Condo association meeting tonight. We are going to tackle all manner of serious topics: what fee new owners should be charged when they move in (don't care); whether owners should be allowed to rent their units (no); and what to do about the windows. I don't know! I know this is an important and potentially expensive decision I am about to make. Replacing windows is costly and almost always has an impact on resale value.
But this is a subject I know nothing about. I resent having to make this decision. I wish this was being handled like our roof. I simply received a note in the mail one day, telling me how much I owed for my 1/24th of the new roof. Fine.
To make matters worse, I got a free pass to a sneak preview to Miami Vice tonight. It's tempting to blow off this condo association meeting and get reacquainted with Crockett and Tubbs. The siren song of a free movie, I can feel it coming in the air tonight.
But no, I shall act my age and go to the damn meeting. But I don't want to do it, and will be primed with beer before I get there.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Farewell to one of my favorite places on earth
I believe I had my final adventure in retail at Marshall Field's State Street. It was a melancholy experience. The store was not that crowded, and the merchandise is being shifted and rearranged and cleared away to make way for Macy's and those house brands. Maybe it makes it easier that it didn't feel like my store anymore.
I got two sweaters (deep navy Ralph Lauren pullover and powder blue Liz Claiborne cardigan), and shorts (Field sniff-sniff Gear) and a black/red blouse from JM (a Macy's house brand). While it came to about $205, but it's important to note that I saved more than $30 with my final Field's Rewards coupon.
Then on the way out I hit the cosmetic counters. This was a far less sentimental journey because almost all of these brands will be available even after Macy's takes over. I visited my friends at Clinique for blemish concealer, bought SJP's Lovely body lotion (and look and smell more and more like Carrie Bradshaw with each passing minute) and Smashbox auburn mascara and lash primer. There's nothing wrong with my lashes -- it's not like they are brittle, dry or sparse. But I like the idea of buying a new product during my last visit with a dear old friend. (And I saved more than $16 at the cosmetic counters; I prefer thinking of that, rather than what I spent.)
Thanks, Marshall Field's State Street. Because of your convenient location and your rich history, you were my perfect getaway destination when I needed a retail fix. Whether I had hours to browse or had to power shop, you fit the bill and made me feel like I'd stumbled upon the happiest place on earth. I'll miss how helpful the sales associates always were How every purchase was wrapped carefully in tissue. How my personal shopper turned me on to Eileen Fisher. And, like everyone else, I loved the Christmas windows, the tree and the Frangoes. Goodbye, Marshall Field's State Street.
I got two sweaters (deep navy Ralph Lauren pullover and powder blue Liz Claiborne cardigan), and shorts (Field sniff-sniff Gear) and a black/red blouse from JM (a Macy's house brand). While it came to about $205, but it's important to note that I saved more than $30 with my final Field's Rewards coupon.
Then on the way out I hit the cosmetic counters. This was a far less sentimental journey because almost all of these brands will be available even after Macy's takes over. I visited my friends at Clinique for blemish concealer, bought SJP's Lovely body lotion (and look and smell more and more like Carrie Bradshaw with each passing minute) and Smashbox auburn mascara and lash primer. There's nothing wrong with my lashes -- it's not like they are brittle, dry or sparse. But I like the idea of buying a new product during my last visit with a dear old friend. (And I saved more than $16 at the cosmetic counters; I prefer thinking of that, rather than what I spent.)
Thanks, Marshall Field's State Street. Because of your convenient location and your rich history, you were my perfect getaway destination when I needed a retail fix. Whether I had hours to browse or had to power shop, you fit the bill and made me feel like I'd stumbled upon the happiest place on earth. I'll miss how helpful the sales associates always were How every purchase was wrapped carefully in tissue. How my personal shopper turned me on to Eileen Fisher. And, like everyone else, I loved the Christmas windows, the tree and the Frangoes. Goodbye, Marshall Field's State Street.
Larry King is a doddering fool
He's interviewing Sen. John Warner and Gov. Bill Richardson about the crisis in Lebanon. These men are decision-makers (Warner) and steeped in the history of the region (Richardson). And what does goofy ol' Lar ask them? "What do you think about this cease fire … thing?" I half expect him to ask the Senator, "You were married to Liz Taylor for a while, weren't you? Isn't she a Jew? Does that influence how you feel about this … thing?"
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
It's not Sarah Jessica Parker's fault
I really love her scent, Lovely. It's unique, it's lasting, it's feminine. The bottle is pretty, too. I feel all girly when I'm wearing Lovely.
I was embarrassed the first time I bought it, though. And I have felt a little silly each subsequent time I've approached the cosmetic counter. Here's why …
Years ago there was a movie named Educating Rita. The heroine was a student by evening and a hairdresser by day. She spoke of her clients with a mix of amusement and contempt, especially the 250 lb. grannies who would bring in magazine photos of Princess Diana and request, "Make me look like that."
I imagine that each time I buy Lovely bath gel or body lotion or cologne, the woman behind the counter is rolling her eyes, thinking, "So this pudgy, middle-aged broad thinks wearing the scent will make her like Sarah Jessica Parker."
But just as I wouldn't buy a fragrance because a celebrity endorses it, I shouldn't not buy it because of a celebrity endorsement, either. I like Lovely. And I'm going to keep wearing it.
Besides, these days those manning the cosmetic counter at Marshall Field's are probably wondering how long their severance will last once the folks from Macy's take over. They couldn't care less what I buy. I can be such a silly woman!
I was embarrassed the first time I bought it, though. And I have felt a little silly each subsequent time I've approached the cosmetic counter. Here's why …
Years ago there was a movie named Educating Rita. The heroine was a student by evening and a hairdresser by day. She spoke of her clients with a mix of amusement and contempt, especially the 250 lb. grannies who would bring in magazine photos of Princess Diana and request, "Make me look like that."
I imagine that each time I buy Lovely bath gel or body lotion or cologne, the woman behind the counter is rolling her eyes, thinking, "So this pudgy, middle-aged broad thinks wearing the scent will make her like Sarah Jessica Parker."
But just as I wouldn't buy a fragrance because a celebrity endorses it, I shouldn't not buy it because of a celebrity endorsement, either. I like Lovely. And I'm going to keep wearing it.
Besides, these days those manning the cosmetic counter at Marshall Field's are probably wondering how long their severance will last once the folks from Macy's take over. They couldn't care less what I buy. I can be such a silly woman!
I'm looking away now
I heard about the destruction of the UN post and the casualties late this afternoon. It broke my heart. It's THE UNITED NATIONS, people! This is how massive world wars begin. I can't stand it.
I checked CNN.com regularly at work. I've watched CNN since I got home. I heard Senator Allen talk about how great it was that Israel also managed to take out a Hezbollah leader. I'm against terrorists and murderers, of course, but it makes me very uncomfortable and sad to hear a self-proclaimed Christian sound like a cheerleader when discussing the death of a fellow human being. ANY fellow human being. (It's interesting that Allen is against protecting a woman's reproductive rights but is downright giddy over the violent death of another person. WWJD, Senator?)
All this is so sad. All this is so pointless. None of this will accomplish anything. Iraq, Iran, Korea, Lebanon, Israel, Pakistan … Dear God, where are we headed?
I'm turning away from CNN now. Maybe My Fair Brady is on VH1. I need complete escape.
I checked CNN.com regularly at work. I've watched CNN since I got home. I heard Senator Allen talk about how great it was that Israel also managed to take out a Hezbollah leader. I'm against terrorists and murderers, of course, but it makes me very uncomfortable and sad to hear a self-proclaimed Christian sound like a cheerleader when discussing the death of a fellow human being. ANY fellow human being. (It's interesting that Allen is against protecting a woman's reproductive rights but is downright giddy over the violent death of another person. WWJD, Senator?)
All this is so sad. All this is so pointless. None of this will accomplish anything. Iraq, Iran, Korea, Lebanon, Israel, Pakistan … Dear God, where are we headed?
I'm turning away from CNN now. Maybe My Fair Brady is on VH1. I need complete escape.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
It's not cancer
My mother got good news from her doctor. Thank goodness, the business with her throat has NOT resulted in cancer. I am so relieved … and grateful. My concern now, of course, is that since she doesn't have cancer now, she will believe this means smoking hasn't harmed her and there is no need to quit.
I have never been a smoker, so I simply do not understand how such a filthy, smelly, expensive habit can be so pleasurable that she's willing to risk her life for it. I realize that women of my mother's generation began smoking so they could look sophisticated, like Lauren Bacall. But we have known the hazards of smoking since the 1960s. She has had decades to quit. Yet she can't/won't.
In fairness to her, I must report that she has gone from a pack/day to just 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. But over the space of a year, that's more than 1,200 cigarettes, with smoke and carcinogens traveling down her poor old esophagas. Yet she won't quit. I find this unutterably sad.
Oh well. I realize that what I am dealing with here is really not unique. Coping with our parents' mortality is something we will all have to face. And I imagine it's just this crappy for everyone.
I have never been a smoker, so I simply do not understand how such a filthy, smelly, expensive habit can be so pleasurable that she's willing to risk her life for it. I realize that women of my mother's generation began smoking so they could look sophisticated, like Lauren Bacall. But we have known the hazards of smoking since the 1960s. She has had decades to quit. Yet she can't/won't.
In fairness to her, I must report that she has gone from a pack/day to just 3 or 4 cigarettes a day. But over the space of a year, that's more than 1,200 cigarettes, with smoke and carcinogens traveling down her poor old esophagas. Yet she won't quit. I find this unutterably sad.
Oh well. I realize that what I am dealing with here is really not unique. Coping with our parents' mortality is something we will all have to face. And I imagine it's just this crappy for everyone.
Visiting with Katie and Hubbell
I am watching "The Way We Were" again for the 3,000,000th time. I know every scene, and can recite much of the dialog verbatim. And yet here I am watching ... again. Almost unable to look away.
Why do some movies have such a hold on our imaginations? Yes, the stars help. The 1970s were The Golden Age of The Golden Boy, with Redford looking impossibly gorgeous. And activism and involvement has seldom had a more poignant spokeswoman than Streisand, whose longing (for justice, for a better world, for more time in his arms) is so achingly real.
And I was so young and impressionable when I saw this for this first time. In my adolescence I wanted to believe in a world where, no matter how strident or unconventional I was, I could still come home and find a terrifically fabulous sailor nude in my bed. It's only through repeated viewings that I have noticed that my life has imitated this particular piece of art in subtle ways. (My inability to "leave the soapbox at home" has damaged a relationship or two.) Unfortunately none of these ways included a blond, blue-eyed Adonis.
Movies race by faster when you're this familiar with the content. You'd think it would be the opposite, that the pace would seem slower and that you'd be bored. But no, it moves faster. This is not the only time I've noticed this strange compression of time. After midnight time seems to race, too. I can be doing something at 1:30, look at the clock a little bit later and will be shocked to discover it's 3:00 already.
Gotta go. Katie is about to explain to Hubbell why it must be exciting to be stationed in Washington. ("Because Roosevelt is there!")
Why do some movies have such a hold on our imaginations? Yes, the stars help. The 1970s were The Golden Age of The Golden Boy, with Redford looking impossibly gorgeous. And activism and involvement has seldom had a more poignant spokeswoman than Streisand, whose longing (for justice, for a better world, for more time in his arms) is so achingly real.
And I was so young and impressionable when I saw this for this first time. In my adolescence I wanted to believe in a world where, no matter how strident or unconventional I was, I could still come home and find a terrifically fabulous sailor nude in my bed. It's only through repeated viewings that I have noticed that my life has imitated this particular piece of art in subtle ways. (My inability to "leave the soapbox at home" has damaged a relationship or two.) Unfortunately none of these ways included a blond, blue-eyed Adonis.
Movies race by faster when you're this familiar with the content. You'd think it would be the opposite, that the pace would seem slower and that you'd be bored. But no, it moves faster. This is not the only time I've noticed this strange compression of time. After midnight time seems to race, too. I can be doing something at 1:30, look at the clock a little bit later and will be shocked to discover it's 3:00 already.
Gotta go. Katie is about to explain to Hubbell why it must be exciting to be stationed in Washington. ("Because Roosevelt is there!")
Friday, July 21, 2006
My biggest fan is automated
I don't know who is out there, if anyone, but just in case any actual, warm-blooded human beings visit this blog, I warn you not to read the comments. They're spam. I know I can go through and remove them, but I don't feel like doing it just now. So consider this your consumer warning.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Scarlett replaces Gwyneth …
… as my least favorite movie actress.
I'm watching Match Point as I write this. I loved it when I saw it in the theater and told everyone it was sexy and suspenseful. It seems to move slower on DVD, which only gives me more time to be annoyed by Scarlett Johanssen.
SPOILER ALERT! I haven't been this gleeful about a leading lady's demise since Brad Pitt took the lid off the bakery box in Seven. Aside from annoying me, Scarlett and Gwyneth Paltrow don't have a lot in common.
Gwyneth is self-consciously aristocratic, as though being a Paltrow is akin to being a Windsor or a Grimaldi. But Scarlett simply oozes slut. While Gwyneth is high-maintenance, clear-skinned pretty, Scarlett's vibe is all dead eyes, sleepy voice and swollen lips. (When I think of that captivating little girl from The Horse Whisperer, I'm just glad Pilgrim is dead so he can't see that he risked his noble equine life for such a trollop.)
Yet they have over-rated talent in common. I never for a moment forget that Gwyneth is Gwyneth. And that Scarlett is Scarlett. They are not actresses enough to disappear into their parts, nor charismatic enough to engage me as film personalities. (Like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. They may not be great actresses, but they sure are fun movie stars.)
I suggest that from here on, directors hire Anne Hathaway for all roles previously slated for Scarlett.
Young Jonathan Rhys Meyer is fun and versatile. From Bend it Like Beckham to Elvis to MI:3, he surprises me and delights me. Still, I'd like all his roles to go to Johnny Depp. Because I believe that every movie should star Johnny Depp.
I'm watching Match Point as I write this. I loved it when I saw it in the theater and told everyone it was sexy and suspenseful. It seems to move slower on DVD, which only gives me more time to be annoyed by Scarlett Johanssen.
SPOILER ALERT! I haven't been this gleeful about a leading lady's demise since Brad Pitt took the lid off the bakery box in Seven. Aside from annoying me, Scarlett and Gwyneth Paltrow don't have a lot in common.
Gwyneth is self-consciously aristocratic, as though being a Paltrow is akin to being a Windsor or a Grimaldi. But Scarlett simply oozes slut. While Gwyneth is high-maintenance, clear-skinned pretty, Scarlett's vibe is all dead eyes, sleepy voice and swollen lips. (When I think of that captivating little girl from The Horse Whisperer, I'm just glad Pilgrim is dead so he can't see that he risked his noble equine life for such a trollop.)
Yet they have over-rated talent in common. I never for a moment forget that Gwyneth is Gwyneth. And that Scarlett is Scarlett. They are not actresses enough to disappear into their parts, nor charismatic enough to engage me as film personalities. (Like Julia Roberts, Sandra Bullock or Jennifer Aniston. They may not be great actresses, but they sure are fun movie stars.)
I suggest that from here on, directors hire Anne Hathaway for all roles previously slated for Scarlett.
Young Jonathan Rhys Meyer is fun and versatile. From Bend it Like Beckham to Elvis to MI:3, he surprises me and delights me. Still, I'd like all his roles to go to Johnny Depp. Because I believe that every movie should star Johnny Depp.
All I wanna do is sleep
Sleep, sleep, sleep.
When it's as hot as it is, and has been, that's all I want to do. Just going outside for a minute takes so much out of me! Heat is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman. It saps all my powers and renders me downright mortal.
Nothing holds my interest for long. I'm thirsty all the time. My hair finds imaginative ways to curl, all on its own. My eye shadow melts. My institutional gray desktop is so cool that I'm tempted to just give up and give in by pressing my cheek against it and calling it a day. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Then tonight, after a 45-minute el ride with really cranky fellow commuters, I'll get home and find that if I try to run the air conditioner AND the DVD player, I blow the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen circuit. (Actually I think the problem is my cable box, which in hot weather behaves as if it's auditioning for a dinner theater production of Poltergeist.) But that's OK. Because right now my dearest wish isn't to be tucked in the corner of my sofa watching those DVD's I rented. No, I wish to be in my bedroom. On clean, cool sheets. After (at least) making out with my best friend.* Then sleep, sleep, sleep.
*Oh, it won't ever happen. But it's hot and I'm grumpy and we take our pleasure where we can.
When it's as hot as it is, and has been, that's all I want to do. Just going outside for a minute takes so much out of me! Heat is to me as Kryptonite is to Superman. It saps all my powers and renders me downright mortal.
Nothing holds my interest for long. I'm thirsty all the time. My hair finds imaginative ways to curl, all on its own. My eye shadow melts. My institutional gray desktop is so cool that I'm tempted to just give up and give in by pressing my cheek against it and calling it a day. Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Then tonight, after a 45-minute el ride with really cranky fellow commuters, I'll get home and find that if I try to run the air conditioner AND the DVD player, I blow the livingroom/diningroom/kitchen circuit. (Actually I think the problem is my cable box, which in hot weather behaves as if it's auditioning for a dinner theater production of Poltergeist.) But that's OK. Because right now my dearest wish isn't to be tucked in the corner of my sofa watching those DVD's I rented. No, I wish to be in my bedroom. On clean, cool sheets. After (at least) making out with my best friend.* Then sleep, sleep, sleep.
*Oh, it won't ever happen. But it's hot and I'm grumpy and we take our pleasure where we can.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
This stuff is good
1) I saw my best friend on Wednesday night. He looked wonderful. He was in for a job interview and he might get a firm job offer. I hope he takes it, and not only because it would mean a trip to Chicago every month. I think this is great for his bruised ego, and this company seems to want to help him grow in his career. It was terrific to see him, even if it wasn't for long and I had to share him with former coworkers that he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to. He kept his tie on for me. I always said I wondered how he'd look in a tie. He looks good very good in a tie. I think he looks very good under any and all circumstances. I miss him so …
2) There's an extra $600 in my checking account. Apparently it's been there since before I started using Quicken in the late 90s. I'm going to pretend I haven't discovered this -- using the $600 as a cushion against rubber checks. But it makes me happy.
3) I got a raise. 4.5%. I still hate my job, but it's easier to endure knowing that I'm being compensated a bit more fairly. The "loser/sucker" that had previously been printed across my forehead appears to be fading a little …
There's a lot that's NOT good, but I'm not going to think about that now. I'm going to think of how nice it was that he wore a tie, how good it is that I have six hundred secret dollars, and that I finally got a raise.
2) There's an extra $600 in my checking account. Apparently it's been there since before I started using Quicken in the late 90s. I'm going to pretend I haven't discovered this -- using the $600 as a cushion against rubber checks. But it makes me happy.
3) I got a raise. 4.5%. I still hate my job, but it's easier to endure knowing that I'm being compensated a bit more fairly. The "loser/sucker" that had previously been printed across my forehead appears to be fading a little …
There's a lot that's NOT good, but I'm not going to think about that now. I'm going to think of how nice it was that he wore a tie, how good it is that I have six hundred secret dollars, and that I finally got a raise.
Mother/Daughter Role Reversal
My mother had quite the week last week. She had a malignant growth removed from her left arm -- skin cancer. The hole took five stitches to close and it bled quite a bit, but her dermatologist is confident they got it all. We won't know for sure, though, until next week, when the biopsy results come back. You'd think that when the test is something as important as a biopsy, they could add an element of "hurry up," but I guess a week is what it takes.
Then she went to a different doctor to get her throat checked. My mother has "Barrett's esophagas," which means the lining of her esophagas is compromised. This is the result of acid reflux and more than half a century of cigarettes. She's been taking Prevacid for years, but her doctor is concerned that the degeneration hasn't slowed. Another biopsy. Another week long wait.
I took Thursday off to check on her after the exicision. I got to her house before she returned and was laying on the sofa when she arrived. I watched her come up the front steps, wincing because of the little shopping bag she was carrying. On the way back from the dermatologist, she asked my sister to make a stop at the convenience store so she could pick up her essentials for the weekend. The bag held peanuts (so my mother and my little nephew could feed the squirrel that lives in her backyard) and a carton of cigarettes.
I was speechless. And I cannot tell you how seldom that happens!
My mother had been told twice -- by two different doctors -- that she was flirting with life threatening cancer. The skin cancer on her arm will turn out fine, God willing, but she has to take care of herself. Smoking has helped exacerbate the Barrett's and she's waiting for results of that biopsy, too. And she felt that what she needed for the weekend was another carton of cigarettes!
Last night I had a very serious conversation with her. I reminded her of that long ago day, back in the 1970s, when my mother was summoned to the hospital to speak to her mother's doctors. My grandmother had been drinking on the sly for years, and it had seriously damaged her health. Doctors had summoned the family to the hospital, alerted them to her drinking, and explained the ramifications. My mother and grandmother were very close, and this upset her enormously.
Now, said I, how would you have felt if, on the way home from the hospital, old Grandma had stopped for a beer … said that she knew the drinking was "bad," but wasn't quite ready to quit yet.
I reminded my mother that back in the 1970s, she was already an adult. She had her own home and her own family. Yet she still needed her mother. I told her this was no different for me. She said she had never thought of it that way, and realizes that now is the time to quit smoking.
We will see. My mother can be very stubborn in a passive-aggressive way. She'll agree to something, but then just turn around and go her own way. Let's see how this story unfolds.
Then she went to a different doctor to get her throat checked. My mother has "Barrett's esophagas," which means the lining of her esophagas is compromised. This is the result of acid reflux and more than half a century of cigarettes. She's been taking Prevacid for years, but her doctor is concerned that the degeneration hasn't slowed. Another biopsy. Another week long wait.
I took Thursday off to check on her after the exicision. I got to her house before she returned and was laying on the sofa when she arrived. I watched her come up the front steps, wincing because of the little shopping bag she was carrying. On the way back from the dermatologist, she asked my sister to make a stop at the convenience store so she could pick up her essentials for the weekend. The bag held peanuts (so my mother and my little nephew could feed the squirrel that lives in her backyard) and a carton of cigarettes.
I was speechless. And I cannot tell you how seldom that happens!
My mother had been told twice -- by two different doctors -- that she was flirting with life threatening cancer. The skin cancer on her arm will turn out fine, God willing, but she has to take care of herself. Smoking has helped exacerbate the Barrett's and she's waiting for results of that biopsy, too. And she felt that what she needed for the weekend was another carton of cigarettes!
Last night I had a very serious conversation with her. I reminded her of that long ago day, back in the 1970s, when my mother was summoned to the hospital to speak to her mother's doctors. My grandmother had been drinking on the sly for years, and it had seriously damaged her health. Doctors had summoned the family to the hospital, alerted them to her drinking, and explained the ramifications. My mother and grandmother were very close, and this upset her enormously.
Now, said I, how would you have felt if, on the way home from the hospital, old Grandma had stopped for a beer … said that she knew the drinking was "bad," but wasn't quite ready to quit yet.
I reminded my mother that back in the 1970s, she was already an adult. She had her own home and her own family. Yet she still needed her mother. I told her this was no different for me. She said she had never thought of it that way, and realizes that now is the time to quit smoking.
We will see. My mother can be very stubborn in a passive-aggressive way. She'll agree to something, but then just turn around and go her own way. Let's see how this story unfolds.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Reynaldo & Me, Life and Love with the World's Worst Cat
Reynaldo is 2.5 years old. This cat is no longer a kitten. Yet even though chronologically he should have left kittenhood behind, he remains a wild-eyed, destructive force who must be reckoned with, day in and day out. Like the Grogans in their book about Marley, I find my patience sorely tested.
Monday morning, at about 4:30 AM, he decided it would be fun to "let there be light." So he jumped onto my vanity, stretched, reached, and thoroughly amused himself by turning the switch on and off. I live alone. I cannot express how terrifying it is to be awakened by my bedroom light being switched on and off. I yelled at him as I threw my legs over the side of the bed. He looked at me with big, bright orange eyes, lit with excitement. "Oh, good," you could see him thinking, "We're going to play that game where she chases me and yells at me!" But I fooled him. I simply closed my bedroom door, turned off the light, and slept for another 90 minutes.
Chalk one up for the bi-ped with opposing thumbs, right? Not really.
I opened my bedroom door at 6:00 to the worst smell imaginable. Reynaldo had left a very fragrant, rather runny "gift" for me in my bathtub. (Props to whoever invented kitty litter; before Monday I don't think I fully realized how wretched that smell is without it.) I had forgotten that when I closed him out of my bedroom, I had closed him off from his box. Stifling a gag or two I cleaned and disinfected my tub (just what I want to do first thing Monday morning) and figured he had used up his quota of really bad morning behavior for the week.
Ah, but I'm just a dreamer.
This morning all was going well. Reynaldo was racing around happily, chasing the balls with the bells inside and tormenting my older, more sedate cat, Charlotte. (The torment is only perceived on her end; with him, it's all good fun, as in "We're going to play that game where she lays on her back and squeals like a monkey until I take my paws off her chest.") I was in the bathroom, applying just a little more hairspray to combat the humidity when I heard a CRASH! in the kitchen.
Charlotte raced past me, in the other direction, down the hall. Alone. Where was Rey? As I went to investigate I was filled with dread. Turning the corner to the dining room I saw him, scrunched down on his haunches, dragging his butt along the carpet. I saw a wet trail behind him. I was sure that he had fallen hard and broken something, damaging his internal organs so that he could no longer control his bladder. I tried gently to get him to stand on all fours. No way. That skinny little tom can he very strong when he wishes to be and he most emphatically was not going to stand on all fours.
It wasn't quite 8:00 AM yet. Emergency vet, I was thinking. But is it OK to bundle him up and put him in the carrier? How much can I handle him without doing more damage?
Then I looked past him to the kitchen. And it all became very clear. He had fallen or jumped from somewhere (the top of the new refrigerator, perhaps?) and had somehow landed ass first into his metal water bowl. And he wasn't crazy about the feeling of cold water on his anus, hence the scraping it along the carpet. I stood up and looked down at him. "You're fine, aren't you?" He sprung up and tried to herd me into the kitchen, hoping I would feed him again. I went into the kitchen to clean up the water spill and he circled me, trying to convince me that giving him more Friskies would be just thing to do right now.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Hell, I'm afraid for tonight.
He doesn't believe in framed artwork. He knocks it off the desk and bookshelves as well as stretching up and trying to remove it from walls. He likes to eat things -- mostly the handles on bags and purses. Every now and then, though, a nice umbrella hits the spot. (There are few things in life more useless than an umbrella covered with little pinprick-sized bite holes.) Glasses need to be spilled, as to cans. It's always more fun to spill cola than beer because the stain is so much darker. Hanging from the drapes is nice. As is trying to sneak between my legs and out the door at every given opportunity.
I'm tired.
But, like Marley in Grogan's book, Rey is not without his charms. He loooooves me. He enjoys sprawling across my lap while I'm reading. He submits merrily to "We're going to play the game where she cuts my nails." When we're en route to the vet, he comforts Charlotte by gently cleaning her ears. He is endlessly patient and gentle with the little boy next door and my nephew (as in, "We're going to play the game where he pulls my ears or yanks my tail"). Since he doesn't perceive any interaction as negative, he is utterly fearless. Reynaldo's world isn't filled with strangers, just playmates he hasn't met yet.
So I guess I should just accept it. After almost two years, Reynaldo is mine and I am his, and we simply have to find a way to peacefully co-exist.
Monday morning, at about 4:30 AM, he decided it would be fun to "let there be light." So he jumped onto my vanity, stretched, reached, and thoroughly amused himself by turning the switch on and off. I live alone. I cannot express how terrifying it is to be awakened by my bedroom light being switched on and off. I yelled at him as I threw my legs over the side of the bed. He looked at me with big, bright orange eyes, lit with excitement. "Oh, good," you could see him thinking, "We're going to play that game where she chases me and yells at me!" But I fooled him. I simply closed my bedroom door, turned off the light, and slept for another 90 minutes.
Chalk one up for the bi-ped with opposing thumbs, right? Not really.
I opened my bedroom door at 6:00 to the worst smell imaginable. Reynaldo had left a very fragrant, rather runny "gift" for me in my bathtub. (Props to whoever invented kitty litter; before Monday I don't think I fully realized how wretched that smell is without it.) I had forgotten that when I closed him out of my bedroom, I had closed him off from his box. Stifling a gag or two I cleaned and disinfected my tub (just what I want to do first thing Monday morning) and figured he had used up his quota of really bad morning behavior for the week.
Ah, but I'm just a dreamer.
This morning all was going well. Reynaldo was racing around happily, chasing the balls with the bells inside and tormenting my older, more sedate cat, Charlotte. (The torment is only perceived on her end; with him, it's all good fun, as in "We're going to play that game where she lays on her back and squeals like a monkey until I take my paws off her chest.") I was in the bathroom, applying just a little more hairspray to combat the humidity when I heard a CRASH! in the kitchen.
Charlotte raced past me, in the other direction, down the hall. Alone. Where was Rey? As I went to investigate I was filled with dread. Turning the corner to the dining room I saw him, scrunched down on his haunches, dragging his butt along the carpet. I saw a wet trail behind him. I was sure that he had fallen hard and broken something, damaging his internal organs so that he could no longer control his bladder. I tried gently to get him to stand on all fours. No way. That skinny little tom can he very strong when he wishes to be and he most emphatically was not going to stand on all fours.
It wasn't quite 8:00 AM yet. Emergency vet, I was thinking. But is it OK to bundle him up and put him in the carrier? How much can I handle him without doing more damage?
Then I looked past him to the kitchen. And it all became very clear. He had fallen or jumped from somewhere (the top of the new refrigerator, perhaps?) and had somehow landed ass first into his metal water bowl. And he wasn't crazy about the feeling of cold water on his anus, hence the scraping it along the carpet. I stood up and looked down at him. "You're fine, aren't you?" He sprung up and tried to herd me into the kitchen, hoping I would feed him again. I went into the kitchen to clean up the water spill and he circled me, trying to convince me that giving him more Friskies would be just thing to do right now.
Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Hell, I'm afraid for tonight.
He doesn't believe in framed artwork. He knocks it off the desk and bookshelves as well as stretching up and trying to remove it from walls. He likes to eat things -- mostly the handles on bags and purses. Every now and then, though, a nice umbrella hits the spot. (There are few things in life more useless than an umbrella covered with little pinprick-sized bite holes.) Glasses need to be spilled, as to cans. It's always more fun to spill cola than beer because the stain is so much darker. Hanging from the drapes is nice. As is trying to sneak between my legs and out the door at every given opportunity.
I'm tired.
But, like Marley in Grogan's book, Rey is not without his charms. He loooooves me. He enjoys sprawling across my lap while I'm reading. He submits merrily to "We're going to play the game where she cuts my nails." When we're en route to the vet, he comforts Charlotte by gently cleaning her ears. He is endlessly patient and gentle with the little boy next door and my nephew (as in, "We're going to play the game where he pulls my ears or yanks my tail"). Since he doesn't perceive any interaction as negative, he is utterly fearless. Reynaldo's world isn't filled with strangers, just playmates he hasn't met yet.
So I guess I should just accept it. After almost two years, Reynaldo is mine and I am his, and we simply have to find a way to peacefully co-exist.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Why Suri Cruise matters
I just downloaded Suri Cruise's birth certificate. And I, too, wonder why she hasn't been seen. I also feel terribly invested in Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughan. I'm happy they're in love, but I don't want them to rush into marriage, just because Brangelina had a baby first so Jen wants to win the race to the altar. And I'm hoping that his dramatic turn in the upcoming Hollywoodland rejuvenates Ben Affleck's career. All of this is important to me.
No, I'm not stupid. And yes, I do have real friends, people that I actually interact with on a regular basis, that I could concentrate on.
But I often find reality lacking, so I escape into the pages of US, PEOPLE and smokinggun.com.
My mom is flirting with skin cancer. One friend told me that she enjoys following her Xanax with wine because it calms her down faster. Another friend is so overwhelmed at work that she has a hard time stringing three coherent words together. Another can't afford medical insurance so she keeps telling me how superior she feels to the rest of us, experiencing her body while the rest of us simply medicate ours. And it's Monday, so let me say it for the first time this week: I hate this job.
I do read. I know about the Korean situation. It scares me that we have Bolton at the UN. It disgusts me that we are occupying a country with no WMD's while we should have been paying attention to a country that is rather proud of its missles. I know about the soldiers charged with rape and murder in Iraq and wonder how far our actions at Gitmo and Abu Gharib went in dehumanizing these American boys. I ache for the woman here in Chicago who deserted her ADD son at Taste of Chicago because she didn't have the resources -- emotional and fiscal -- to care for him. There's so much misery everywhere we look.
So I choose every now and again to look away and focus instead on Suri and Jen and Vince and Ben. (The Star Jones thing is pretty entertaining, too.)
I do, however, about the soul-sucking nature of celebrity worship. In the summer of 2004 I saw Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at a fundraiser for Senator Kerry. Here's a woman who has been famous her entire life, and not by choice. As she walked through the crowd, she seemed fragile and damaged. Here she was, at a reception for Kerry campaign staff. She would never find a more supportive audience anywhere. And yet as she made her way to the stage, she seemed not to hear us, as though sending her mind away to the Happy Place would protect her somehow. I worried how she would fare at the real dinner in the ballroom where she would have to mingle with big dollar contributors. I suddenly felt very maternal toward her. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her she didn't have to do this -- we had their credit card numbers already, so even if she ran away, we still had their contributions. Once she made it to the stage, she was poised, sophisticated and very well spoken. But we weren't surrounding her when she was on stage.
It occured to me as I listened to her speak that I have seen her bid farewell to her entire immediate family. I watched her slip her hand under the flag that covered her father's coffin. I saw her kiss her hand and touch her mother's grave at Arlington. Through telescopic lenses I saw her seated on a ship, listening to the service as her brother's ashes were tossed into the sea. How weird, creepy and intrusive is that? I realize that the Kennedys are public figures, part of history, and that press attention goes with the territory. But watching that thin woman try to slip through the crowd without making eye contact, seeing the trepidation in every line of her body, I wonder what had happened to her to make her construct such a thick protective shell. Do people stop her on the street and ask about Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquidick and assassination theories? Seeing her that night makes me wonder about the personal price of celebrity as entertainment, even as I indulge in it.
No, I'm not stupid. And yes, I do have real friends, people that I actually interact with on a regular basis, that I could concentrate on.
But I often find reality lacking, so I escape into the pages of US, PEOPLE and smokinggun.com.
My mom is flirting with skin cancer. One friend told me that she enjoys following her Xanax with wine because it calms her down faster. Another friend is so overwhelmed at work that she has a hard time stringing three coherent words together. Another can't afford medical insurance so she keeps telling me how superior she feels to the rest of us, experiencing her body while the rest of us simply medicate ours. And it's Monday, so let me say it for the first time this week: I hate this job.
I do read. I know about the Korean situation. It scares me that we have Bolton at the UN. It disgusts me that we are occupying a country with no WMD's while we should have been paying attention to a country that is rather proud of its missles. I know about the soldiers charged with rape and murder in Iraq and wonder how far our actions at Gitmo and Abu Gharib went in dehumanizing these American boys. I ache for the woman here in Chicago who deserted her ADD son at Taste of Chicago because she didn't have the resources -- emotional and fiscal -- to care for him. There's so much misery everywhere we look.
So I choose every now and again to look away and focus instead on Suri and Jen and Vince and Ben. (The Star Jones thing is pretty entertaining, too.)
I do, however, about the soul-sucking nature of celebrity worship. In the summer of 2004 I saw Caroline Kennedy Schlossberg at a fundraiser for Senator Kerry. Here's a woman who has been famous her entire life, and not by choice. As she walked through the crowd, she seemed fragile and damaged. Here she was, at a reception for Kerry campaign staff. She would never find a more supportive audience anywhere. And yet as she made her way to the stage, she seemed not to hear us, as though sending her mind away to the Happy Place would protect her somehow. I worried how she would fare at the real dinner in the ballroom where she would have to mingle with big dollar contributors. I suddenly felt very maternal toward her. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her she didn't have to do this -- we had their credit card numbers already, so even if she ran away, we still had their contributions. Once she made it to the stage, she was poised, sophisticated and very well spoken. But we weren't surrounding her when she was on stage.
It occured to me as I listened to her speak that I have seen her bid farewell to her entire immediate family. I watched her slip her hand under the flag that covered her father's coffin. I saw her kiss her hand and touch her mother's grave at Arlington. Through telescopic lenses I saw her seated on a ship, listening to the service as her brother's ashes were tossed into the sea. How weird, creepy and intrusive is that? I realize that the Kennedys are public figures, part of history, and that press attention goes with the territory. But watching that thin woman try to slip through the crowd without making eye contact, seeing the trepidation in every line of her body, I wonder what had happened to her to make her construct such a thick protective shell. Do people stop her on the street and ask about Marilyn Monroe, Chappaquidick and assassination theories? Seeing her that night makes me wonder about the personal price of celebrity as entertainment, even as I indulge in it.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
I'm an American Girl
With all apologies to Tom Petty fans, I'm going to mix and merge two of his songs here. A few years back, I met a Jordanian ex-patriate at a party and after about a half hour of conversation, he said (with affection), "I have finally met the American Girl from the Tom Petty song." He had gotten "American Girl" and "Free Falling" confused. I was flattered by his observation and have thought about it often since then.
"She's a good girl, loves her Mama …" Yes. My mother is having minor cancer surgery this Thursday and it's about all I can think of. It's skin cancer, an in-office procedure. But it's still cancer and she's still my mother.
"Loves Jesus, and America, too." Yes, indeedy. I'm a patriotic Christian. (Which is why I'm still proud of MY vote on 11/2/04. Wonder how many Bushies can say the same.)
"Crazy 'bout Elvis." Yes. Definitely. I wanted Emil or Elliott or whoever the hell he was voted off American Idol after he screwed up "If I Can Dream." That's a great song. A beautiful song. Elvis' contribution is just as moving a testament to its time as "Blowin' in the Wind." Oh, and I have seen King Creole and Viva Las Vegas like a million times.
"Loves horses, and her boyfriend, too." I've always loved horses. Noble, beautiful beasts. And actually, I'm secretly in love with someone else's husband, but since I've never told him, I don't think that will cost me my "good girl" status.
And yes, I do believe I'm "free falling." Sometimes I feel like it's a battle to keep my head above water, to remain positive, to concentrate on the many good and happy things in my life. But I'm trying!
And, as an American Girl, I have to confess that I COULD NOT CARE LESS about Wimbeldon or the World Cup. Make them go away. They are just confusing my TV watching and taking valuable media attention away from my Cubs. HEY! They are on a streak now (two in a row)! And besides, there's trade talk floating around regarding my two favorite players (my beloved #31, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux and Todd Walker, he of the really beautiful hair). I need to be informed!
"She's a good girl, loves her Mama …" Yes. My mother is having minor cancer surgery this Thursday and it's about all I can think of. It's skin cancer, an in-office procedure. But it's still cancer and she's still my mother.
"Loves Jesus, and America, too." Yes, indeedy. I'm a patriotic Christian. (Which is why I'm still proud of MY vote on 11/2/04. Wonder how many Bushies can say the same.)
"Crazy 'bout Elvis." Yes. Definitely. I wanted Emil or Elliott or whoever the hell he was voted off American Idol after he screwed up "If I Can Dream." That's a great song. A beautiful song. Elvis' contribution is just as moving a testament to its time as "Blowin' in the Wind." Oh, and I have seen King Creole and Viva Las Vegas like a million times.
"Loves horses, and her boyfriend, too." I've always loved horses. Noble, beautiful beasts. And actually, I'm secretly in love with someone else's husband, but since I've never told him, I don't think that will cost me my "good girl" status.
And yes, I do believe I'm "free falling." Sometimes I feel like it's a battle to keep my head above water, to remain positive, to concentrate on the many good and happy things in my life. But I'm trying!
And, as an American Girl, I have to confess that I COULD NOT CARE LESS about Wimbeldon or the World Cup. Make them go away. They are just confusing my TV watching and taking valuable media attention away from my Cubs. HEY! They are on a streak now (two in a row)! And besides, there's trade talk floating around regarding my two favorite players (my beloved #31, future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux and Todd Walker, he of the really beautiful hair). I need to be informed!
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Back to the grind
Why is it so hard to concentrate after four glorious days off? Shouldn't I feel invigorated and re-energized? Instead I'm lethargic and completely unenthusiastic about everything on my desk, on my calendar, on my to-do list.
Is this because I am no longer happy at this job? Perhaps this is just the natural order of things and everyone feels this way today.
There are so many things I could be doing at home. Scrubbing my bathroom floor. Disposing of even more extraneous paper. (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!) Sorting through books for the book fair to benefit the Oak Park Public Library. Watching continuous coverage of Ken Lay/Korea while playing endless games of Pogo 21 …
Instead of all those lofty pursuits, I am, in the immortal words of Huey Lewis, "Taking what they're giving because I'm working for a living."
Is this because I am no longer happy at this job? Perhaps this is just the natural order of things and everyone feels this way today.
There are so many things I could be doing at home. Scrubbing my bathroom floor. Disposing of even more extraneous paper. (Two bags of magazines, catalogs and outdated correspondence yesterday alone!) Sorting through books for the book fair to benefit the Oak Park Public Library. Watching continuous coverage of Ken Lay/Korea while playing endless games of Pogo 21 …
Instead of all those lofty pursuits, I am, in the immortal words of Huey Lewis, "Taking what they're giving because I'm working for a living."
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Unable to part with Johnny Depp
Right here beside me is Johnny Depp, smiling from the June 26 cover of Newsweek. I am making an optimistic attempt to rid my living room of all this paper. I should toss this into the bag of recycled paper. Oh, but look at him …
There are lots of things I could think about today. My mom's health. Current events. My suck-o job/career. My longing for my best friend.
Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.
I'm sticking with Johnny.
He's simply gorgeous,and he refuses to trade on it. Pirates of the Carribean. Finding Neverland. Blow. Ed Wood. Secret Window. Charley and the Chocolate Factory. Considering how completely delicious he looks, these were not only daring career choices, they were downright perverse. I admire his sense of humor and sense of integrity. Oh, and his cheekbones and how he looks in jeans.
Now that I'm thinking good, clean, dirty thoughts: I am also in love with Bruce Willis. His effortless sense of cool. His (seeming) complete of vanity, in both his personal appearance and his career choices. In Lucky Number Slevin, he played the father figure to Josh Hartnett, an actor just about the same age as his ex-wife's new hubby. So much for caring about the image.
Then there's George Clooney. I never cared much about him, one way or the other, until Good Night and Good Luck. Loved the movie, love his point of view about free speech and the press, love how he looked in a tux during awards season. Love how he uses his fame to draw attention to genocide. Love how well he seems to get along with his dad. I hope he forgives me for ignoring him during the ER/Ocean's 11 hubub, and if there's still room on his bandwagon, I'd like to jump on.
I also get all swooney about Rob Lowe on The West Wing. (I'm into the reruns on Bravo.) He's so earnest and idealistic. And I love how he looks in those suits. Didn't I read somewhere that Aaron Sorkin based Rob's Sam Seaborn on George Stephanopolous when he worked for Bill Clinton? Sure, he's a pretty boy. But then I can be hot for a pretty boy with the right social conscience.
Then there's the pretty boy who is that and nothing else: Hugh Grant. Maybe he's a good actor. We've never really seen him stretch himself. But he's certainly a charming screen presence, and that's enough for me. And ever since I was a little girl, breathlessly enchanted by Paul McCartney, I've had a weakness for handsome Brits who can't keep their hair out of their eyes.
What a lovely respite this was! Thank you Johnny, Bruce, George, Rob and Hugh. I appreciate the stardust you've sprinkled into my mundane little life. But now it's back to housework.
There are lots of things I could think about today. My mom's health. Current events. My suck-o job/career. My longing for my best friend.
Or I could just look at Johnny Depp.
I'm sticking with Johnny.
He's simply gorgeous,and he refuses to trade on it. Pirates of the Carribean. Finding Neverland. Blow. Ed Wood. Secret Window. Charley and the Chocolate Factory. Considering how completely delicious he looks, these were not only daring career choices, they were downright perverse. I admire his sense of humor and sense of integrity. Oh, and his cheekbones and how he looks in jeans.
Now that I'm thinking good, clean, dirty thoughts: I am also in love with Bruce Willis. His effortless sense of cool. His (seeming) complete of vanity, in both his personal appearance and his career choices. In Lucky Number Slevin, he played the father figure to Josh Hartnett, an actor just about the same age as his ex-wife's new hubby. So much for caring about the image.
Then there's George Clooney. I never cared much about him, one way or the other, until Good Night and Good Luck. Loved the movie, love his point of view about free speech and the press, love how he looked in a tux during awards season. Love how he uses his fame to draw attention to genocide. Love how well he seems to get along with his dad. I hope he forgives me for ignoring him during the ER/Ocean's 11 hubub, and if there's still room on his bandwagon, I'd like to jump on.
I also get all swooney about Rob Lowe on The West Wing. (I'm into the reruns on Bravo.) He's so earnest and idealistic. And I love how he looks in those suits. Didn't I read somewhere that Aaron Sorkin based Rob's Sam Seaborn on George Stephanopolous when he worked for Bill Clinton? Sure, he's a pretty boy. But then I can be hot for a pretty boy with the right social conscience.
Then there's the pretty boy who is that and nothing else: Hugh Grant. Maybe he's a good actor. We've never really seen him stretch himself. But he's certainly a charming screen presence, and that's enough for me. And ever since I was a little girl, breathlessly enchanted by Paul McCartney, I've had a weakness for handsome Brits who can't keep their hair out of their eyes.
What a lovely respite this was! Thank you Johnny, Bruce, George, Rob and Hugh. I appreciate the stardust you've sprinkled into my mundane little life. But now it's back to housework.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Nothing to do except to wait and to hurt
From The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time, the novel by Mark Haddon that I just finished:
"I wanted to go to sleep so that I wouldn't have to think because there was no room for anything else in my head, but I couldn't go to sleep and I just had to sit there and there was nothing to except to wait and to hurt."
That's how I feel on the days when I don't hear from my best friend. I feel isolated and I panic and I think that I will never hear from him again. And then he calls or emails and everything is fine. He still cares for me and about me. We're still friends and we're still good.
I wish I didn't do this. Yet I do it so well! Awfulizing, imagining the worst as vividly as possible, it comes so easily to me. It's a waste of energy, I know. I also know that he's not the kind of person who would enjoying doing this to me (if he was aware of the impact his absence has on me, and I'm not sure he does).
My own worst enemy -- that's me.
"I wanted to go to sleep so that I wouldn't have to think because there was no room for anything else in my head, but I couldn't go to sleep and I just had to sit there and there was nothing to except to wait and to hurt."
That's how I feel on the days when I don't hear from my best friend. I feel isolated and I panic and I think that I will never hear from him again. And then he calls or emails and everything is fine. He still cares for me and about me. We're still friends and we're still good.
I wish I didn't do this. Yet I do it so well! Awfulizing, imagining the worst as vividly as possible, it comes so easily to me. It's a waste of energy, I know. I also know that he's not the kind of person who would enjoying doing this to me (if he was aware of the impact his absence has on me, and I'm not sure he does).
My own worst enemy -- that's me.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Here's to a Yankee Doodle Dandy Weekend
I'm on the first full day of my four day weekend. It's viciously hot and humid outside, but I'm lounging in climate-controlled comfort (78º in the living room, 74º in the bedroom), watching my Cubs play that team whose name I dare not speak. All my appliances work, my refrigerator is stocked, my bills are paid, my beloved Greg Maddux is on the mound and (right now, at least) he's winning. This is holiday is off to a much, much better start than (shudder) Memorial Day.
Beyond today, I don't have any big plans for the weekend. This afternoon/evening (after the game, of course), I'm going to see The Devil Wears Prada with my friend Harold and (perhaps) the oft-unreliable Gregory. Then Harold and I are off to dinner at Papa Milano's. (Did I remember to make a reservation?) This is all in celebration of H's birthday, and we always have a good time. The Taste of Chicago is this weekend and I may end up over there. I may have a playdate with my young nephew Nick. Or perhaps I'll hibernate. Hibernating is good.
As I get older, I want to DO less and less on my days off. I am more and more content to relax by myself. Go through that foot-high stack of magazines on the floor next to my coffee table. Open the door to the den (it's scary in there!) and put aside books for the Friends of the Oak Park Public Library Book Fair. Touch up my hair.
I have friends I can call if I get stir crazy. God bless them. But I see this weekend being quiet and content.
Beyond today, I don't have any big plans for the weekend. This afternoon/evening (after the game, of course), I'm going to see The Devil Wears Prada with my friend Harold and (perhaps) the oft-unreliable Gregory. Then Harold and I are off to dinner at Papa Milano's. (Did I remember to make a reservation?) This is all in celebration of H's birthday, and we always have a good time. The Taste of Chicago is this weekend and I may end up over there. I may have a playdate with my young nephew Nick. Or perhaps I'll hibernate. Hibernating is good.
As I get older, I want to DO less and less on my days off. I am more and more content to relax by myself. Go through that foot-high stack of magazines on the floor next to my coffee table. Open the door to the den (it's scary in there!) and put aside books for the Friends of the Oak Park Public Library Book Fair. Touch up my hair.
I have friends I can call if I get stir crazy. God bless them. But I see this weekend being quiet and content.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
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 …
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 …
Saturday, June 24, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
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?
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?
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, June 16, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
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?
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.
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.
Friday, June 09, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
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 ...
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 ...
Sunday, June 04, 2006
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.
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.
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?
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?
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