100 words a day

I tell her what’s going on.   I’m not excited.  I’m not smiling.  I tell her the story of a new prospect with a straight face, with no hint of holding anything back.

When I’m done I sigh and say “I still believe that dating strangers is absurd.”

She looks at me blankly, “Well, what else are you going to do?”  Thanks Mom.

Without a beat I tell her, “Date friends and colleagues.”   I’m honest.  And not proud of it.

“But you don’t have any friends.”  She continues, “That are dateable.”

“And all of my colleagues are married.” I add glumly.

“What a difference a year makes,” I think, yet again, taking my post-dinner walk around the block in the delightful chill.  Sober as a judge, but rosy-cheeked nonetheless.

Thanksgiving 2007 was spent alone, mindlessly live-blogging a bacon wrapped turkey, hoping someone out there would care, and might talk to me.  By this time, I was probably dead drunk and asleep.

This year I cooked the whole nine yards for people who would kill for me.  This year I took a step towards removing yet another beautiful woman from her clothes.  This year I had to recharge my cell phone.

Twice.

• That my cat joined me in bed.
• That my cereal tasted so damn good.
• That I have wonderful friends in my life who love and support me
• That I even have a job to go to – and a well-paying one at that.
• That it’s partly sunny outside right now.
• That I get to eat yams and stuffing today.
• That I’m going to drink a little bit too much wine with dinner.
• That my house is clean right now.
• That I live in America.
• That I won’t be spending Thanksgiving alone.

• My retarded pelvis; for hurting…again.
• My stupid face for allowing zits to grow on Thanksgiving.
• That attempting to pop said zits only made them angrier.
• Thanksgiving.
• My stupid, ugly hairy body.
• The distance separating me from my family.
• The fact that we’re eating “dinner” at 2:00. That’s LUNCH!
• That I’m not even a little hungry yet.
• The thought that I have to work tomorrow.
• The thought that I have to work on Christmas Eve AND the day after Christmas.
• The fact that I’m letting this attitude ruin my holiday.

Today more than most days I’m thankful for the word paradox.  From one of my favorite mantras stolen from Einstein “all I know is I know nothing” to “you’ve got to give before you can take,” paradoxes explain and justify much for me.  “Bad things happen to good people” being my personal favorite.

Most of the time I don’t delve too deep into figuring out paradoxes; still I’m grateful they come into my head.

Just knowing no matter how “good” a person I am will never-ever let me off the hook, allows me to sleep - but not very well.

Driving to work, it comes back again.

That feeling.

The one that started showing up again a few weeks back.  The radar-like ping in my head, hitting on objects lurking in the ether.

The stage is set and the lights are low.  The players know their roles and the scenery is perfect.  People are streaming in, finding seats, and nipping on hidden flasks.  The band is warming up, and the tune sounds entirely too familiar.

The only thing I’m missing is my copy of the script.

Then again, that never stopped me from taking the stage before.

Probably never will.

One lousy cup of tea – that’s all it took for you bow out of my life. I never meant to spill it. Anyway, how was I to know you would react the way you did?

Couldn’t you have been just a little more forgiving? Didn’t the things we’ve done together, the times we’ve worked all night, mean anything?

You refused to light up as normal at my slightest touch. I spent a tormented night.

Next morning the ‘doctor’ could only shake his head sadly and pronounce death.

Well, goodbye, my Dell.  I’m with a Compaq these days, and we’re happy.

Most everyone has made the pilgrimage to “The Happiest Place on Earth” and found, for the most part, the opposite is true.  Families argue, little ones are red-eyed from crying and if teenagers even go, they’re full of attitude.

Our home during the holiday season is supposed to be “Happiest” too.  Our decorations are legendary.  We can talk smack to Rockefeller Center and back it up.  This year took four entire days to turn our house into the “Happiest Christmas Place in the Galaxy.”

The pouting, snide remarks and meanness went way too far.

Only 31 more sleeps till Christmas.

D.C.: We’re a city of transplants, with many residents and fewer locals.

This eases small talk at parties. Where are you from?  Why did you move here? The answer to the latter is always the same: the job.  No matter what the job is, it was Here and not There.  DC folks are practical; we tend to color inside the lines.

But that’s not what he said.  He told me, “I needed a change in scenery.” In nine years I’ve never heard the foliage line. I don’t believe it.

Five minutes into our relationship and he’s already lying to me.

You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?

Just this week, I was thinking about calling it even between you and I.  And out of nowhere you draw down and hit me with the double-tap.

Shot 1:  11:00pm, second date, post romantic Italian, I go for the first kiss and run into a PDA wall.

Shot 2:  1:30am, train station, finding my car with a dead battery and the wind chill going Antarctic.

So here’s a promise, from me to you:

There will come a day. 

You will cautiously grab your ankles.

And I will make you say my name.

I’m growing so tired, angrier and meaner everyday I tiptoe on the razor separating what seems just a moment ago and what’s in my face right now.  I won’t even venture near tomorrow anymore.  Tomorrow means more sharp fences separating either sand between my toes or places I can’t and don’t need to see ever again.

“Right here, right now, is exactly where you’re supposed to be,” is as deep for me as “have a nice day;” arbitrary words attempting to pass themselves off as wisdom and solace.

Land too hard on one side or crawl slowly bleeding.  Lousy choices.

He asks if I have some time to discuss how things are going.

He tells me he really thinks he’s improved over the past couple of months.

I tell him I disagree.

He tells me he has the skills and the ability to do his job.

I tell him that I don’t think he does.

He asks me what he can do at this point.

The answer is “nothing” but instead I say I’m not sure.

Silence.  There is nothing more to say.

I leave the room and wipe the tears out of my eyes before he can see me.

The marathon injury was not my self diagnosed stress fracture, but irregular cartilage.  5 ½ hours of grinding kneecap:  now I get why it hurt so much!
Contrary to my quick blackberry research of what I read after peeking at my chart before the Park Avenue orthopedics “expert” finally enters the room, he says it’s “just a little arthritis”.

I demand a better answer and he lets me in on the cartilage thing.

If it doesn’t currently hurt, there’s no treatment.

Running again will cause it to hurt, and then I can come back for knee surgery. 

That’s some solution.

It’s become my spot.

Leaning against a plate glass window, sneaking in one more cigarette before a tortuous train ride, while the City teems with life around me.

I zipper up my jacket, five out of the six past Sundays, smelling the rum on my breath and feeling like a million dollars.  I watch the crowds and occasionally get asked for directions that I’m usually able to dispense despite being a tourist myself.

The appointed time comes and I duck into the reeking chasm of Penn Station, one more shuffling story in a City that never runs out of them.

Whenever people ask me what I do, and I tell them that I’m an esthetician, the inevitable reply is:

“Well, no wonder your skin is beautiful.”

What would be the analogous commentary for other professions?

“I’m a barista.”

“No wonder you seem caffeinated all the time!”

“I’m a garbage collector.”

“No wonder you always smell like crap!”

“I’m a doctor.”

“No wonder you’re scared of germs!”

It’s such an American thing to define people by their professions. Why do people care how we make money? It’s always the first cocktail party question: what do you do? Oh, really? No wonder…

I don’t think about him anymore.  Any time I meander down memory lane he’s referred to solely as “the boy ex.”  As opposed to the girl one.   But he’s been on my mind all day.  I heard on the news that his hometown is one of the cities currently engulfed in flames.

I can’t remember the last time we communicated.  I think it was two jobs ago and three, maybe four apartments.  I wanted to reach out to make sure everyone was okay.

I began to google.  And then I googled some more.  And then I found his wedding registry.

This is the first time and for the longest time I’ve had a job that I really love.

I’ve had jobs in this industry I enjoyed, or liked certain things about, but this is one I can’t ever imagine leaving of my own accord.  I know this means I’m lucky, but it’s also about time.

Recently I was lucky enough to get a great big office with a door and a window.

Today at 4:00pm, a new… “bonus”:  A very plus sized guy wearing a very tiny pair of underwear, directly across East 58^th Street, gazing at the view.  Yuck!

I unwrap the book from the towel and attempt to read, leaning back in the hot bath.  The suds have popped themselves out leaving me exposed through murky, liquid glass.

I’ve attempted to read in the bathtub before and never made it through a chapter.  Don’t know how the bestie does it, consuming halves of whole novels in one sitting while bathing. I flip a couple leaves and rewrap it.

I’ve called-in to work way too many times in the past few months.  But, when you’re sick, you’re sick, I tell myself.

I should stick to crossword puzzles when wet.

What could possibly go wrong with Drunken Board Game Night?

You’ve got good friends, way too much booze for seven people, the iPod blarin’ the “P-to-the-Arty” mix I concocted and Cranium!  It’s a recipe for memory-makin’ fun.

Ahem.  Until my friend drinks almost a full bottle of rum, drunk-dials the guy she was with for two weeks to profess her love for him, breaks down into emotional hysteria because we won’t let her drive home…oh, and reveals that her dad supposedly beats her.

She wouldn’t sleep over and she wouldn’t let us drive her home.

Who’s up for some Scattergories!

It’s Saturday afternoon, like every Saturday afternoon in the fall.  My carefully timed gym arrival coincides with the second half of any college football game.

I step on the treadmill, oblivious to everything outside the twister of my own thoughts.

And then, unlike every other Saturday, someone taps me on the shoulder.   I look up and there’s a man I’ve seen here once, maybe twice.

Without much ado he hands me a sealed envelope.  I looked at him quizzically, asking if I am indeed the rightful recipient.   I am certain I am not.

He smiles, “Yeah, it’s definitely for you.”

In desperation to support my meagre freelance income, I have agreed to test some hair removal cream, and already feel slightly tetchy at having trekked across town to do so.

“Miss or Mrs?” asks the hatchet faced crone in a white coat, a question guaranteed to make me want to punch people. When I tell her to put ‘Mr’, I am nearly thrown out.

Next up the questionnaire. I stare in disbelief:

Do you flush after a large meal?

I am appalled at this gross invasion of my lavatorial privacy. .. until I realise. Then I  go bright red myself.

It starts with this shifty-tingle behind your eyeballs.  Then, a certain kind of vertigo.

Next thing you know, there’s a tiny pinhead of vision that’s suddenly gone.  It grows, shimmering and angry, until your vision in both eyes is effectively worthless.

When you get your sight back, you have about twenty minutes until the pain hits.  The sensitivity to light.  The stomach-sick feeling that is only comparable to getting kicked in the nuts.  The almost-prayer that you’re able to find a dark bed and the ability to sleep ASAP.

Mine typically last 4 hours.

Some people have them for days.

I joined in protesting Proposition 8 at San Francisco’s City Hall this morning. Apparently, some unenlightened 52.2% of Californians think that homosexual partners should not have the right to marry or raise a family. Instead of dwelling on that depressing statistic, I’ll share some witty poster slogans (some of which referred to the Mormon church’s generous financial backing of Prop 8):

“You have six wives, I only want one husband. What’s the problem?”

“You’re not the boss of me, Utah!”

“I can’t believe I still have to protest this crap.”

“Get your hands off my wedding ring you Mormon bitches.”

Saturday afternoon, I’m lounging on a lush leather couch in my optometrist’s waiting room. They’re running behind but I don’t notice - time flies when you’re reading People.

They ask if I’d be willing to see a different doctor since mine is delayed.

A woman enters the room.  She’s strictly professional and I instantly miss the warmth of my regular doctor.

I tell her I’ve noticed my eyes are getting drier - I’m using eye drops more than before.

She says as women age their hormones change and things like that can be expected.  Especially after menopause.  She wasn’t joking.

I’m on another evening train, and the guard comes by. It’s the same guy who was on duty when the police questioned me about the lunatic who claimed I’d flooded his laptop bag with water. We get talking. (The guard and I, not the nutter.)

“He sure was strange,” agrees the friendly guard. “He was claiming that water from the ceiling on the train toilet had got into his computer as well.”

I grin from ear to ear, and make the guard repeat this loudly. So, that’s it, then. I really have been stitched up by a completely deranged fruitcake.

When he awoke, the grayness greeted him.  He squelched to his car protecting his electronics from the sodden onslaught.  He sprayed his way toward the station where the glistening, white boxes stood awaiting their coachmen and women.

He splashed through Hilltop, cursing the constant drip-drip from the silver slate above him.  It relented not as he wiped his glasses free yet again.

He slid on muddy slopes, penetrated standing pools, shielded himself from vomiting eaves.  The rain persevered as the sun died away leaving the sopping courier in a dank and fungal darkness…

…only to do it all again tomorrow.

The guy on the evening train and I are winding each other up. He asks me to move so he can stretch his legs. I glare as he answers his phone. (It’s a ‘silent’ carriage.) He blocks the corridor when we arrive at our station.

I tell him I feel like hitting him. (Though have no intention of doing so.)  Big mistake. Next thing I know, he’s got the police involved. And he’s telling them a ridiculous story that I’ve got water on his laptop.

The police question me at length. I cycle home feeling badly shaken, and oddly fearful.

I spread the news of my return to being single, and I imagine women everywhere removing black arm bands and stopping extended mourning.

My friends, however, have this to say:

The Best Male Friend:  “What did she cure, being blind or being crazy?”

The Best Female Friend:  “We can’t both be single before the holidays– it’s a recipe for disaster.”

The CoWorker:  “This doesn’t mean you have to take her picture down.  Think of my enjoyment first.”

The Ex Herself:  “I just used garlic in a jar - it saved so much time! Your reign of terror is officially over.”

Sunday afternoon, and I have an awkward train journey home.

Finally on the last leg, I find I cannot bear to sit any more in the second class carriage, but crave the comfort and solitude of first class.

There’s only one thing for it. I put on my best croaky voice, and tell the guard how ill I am feeling. He’s kind, and lets me sit in first class. But my case isn’t helped when he swings by later and sees me eating a giant cookie and slurping tea.

I wince inwardly as he tells me to get better soon.

When imagining my first relationship with a guy, I never imagined it like this.  Justin’s so easy.

In my mind’s eye, my future guy would’ve required too much attention; there would’ve been struggling of time with friends and time with him.  There would’ve been pressure for sex considering my martini shaker of stalwartly old-fashioned beliefs and fear of intimacy.  I imagined him a tad egocentric and maybe a bit too into his looks like a lot of gay guys.  And he would probably be a renegade Catholic.

Justin is nothing on that list.  He’s a catch.

So, where’s the catch?

Getting a diet coke should be easy!  

Jaywalk through traffic like Costanza with the Frogger game, to coffee shop directly across 58^th Street.   Line’s too long. Head to deli.

Narrow aisles, stuck behind someone teaching their 2 year old to walk.

Squeeze past another someone in another narrow aisle, wonder why a deli the size of a coat closet requires such an intricate layout, see soda is farthest item from the entrance. 

To touch it, must first step over cell phone talking woman crouched on floor.

In pulling my can off plastic rings, entire six-pack comes flying at my face.

Here are my favourite memories:

1. Lip-reading as S told his wife of 12 minutes how wonderful she looked.
2. Elbowing my mother hard in the ribs during the ceremony and hissing: “Stop blubbing!”
3. My new sister-in-law telling me my reading made her cry. (Result!)
4. That G came with me after all. His presence was all the sweeter for having been in doubt.
5. Going for a stroll with him later, much, later in the darkened woods.
6. The release of tension when my reading was over.
7. Being handed the first chilled white wine after the ceremony.

Seven women sit around a coffee table, each with a short story in their laps.  My short story.  I anxiously wait for their feedback.  Ever since I passed it out a week before I’ve vacillated – it’s good, no it’s garbage.   I will my legs to stop shaking.  They refuse.

The discussion begins and I’m enthralled.  Their comments are insightful, helpful, and encouraging.  Finally my teacher blurts out, “But did you like the main character?  She’s a great character but what a terrible person!”

The main character, whom I cannot completely separate from myself, is considered mercenary.   With no redeeming qualities.

I can’t believe it’s been almost a week since the world changed drastically for the better. I’m a little obsessed with Barack - I picture what he must look like when he’s brushing his teeth or what kind of coffee he likes.I can’t believe he didn’t even take a day off after the election. I heard he’s replacing the White House bowling alley with a basketball court. I wonder what kind of dog they’ll get. Is this strange? Yeah, probably. Kind of. But for the first time in my voting life, I really like the guy in the oval office.

I stare at him in disbelief. Less than 48 hours to go before my brother’s wedding, and he’s saying he might not be able to make it, hasn’t booked the time off work. Has been too scared, has no holiday days left.

All of which leaves me facing the unappealing prospect of sitting next to an empty chair on this most special of days.

We part on uneasy terms, a perfunctory kiss in the car at the station.

“I feel like jumping under a car,” I say.

“You’d miss,” he replies.

On the way home, my bike gets a puncture.

Drinking my morning coffee, staring at an empty barstool, the thoughts running through my head are scattered.

It was the easiest breakup ever, complete with lingering kiss and a promise of lifetime friendship.  My friends seemed much more devastated than we were.

And it’s not till now, three days after the fact, that I feel a sense of loss.  Staring at the spot she’d usually be at, laptop open, calling out the local events of the day while I made pancakes.

Then I think about the upcoming holidays, and my entire mood goes to hell.

I decide to skip breakfast.

For a long time I’ve told our daughter she’s a bee and she’s truly only comfortable around a hive with bees like her; artsy, driven, really smart, aware, sensitive and respectful.  Being a teenage bee, her hive isn’t that big.  She’s having trouble finding similar bees and when she does, all want to be the Queen.

Most people are bees; seeking out fellow sports bees, corporate bees, political bees or lonely bees.  We all seek that sameness.

I know the hives I belong in, but I can’t make any my home.  I either fly away or start my own colony.

There are things that make me quote, unquote gay.  For example, my hair has to be near-perfect when I leave the house, I like to shop and I won’t immediately skip Cher when her music comes on my Ipod.  Okay, I put her on playlists!

But there are other things that fight that stereotype.  As I stood before my shower today with Kaboom and sponge in hand, I saw it rear its ugly face.  There it was:  the black mold, the reddish mold that looked like part of the tile pattern and yes, a small shroom behind my conditioner bottle.

Do you remember when he left? We were at each other’s throats that entire summer.  Well, I was at yours and you were cowering in the corner.  I spent my time sharpening steak knives and you were very unlucky because you were within arm’s reach.  And I always go for the jugular.

Do you remember that as much as I yelled, my brother was silent?  He was wise enough to understand that being within arm’s reach is not a crime.   Then he got sick and we didn’t know what it was until he got worse.

Sometimes it pays to scream.

Do you remember when I made you so mad you had to leave? You grabbed your keys but were in no condition to drive.  As angry as I was I couldn’t bear to have two parents in the hospital at once, so I sat down behind the bumper before you could back out.  You called me melodramatic but I was in survival mode, although it wasn’t me I was trying to save.   I knew what you knew: as willing as you were to hurt yourself, you couldn’t hurt me. You valued my life more than your own.

You still do.

I get back from lunch, and wonder who is sitting at M’s desk. I can see a few tufts of platinum blond hair sticking up above her cubicle. Then I realise it is M, sporting a party wig, and looking utterly ridiculous.

OK, I think. This is clearly a ploy for attention. There’s only one thing for it - to treat her as though she isn’t wearing the crazy wig.

So that’s what I do. She asks me something and I reply, minus any wiggy references. My strategy works. By mid-afternoon, she is back to her usual spiky brunette look.

Last night was one of my favorite nights in Riyadh because I went to the Marine Ball.  It was my first ball.  I got all dolled up in a custom dress that I designed, and several people said I looked like a movie star.  I danced a lot and learned that a couple of my co-workers are romantically interested in me.  I wish I could play the field, but I’m a one-man woman.  It’s nice to know I have options if the current guy doesn’t work out.  If he does, it’s weird to imagine how different my life will be.

Thursday evening and the results of the library’s annual poetry competition are being announced. Then I see it – and nearly fall over it in excitement. There it is! I haven’t won but, there it is, up on the board, along with the winners. My poem! 

I may not have been placed, but, there it is! On the board for all to see! Wow, they must really think my poem is worth something. 

It doesn’t take long to bump back down to earth. 
“Oh, yes,” I overhear the librarian saying. “We just pinned up a random sample of other entries.”

I consider myself a political retard.  I just find most of it boring, and don’t believe much of what I hear from politicians, whether it’s their fault, or they just promise things that end up being out of their control.

But this time is different.  I like the two handsome guys we’ll get to see for four years.  I like it anytime there’s a “first” and this is a historic, iconic “first”.

I like it when everyone seems to be voting for someone they really want elected.  Not just voting for the one they’d mind less than the other one. 

After the victory speech, I wipe the tears out of my eyes and slug back the last of the champagne.  I head outside and light a smoke, feeling pleasantly tipsy and grinning ear to ear.

Staring at the night sky, I wonder if Barry is out there somewhere, indulging in the Marlboro Lights he favors, and giving himself a well-deserved pat on the back.

Enjoy it while you can, Mr. President-Elect.  Tomorrow I head down to D.C. to encase you in Lucite and wrap you in Kevlar.

What’s that – you don’t like the feeding tube?

You’ll get used to it.

Two people died in Sunday’s marathon, so, my knee pain and missing my goal is okay with me.   I ran near someone with a “heart transplant survivor” shirt on, as well as someone with one leg.

I felt brave wearing a shirt that said “I lost 70 pounds-this is harder”.  Which is nothing compared to surviving a heart transplant or running with one leg.

I was amazingly fortunate to get extra crowd support because of the shirt.  People were reading my shirt out loud, pointing me out to their friends, cheering me on.     

Not a bad day for me overall.

I’ve written before there are only three rules my kids must abide by; 1) Be Nice, 2) Tell the Truth, 3) Flush.  These are simple rules, yet difficult to live by.  What’s been going on in our country lately with Rules 1 & 2 doesn’t just border on insanity, it’s criminal and illegal lots of times and always, always wrong.

So, I tell my kids to apply Rule 3 most days, especially when you just can’t manage to get being nice and truthful right.

Today my Rule 3 should reign supreme.  Forget and forgive all.  At least be nice, damnit.

America, I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.

Two years of baited breath, thousands of blog posts considered, and a horrible nervous feeling in my solar plexus.

This isn’t so much an election as it is a brave line in the sand.  And while it’s a terrible shame we’ve come to this polarized place (Jesus-freaks vs. Bleeding Hearts), I’d still rather be on this side of the line, now and forever.

Today is the day, America, when you answer the call and let freedom ring - resoundingly and without shame.

Kind of like the way it used to be.

When I first moved here I lived in Arlington, home of the Pentagon and the cemetery of the same name.

Two years later I moved to Alexandria, founded in 1789, the heart of which is just 10 miles north of George Washington’s estate.

I’ve paid Virginia taxes each of the nine years I’ve lived here.

I suffer an atrocious commute to Maryland because I can’t imagine leaving.

McCain said he’s doing well – in the real Virginia.  I, of course, live in the unreal part.  The part that’s voting blue, with hopefully enough pigment to paint the rest of the state.