Waiting … just waiting

We have to get a project out tonight. First I had to wait around for the account team to get it together so they could share the client-requested changes. That happened a little after 12 noon. I did my little wordsmithing, and now I'm waiting for the art director so I can make sure all the changes were implemented properly. Waiting … waiting …

The waiting makes me nervous. I wish I was at the health club, working off all this energy. But I can't go to lunch yet. Have to be here when the art director is done. I wish I was at home, watching legal history being made on Court TV. I wish I was on the phone to my best friend, who I haven't heard from since Friday. I wish I was having a beer, or a Xanax.

This job isn't really that hard. We just make it hard. For example, the art director just sent corrected files to everyone, including our production team, before I had a chance to review them. They aren't correct. Now she'll have to do them again (which will probably result in a major pout) and the production team will get confused as to which file to use. And it all could have been avoided if she had run things past me first.

I've been in advertising forever. Very little that I see surprises me anymore. I've been in this situation before. It's just that as the years go by, I seem to have less and less patience. The deadlines and the adrenaline aren't exciting anymore. Now they are just annoying. Perhaps because over time I have learned how unnecessary so much of this activity really is.

Waiting … waiting …

He's still there.

My best friend called, and somehow even everything is a little better. He's still out there. He still reads my emails. He still cares about me. His life is hectic and without a schedule -- both he and his wife are looking for jobs, they are selling the house themselves (are FSBOs ever easy?), preparing to move. Just because he doesn't have the time, or perhaps it would be fairer to say we don't have the synchronicity we once did, to allow him to sit and talk with me for hours on end doesn't mean I don't cross his mind. I still matter.

I trusted him with my secrets and with (a reasonable facsimile of) who I really am. He has seen me more vulnerable than most people have. Partly because he revealed himself to me early on, I believed I could trust him. For a long time, I suspected this friendship was a sturdier lifeline for him than it was for me. I was just beginning to get used to having someone I could lean on. Then one day in April … POOF! Gone. It was cruel, and scary.

And, as he says, "not part of the plan." After all, he was laid off. Sucker punched. It's not like he abandoned me, no matter how much it feels like that. And while I feel a tremendous sense of loss, his whole life changed overnight. I need to remember that.

I have decisions to make. I can't stay at this job. I have to organize my search and get off my butt. I have to get over this feeling of aimlessness and inertia. And I have to do it without the steady hand of my best friend on the small of my back. He has too much on his plate right now to give me as much support as I want.

But he's still there. His new life will take shape, gel, and settle into a routine and he's shown that he will make space for me. And I can get through this.

I still have my friend. We're just different. Our relationship is evolving. But he's still my friend.

When do you tip? Help me! Please!

When my refrigerator arrived from Sears, I tipped each of the two young men who installed it and hauled the old one away. They were gracious, but slipped the $5 into their pockets without even looking at it. Clearly, they were accustomed to receiving tips. They did a nice job, I'm assuming they don't get paid a great deal and that (like waitstaff or cab drivers) tips are an expected portion of their income.

Today, two men from a local, independently-owned appliance store came over to install my new air conditioner and haul the old one away. While less physically taxing, this was a more complicated task than the one the Sears duo had to do. As they were leaving, I did the same thing. I handed each of them $5. They both looked so surprised and happy.

The AC installation was a bigger deal than rolling in the new refrigerator and plugging it in. After they left me, they were off to install a new range, which had to be far more complicated than my window unit. So why would they be surprised by the tip, while the Sears deliverymen took theirs as their due?

Is it a major chain vs. independly store thing? Is it that the Sears guys were (probably) independent contractors while the gentlemen who came over today were employed by the store? Were the Sears guys also unaccustomed to tips, but just better actors?

And am I supposed to tip these people, or not? Who makes the rules, and how am I supposed to know them?

When is a friend not a friend?

When you realize you miss him entirely too much, that's when.

It's a long, complicated story, but my best friend (my "office spouse," as they like to say in the magazines) was laid off on April 7. I haven't seen him since. He's moving to Denver, so I know realistically I may never see him again. (Yes, we say that won't happen; but everyone says that, don't they?)

So here we are, two months later. And while I miss him differently, it would be a lie to say I miss him less. It's not a stabbing ache anymore. It's more a constant, throbbing pain. I miss the man who used to call me or email me a dozen times a day. I miss knowing where he went for lunch, and him asking what I'm going to with my little nephew this weekend. I miss gossiping with him about coworkers. I miss the in jokes. I miss having late dinners with him when we'd compare notes on our childhoods. I miss looking over at him when he's driving and noticing that little chicken pox scar near his hairline.

We still talk (rather) regularly. I heard from him both via phone and email last Friday. But here it is Wednesday! Where is he?

Getting his house ready to sell. Exploring new job opportunities. Spending time with his wife and daughters (his real family).

I have lots of friends that I go weeks without hearing from. This is not quite 5 days and I am very, very sad.

I think it's time I admit that he is not my friend. I'm in love with him. And it's very, very sad, too. Married, with children, living in another state … Nothing is ever going to come of this. Because he's a very good guy and a better dad, I'm not even sure I want anything to happen.

I'm just very, very sad.

Hooked on Dolls. The Valley of the Dolls DVD.

I saw this movie for the first time in the early 1970s. I was babysitting, the kids were asleep, and I watched it on a color TV with a rabbit ear antenna as I consumed Pepsi and a huge bag of potato chips. It was a transforming moment. For while I had heard the book and movie were racy, scandalous and poorly done, none of the adults I knew who whispered about it ever acknowledged how really, really FUNNY this sucker is. And that night I was enchanted by the camp of it, what a riot it was, and realized "the Generation Gap" extended to more than just music.

The two disc set is a celebration of everything that makes this movie (unintentionally) great. The beautiful clothes. The back-combed hair. The "serendipitous" plot (Anne gets the first job she interviews for, then moves effortlessly from secretary to supermodel). The stupid songs ("this is my yard and I will try hard to welcome friends I have yet to know"). The horrific dialog ("Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope." "What the hell! Let 'em sag." "How do you like that? It won't even go down the john!" "Neely, you're being ob-nox-ious.") Plus extras. Screen tests. Karaoke. It's a completely irresistible wallow.

It's impossible to stress out about my mounting appliance bills, or impending work deadlines and presentations, or Mark Prior's problems on the mound when I'm watching Barbara Parkins tumble glamorously into the surf and then decide to kick "the dolls." Back home in Lawrenceville. With Aunt Amy. You go, girl! And thanks for the respite.

Sick of making do, getting by

It's hot this weekend. Really, really hot this weekend. I hate the heat. So I was going to spend a relaxing weekend at home, in the AC, glad that I don't have to be outdoors any longer than absolutely necessary.

The AC in my bedroom is in its death throes. The thing is so loud, and right now it's 86º in there. Hopefully once the relentless sun goes down, it will cool down to 80º. I went to the local appliance store and spent just under $300 for a new one, which should be installed this coming Friday -- six days from now -- if I can get the time off work. In the meantime, I'm living in my now aptly named living room, which is cool and comfortable, except for the fact that my fully-functioning through-the-wall AC sets off the circuit breaker every few minutes.

Mailed my mortgage payment this morning. Life is not supposed to be this way. Being a homeowner was supposed to free me from the tyranny of lazy landlords, to allow me live like an adult, to enjoy my alone time in comfortable surroundings. So far this summer, I've gone more than a week without a refrigerator, living out of a styrofoam cooler on my kitchen counter. Just got the new refrigeratortaken care of, and now the bedroom AC underperforms. The roof leaks, damaging my carpet. My bathroom is a 1950s pink Pepto Bismol nightmare. My kitchen counters look like something Jane Jetson would have chosen. I have plans for the bathroom and the kitchen, but every time there's an AC or a refrigerator snafu, those bigger projects move further into the distance.

Right now I'm discouraged. And sad. And overheated.

Icky Vicki of the Main Post Office, Oak Park, IL

There was a package waiting for me at the post office. Good news. So I swung by on my way to work to get it. That means that the first person I dealt with was Vicki. And that wretch could ruin Mother Theresa's day.

A tall, stoic woman of indeterminate age, Vicki usually only handles passport requests. I guess that makes her one of the aristocrats of the USPS window personnel. Because there was a line that morning, someone told her she had to wait on us. The unwashed. Plain old consumers there to mail packages, buy stamps, and other tasks that it's beneath her to help us with.

I had my package receipt and my driver's license out before I reached the window. I handed them to her. She did not make eye contact with me, glanced at my info, and grumbled. "It's going to be one of those days," as she ambled back to get my package. Which she wordlessly plopped on the counter. And without making eye contact with me, hit her service light and called "Next!" Just to cause her agita, and because I insisted she address me, I coolly but politely asked, "Am I not able to buy stamps at this window anymore?"

"How many?" she asked. Yipee! I got her to speak to me! OK, I got her to grumble and grouse at me. But it's something!

Vicki, Vicki, Vicki. Where's the love? Why are you so horrid? Don't you realize we pay your salary? Don't you know that the UPS Store is just around the corner, and is populated with nice people?

Plus, it's amazing how an early morning encounter with a witch like Vicki can cast a shadow over your whole day.

My motor is racing

I can't relax. I can't chill out. I'm under a lot of stress at work these days (which I resent, because it's not client-generated; it's internal agita we're inflicting on ourselves), but that's not unique. I've been working in advertising agencies since 1992; I know this shit happens. But for some reason tonight I can't unwind.

I've worked out. I've turned to junk TV (Law & Order rerun). Nothing is working. Nothing is distracting me. If I was a Warner Bros. cartoon character, you could see my heart beating through my shirt.

Drink or pill? Xanax or vodka? Is one better (or worse) than the other?

There's something else that reliably calms me down when I'm in a mood like this. But I'm not seeing anyone right now.

I'm going with Xanax. I don't need to worry about a headache later.

An infomercial on PBS?

I'm watching a blonde with a very thick Hungarian accent -- Dr. Denese of the Manhattan Anti-Aging Clinic -- talk about how to battle wrinkles and restore elasticity. She's recommending her sunscreen, her glycolic treatments, her moisturizer, etc. There are few things I enjoy more than skincare, so I'm watching with rapt attention.

But this is on Chicago's Channel 11. WTTW. Our PBS station. Should an infomercial about minimizing fine lines really be on our PBS station?

What about the McLaughlin Group? What about an architecture tour along the Chicago River? What about a panel discussion about the condition of Cook County Board President John Stroger, and the public's right to know? What about Arthur and his sister, DW? What about Arthur's glasses? Since his ears are on the top of his head, what holds his glasses on? (But I digress.)

I'm not against infomercials on PBS, really. But if Channel 11 is going to air these half-hour commercials, then I'd prefer it if there weren't pledge breaks, too. They keep cutting away from Dr. Denese to the Channel 11 studios so we can see the operators standing by, waiting to take my call. There's something about this set up that just seems wrong to me.

Discovering the balance in Homeowner's Karma

My new refrigerator arrived this morning! It is adorable, with recessed Euro handles. When I bought it originally, I wasn't this enthusiastic. But now that it's here, I love it. And besides, living out of a styrofoam cooler was a drag. The delivery men were on time and pleasant. So being a homeowner should be good again, huh?

Well, no. I guess it's Homeowner's Karma that for everything that goes well, something has to go bad.

It rained pretty hard last night, and there was a corresponding wide stain on the carpet in my hall. I'm on the top floor, and when water seeps in through the roof, it travels down the walls and comes out through my hallway carpet.

Not only am I not crazy about the (I fear) permanent damage to my carpet, in November 2003 I paid $1600 in special assessments to have the roof replaced. (The new roof didn't even last as long as the refrigerator I bought in 2002.)

I have such dreams for this place! I want to modernize the bathroom. I want to make the kitchen more austere and less busy. I'd been toying with the idea of hardwood floors for the living room/dining room/hall, but now I don't know. If the floors of my fourth floor unit are going to continue to be flooded, what's the point?

al-Zarqawi: This is "good news?"

I worked very hard on behalf of Senator Kerry's election in 2004. A day doesn't go by that I don't wish 11/02/04 had ended differently. I believe we would all be better off with someone with his wisdom, experience, and commitment to public service at our helm.

That said, I simply could not believe his official (no kidding, check out kerry.senate.gov) press release, addressing the death of al-Zarqawi:

"Abu Musab al-Zarqawi was a brutal terrorist and his death strikes a blow to al-Qaeda in Iraq. This ruthless thug who abused the true meaning of Islam was an intruder on Iraqi soil and it's good news that he's dead. Our troops did an incredible job hunting him down and destroying him, and all of America is proud of their skill and commitment."

Good newsthat he's dead … our troops did an incredible job hunting him down and destroying him … this from the same decorated war hero who said, regarding this opposition to the death penalty, "I know something about killing. I don't like killing."

The Senator is not "flip-flopping" here (something he rarely did, despite what Rove & Co. convinced the public). He has always been in favor of the death penalty for terrorists. It's not the content of his press release that bothers me -- it's the macho, blood-thirsty tone.

The Berg beheading was horrible. That Abu Musab al-Zarqawi released a video of it is even worse. I am not defending the murderous terrorist.

But likewise, I do not regard it is as "good news" that he's dead. No one's death is "good news" to me. His capture and subsequent trial -- like Saddam Hussein and Milosevic -- that would have been "good news" to this proud American. We're a nation of laws, and I want the world to see that.

And I'm feeling a little wounded by Senator Kerry right now. Perhaps the aggressive language of press release is veteran/machismo talk -- the way military men show respect for one another. God, I hope so. Otherwise, I suspect that he may be pandering, turning up the volume on the "manly" talk, because he realizes that his outspoken advocacy for early withdrawal from Iraq makes him vulnerable to charges that he advocates a "cut and run" policy. That would make me unutterably sad.

Jinx!

I got up this morning at 4:00 with really hideous stomach pains. In the interest of delicacy, let's just leave it at that.

Stress goes to my gut, and I've been plenty stressed. I had planned to try to take Monday off -- see yesterday's post -- and I wonder if I didn't somehow will this on myself.

I have to try to let this go. Worrying about the coverage gap between men and women when it comes to life insurance, and how to solve this scintillating problem, can wait until Monday.

I'm sooo tired

I ain't as young as I used to be. I just finished a concept presentation to my client, and I'm exhausted.

I used to get off the on deadlines, the pressure, the adrenaline rush. Rising to the occasion. I thought it was terrific to be the "go-to" girl, the one the team couldn't do without.

No more. I'm no longer interested in being the star. When I took this particular job in 2004, I negotiated for time off as a bonus rather than money. Now all I want is the opportunity to take that vacation time. Our timelines are so tight that I don't know when I'll be able to enjoy a long weekend. June doesn't look too promising …

Right now I can't bear the thought of going back into the office, dealing with my coworkers again. It just feels exhausting. I remember when it felt like a team; pulling together for long hours, working together toward a common goal, once felt like summer camp. At this very moment I hate them all.

Tomorrow I'm going to ask my boss for permission to at least work from home on Monday. That would be nice. Maybe I just need a little quiet time alone to recharge. Right now, my ideal weekend would be to take a few long walks, stock up my new refrigerator (arriving Saturday), maybe a movie or a rented DVD or two, and no demands. No conversation. Just me. Ah ...

One more thing about That Girl …

During the credits, every time I see the New York skyline, my heart sinks a bit. No World Trade Center. Of course, That Girl was filmed in the mid 1960s, so the Towers didn't exist yet. But in a way that makes it even more poignant. New York was younger then. We all were.

Maybe it's because I work in a big city (Chicago) in a famous skyscraper (AON Tower, aka The Standard Oil Bldg.). But 9/11 creeps up on me every now and again and weighs me down a little. I think it's like a birthmark or my vaccination scar. It will fade bit by bit, but it never disappears completely.

Waiting for a very specific phone call

I got in and saw the red light flashing and the words, "Message Waiting," on the Caller ID display. I checked and saw that my mother had phoned during the afternoon when I was out. "This is it," I thought, as I dialed into the voicemail for messages. I figured I was about to pick up the particular call I have been awaiting/dreading.

It wasn't THAT call. It was just my mom wanting to share cute anecdotes about my niece and nephew. Being a doting aunt, I'm always up for those. But when I called her back, the specter of THAT call hung over our conversation …

When I was in high school, back in the long ago 1970s, a 40-something relative molested me. He and I were alone together -- my parents had dropped me off over there for some reason I can no longer recall and, since I was only 15, I was unable to drive. While fondling me, he pointed out that we weren't blood relatives, so if we were to have sex it would be "OK." Completely creeped out and horrified, I insisted he drive me home.

I told my mother about this at the time. Her reaction was: "Don't tell anyone." She didn't ask if we had intercourse, if I needed to see a doctor, if he had hurt me. She just didn't want my father, nor my uncle, to know. She was afraid my father would do something out of a sense of obligation -- after all, he was my father. And my uncle had never liked this relative, so God knows what he would do. Best not to tell anyone.

End of story.

Only it's not.

My mother loves me. I know that. She doesn't understand that on that day, so many years ago, what she was telling me was that my body didn't matter, my confusion and revulsion and rage didn't matter, and that no one in the family was on my side. (After all, my dad and my uncle would have acted out of a sense of duty or to perpetuate an existing vendetta -- not because anyone had any particular affection for me.)

My mother is an ACOA (adult child of an alcoholic). Keeping up the appearance of a "normal" family is her defense mechanism, the only she was able to face the world. If the molester had been a stranger, I have no doubt my mother would have not only confronted him, she would have called the police. But it was family. Our "normal" family. Peace must be kept at all costs -- even if the expense was me.

I forgive my mother, but I can't forget. Every now and again, the way I was devalued, the way I was tossed over the wall to keep the peace, kicks back and colors something in my life today. After a lot of therapy, I am able to recognize when this is happening and try to minimize the impact.

But lately, here's the thing. My molester is almost 80 now and in bad health. He's going to die soon, because that's what happens to old men in bad health. I don't care about his fate. That's between him and God and besides I haven't spent much time with him since I moved out of my parents' home and I'm not sure I would recognize him if I passed him on the street.

Still, I dread getting that very specific call. Because I will be confronted with an unpleasant dilemma. Relatives from Michigan and Florida will undoubtedly come in for the service. I can either explain to my cousins why I'm not attending his final send off, or I can cover for him one more time. I can show up for the wake and/or funeral, listen to him be eulogized as a great guy, and make sure that, even in death, every member of our family appears "normal."

I don't know which option would be easier, or harder.

Appreciating That Girl

I got the entire first season of That Girl on DVD, and I'm into it. I know it's crap. But that doesn't mean it can't be fun. (Of course, my taste is suspect, as I did recently download Bobby Sherman's "Easy Come, Easy Go" and "Julie, Do 'Ya Love Me" onto my iPod.)

Marlo Thomas isn't much of an actress. Her "sincere" mode is anything but … all whispery voice, tremulous smile and shiny eyes. But oh! Her clothes! I am completely loving the clothes! Mini skirts and solid-colored shifts and pastel, belted trenches. And the accessories! Little bags with chain handles, big sunglasses worn atop your head, lush fake eyelashes. Very Carnaby Street by way of New York.

And while the show is pretty predictable and trite now, there's no questioning the influence it had on me as a very little girl. I grew up wanting to be Ann Marie. I wanted to be out of the suburbs and into the city. I wanted a life as different from my parents' life as possible. I wanted independence and privacy (and a great trenchcoat). And I do work on Michigan Avenue, I do have a decent career, I do have a nice (albeit messy) condo … and a lovely green trenchcoat.

So thank you, Marlo/Ann. And I wonder about 30 years from now, how many girls today will be thanking Carrie Bradshaw/Sarah Jessica Parker for inspiring them to move into the city?