When You Care Enough

As most of you know, I work for a production company. What most people don't know is that the production company is actually an arm of the marketing department for a highly recognized greeting card company. I mean, it's right there in the name of my company, but most people just think that we do our own thing and have nothing really to do with the greeting cards. Actually, it's the other way around. Our motivation for the movies is to sell greeting cards.

March is coming up, and in March, two of my oldest and very bestest friends celebrate their birthdays. Usually, when I'm out buying my sister's birthday card (in February), I pick up their cards, too. I'm a card person. I like sending them, and I like getting them. I'm one of those people who keeps count, too. How many Christmas cards did I get this year? About ten. How many did I send out? Around fifty. (You people are totally slacking.) Believe it or not, this hurts my feelings. I understand that people are busy. I understand that you got kids, mortgages, husbands, and jobs. I also know that since I'm single, you think I have a load of time on my hands to remember people. Maybe that's true. But I would also counter that I put my relationships with the people I love at the top of my list. How do I show my love? By taking ten minutes to stop by the card section of CVS and looking for a card that expresses the essence of our relationship, or finding something I think is apropos, or that you'll think is funny. In other words, I take ten minutes out of my day to actively think about you and how much you mean to me. It might not be as easy and quick and cheap as a posting a birthday wish to a Facebook wall, but I like the ritual of it. I like thinking about the people I love.

I have a confession to make. I have every birthday card that was ever given to me. I'm not lying. My mother started this weird obsession (it's nice to be the first born) when I was a toddler. By the time I was five, I started saving them myself. The cards seemed just as important as the gifts themselves. It seemed wrong to just throw them out. In fact, my mother used to write what the gift was on the inside of the flap in order to send out thank you notes post-birthday, and I'll tell you this, the gifts are long gone, but the cards are still around. When I was moving to, gosh, maybe my third address or second state, I don't know, I pulled out the box of cards and my mother nearly fell over in shock. "What are you doing with all those?" She asked. "I don't know. You started it," I answered somewhat defensively. "I did?" She replied. "Yes, how do you think I have all the Happy Birthday, 1-year old ones?" I shrugged. I couldn't explain why I thought it was important that I keep the cards or even why I continued to take the cards down every July and put them in the box with the others. (No, I'm not a hoarder. You do not have to call A&E.) "Maybe I should just get rid of them," I conceded. At which point, my mother and I sat down and looked at the cards. And I was right. They were all there. But something happened when we started looking at the cards. Memories started rushing back. The year we went roller skating. The year went to the beach. And then there were cards from people who were long gone.

"This one is from my mother," my mother said, tears forming in her eyes. "It's the year before she died. I almost forgot what her handwriting looked it." My maternal grandmother died in 1982.

There were cards from my great-grandmothers. The three of them who were around when I was born and stayed around for the first ten to twenty years of my life. There were cards from friends I don't see any more, and yearly cards from the friends who have been in my life for twenty-plus years. Like tokens of love. Paper greetings that say, I know you; I chose you.

I love greeting cards, so I guess its not too surprising that I ended up at the Crown. And I love movies, so I guess it's pretty apropos that I ended up at the Crown's production company. But what I love most is the people in my life. And I know that these relationships are important. In fact, the older I become, the more I realize that its my family and friends that really make this journey of life worthwhile. So, every time you receive a birthday card (or a Christmas card), know that I really am sending you my very best. I'm sending you my love.

Prioritize

My "check engine" light came on last night after a day of sitting in the underground parking garage. I've been waiting for this day for awhile now. You see, my car is a hand-me-down from my parents which was a hand-me-down from my sister which was a used car before it even made it to my family. The things I know the car has been through -- Connecticut winters, one big car accident, the DNA-given lead foot that my mother passed down to both my sister and me -- is enough to make me worry about the longevity of the car let alone the things that might have happened to it before it made it into my family's custody. And, as you may expect for a car with 130,000+ -miles and 13-years of wear and tear, I've been pouring anywhere between $500 - $1,000 into it on a yearly basis. After last year's $1,200 price tag, however, I needed to have a serious talk with my mechanic over the feasibility of keeping the car running. His advice was this: The car is a Jetta, one of the last years that the VWs were manufactured in Germany. Just about everything is replaceable and the car will continue to run in good working order as long as I take care of it. But, there will come a time when the parts get too expensive or when multiple systems will go down at once. The trick, according to him, was to drive it as long as I can, but trade it in before it goes down so I can get maximum worth out of it. Which, I mean, isn't that trick for every driver? Get out while the getting is good?

So, when the check engine light came on, I started to think that maybe I didn't get out while it was good. I mean, it was pretty good last year when I replaced every hose on the transmission. I should have sold then. But nooo. I couldn't see how I could possibly afford a new car then especially as I just spent over a thousand dollars on the current car and another on a stupid root canal. I waited. And possibly waited too long. I began to think that maybe this was going to be it. Finally, that sticky clutch had burned out the transmission or the fuel pump had rotted through. Dollar signs started to roll past my eyes, and I started to pre-panic. And pre-panic has a habit of splattering all over the place.

First, I posted my angst on Facebook because what's Facebook for than to solicit the sympathy of friends and family who can't do anything for you other than to post platitudes and maybe a sad face emoticon? Second, I started to search both Carmax and Cars.com for my next vehicle. I found a 2005 VW Beetle that would do and was in the right price range but made me a little anxious as it was Carmax and they have a habit of putting up and taking down cars with alarming speed. Third, I started to think about how I was going to scrap together an additional $300 a month because not only would I now be responsible for a car payment -- which I don't have now -- I would also have to pay a higher insurance premium because lord knows that a low-tech 1998 Jetta and 2005 Bug with power everything is going to be vastly different in the insurance race. Fourth, I started crying. OK, no, I didn't, but I totally wanted to. Instead, all I could do was come up with a reductionist budget. I was going to have to stop seeing my trainer. I was going to have to cut back on my groceries and keep my shopping strictly to Trader Joes and Vons. I would also have to stop putting money into my ING savings account and quite possibly stop investing in my 401(k). Not to mention that everything I wanted to do (movies and dinners out on the weekends) and everywhere I wanted to go (Sydney in June!) were impossibly out of my reach. So, yeah, I totally wanted to cry because suddenly I felt jailed...again. Why is it that money woes always make me feel like God hates me?

I dropped the car off this morning at the mechanic and within three hours we had a diagnosis: A pressure hose from the engine was rotting and needed to be replaced. With parts and labor: $200. Whew!

But! Now I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't make all those cost cutting measures anyway. Afterall, I do need to prepare. Not the 401(k) or ING Savings, but maybe the trainer and the food budget. Maybe keeping dinner and a movie to every other week instead of every week. Oh, not to pay for a new car mind you. No, no, no. I still want to go to Sydney in June. A girl has got to have her priorities...

Disease of the Week

Every time I go to the doctor's office, I'm diagnosed with something that could be something but might be nothing. But it definitely needs to be "monitored." Today's disease? Glaucoma. Great. Glaucoma on top of a strange liver problem (diagnosed in 1999) that could turn into lupus but might not, "it's hard to tell until you have an actual flair up." Lovely. In 2001, I was told I had Graves' Disease. But maybe not. "You tested positive for the an enzyme that's generated in Graves' Disease, but you're not symptomatic and have no other markers." OKaaay. After I sprained my ankle in 2003, I was told that my wide feet were actually a "misalignment of the bones" and that my bunions would get increasingly worse until it was "too painful to walk." Oh, and, by the way, "you will have arthritis." Are you kidding me?

Who knows what -- if anything -- is going to take me down. But I'll say this: These doctors are killing me.

Neorealism in Life

Sometimes like is like a Fellini movie. I see things and I wish I could take a picture of it just because it's beautiful or absurd. Last week, during the rains, I saw a black woman walking with a blue beach umbrella with white piping. She wasn't angry or embarrassed by the fact that she was using a beach umbrella. In fact, she seemed quite delighted by it. This morning, on my daily walk, I watched an Orthodox Jewish boy dart out of his family driveway on his BMX bike. He jumped it off the curb, popped a small wheelie, then took off for school, his black jacket flapping behind him, fedora firmly on his head. Or the time Hugh and I went out to Venice beach and he just walked right out onto the sand in his black wingtips to watch a drum circle that included bongos and a full drum kit and a didgeridoo. Things are the kinds of things that make me laugh; the moments that make life surprising.

Victoria

My dog died. Yes, I have a dog. Or had a dog. I've been saying, "I have a dog" for such a long time now that I kinda can't stop saying it. Especially since I only had a dog in name only. The story is this:

I had just got out of a relationship with a boyfriend I shouldn't have had. One of those guys that you know isn't any good for you, but is too fun or hot or whatever-weird-obsession-you-have to give up. By the time I was ready to end it, it had been years and consider he was my first, well, everything, I kinda didn't know how to end it. I kept taking his calls, or answering the door when he banged on it, and I knew, I just knew, that I needed something to take my mind off of him and the crazy situation I seemed to be in. And what better diversion can a gal ask for than a puppy?! So, I asked my roommate (let's call her) Carrie, "Can I have a dog?"

Carrie and I have been friends since first grade and have been together ever since. We moved in together after she bought a house in the town where I worked, and it was the perfect situation for a dog. I was working odd hours at the police department, and she was working nine to five, Monday through Friday at the hospital. There was probably two hours a day when the dog would be alone. And since Carrie already had a dog she rescued from the pound, I was pretty sure she'd be A-OK with a new puppy. And she was. So, I started to look for the perfect post-bad-boyfriend, new love of life dog.

At first, I was looking at beagles. Then Jack Russell Terriers. However, like all great love affairs, you never know what you're looking for until you find it. In this case her. She was an Alaskan Malamute. Kinda like a Siberian Husky but bigger. However, as a puppy, she looked just like a little stuffed animal and I wuved her berry much. (Yes, I talked baby-talk to her; why do you ask?) We saw her in a pet shop window -- do NOT lecture me about puppy mills. I know, alright?! -- and we just had to have. She was perfect. Shy, malleable. And just cuter than cute! Which, you know, is the most important thing about a new puppy. Ahem. Carrie literally plopped down $800 in cash and we walked out the door with her on a brand new pink leash. We named her Victoria because we were supposed to go to Victoria's Secret for a bachelorette party gift but never made it over there. Instead, we went straight home with our new child. I mean, puppy.

Sandie, Carrie's dog, was not a happy camper. She wanted to know who this little interloper was. But Victoria -- or Vicky, or Vic, or V, or whatever derivative you can get out of Victoria -- was interested in being queen of the house and Sandie quickly got over the newcomer. Victoria was everything I needed. I went to puppy kindergarten with her (she kicked ass!). I practiced her new tricks in the front lawn with her. I walked her. I picked her up and scratched her belly every night in front of the TV. I emptied all my love into that girl and she was an obliging receptacle. Sigh. She was perfect.

For five years, we had it made. But then I decided I didn't want to be a cop any more and got a job in New York City. Unfortunately, I got a place that didn't take dogs. At the same time, Victoria was a country dog. She was very shy and did not like meeting new people. When faced with strangers -- especially male strangers -- she pee then hide behind my legs. FUN! So, Carrie kept her in Connecticut, and I moved off to the city. But whenever I came back, it was like I never left. Vicky still loved me. Four years later, Carrie moved to Long Island, and I started to visit her out there. Despite the change of location, however, it still felt like old times. Carrie, me, and our girls... Though by this time Carrie started to call me an absentee parent who abandoned her daughter. (Thanks, Carrie.) A year after that, I moved to L.A., and a year after that, Carrie married a man and moved to Maryland. And then she moved to Germany. I was pretty sure, I would never see Victoria again. But then I went for a visit in January 2009.

Carrie's husband picked me up from the airport, and while I was thrilled to see Carrie and her new son, I was equally impatient to see Victoria. It had been years. And the moment I walked in the door, Vic -- at 14 -- was thrilled to see me, too. And like when I visited in Long Island, it felt home. Carrie might have moved on, gotten married, had a baby, but we were still Us. We still had our little girl. The entire time I was in Germany, Vic slept with me, followed me around, watched TV, and let me know when she needed to use the potty. It felt natural and normal and lovely. I took pictures of her and cried into her coat (for the third time after Connecticut and New York) when I left. I knew it was only a matter of time. Carrie and I both talked about it often. Victoria had lived past the average age of a Malamute. She had diabetes, arthritis, and cataracts. But we both put it off. Soon...but not yet.

Carrie sent me an email two weeks ago to let me know that Victoria fell down the stairs on Christmas night. They had to put her down. She had to put off writing the email as she just couldn't get through it. And I put off reading the email until last week as I couldn't face it. Even though I hadn't lived with them for ten years, I still couldn't digest that my dog was dead. (In a way, I still can't as I start crying every time I say or type it.) However, denial only works so long, and finally I read the whole thing and responded to Carrie. Then I called my mother (who did her best to be sympathetic) and told my therapist. I kinda don't know what to do with this knowledge. Grieving is such an odd thing. There is just no right way to do it. I keep telling myself, "You didn't live with them for TEN YEARS." But I knew where she was that entire time, and I still had visitation, and Carrie kept me in the loop about all things Victoria. She was still a part of my life, tangent as it was. And...and, she was my girl. And I loved her. And now I miss her. Grief is such a horrible thing.