100 words a day

“He’s like the mental patient, who doesn’t know he’s mental.  So he’s perfectly content.”

That’s one of my favorite lines, from the movie “Beautiful Girls”. 

Or, as a friend once referred to it, “Beautiful Girls…Plus Rosie O’Donnell”. 

Michael Rappaport and Timothy Hutton are watching their friend ice skating with his kids, looking like he’s having the time of his life doing something neither of them want to be doing.

It’s hilarious to me, because the “mental patient” in question is probably thinking the exact same thing about them. 

So the grass (ice) is not greener, and yet everybody’s perfectly content.

On the brink of a new year, I force myself to reflect.  Not always easy for me considering my spotty memory…

This past year I lost a job I considered my dearest, I went on an exotic cruise, I let go of my anger toward God, I told family members I’m gay for the first time, I finished and re-started schooling, I moved into my own place, I began and am keeping a workout regimine, I began a writer’s group, I started going to the chiropractor, I read oodles of books and was accepted to www.100wordsaday.com

Not too damn shabby, eh?

The day of reckoning is here. I’d been delaying my year-end reflection because I didn’t want this year to end. I went back and read my writing from one year ago.  I was frustrated, stagnant, bored, and sad.  I barely recognize that woman.  2007 has been a year of challenges and changes.  Last January, I dared myself to ‘go with gusto.’  Did I?  I’d have to give myself a B/B-.  My year didn’t include any surprise Vegas nuptials or scandalous European adventures, but given where I started, it was a respectful showing.

In 2008, I’m gunning for an A.

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions – if there’s nothing to back them up. 

As a consultant, I analyze problems and find the best way to achieve change.  To improve myself, I determine my motivation, set goals, find support systems, and plan coping strategies.  Six years ago, my New Year’s resolution was to lose weight.  I didn’t have a whole system in place so it didn’t stick.  A month later, I had a game plan.  I set and tracked daily and weekly goals for myself and thought of strategies for accomplishing them.  A year later, I had dropped 80+ pounds. 

Every year, along with all the other lemmings, I make a list of goals and dreams for the coming year.  I also take stock of the past 365 days, taking note of what went well and not so well.

What a worthless exercise for me.

My goals are always noble and my dreams are romantic and full of adventure.  Taking stock means exaggerating all the good things and hiding or lying about the bad. 

This coming year’s plan is different and simple.

Put the “fun” back in our dysfunction.  Don’t repeat.  Don’t retreat.  Give completely.  Listen.  Be aware.  Let go.

I’m pretty cool.

I never knew our eight-year-old son was way cool.  

His uncle took seven family members to a great Holiday dinner during our trip up North.  In a nutshell; our son confidently strode up to the hostess podium when they called our reservation, flipped her nickel from his pocket (which she caught) and said “please show us our table.”

He commanded the room, charming our server; asking for lemons in our water, extra butter, more napkins and tipped our server a nickel also. 

He was consummate, so damn cool.

My brother, Father and I grinned.

That’s our boy.

Intending to get a trim, I saw my favorite hairstylist today.  While waiting, I saw a cute picture of Katie Holmes in People. 

I glanced up at my long boring hair and just went for it. 

A few minutes in…”How long are those pieces on the floor, four inches?”

“No!  At least six!”

Panic set in upon watching the growing pile. 

Then I realized, if at 39 I’m not comfortable enough with my face to risk a bad hairstyle, I never will be.

I love it.

More importantly, I love how fun it was to be so spontaneous and trusting. 

I got an email from Chris Baty today. He’s the mastermind behind nano, the thirty-day circus that convinced me to write a novel in a month.   He invited me (and a hundred thousand others) to participate in the next challenge: the second annual Big, Fun, Scary Adventure Challenge.  The idea’s basic: come up with a list of things you’ve long dreamed of doing.  Then do them.   It’s almost condescendingly simple.   But if I learned anything from nano, it’s that the biggest obstacle I have is me.   I need to put down my cocktail of comfort and complacency and sober up.

Christmas for the Sharkboy family was like riding a Harley through an art museum; fast, lots of color and hard to remember everything.  A 42-hour roundtrip up North involved three airports, four different aircraft, two trains, a dozen relatives, gift-giving, mega gift-receiving, sick kids and snowman making in the rain.

Through all the hurry, time stopped one morning in my Dad’s dining room.  Over a breakfast I quickly whipped up, my Dad, brother and two-octogenarian aunts joined my kids, their Mom and me for a lively debate about people, politics and life.

That made the trip. Family’s all we’ve got.

I never thought puke would make me feel grownup.

I’m kickin’ it with the sibs last night, watchin’ some Fresh Prince, when my lil’ sis, Tiff, starts crying her alligator tears.

“I don’t fee-ew good,” she croaks and proceeds to whimper and moan.

I kick into nurture mode and begin delegating tasks to my younger sibs.  Soon she’s rocking over a tupperware bowl, sipping ice water and telling me she’s now “at a 5…at a 6…at a 7″.

She hurls.  I don’t wince.  I have her drinking tea a few minutes later and soon after she’s thanking and hugging me.

Unspeakable feeling.

I haven’t begun loosening my grip on 2007 yet. Even though it’s past Christmas, I’m in denial that we’re in late December.

This year has been exhilarating. Although some things have stayed the same, many things have changed. For the first time in a while I can look back at January and be dumbfounded by how many steps I’ve taken. And the truth is it wasn’t hard. It just took effort and a bit of risk. It makes all of those years of hiding seem shameful.

Am I where I want to be? Not yet. But at least I’m moving.

My husband’s three cousins, his brother and wife, my sister, plus us make a fun group.  We play Taboo.  Married vs. Not.  My turn, the word is “Chemistry” and the Taboo words I can’t use are: laboratory, experiment, subject, chemicals, and molecules.   

Me:  Uh, this is something hard you study.  Um, oh crap.  Okay, okay, boy meets girl. 

My husband and sister-in-law simultaneously:  Dating! Romance! 

Me:  Right, they like each other, a spark! 

My brother-in-law:  SEX!! 

Time runs out.  Afterwards amidst the laughter, 

The guys:  Chemistry???  Hello, test tubes, beakers, H2O. 

The gals:  Sex?  Boy meets girl. Spark equals sex?

I went to my ex-boss’ holiday party.  My husband agreed to come along provided I didn’t get sucked back into that life and/or feel the need to justify myself. 

The unexpected upside was how warm people were and their interest in my writing life. The unexpected downside was when my ex-boss offered to set me up part-time. 

Wouldn’t it be easier to have a profession the world recognized?  Wouldn’t it be nice to have colleagues again?  And money?  But it wouldn’t be me or would it?  

Having choices is supposed to be a good thing.  If only good meant easy.

My brothers, Marky and Jon, are playing video games. 

The twins are sleeping (one with visions of sugar plums dancing in her head, the other disconcerted that Mom has been lying to everyone about Santa). 

My sister, Michelle, is dozing on the couch and cussing loudly at the raucous sounds of the blender issuing from the kitchen. 

My mom is bleary-eyed and scrambling to finish her trifle. 

My sister Heather and brother Ryan decided that sleeping in their own beds is preferable.

My dad has long since fallen asleep.

And me? I’m chronicling it for all to read.

I’ll preface that I’m a neat freak.  Nothing bugs me more than a dirty home.   

For two weeks, I’ve been sharing my kitchen with armies of ants.  We tried Raid and Terro.  We even blockaded their entry point with scotch tape covered with smelly Chinese tiger balm.  (My husband’s theory: “If we can’t stand the smell, maybe they can’t either.”)                

This morning I’m ecstatic to find only a few wobbly soldiers remain. 

This afternoon I comb Miso.  I notice something between the teeth of the comb.  A tiny red dot with legs, still moving!  I comb again and find another. 

A mingling of cozy familiarity and strange aloofness finds me whenever I arrive back in my hometown.  I once again sleep in the room I used to draw for hours in, only I’m sharing a bed and not worrying about a test I have the next day.

My mother is the same worrisome, chattering hypochondriac that she always was - only she has old person hands now.

I’m not only shorter than my 14 and 16 year old brothers, but my 11 year old sisters are almost as tall as ME!

Some things seem to never change, though: I still have zits.

Each time I write, I invite you into my living room, to loiter among my laundry. It’s not always pretty. And you might not like what you find. Sometimes I’m hurt.  I can’t always say it.  But I can always write it.

Maybe I should keep my writing to myself.  But I don’t.  I can’t anymore.  This is what I do.  There are definitely tales I don’t want to share, yarns I’d prefer to leave un-spun.  But when I try to avoid them, they won’t let anything else pass. They clog up the arteries until the whole system shuts down.

Ah, Christmas. The season for giving. And receiving. For giving cards to those from whom you do not receive – and vice versa. For never quite getting that perfect match.  

For forgetting the names of your friends’ children, and wondering if you can get away with scrawling ‘and family’.  

And, yes, the season for realising your have no idea if your divorced friend has reverted to using her maiden name. And for forgetting the surname of her new live-in boyfriend.  

For having to send cards to co-workers you can’t stand.  

For vowing that next year, really, you won’t bother sending any.

I never appreciated the average, run of the mill holiday seasons until we had a couple of really sucky ones.

This year, though, I am really excited. We are all happy and healthy and celebrating together.

Compared to the year when my grandmother died two weeks before Christmas and my dad had a stroke, the morning of her wake. Compared to the year my sister was in rehab (just celebrated her 3^rd successful year of sobriety) and her we all tried to put on a happy face for her kids.

Compared to those two, I’ll take an average holiday anytime.

Today, at the last minute, the Sharkboy family is headed North to play elves and see family.  Not just any family; my Dad, brother, tons of aunts and cousins who don’t expect us.

My kids wanted snow for tobogganing but there will be rain.  My Dad wants for my life to be normal and it’s not.  My kids and their Mom want for Santa to grant real wishes, not just presents.  I know the Top Elf and that will happen – in time.

Me, today I’m grateful for everything and my Christmas wishes always are granted.

Even in this rough year.

So G & I are back to square one about Christmas. In the end, he agrees that the best thing is probably just to go to my parents’ house in the countryside, spend the holiday there and hang out with them and my brother.  

The relief I feel when he tells me that’s what he wants to do is overwhelming.

I call my Mum and tell her, and can hear the delight in her voice, too.  

So now I’ll be back home, which, deep down, is what I wanted all along. And everything will be exactly as it should be.

“A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  “A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  A plane is safer than a car.  Whiskey, please.” 

It’s my first holiday season at my new job. They don’t know much about me. I haven’t gotten personal. Frankly, things got too personal at my old job and I’m trying not to make history repeat.

Everyone gets personal around Christmas.

Conversation #1

“So, what’s your schedule like next week?”

“I’m in all week.”

“You’re not taking any time off?”

“Nope.”

A flicker of concern crosses his face. Should I explain that not everyone celebrates Christmas?

Conversation #2

“Are you heading to New York for Christmas?”

“Nope, I’m staying here.”

“Oh really? But don’t you celebrate Jewish Christmas?”

Jewish what?

My parents divorced a few years ago, and it’s not easy going home.  Someone always hints, complains or cries that they didn’t get as much time with me as they wanted.  This holiday, my mom and her family have already scheduled plans for three of the five days I’ll be home.  She just called to take another day.  Meanwhile, my poor dad hasn’t set up anything – besides massage and photo appointments for my siblings and me – so he’s not getting any quality time with us.  I’m trying to change that and hope I can do it without a guilt trip. 

I didn’t think that I was gonna make it home for Christmas this year but things have worked themselves out. 

I got a free ticket from my AMAZING friend, Steve, who works for Southwest.  The catch?  I have to fly into San Diego.  My family, however, is in L.A.  Whatev.  I’m not worried about it because I can stay with my wickedly cool friend, Jia, and my mom will come pick me up.  No money spent. 

Another catch?  I can’t fly home until January 4^th.  That’s over two weeks with the family.  I’m usually ready to bounce after 5 days.

I love today.  Because it’s not yesterday. What’s the difference? Today’s not over yet.

There are minutes yet to be consumed, memories yet to be created, choices yet to be made.  Today is pure potential. 

They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results.  But today you can do something unique.  Today you can change your life.

You are the culmination of every decision you’ve ever made.  If you want to change, it’s quite simple: make different decisions today than the ones you made yesterday.  Easier said than done, but actually, nothing is simpler.

We go out for dim sum, Cantonese small plates served with tea.  The scene is typical – loud, crowded, no service, chaotic free for all.  Worthwhile, for the shrimp dumplings, pot stickers, BBQ pork buns, sticky rice, and more.  In attempt to get tea, I shout across the dining room and succeed with the help of another diner who hears me and motions to the waiter.  I order chicken feet (traditionally prepared, meat falling off the bones) and devour them.

My husband says he is not embarrassed by me, just for me.  Happily stuffed, I chalk it up to cultural difference. 

So the phone is ringing, and she picks up. She and Dad are in the middle of dinner.

I can hear the disappointment in her voice when I tell her about Christmas, that I may not be coming home this year. She puts a brave face on it, telling me it’s my life, and I must do as I wish. I hang up with a heavy heart.

A day or two later, G and my Christmas plans fall through. The apartment where we were going to stay is not available after all.

So now it’s back to square one. Again.

Who actually clicks on the link, thinking, “Y’know, I’m so glad my inbox and my privacy were invaded so that I could finally get some information on ____add unneeded product here____!”

Spam mail: the lowest form of advertising according to a national report.  Just like Spam isn’t really meat, Spam email isn’t really an email.  It’s a parasite and a bothersome nuisance.  Who is sending this garbage?  And who is actually profiting from it? 

And don’t get me started on porn spam mail.  That extends beyond a nuisance.  When I want porn or life insurance, I will find it myself!

I make an off-hand comment to my mom that sticks with her.The gears in her brain begin to grind. She picks up a pen. That’s when the magic happens. The magic happens every time she writes, which is not enough if you ask me.

She recites her poem to me and promises to send it. In it she tells me ‘Do what you need to do to get what you want.’ Why is that so empowering? I shouldn’t need to hear those instructions. I didn’t think I did. But for some reason it provided immediate comfort.  It still does.

I am about to call my mother and tell her that I probably won’t be home for Christmas. G has a friend in a northern city whose apartment will be free. I am picturing a real fire, wintry city walks … But if there’s one thing my Mum will insist on, it’s having her whole family round the lunch table come December 25. (I did this before, five years ago, when I had the excuse of being in Costa Rica, and I’m still not sure if she has quite forgiven me.)

Heavy hearted, I start to dial the familiar number.

Two years ago, he still didn’t quite have his life together, but he thanked me.  “You’re the only one who still believes in me,” he said after I expressed again the need for him to go back to school.  “Even mom and dad have given up.  They haven’t brought up the subject in years.”

Fast forward to last year when, after losing his job, he decided to return to community college.  I was thrilled.  He’s done well, and this fall he applied to four-year schools.  Today I got a call from him.  “I got into Columbia.”  Ivy League!  Go, Steve!

She gets the hiccups on our walk.  We are discussing meatloaf recipes and holiday party attire when she asks,

“Hey, isn’t that, hic, what’s called, hic, a flying buttress?” 

I look up towards where she is pointing and see the grey, Gothic arches of St. Dominic’s Church and diagonal beams supporting its vaulted walls. 

“What in the world is a flying BUTTress?”  I ask giggling.

“Didn’t you, hic, ever take art history, and hic learn about flying buttresses?”

I am laughing too hard to respond.

“Are you, hic, ten?”  She asks before succumbing to a fit of hics and giggles.

One of my holiday traditions is to spend an evening drinking Bailey’s, listening to holiday music, and writing out (as of 2006) 76 personalized messages on the nicest cards I can find.

So I am overwhelmingly underwhelmed when, instead of a receiving a handwritten effort on folded cardstock, I get a picture of someone’s kid or their pet. 

A picture isn’t a card, the picture is rarely of the person my relationship is with, and putting some ink on it would go a long way to shut me up about it.

I guess I’m sort of a jerk about this…

I’ve always struggled with it.

In times of plenty, I have no problem with it. I cheerfully and buoyantly hand it over. In times of scarcity I clutch to it, thinking, “It’s mine. I earned it. So many other people are giving.” Then Truth speaks and says, “If you cannot praise me in the dark, what is your true character?” And that always hurts. Because it’s true.

I’ve recently started tithing again. It’s only $27.00 a week, but it might as well be $2,700. A week ago, I received a surprise check in the mail.

Thanks for showing up, God.

Things I did today:  Sent an email to my parents, thanking them for all that they’ve done so I could be happy today.  Brunched with a girlfriend who drove a long ways to celebrate with me.  Chased the UPS truck down the street for the package I missed.  Came back triumphant and surprised by a box filled with irises, lilies and a tall vase.  Organized my study so I could begin again tomorrow.  Was driven to a restaurant of mystery.  Enjoyed a sweet, quiet meal at Café Jaqueline, which serves only soufflés.  Teared up reading the card from my husband. 

Tobogganing.  You either know it or haven’t lived.  Our Southern kids are heading up North next week to see family, deliver gifts and glide for serious distance.  Five, six, seven people on the coolest winter ride ever.  Tobogganing came way before my ability to bust any mogul on any black diamond run.

The care and upkeep of toboggans is best left in the hands of a true craftsman; someone with attention to detail, sincerity and a loving hand.  My brother is such an individual.

He’s that way with everything in his life.  He’s that way with everyone in his life.

I miss having an office. Actually it’s my office door I miss most.

For months I yearned for visitors at work and now I’d like to banish them. Work has become what I do in between interruptions, the mortar between the bricks. There’s no traffic control, no unbroken concentration, and no haven for private conversations.

Today I went to the bathroom. I nodded to a coworker and entered a stall. I unzipped. “Uh…Stacy, I don’t know if you’ve heard…” She then proceeded to confide in me for ten minutes, while I stood there, pants halfway down, wishing she would leave.

A girlfriend was over for dinner.  After dinner, we moved to the living room, where we put out magazines, old maps, paper scraps, and art supplies.  We hunted for things that spoke to us, collaging them on 5×5 canvases.  After a week of solitary writing, it felt liberating to be working with images alongside a friend.

While we collaged, my husband made tarte tatin for dessert.  The house was filled with Billie Holiday and the smell of caramelized fruit and puff pastry.  My friend looks up from her canvas, catches my eye, and whispers, “Your husband, he’s a good apple.” 

Last night was the season finale of our son’s school chorus’ holiday extravaganza.  Third, fourth and fifth grade singers complete with dancing, twirling ribbons and elf hats.

Our daughter, her Mom and I sat at end of the bleachers.  They were a few rows above me.  Throughout the performance, I heard our daughter make cutesy comments, smile and thoroughly enjoy all the imperfections of such a concert. Her review included “adorable,” and “they’re so sweet.”

I reminded our daughter, who has quite a successful singing and acting career, I have every performance of hers on video, from two years on.

People do not throw enough themed parties, I’ve decided.  

Tonight I attended a “Gaudy Christmas Sweater Party” where the attendees must wear the most hideously tacky Christmas sweater to attend.  I arrive with Jean donning my blinding turquoise sweatshirt with an immense Frosty the Snowman in Technicolor emblazoned upon it; her in a grandmotherly blue and white fuzzy vest.

There was a wicked spread of food, Christmas-themed Pictionary (Men Vs Women), a Favorite Sweater Contest and tons of photographing.  All this occurred with the Griswald family merrily f’ing up their holiday in the background. 

Christmas is now in full swing. 

Today is the first day of “Secret Santa Shop,” at our son’s school.  “Secret Santa” is where the kids shop without parents “knowing.”  A warm, fuzzy, nice idea.  NOT!

Kids are coached for weeks about the idea, then let loose to have their money extorted through over-priced, crappy gifts with the majority of the cash going to a “professional” fund-raising, school-approved company.

Selling dollar-store items for $5.95 is criminal enough, but when the school’s cut is something like 20%, something needs to be done.

So, I’ve emailed the North Pole to tell the Number One Elf.  But, he already knows.

We had coffee this week after not talking for three months because of a big fight.   

We met in college and afterwards lived in DC for a while before he moved.  We’ve had our ups and downs, and I know the good and the bad.  I also know what to expect from him, and at our talk, I finally told him what I expect – and don’t expect – of my friends.  It wasn’t easy.

Communication is essential for any relationship.  People are not mind-readers.  I’m glad I expressed myself, and I think a friend with so much history is worth it.

It’s almost mid-December and my thoughts are ahead of me as always.  They’re already planning next year, revving up for resolutions.  My mind loves a clean slate.  It’s tired by December, it wants to start anew.  “2007’s done!” it excitedly shouts so loudly in my ears I can’t hear.

I try to quiet my runaway thoughts.  I point out the year is not over yet: the fat lady has only just begun her vocal warm-ups.    What will 2008 hold?  I think I finally understand that it will hold whatever I want it to.  I’m just not sure what that is.

One of the joys during the Holiday Season when I was a kid was gathering around the black and white, rabbit-earned television to enjoy “specials.”  The magic started at Thanksgiving with the once a year showing of “The Wizard of Oz” and continued through Christmas with more classics.

Charlie Brown and Linus explained Christmas, Santa slid down on his Noelco razor, the Grinch had us on the edge of our seats and we worried whether Rudolph and the other misfits would ever get home.

Things do change.  Our eight-year-old son can’t turn off Hannah Montana to check out even Frosty.

Wielding the whirring machines like paintbrushes, they stroke the carpets back and forth, back and forth.  They revel in the sandy sound of rogue debris being sucked into the depths of the machine. 

Yet the artists are as diverse as their tools.  Some move the furniture, some don’t.  The careless, passionate Vacuumists knick the sides of bureaus and table legs while sucking up hair without regard.  The painstaking are careful to tread lightly on the undulating pattern they have created on their canvas.  They always affix the chord snugly onto its plastic hooks. 

It’s the unsung art of the homemaker.

I’m no Thoreau.  I wouldn’t remotely consider myself a technophobe.  But there isn’t a television in my apartment, and there hasn’t been one for three years.  My “must have” electronics are my cell phone and laptop. 

Last week, a friend decided to buy a new printer, and she offered me her old one.  After I took it home, I discovered it is triples as a scanner and fax machine. 

It’s been less than a week, and I’m charmed.  Now I’m looking through the holiday sales ads for a camcorder and a PDA.  This is blossoming into a full-fledged love affair.

The first snowfall in DC is the same every year. Cars, terrified of the foreign substance tumbling from the sky, slip and slide towards each other and end up passionately intertwined on the side of the road.

You think we’d know better. That we wouldn’t wear heels the next morning on the way to our cars. But we’re vain and proud. We think we can look nature in the eye and that nature will blink first.

And just before we’re safe, we wipe out completely, suspended in air for what seems like minutes before we slam bottom-first into the pavement.

Cheng-Ling has wonderfully opened a discussion of books.  Our home is stacked (pun intended) with books.  The trucks and boat have books.  Our school backpacks and last minute travel packs have books.  The bathrooms have books.  Books are not an accessory for us; they are a necessity.

I have a revolving collection which is never more than a few minutes away.  I can pick them up anytime, any page and get in a better place.

“Tom Sawyer,” everything from Hunter S. Thompson and “The Old Man and the Sea,” make me think, learn something new and feel sad – every time.