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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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...
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...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
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.
Who knows what -- if anything -- is going to take me down. But I'll say this: These doctors are killing me.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Daredevil Dating
So, I closed down my eSmarmony account today. I have until midnight tonight to make a Hail Mary pass. But I think I'll keep to my ground game. Keep my head down and run out the timer. Let me be honest: I came into this venture with my eyes wide open and didn't expect much. Which is good, as I didn't get much. (E-Dating: keeping expectations low and hope thwarted since the dawn of the Internet!) Now in the past, I would be ambivalent at this point. "Maybe I should stick it out," I would think. "Nobody has ever gained anything by quitting," I'd reason. "What if Prince Charming joins eSmarmony today and I closed out my account because I'm tired of paying $29.99 to feel disappointed, dispirited, and a freak?!" I would panic. But this time? I have to admit, I feel relieved and slightly exhilarated that it's over. Also? I feel more hopeful and assured that I will meet someone in the real world...which I admit is completely silly and ridiculous as I've been offline most of my life and haven't been any more successful with that approach. But whatever. The psyche feels what it feels, right?
I have a confession, dear reader: I am a Rules girl. Not the book, The Rules. Yuck. No. But I do believe in playing by the rules of the all powerful They. As in: "They say that if you don't get a Bachelors, you will make $20,000 less a year!" And, "They say that if you love something, you should let it go...blahblahblah." I like the idea that there is a clear cut path to something. However, I fully acknowledge that there isn't a neat and orderly progression to anything. I mean, I've watched completely undeserving people succeed time and time again with nothing but a line of BS and a bag of bravado. And what am I if not the exception to the Rule? (Your father was a what? You never finished that? You were a cop?!) Luckily, however, I'm also adaptable. In fact, I'm pretty rational about a lot of things. Appropriately enough, eSmarmony's little 20+ dimensional compatibility test actually agreed with this assessment of my temperament. I scored "both" on a lot of things like emotional stability and conscientiousness. I'm even, go-with-the-flow, and able to acclimate. The problem with this kind of character is that I'm constantly at war with the two sides of my psyche. One side of me likes calm, order, and meticulous adherence to my beloved Rules. If you put all the pieces together according to the diagram you will get exactly what you paid for. Thank you. The other side of me likes romance, hope, and being a bit of a daredevil. Throw it up in the air and see what happens! Wee! eSmarmony appealed to the former, while cutting loose and running for the hills appeals to the latter. While I hoped for a little romance and hope within the confines of the sanitary e-site, I kinda knew I wasn't going to get it. After all, I had tried it before with the same dismal results: The kind of guys that I wouldn't allow to speak to me if we happened upon one another in a bar. But still, I felt like I had to try just to be able to say that, yes, I tried it...again. Now back off.
As a single girl in the waning years of her thirties, I get a lot of advice on how to date and who to date. I have one friend who literally prays for me daily. She's Jewish. She's also single. In return, I'm supposed to pray for her. We're trying to cover two major religions on this one. She's offering me prayers of a Chosen Person to the One True God while I've got Jesus on the line. Andie, on the other hand, is choosing visualization. "Think it, see it, and it will be." She's also declaring: "We will be pregnant by Christmas 2010!" That last one gave me nightmares for a week. In the meantime, the very married DD is playing Monday morning quarterback by asking me about Hugh post every weekend. Her: Did you go out with Hugh this weekend? Me: Um, yes. Her: What did you do? Me: (cringing) Uh, a movie and dinner? Her: Um-hm. Me: (silence.) So, why not Hugh? Well, because the two of us look at each other and think, "Yeeeaaah...no." I mean, I could sleep with him, I guess, but I have this weird feeling it would feel like sex with my third cousin. Perfectly legal, but not exactly right. (One could argue that I need to rethink this position, but as it would also require Hugh to rethink his position, it is a moot point, and we shall move on...). The odd thing is that most of the people I'm talking to now are not talking about e-dating. It's not the e-dating stigma (it's only for the desperate), but the fact that everyone has been desperate enough by this age to actually try it and failed to find The One. But, my friends are nothing but resilient. And romantic. And hopeful. Which is why we're friends.
So now what? I'm not sure. I'm going to try prayer and visualization and maybe not hang out with Hugh alone so much. But I'm also going to try to keep my eyes up off of the sidewalk and try to go to places where I might bump into people. Real, live people. Daring, I know.
I have a confession, dear reader: I am a Rules girl. Not the book, The Rules. Yuck. No. But I do believe in playing by the rules of the all powerful They. As in: "They say that if you don't get a Bachelors, you will make $20,000 less a year!" And, "They say that if you love something, you should let it go...blahblahblah." I like the idea that there is a clear cut path to something. However, I fully acknowledge that there isn't a neat and orderly progression to anything. I mean, I've watched completely undeserving people succeed time and time again with nothing but a line of BS and a bag of bravado. And what am I if not the exception to the Rule? (Your father was a what? You never finished that? You were a cop?!) Luckily, however, I'm also adaptable. In fact, I'm pretty rational about a lot of things. Appropriately enough, eSmarmony's little 20+ dimensional compatibility test actually agreed with this assessment of my temperament. I scored "both" on a lot of things like emotional stability and conscientiousness. I'm even, go-with-the-flow, and able to acclimate. The problem with this kind of character is that I'm constantly at war with the two sides of my psyche. One side of me likes calm, order, and meticulous adherence to my beloved Rules. If you put all the pieces together according to the diagram you will get exactly what you paid for. Thank you. The other side of me likes romance, hope, and being a bit of a daredevil. Throw it up in the air and see what happens! Wee! eSmarmony appealed to the former, while cutting loose and running for the hills appeals to the latter. While I hoped for a little romance and hope within the confines of the sanitary e-site, I kinda knew I wasn't going to get it. After all, I had tried it before with the same dismal results: The kind of guys that I wouldn't allow to speak to me if we happened upon one another in a bar. But still, I felt like I had to try just to be able to say that, yes, I tried it...again. Now back off.
As a single girl in the waning years of her thirties, I get a lot of advice on how to date and who to date. I have one friend who literally prays for me daily. She's Jewish. She's also single. In return, I'm supposed to pray for her. We're trying to cover two major religions on this one. She's offering me prayers of a Chosen Person to the One True God while I've got Jesus on the line. Andie, on the other hand, is choosing visualization. "Think it, see it, and it will be." She's also declaring: "We will be pregnant by Christmas 2010!" That last one gave me nightmares for a week. In the meantime, the very married DD is playing Monday morning quarterback by asking me about Hugh post every weekend. Her: Did you go out with Hugh this weekend? Me: Um, yes. Her: What did you do? Me: (cringing) Uh, a movie and dinner? Her: Um-hm. Me: (silence.) So, why not Hugh? Well, because the two of us look at each other and think, "Yeeeaaah...no." I mean, I could sleep with him, I guess, but I have this weird feeling it would feel like sex with my third cousin. Perfectly legal, but not exactly right. (One could argue that I need to rethink this position, but as it would also require Hugh to rethink his position, it is a moot point, and we shall move on...). The odd thing is that most of the people I'm talking to now are not talking about e-dating. It's not the e-dating stigma (it's only for the desperate), but the fact that everyone has been desperate enough by this age to actually try it and failed to find The One. But, my friends are nothing but resilient. And romantic. And hopeful. Which is why we're friends.
So now what? I'm not sure. I'm going to try prayer and visualization and maybe not hang out with Hugh alone so much. But I'm also going to try to keep my eyes up off of the sidewalk and try to go to places where I might bump into people. Real, live people. Daring, I know.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Flux
I'm in flux right now. I've been working toward it for quite sometime. Therapy for three years, working out, and staying put have all attributed to a change in my mental and even physical state. Mostly for the best, but sometimes...well, sometimes I'm not doing too well. The problem with being in flux is that you're not stable mentally or emotionally. In those moments, I want to post some comment on FB that reveals my inner turmoil, but the problem with FB is that it's a Social Networking Site and no one really wants to hear about your low spirits. Kinda like when you ask someone, "How are you?" to be be polite and they really answer you back. "Not well; my mom has cancer." So, I figured I'd blog a bit about it as you're a captured audience who willfully comes here to check in on me.
Today, I woke up a little depressed. Friday night, I went out with Andie to watch a romantic comedy which usually puts me into high spirits. Instead, I watched the whole movie and swallowed lumps in my throat. This weird feeling of knowing came over me. This absolute knowledge that I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. I've had this feeling before, and it's never good. It makes me forgetful and foggy. I start feeling like a heavy rock. So, Saturday, I decided that I was going to do a little Retail Therapy and headed out to Macy's with my Christmas gift cards. Get myself something pretty and feminine. Something that made me feel like a pretty girl and a lady. As luck would have it, a guy I've been emailing through an e-dating site texted me. We went back and forth for two hours and it became glaringly obvious that he didn't remember anything we had exchanged in emails before. He repeated all the same questions: What do you do? Where are you from? Which neighborhood do you live in in L.A.? Then he revealed he has two teenage daughters. When we started texting I was in the lingerie aisle I was looking at frilly, lacy pieces of fluff. By the end of it, I had bought conservative, "foundation" wear that was well constructed, made to last, and on sale, and an electric shaver to help with my unwanted body hair. I came home, ate some soup, and took a little nap. Then I went out with Hugh for our usual weekend dinner and a movie hoping that it would shake me out of my head. A Guy Ritchie auctioneer cannot be taken seriously and neither can Hugh. So, I went with a little bit of hope. This was a mistake. Sometimes Hugh's light banter and teasing makes me feel better. Sometimes it doesn't. Last night, it didn't. Instead, I felt the rut that my life has worn into and wanted something more. I wanted OUT...and to throw a very heavy spoon at Hugh's head as he had now come to represent all mankind to me.
Have you ever felt like there's something just on the other side? That if you can just get through this moment, something will happen? Something you've waited for? Something you've earned? I keep trying to believe that the next thing that arrives will be positive. But sometimes, life needs to remind you of how good you've got it by taking something away. While I want to run away from this doomsday scenario and "manifest my own destiny," I'm mentally standing still. Mainly, because I am in flux. I am changing. And change is coming. Wherever it spits me out, I have to believe its going to be in a better place. Hopefully at the other end of an aisle.
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