for flights, I had relatives print documents I needed ... and mail them to me ... you can see that at some point, even I realized I'd avoided reality long enough and I resolved to buy a printer. Trying to shield myself from utter frustration, I found a friend who is just a little bit more technologically intelligent than I, who also owns a Mac, and who is happy with his printer and bought one just like it. Sigh. After four hours of attempting to set the printer up with my computer, I gave up and asked my friend to come help me. He only wasted a half-hour before realizing we needed the Canon people's help. Of course, this was a Sunday and the Canon people were nowhere near the office, so we waited until Monday and called. A two hour phone call later, I was told that the router was too far from the printer and once I moved it, I should call back. So I had my tenant bring the router and modem up from his apartment where it lives (due to his complete geekiness, he requires these things near him, and I haven't cared till now) and called Canon. Another two hour phone call later, I was told that the router is the problem. So I tried to hook this up using the USB port, but even that didn't work. (Though I was able to make far more progress than before.)
I am now torn between two options:
1) I haunt antique stores and thrift stores and eventually buy a typewriter. My understanding is that they have limited scanning and faxing ability, but I have a better chance of doing either on an old-fashioned typewriter than I do on my up-to-date brand-new printer at present.
2) I refuse to give in. Tomorrow, I dedicate my day to getting this thing hooked up and I either get it hooked up or die trying.
I will probably go with option 2. Details of my memorial service will occur on someone else's blog.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Those Pesky Resolutions
I've been giving some thought lately to New Year's Resolutions. In past years, I've strictly followed tradition by making them and promptly breaking them. In the recent past, I simply didn't bother to make any - why waste the mental energy on making promises to oneself that one knows one will break? And after all, we're all supposed to be constantly trying to improve ourselves, right? (Right??) There's no reason to focus on one time of year for improvement.
Still, there's something about the idea of a new year, of a new start, that makes the idea of resolutions somewhat compelling. In that spirit, I've tried to come up with some resolutions that a) I might keep, and b) that are at least minimally worthwhile. It's probably my own mental limitations at work, but this was harder than I thought it would be! Nonetheless, I persevered and here is what I came up with:
1) Have more parties. This works because I love throwing parties, so it should be do-able, and throwing parties makes me get the house cleaned up (worthwhile!). Plus, people actually ask me when the next party is throughout the year, so I assume they enjoy my parties, which means I'm doing something nice for my friends. (Unless they are making sure they have enough advance notice to come up with a good excuse for missing it.)
2) Call a friend to chat once a month. Now this might seem like a no-brainer as far as do-able, but I'm allergic to telephones. I'll happily write long letters, e-mail back and forth, and I adore getting together face-to-face, but whenever the phone rings, I channel my inner Dorothy Parker and silently moan, "What fresh hell is this?" Nonetheless, I have friends who are too far away to see often and who don't share my passion for the written word, but they are valuable to me and I think it's time I made them more aware of that.
3) Become comfortable with my router. The woodworking kind - not the computer kind (I did say these should be possible to accomplish.) The worthwhile-ness of this should be apparent (just think - how many times every day do you say, "Gee, if only I were better skilled with a router, I could do "X""?) but the do-ability is in question. It's not like I've not tried. I took a class in using a router. I've even read the instruction booklet! But every time I wander through a woodworking store and browse the router bit section, my eyes cross. Each bit is designed to do something different ... but they all look alike! And are they named in a useful way? Such as "will make edges curved bit" or "will create a 1/2" indentation bit"? Silly question. On the other hand, I've become quite conversant with my table saw and my compound mitre saw (well - I don't actually know what a "compound" mitre cut is, but I can do other things with the saw) and I feel downright passionate about my nail gun, so I feel as though my stand-off with the router is lowering my builder cred. And improving that HAS to be worthwhile!
4) Last (less this list enter the realm of too-long-to-be-possible), I'm going to become friends with my cat, Arthur. Arthur and his brother, Merlin, came to me because their servant (humans might say "owner") was choosing impoverishment (grad school) and couldn't afford to keep them in the style to which all cats are born accustomed. Being at the time, catless, I took them in. For weeks, I was the pariah who was expected to feed and water them, clean the litter box, and provide nightly kitty treats, but both of them vanished like the last drops of good champagne the moment I entered a room. In the intervening months, Merlin has accepted me. He sleeps on my bed, demands to be petted several times a day, and solicits tummy rubs. Arthur, however, continues to look at me with the look most of us reserve for rapidly approaching cannibals carrying weapons and a large pot. Obviously, accomplishing this would be worthwhile. I'd have a good relationship with all the living creatures (of whom I am aware) in my house. Do-able? Well, I did save the biggest challenge for last. It is not in my nature, however, to accept the disdain of a cat - certainly not one who lives with me and of whom I have become inexplicably fond.
Check back in six months. I hope to have talked to six friends by phone, had at least three parties, and, if all goes really well, I'll have used my router and remain in possession of all my fingers .... And if things go exceptionally well, I'll have a new relationship full of love. With my cat.
Still, there's something about the idea of a new year, of a new start, that makes the idea of resolutions somewhat compelling. In that spirit, I've tried to come up with some resolutions that a) I might keep, and b) that are at least minimally worthwhile. It's probably my own mental limitations at work, but this was harder than I thought it would be! Nonetheless, I persevered and here is what I came up with:
1) Have more parties. This works because I love throwing parties, so it should be do-able, and throwing parties makes me get the house cleaned up (worthwhile!). Plus, people actually ask me when the next party is throughout the year, so I assume they enjoy my parties, which means I'm doing something nice for my friends. (Unless they are making sure they have enough advance notice to come up with a good excuse for missing it.)
2) Call a friend to chat once a month. Now this might seem like a no-brainer as far as do-able, but I'm allergic to telephones. I'll happily write long letters, e-mail back and forth, and I adore getting together face-to-face, but whenever the phone rings, I channel my inner Dorothy Parker and silently moan, "What fresh hell is this?" Nonetheless, I have friends who are too far away to see often and who don't share my passion for the written word, but they are valuable to me and I think it's time I made them more aware of that.
3) Become comfortable with my router. The woodworking kind - not the computer kind (I did say these should be possible to accomplish.) The worthwhile-ness of this should be apparent (just think - how many times every day do you say, "Gee, if only I were better skilled with a router, I could do "X""?) but the do-ability is in question. It's not like I've not tried. I took a class in using a router. I've even read the instruction booklet! But every time I wander through a woodworking store and browse the router bit section, my eyes cross. Each bit is designed to do something different ... but they all look alike! And are they named in a useful way? Such as "will make edges curved bit" or "will create a 1/2" indentation bit"? Silly question. On the other hand, I've become quite conversant with my table saw and my compound mitre saw (well - I don't actually know what a "compound" mitre cut is, but I can do other things with the saw) and I feel downright passionate about my nail gun, so I feel as though my stand-off with the router is lowering my builder cred. And improving that HAS to be worthwhile!
4) Last (less this list enter the realm of too-long-to-be-possible), I'm going to become friends with my cat, Arthur. Arthur and his brother, Merlin, came to me because their servant (humans might say "owner") was choosing impoverishment (grad school) and couldn't afford to keep them in the style to which all cats are born accustomed. Being at the time, catless, I took them in. For weeks, I was the pariah who was expected to feed and water them, clean the litter box, and provide nightly kitty treats, but both of them vanished like the last drops of good champagne the moment I entered a room. In the intervening months, Merlin has accepted me. He sleeps on my bed, demands to be petted several times a day, and solicits tummy rubs. Arthur, however, continues to look at me with the look most of us reserve for rapidly approaching cannibals carrying weapons and a large pot. Obviously, accomplishing this would be worthwhile. I'd have a good relationship with all the living creatures (of whom I am aware) in my house. Do-able? Well, I did save the biggest challenge for last. It is not in my nature, however, to accept the disdain of a cat - certainly not one who lives with me and of whom I have become inexplicably fond.
Check back in six months. I hope to have talked to six friends by phone, had at least three parties, and, if all goes really well, I'll have used my router and remain in possession of all my fingers .... And if things go exceptionally well, I'll have a new relationship full of love. With my cat.
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