Sarah Bowie

#12 Birth date on a ring - or a tattoo or - ...(identity theft...?)

2011-10-17T19:21:00.013-05:00

There is a jewelry company that advertises in the New Yorker (my dad has bought me a subscription for several years, I love that magazine although I am only now working through my back-to-2008 backlog) and the Roman numerals in their ring dates (the chunky dates are the basic ornamentation of the rings) always catches my eye.

I have looked at the website a couple of times (John-Christian.com) but couldn’t justify the price since I have so much other jewelry – hahaha, who am I kidding, readers know I have probably spent more money on less stuff but I could not decide what numbers to put on my ring. My birth year? My birth date? My wedding date – naaaahhhhh…

Also the site seemed to be about gifts for others – those you have been born by, and given birth to – not to buy for yourself. Well anyway that was my guilty take on it. My kind-of-happy-to-discourage-self-from-buying take on it.

Then I wondered, in this day and age of identity theft, when we are told not to leave a purse hidden under 30 blankets in a car trunk for even 5 minutes if that purse contains a drivers license or social security card, should I wear a ring with any personal info? Am I at risk just for ordering that ring?

In general I think the only way we can protect ourselves is to keep monitoring our online accounts for odd activity – so many places of business demand our DOBs and Socials and you know, I know, they don’t keep them as locked up as they could/should – think about this, it is usually very low-paid people who do insurance billing. And guess which person in the doctor’s office has your personal info… Once someone used my credit card on a porn site and it was right after I had been to the doctor’s office. And you can believe or not that I had not been using that particular card online, so the doctor appointment was my only risk factor. (Actually – although this makes a pretty good story it may not be accurate, the risk factor may have been my ordering tickets to a comedy club by phone. Gynecologist, comedy club – you can see why I didn't go with exact details.)

If a ring puts me at risk, would I be less at risk getting personal details as a tattoo? It would be attached to me...

One of this year’s tattoo ideas (yep a wide range of creativity and crazy) was getting my date and maybe even hour of birth on my arm. Now, I do think that Angelina Jolie tattooing the latitude and longitude of where her kids entered her life (I read that she recently added Brad’s place of birth in Oklahoma too, as line #7) helps a tiny bit to take away the association of numbers-on-arms with what was done to the Jews by the Nazis.

Hmmm…Angelina Jolie – Sarah Bowie – even I struggle to make this connection. How else do we resemble each other...

We are not in the same category. She is so extreme – has covered up her ex Billy Bob's name (nope I do not have a Craig tattoo, which I think he sees as a lack of my faith in our relationship) and Angelina has gotten many other tattoos – pictures, pictures, words, Asian, Roman, things that meant something to her at the time, although surely she has evolved past some of it by now - yep, has had a few do-overs.

And then given her career, every time she makes a movie they have to cover up the artistry. Oh! That is my connection to Angelina! I have to hide my tatts too.

(If we are seriously expected to believe this is something on Angelina's body – I have to also believe it was taken from about 5 miles away and clumsily enlarged. Hard to unflatter Angelina but they have done it.)

#11: No Alien Tattoo (I don't think...)

2011-10-12T20:31:00.022-05:00

Yes I did in recent months take a web printout of a leggy, big-headed green creature into the tattoo salon. And I was impressed that the intern/office manager or whatever he is – semi-bossy guy who doesn’t do tattoos himself... I have identified the pink-haired Receptionist and the body-hairy (hair amid his tattoos – lovely) Body Piercer and 2 of the Ink Artists but I’m still not sure what Bossy Guy is/does, other than bark at me not to put my purse on the floor (theft risk? health code violation?). How is it really cleaner to place your purse, which has been all over stores and public restrooms and worse in its past year with me...to put that purse on a table or chair where the next client will sit?

Anyway, bossy guy lectured me on the importance of having an overall plan, a pre-plan for my tattoos. I shouldn’t just stick an alien next to the red-crown princess on my left arm. That placement would mean the alien would show only on the back or side of that arm. I didn’t quite see the problem of that – didn’t need the alien to be front & center, I would know it was there like I know the other tattoos I have to keep covered up during the day at work are there – but I did understand his concern about integrating Alien with the artistically rendered Princess which itself was copied – oops, inspired – by an original painting by a non-tattoo artist (painter).

Yes, I would probably have hated a green alien grafted off-center onto Red Princess but I did still sort of want one somewhere on me. So, OK – could you do the alien on my inside arm above the Princess? (trying not to think right at that moment about how I nevvverrr show that mushy part of my arm outside sleeves – well I guess I could admire the upper-arm alien in private, like when I shower or change clothes). Again, bossy guy discouraged me. “That is prime real estate!” (Yes I was laughing in response to that.) I said, OK you’re right, I need to give this some more thought.

Yes!, I was disappointed about not getting an alien that day but I agreed it was a recent inspiration (I won’t say impulse) and could maybe use more cogitation. I like that Bossy Guy was looking out for me and presenting the professional advocacy element of a tattoo business (we won’t take your money for an ill-advised tatt) but I had loved the…yes..the impulsiveness! of the idea of getting a small green alien tattooed on my body.

Which I did not do, that day, or yet. Now how will the mother ship find me…without my special mark…

Fortunately for that week’s need for instant tattoo gratification (I got a Thursday estimate for a Friday lunch-hour tattoo, the salon is not far from my office and lunch hour always sounds like a great idea until the thing starts HURTING afterward and I have to sit at my desk, bandage covered with a sleeve, and pretend I am fine and did not create a further dress code violation on my lunch hour…LOL). But I still managed to get 3 words arranged around my Eye of Horus tattoo that Friday, which I do not consider impulsive although – yes – it was done within a couple of weeks of the thought. This is what I consider (careful wording) a tattoo ENHANCEMENT. Look how beautifully it balances my right arm ink – and the right arm now balances the left. And hopefully the enhancement words will help calm? pacify? explain to? (typing this I realize, belatedly, that I should not have to explain to anybody) those people who have a horrified look as they ask barely disguised versions of this question: is that the evil eye?

(No my arm has not swollen to the size of a ham hock. But I don't like to ask Craig to photograph my tattoos, since he doesn't like my tattoos, and it's a weird angle when you point a camera at your own arm, trust me.)

I do still want my alien. Maybe I won’t do it till next year – or won’t do it next year – maybe I can and should, maybe I could, wait. But, and still, where would I put it if I got it? Prime but hidden (maybe hidden does not make it less prime) real estate of the upper arm? Leg/ankle, that I cover with slacks (haha, really with grubby khakis) at work anyway? Shoulder? back? – both heavily covered areas. I guess I am out of potentially uncovered skin spaces. Although I could show a leg tattoo in capris (not shorts at this weight!) in summer.

Maybe – I don’t know. I don’t like waiting for things I want, have decided I am ready to get. But I don’t want a misguided alien placement either. Thank you, Bossy Guy. I guess.

Birthday Series #10 - October can be too warm for sweaters and too cool for tee shirts

2011-10-11T20:59:00.008-05:00

Yikes! The caption of this image I stole online is, "Portrait of a senior woman sitting in front of a birthday cake smiling."

She is wearing a sweater – 2 sweaters – so she fits this post. However, to my chagrin...she looks ancient! Which I am not. Anyway...

Usually my birthday weather is at least cool in the morning – cool dew and sun that kind of makes my sinuses flinch, swell, reverberate – something uncomfortable – when I leave the house in the a.m. And I usually leave the house at usual commute time – only a few 10/19’s have been vacation days.

On one really misplanned birthday vacation day I scheduled an appointment for a dental cleaning (at my friendly efficient dentist’s office, usually a win-win experience) but for whatever reason, that turned out to be one of my most uncomfortable cleanings ever and the one that has made me ever since demand gas for anything I experience while in the dental patient chair. (Sometimes I tolerate pre-gas x-rays, but just barely.) I remember what I was wearing because I dressed cute thinking I would have my usual chit-chat with the office staff, several of who also have October birthdays, and get their birthday greetings – of course they would note my day – and skip out, carefree and painfree, to my birthday afternoon in my navy tee shirt, jeans and navy & white polka dot Keds (I loved those shoes – may they RIP, worn to a respectful Goodwill burial).

So the reason for sharing this dental story is that it is an example of warm-weather dressing in Dallas' October. Somehow the wearing of my slightly oversized navy Target tee shirt under a dental bib, looking down at my polka-dotted shoes, on feet flexed in response to dental-scraper discomfort is still in the front of my mental file drawer. And we are talking 90s here – late 90s, but 90s. No – I don’t get past memories quickly.

On a birthday a year or two after that, I canceled birthday lunch with my aunt on short notice because Craig had surprised me by taking the day off from work and inviting me to lunch. This is my Dallas aunt who doesn’t forget my birthday – love her for that! – but Craig was my husband – my fairly new husband. Now yes, something might be a little suspicious in that hubby takes off the whole day from work, to take wife who does not take off from work (it was my first year in a new job) to lunch, but it was marriage year #3 and I didn’t think I should refuse him. Aunt gave lip service agreement to my making my husband a priority, but she also made a follow-up call to tell me I had hurt her feelings by canceling. I always appreciate honesty (yes really) but the situation was confusing for a newly married, motherless daughter who appreciates the mothering aspects of her local aunt.

But anyway – let’s return to wardrobe. A few weeks before that canceled aunt lunch I had bought 2 all-cotton striped men’s sweaters at The Gap. On reflection I realize they were in all ways unflattering to me – shape, color, length. But they were new purchases, they were sweaters, and it was cool that morning – so I wore one. Yes I was warm when I went out at lunch – with my husband, not my aunt. Can’t quite remember if I wore the brown-based sweater or the black-based sweater (both, again, ugly – but soft cotton and comfortable). I know I wore black pants. Because I don’t think I had brown pants then (in my personal experience, black pants have been perennials while brown ones have been occasional) – why in the world I remember this distinction, I do not know – so it must have been the black & multi stripe sweater.

Also, I can’t remember where we ate – but I had lunch with my husband! And apologized again to my aunt.

Not bad priorities, really. Probably? (Yes, I struggle with these questions.)

#9 in the Birthday Series - 600+ Facebook friends (Facebook birthday)

2011-10-04T20:23:00.010-05:00

As my subscribers/readers know, I am not a person immune to guilt. (HA!)

Facebook brings a lot of publicity to birthdays. Facebook aside – I have been yakking about my birthday for weeks. Partly from pride and joy at attaining the 5-0 milestone as an at least semi-functional adult – partly from negative emotions that I’m trying to process (that’s what the Internet is for, right?, processing with an audience...I love that about the Internet).

I have allowed, even encouraged, the Internet to make my life public, and this is a not unexpected aspect. Ahem.

Now, if on the 19th I get 200+ (just an estimate) birthday greetings, courtesy of FB reminders, should I:

1. smile inwardly and take no outward action
2. obsessively click “like” to each birthday comment on a prompt basis
3. spend hours writing a “they like me, they really like me” thank-you message that can only be addressed to a limited number of addressees and becomes a logistical hassle like last year (FOR EXAMPLE).

Guilt – hmmmm – when Facebook reminds people of a birthday, do they feel guilty if they don’t say HBD? That would be guilt #1. Then my reading and response-lack of response-2nd guessed response would be guilt 2/3, depending on timing and degree.

Geez – is this worth it?

Yes, I think so.

As in a zillion other ways, the Internet brings mixed-blessing enhancements. It’s an automatic birthday reminder, and provides an automated means for response. That doesn’t eliminate sincerity – hardly brings it into question – but it’s an alteration of previous experience (which wasn't all so great, IMHO = Internet lingo for, In My Humble-haha Opinion).

But as with almost everything else Internet-wise…do we want to go backwards?

Me…no.

At least, not till after my birthday.

P.S. A humble, apologetic, shy?, anti-tonight post may be coming soon.

#8, a continuation of #7 - Birthdays with a Father

2011-10-01T21:11:00.016-05:00

My 13th birthday, which was soon after Mother died, was celebrated with a Sunday lunch at our family friend Shirley’s house. She made a special effort that day, shopped for a nice 1970s preteen gift, a pale blue suede wallet set, and made a pot roast. I know she was not a confident cook and this entrée could not have been easy for her – I know that because I remember it being a little hard to chew. Well, so is my own pot roast hard to chew, even with a crockpot I invariably get the wrong cut of meat or don’t cook for enough hours (fortunately Craig would prefer meat to be too chewy than too soft, he is that kind of carnivore)…whereas an old-school cook like Mother made pot roast in a pressure cooker so it was consistently soft.

(I hate blogging without illustrations – none of the ones I found for pot roast were quite right but this image was the least fancy – sorry, Shirley!, but I don’t think you served it on a platter with parsley – so I’m going with this one.)

Actually I loved eating at Shirley’s house. We drank Cokes or Tabs (this was the era of Tab) on ice in tumblers, ate fresh brownies (yes, made from a mix but that seemed exotic since my family recipe, thriftily made with cocoa, always came out dry), chocolate chip cookies, and her breakthrough side dish, green peas mixed with mashed potatoes. (I remember her saying proudly, “I realized they get mixed together on your plate anyway.”)

I Googled to see what day of the week my birthday fell on that year of the pot roast lunch – actually the 19th was a Saturday, the day before our lunch with Shirley. My mother had avoided cake mixes for many years but at some point we discovered that spice cake mixes, especially with lots of homemade frosting, were very good - if I'm not mixing up memories my mother's mother, a true baking authority, tipped us off to that. I think it was birthday 14 when my sister made me a cake. She insisted she was old enough but she didn’t follow the directions enough to make a product that pleased me. I think the frosting was more like a glaze (maybe she melted butter instead of creamed it), which of course tasted fine but set off my perfectionism – that cake was one more disappointment (I felt disappointment even when I felt guilty for expressing it), one more thing in my young life that wasn’t right.

What was right was a visit to Shirley’s. Shirley made me feel she was treating me as an adult but there was a good amount of mothering in there too. I’m not exaggerating when I say that arriving at her house always felt like a 5-star hotel to me. It was perfectly cooled (our house had loud, uneven a/c) and lovely – a custom home in the woods. Of course I didn’t care about the outside, never went out there, but the green view was nice from the windows. She had clean carpet (I don’t remember her having pets) (and our house was all lineoleum), brand-new bathroom fixtures (my family’s bathroom tiles had green stuff at the edges), a wetbar ice maker, and a guest room TV with a timer that would take care of you after you fell asleep. Even when having my sister Rachel along was a requirement of me sleeping over at Shirley’s, it was worth it. (Shirley had been Rachel’s kindergarten teacher, and Shirley had been a good friend of Mother’s, and my brothers’ piano teacher – the connection was strong.)

Not too long after the Sunday lunch, my dad made the pronouncement, “I think you like to go to Shirley’s because she makes a fuss over you.” This was heard by me as a criticism and even with adult perspective, I believe it was intended as that. My self-employed, newly widowed father was struggling with his many responsibilities, including paying Mother’s medical bills (he did not have group insurance) and he probably didn’t see me as needy enough, in the family scheme of things, to be made a fuss over. I guess I had absorbed a lot of that perspective because on the night that Mother died (in our house, in her own bed as she had wished), when Rachel and I were sent to spend the night at Shirley’s, I remember feeling like a fraud, someone taking advantage of the situation. Mother’s body had been taken away already and I wasn’t consciously upset, wasn’t grieving, I had known Mother was about to die and now she had died and our household would continue its adapted routine of not being led by Mother. Sure, I would rather sleep in a room with its own TV set (Shirley’s guest TV was bigger than my family’s den TV) but did I “need” to be there?

I didn’t begin to understand how to relate to my dad until I began to help him with his writing, about 10 years ago. Typing the letters he wrote as a very young soldier to his family, and then editing his childhood memoir written in recent years, I finally understood my father as being an emotional person. A bright, curious, sensitive child, born in a family he didn’t quite fit in with, before the decades of psychological labels, self-awareness, the psychologized generation.

Here’s a very appropriate quote from his book, “Growing Up in Rose Hill (we were poor but didn’t know it)”, which in its 228 printed pages has only this one mention of birthdays:

"Birthdays on the farm were not celebrated often. If the birthday fell on a Sunday, Mother would invite one or two friends to come after church. I don’t remember having candles on a cake but several times we had hot cocoa served in tiny tea cups (my birthday is in October so the weather would usually be cool). I still have the tiny set of pitcher and cups. Usually on a person’s 16th birthday a “coming out” party was given. These were supposed to be surprise parties. In the summer they included “ring games” and in winter dominoes and card games. Homemade ice cream was usually served with cake. Neighbors and relatives came to our house for my 16th birthday, but I was so shy I probably didn’t speak to anyone."

Yep, I could make a lot out of that last sentence, and what a perfect follow-up to blog #7, which mentioned my own 16th birthday – I doubt my father thought of any connection to my birthday when he wrote the words above in 2004. My reading on introversion has taught me that parents of introverts – especially parents who themselves are introverted, to any degree – push their child not to be introverted, wanting their child to be part of the mainstream, i.e. extroverted. (Shyness is not always defined as similar to introversion, but I think my dad and I were both, so I won’t split that hair in this particular blog post.) My father’s sensitivities were not encouraged growing up, and he didn’t usually see it as part of his parental mission to encourage his own children’s sensitivities – on certain levels, I think he understood our complexities, maybe even felt a kinship – but it was not close to the surface most of the time.

Daddy and Mother had 4 children, and when he started dating as a widower he believed he was more successful when paired with women who also had children. One of my favorites of his dates had only one child, a daughter my age (he used to take me on dates with that mom and daughter and our outings always had Houston sophistication, once we saw a Tennessee Williams play – well, performed at a church), but he ended up marrying a woman with 6 children.

My stepmother did observe everyone’s birthday with cake and card and at least one present, but my father not only delegated birthdays to her from then on (after all, Mother had been the birthday planner when she was alive), but was heard to say things along the lines of – I admit this is not a direct quote – with so many kids you can’t remember everyone’s birthday.

Which is a philosophy that still rankles me. Granted he has multiple stepdaughters and he has numerous grandchildren - but he had 4 original children, 3 living today - his sister and brother and his parents are dead. Can he remember the birth dates of 3 original children? It’s not like he is too old and confused to keep track of dates (he rarely misses doctor appointments or TV shows), and I have heard him mention such a thing as a birthday calendar (maybe sometimes it gets lost under other paperwork - you would have to see his office...). In recent years I have finally mellowed about this and I find it funny when he calls me about something completely unrelated on 10/19 and has no idea that date is my birthday. And guess when his birthday is? Exactly 4 days later. Maybe it’s passive-aggressive that I don’t remind him it’s my birthday when he accidentally calls on the 18th, 19th or 20th to update me on some other happening, but maybe it’s also passive-aggressive when he doesn’t keep track of my birthday being 4 days before his.

I had 2 birthdays after I left the house for college and before I moved to Dallas (after which I counted more on my Dallas relatives for birthday observance). I have no complaints about the first one – I flew from New Mexico for a fun weekend in Dallas, and before I left Santa Fe my college friends gave me gifts, not bad for people you have known for less than 2 months – but the next one was difficult. I went to Dallas for the weekend again – able to drive this time instead of fly, since I had transferred to a Texas college, but the only notification I received from my dad and stepmom was a card that arrived in my college mailbox a couple of days late, signed with the names of all (the few, I am 3rd from youngest) family members still living at home, but all obviously in my stepmom’s handwriting. I think she also drew a couple of little pictures, maybe a flower and a butterfly, which was nice of her – but I was not appreciative at the time.

It wasn’t a phone call on the actual date – it wasn’t a Barbie cake. No child wants to be lost in the crowd of siblings – we don’t ask our parents to have more kids, those decisions are nothing to do with us. We want to be treated as unique.

OK – thank you for listening to my toddler self say that. Whew, this post has been freeing. (Although I felt guilt as I wrote it.)

I like to end posts with an image – I tried and tried to find good examples of vintage teacups (not fancy, probably scratched or cracked) like the kind my dad sipped cocoa out of on his childhood birthdays, but nothing was quite right. The image below is not right in any way at all other than it being “vintage” and “German” – but I like it because the set looks orange. Actually it’s described in the eBay text as painted red, but it looks orange when photographed, so I gravitated very strongly toward it.

Series #7 - Motherless Birthdays

2011-09-30T19:40:00.021-05:00

My best birthdays, in the motherless desert since Mother died, have to do with having a husband who even in dating days never forgot my birthday, and his family hasn’t either – well, it helps that so many of them were born in October too. Worst of this category: when he thinks because we go out to eat, and he sometimes sends me flowers, he doesn’t need to buy me a card. What is it with guys and cards… One particular year, I was otherwise upset – actually it was the month before we got married and I was of course stressed with wedding plans, and didn’t want to lose my individual celebration, a whole other thing to be upset about – and I asked him to please go to the store and buy me a card, and guy-like he thought even that clear request was silly.

During my late single years, there was a bad birthday when I thought my boss was inviting me to meet him for surprise birthday drinks after work – he and his wife did nice things for my birthday, almost always (cheaper than giving me a raise, I see that now) – but it turned out that he really did just need the paperwork he had asked me to drop off – no party for me. Another year I kept waiting for my Dallas relatives to do something for me, which in a way they did – when I stopped by their house they said "Oh, it's your birthday, isn't it!" and gave me hugs. I then went to Tom Thumb and bought apple spice pound cake and vanilla ice cream to eat alone in my apartment.

These same relatives, who actually do always remember my birthday, had a surprise Sweet 16 party for me. It’s not their fault that during the event I was frozen with a horrid mix of introverted social anxiety and teenage embarrassment. I could not get past the shock of a dinner outing with my stepbrother turning into a house filled with out-of-town relatives. A lot of the embarrassment came from not having friends to be invited – that was a very awkward age, I had maybe 1.5 friends at school and my dad stated rightly when my aunt asked him about invitations, that they (or "it," one girl and some vague other quasi-friends) would not be comfortable at a family party. Steve had told me to dress up, so I had on my pleather platform boots and gaucho pants and vest – yes, I was in fashion for once, 1977 fashion. My aunt had remembered I liked yellow roses and there were a lot of those at the party. I still struggle to make peace with this party memory, I so much appreciated the effort, and the memory of family guests, including a great-aunt and great-uncle who many years ago left my life is poignant, but I still have shame at my inability to enjoy that moment. And now, at my inability to appreciate the memory.

IN CONTRAST: With a mother-ful birthday I woke up to presents and a homemade cake at my place at the breakfast table – I can’t remember for sure if I routinely sat at the end of the table opposite the stove, maybe the birthday person sat at that end (kind of the head) of the table. But this is a birthday memory, so I was queen. This rich tradition occurred every year through the beginning of my 12th. Always there, those items – food and gift-wrapped clothes and toys and books – they were ready before I walked into the room to see them. This was experienced as delicious trust and confidence of knowing it would be there, but there was always a surprise thrill too – the cake flavor, the frosting color, the gifts themselves were specially chosen by Mother. The decorating scheme was homemade – one year Mother arranged Barbie shoes in a shoe-store theme. Yes, by age 12 I was at the early part of the age of criticism, and maybe I wanted something more polished (i.e. storebought, which only as adults do we realize is not superior), but Mother was inspired not just from thriftiness but also from knowing Sarah.

With a motherful birthday, even on a preteen year when all of the 5 friends I invited to the zoo happened to be coincidentally not available (it really was not a conspiracy, they had various real conflicts and their mothers were very apologetic), I still had a good time going with my mother and little sister. Both the Houston weather and my sister were on good behavior, and Mother bought me an alligator charm for my bracelet – it was not a bad day. Best of all, with a motherful birthday – I could take the birthday efforts for granted. I could even have expectations, requests (can you buy me this? will you buy me this?) and complaints that even if unvoiced, felt inwardly justified – Mother should buy me this.

Back then I didn’t feel guilty about wanting or asking for things, or attention. I knew this person, above all others, celebrated my birth. I wish I could take that for granted – from any living person – ever again, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. Life, relationships, are complicated. I have had wonderful mother figures in my life, but I had only one mother.

P.S. Regarding the alligator charm – another relative had given me a couple of dozen sterling charms the previous Christmas. I know he meant it generously, and knowing his shopping habits, I know he had fun buying them. But it was too much – charm bracelets are supposed to be built up slowly, with charms for individual occasions. My mother knew me, and she knew that. I think I still have a box of loose charms that I never attached.

#6 - When someone dies, you can't take them for granted anymore.

2011-09-28T18:51:00.011-05:00

(Feels weird to end a blog post subject with a period, but it's weird without the period too.)

I don’t have the perfect image (and I’m not sure what it would be) to use with this post, but I like this old photo, a group of cousins sitting on a porch at a family reunion – that’s Tim on the far right and me standing up (I was very cocky before I reached the age of self-criticism, which sadly occurred rather early). Tim was one of the older cousins and looks bored with the rest of us, LOL.

This title came from thinking about something that is such a cliché that you hate the cliché, but you hate the circumstance anyway. It kind of helps that other people have taken their deceased folks (for some reason I have been using the word "folks" a lot lately, what else would work here – significant others?, never mind...) for granted during life, so you are not unusual – hence, the cliché. But who wants to be part of the stupid herd, the majority.

I could have spent more time with Tim. I could have been more patient with his very-deliberate speech – he was a teacher, who prided himself on clear communication and always-rational thought – and his way of heavily processing info, and feelings, before he shared them with others. Maybe I got impatient with his objectivity toward feelings – although in other ways that was one of my favorite things about him, his objectivity – it made him accepting of and patient with others. Even if he didn’t show strong emotion, it was OK that other people did.

I counted on him, but that’s not the same thing as appreciating. I didn’t not appreciate him – even physically diminished to the point that even he had to focus on his health (mind over matter was barely working for him, despite his every effort), he had an important place in my life - not as a sick person, but as an older brother.

And it wasn’t like I wasn’t prepared for his death in many ways, I had gotten the message he wouldn’t live forever (even now it's hard, out of respect for him and how he wanted to protect us from his reality, to say I recognized his end was near), and I wanted his years of suffering to end – but he wouldn’t have used that word, let’s get closer to Tim-speak, his years of health challenges to end. Yes, to end. And then when it ends – you want a do-over. For them, for you.

Tim and I had the chance to be adult siblings, but I didn’t have the chance for an adult relationship with Mother. To extrapolate from history and our personalities – imaging to the future, like a computer-aged police sketch – takes that relationship out of reality. Our original Scholl family of 6 people was real. It’s long gone in many ways, but it was real. And – it never did have a lot of self-awareness, although we thought it did – being smart people doesn’t mean you know who and what you are, especially as a family – but for our culture (Texan/German/many other things), personalities, small town and decade – we were our closest approximation to real. So I’ll never be able to tolerate a projected, an imaged relationship with Mother that I would consider fake, silly – unreal.

Yes, I was an adult when Tim died, but in a way with his death I became frozen in a youthful sibling relationship. I have written about getting past the age that he was when he died, but he died as The Older Brother, and he gets to stay that way – it’s hard to think of him otherwise. He was always 4 years older. When he died I was still 1 ½ years away from finishing my degree, and I was several jobs ago (many professional lessons yet to be learned, not that I’m an expert now), and newer in my marriage…my 2005 self. We change in 6 years.

It makes me sad that the idea of reconnecting with my mother is the stuff of nightmares (I’ve had actual nightmares) – what age is she, what health does she have – is she younger than I knew her, is she recovering from cancer, is she a walking corpse or ___? I have had some dreams about Tim appearing after death but they are not scary – he utters calm words on a brief (and very unexpected!) phone call, or he appears briefly as part of an insignificant family activity (having dinner, sitting outside) and exudes…calm. Not intrusive.

Hmmm – maybe even in these dream visitations I take Tim’s contribution for granted.

Birthday Series #5 - Do I want Craig to get a bird for Christmas?

2011-09-24T21:03:00.006-05:00

Like many of Craig’s ideas it came to him at a party, yes one where alcohol was served. His friend Melanie has a bird named Birdie (maybe Bertie, LOL) who was fun to interact with, at least on a limited party basis. One of her other party guests was also a bird owner and he was talking about the joys of bird ownership. I don’t know how serious Craig was about all this or how serious I want him to be… I might prefer a bird to a fish tank – maybe…fish are something else he's expressed an idle interest in.

Before Craig moved in with me I had a female roommate who had a flea-infested dog (I didn’t realize back then that I liked dogs…wonder why…), fish who liked to turn nasty colors and float belly-up as soon as Linda went out of town (on one occasion I begged my uncle to come over and help scoop them out – I mean, I made him do the scooping), and a bird who never quieted even when his cage was covered, who had a great name (Beethoven) and would sit on your head without too much painful pecking but whose exit (he flew out the back door when Linda was spring cleaning) I didn’t lament too much. (Basically glad she couldn’t blame me, like she may have in the case of the fish.)

My parents used to have a decorative bird cage (yes, pink) in their 1950s-pink bathroom, and for some reason that I can’t quite remember it had a bird in it at one point – oh, I think Uncle Harvey had bought a decorative cage (larger than ours, white, nicer) for his Tomball house before he lived in it year-round, and it was too much hassle for us to keep walking over (3 whole small-town blocks) and feeding the birds in his cage so they were moved to our bathroom cage. There used to be 2 birds, then there was one, and on one sad day when he was out of the cage for some reason – had to be a cleaning, we didn’t think of recreation in those pre-Animal Planet days (nothing on our tiny black & white TV’s few channels addressed the un-socialized plight of pet birds) – my brother Dave stepped square on top of him. The bird was green & yellow, on a pink fluffy Polyester rug, but Dave is tall with large feet and while I don't think he had animosity, at that age he helplessly exhibited a teenage lack of awareness and clumsiness, so the outcome was sad and instantaneous. At my preteen age I found it ironically funny but I remember Dave feeling bad about what happened, so I know it was a pure accident, and I still feel bad for laughing (although I wasn’t sad I no longer had to clean that nasty cage).

Anyway, the Craig story – within 2 weeks of Craig’s friend’s party I had a weird synchronicity: when I stopped on the way home to buy dog food for Billie the customer in front of me, a little old lady with a brown wig that I knew wasn’t her hair (one of those crepe-y, cronelike old ladies who makes you worry about your own aging – sorry to interject this negativity, but it’s a birthday blog theme after all), was buying all manner of bird treats. The cashier, who had a name I thought I would remember but have already forgotten since I didn’t write it down (probably I could just ask for The Bird Man at Petco on Garland Road) gave her a lecture about caged birds really needing a lot of fresh fruit, plus pellets, and minimal other stuff. (“This is junk! You don’t need that unless you want to throw your money away.” He was hardly salesman of the year in terms of cash register receipts.) He was so gung-ho with bird info that he even followed her out to her car, talking. I thought , this could be a resource for Craig. (If I follow up on it for him.)

I don’t think Craig will bother to get a bird – research a bird, buy a bird – unless, yep, I follow up on it. So I could, should, just ignore the topic, given my mixed and mostly negative feelings. But the can-do part of me – and maybe part of the part that loves Craig – wants to nurture his desire for a bird. So I will probably bring it up again.

Craig has pointed at 3 different places in our house where he would put a bird cage – I would prefer the bird be in Craig’s pub – “his” room after all, and one I rarely walk through. But he’s right, the bird might prefer the more generous natural light that’s in the garden room (converted porch where we have a piano, wine rack and china cabinet – sometimes we call it The Grotto when we get bored with Garden Room). But that would mean the bird is right next to us when we sit in the den, watching TV. Maybe not ideal.

In Googling for a photo of Detective Baretta’s cockatoo (which I KNOW was part of Craig’s attraction to the idea) I also found a naughty image for Robert Blake’s “bird.” This kind of reflects my own mixed feelings on the subject.

Birthday Series #4 - Do I want a dog for Christmas?

2011-09-24T20:11:00.005-05:00

Up and down and down and up on this question. Up up up when I look at available greyhounds on rescue sites and read the adorable posts from foster parents – these dogs are so sweet and smart and seem to settle in really well in loving homes, especially homes with no kids and no cats like ours. BUT one dog is so much easier, and Billie has adjusted so much better to being an only dog than we thought she would. Nobody to compete with, nobody to worry about (I could tell she was worrying about Marley, having to wake him up for meals, had to handle the threat of outside invaders herself after he went deaf). One dog is so much cheaper too – yes there is that – we are in a budget mode, better late than never, and I hope we can maintain. So does that make it wrong to be thinking about getting another dog? Other viewpoint is – rescuing a dog with no family is a virtuous thing, right? The money would go to a good cause. Hmmmm…

One of the worst psychic wounds is not as people might think, replacing Marley – because there’s no replacing Marley, no question of that – but my continued guilt over the Terror Rein of Bucho (our cousin's Chow-mix puppy). I loved Bucho and (don’t tell Craig), I still miss him, but while we had him Billie was so miserable. I’ll always question my motives for taking him in (he was a kind of foster), for keeping him the several months we did, and also my motives for giving him up.

Do I have too much guilt to be a dog parent?

Greyhounds are so adorable though. I have thought that since I saw one on camera on an Animal Planet show years ago, a lady was taking her other dog to do a nursing home visit and she said goodbye to the greyhound, “Will you miss us?, did you want to go too?” and the greyhound just stayed flopped on its comfy cushion, hardly batted a doggy eyelid.

People who don’t check out the rescue sites don’t realize what couch potatoes greyhounds are. They love to stretch and “roach” – on their back with those long legs folded in as best they will fold (like a dead cockroach – get it? – sorry to have to include that nasty association, but some people don’t get it). I was going to steal a photo example for this blog but they are all so adorable I had to get off the websites – and all so cute I couldn’t choose.

Instead I’m using a couple of photos I took when I dragged poor Billie to a greyhound rescue meet & greet last December. Billie was very nervous – we don’t take her out to public places a lot (I should feel guilty about that too, I think). She looked cute next to the greyhounds, but actually she looked less like a greyhound than I thought she would, next to the real thing – she is a mix of more dog breeds than I realized, greyhound is not necessarily dominant – other than her stride, her love of roaching, and her sweet sleepiness.

She needs to be our priority in this decision. Isn’t she lonely though? Wouldn’t she prefer a bigger pack – especially someone to hang out with her while we are at work all day?

She can’t speak English though. I think I know her well but this is hard to judge. And then there’s element of parenting, do what is best for them, even if they don’t want it. Wow – how would I know if this is such an example.

Maybe I’ll go back to the budget constraint. That is more clear-cut. But you know me and spending money…I obsess so hard about things I want that sometimes I violate budget principles to get them. Although that needs to end, as of 5 years ago (oops!)

Up and down, down and up…

Putting off the decision till Christmas is good – I’m trying to focus on that timing – because most years Craig and I are both around the house for a week or so before New Year’s. We’ll be broke though – with January bills coming up – and Billie will like having our full attention. So I don’t know…but a new home would be a great gift for a rescue greyhound (selfless of me!).

From December 2010: That's a sweet baby named Sweet Pea in the bandana - Billie didn't bond with her, obviously.

Billie remained on the fringes of things.

Birthday Series #3 - not an easy one but an important one

2011-09-20T19:52:00.020-05:00

Formerly announced title: "Now I really feel older than Mother and Tim"

Yep, in this post I have gone over my 2-3 paragraph plan, but in a way that doesn't count since almost all the words below spieled out of me yesterday while recharging in my building's downstairs restaurant with - yes - a Chardonnay. (I was not just recharging from the workday but gearing up for the long drive home, and worse, an expedition to Town East Mall in Mesquite! Amazing I accomplished that, plus writing, with just one Chardonnay.)

Maybe for a growth experience I should type this with the draft markings - a few question marks and blanks - left on. Yeah! Maybe. Except I will have to check the reference years - can't stand to be sloppy with that.

GET STARTED TYPING FROM YOUR STENO PAD NOTES...

Mother died at 48, Tim at 47. I had to look up those dates again - maybe the dates don't matter - but when I turned 48 (Mother) and 47 (Tim) (and also 49, since my math got vague, especially when them not living/dying in neat year increments but half years too, 48 1/2 etc.), it felt like it mattered.

Tim always looked calendar-year (ageless?) young to me, his only aging came from 6? years of cancer treatment. David, now 52, has some gray and a slightly receding hairline. (Not that we talk slang to each other, but - sorry, bro.) Dave has kids - Tim and I don't. Maybe that's a connection to the aged look?, or so friends with kids tell me.

Turning Mother's age of death literally? (should I edit this to, metaphorically?) felt like passing through a doorway.

So having experienced that, it surprises me that facing the 50 doorway, I feel - really far away from Tim and Mother.

My dad turns 86 the week after I turn 50. I can't make the stretch of feeling an age connection with him, although in terms of longevity there certainly could be one - shared genetics, even some shared mindset, the kind of cynicism that I think I've read some studies show can affect longevity. Expecting to be disappointed at least some of the time, not going into as deep a trough as some people might when bad news hits. Now, compared to my "grew up poor and didn't know it" dad I am a vastly spoiled princess, but there is still a link somewhere, to do with rolling your eyes at life. So with my dad on the 80-plus end of the age continuum, I still feel closer to - two dead people. They were older than me in life, but in death we have arrived at a ____?

I have enough imagination to think what a mother who died in 1974 might be like in 2011, but I am way too critical of my attempts. She liked the TV show "Maude" - would she have continued this liberal trend? (I am so glad I remember that - it's not a flimsy memory and it sustains my liberal self - for really pithy episodes she shut the living room door on us and watched it in private - yes, maybe I'm proud of that too.) Or would she have stayed near or gone even closer to her small-town, preacher's daughter ___?

Over the years I have done some info-gathering with relatives and friends who I had thought were close to her, but - from my (data-hungry) perspective, none of the sources provided much. She was a private person, and sometimes after dialogues? (interviews, such as they were) I was left with the sense that I actually knew her better than a lot of others - but the problem is/was, I was a 12 year old girl. Tim, who of course? is also gone, seemed to think he was an expert on Mother. As mature a brain as he had, I didn't think his 16 year old male self was the best resource so I never really grilled him in depth. And now - again, obviously - he's gone as a resource.

My dad struggles to answer specific questions - we stopped talking about Mother soon after she died, there was such a culture? of pragmatism in the family? - she's not coming back. My dad struggles to access such old data. In his writing about his past (his childhood, his early working years) there is a gap between his few mentions of Mother in their dating years and his stories of the last few decades that start out, unquestionably referring to my stepmother, "My wife and I." As a former therapist once said (quoted?) to me, in rueful truth, women grieve, and men replace. Yes, I know this is simplistic but I believe there's truth in it. It relates to healing, survival - but in my case, it relates to loss.

(A faded image of Mother, taken in Uncle Harvey's living room, as she was starting to fade - this was a few years before she died - it's only in this year of MY life that when I regard the image, she looks to be in not-bad shape - a vibrant wife, sister, daughter and mother, maybe just prematurely gray, maybe just busy with her life.)

Birthday Series #2 - Birthday Jewelry

2011-09-19T20:39:00.013-05:00

"Free Shipping - Buy 2 Get 1 Free - FIFTY the ULTIMATE F-WORD - Handmade Recycled Glass Image Pendant Includes a Free 24 inch Ball Chain"

(A milestone birthday commercialized...)

Two years ago I ordered what I called the S bling - an oversized, heavy sterling "S" pendant on a sturdy chain. It was delayed in delivery and I had almost given up on it arriving during birthday week, but then the package came to my office right on my birthday!

That same year, a month or so before, I bought a Libra necklace - disappointingly cheaper-looking than pictured online, a thing thing with a muddy-colored "opal" birthstone and a small silver charm. But I still think of it as my October necklace and it feels good to get it out in late September and start wearing it.

This year, I started looking early for a special 50 pendant, but so many things looked kind of cheesy. One pendant, that I can no longer find online, was a mini speed limit sign, available in 30, 50, 60, etc. I wanted to like that one but somehow I didn't. (Maybe it was the association with limitations...?)

Not a huge 50th birthday selection even on Etsy, mostly things like this that looked like disposable party decorations:

I liked the title of this pendant ("Is She the Grownup Yet?"), but really, it was just another party decor item.

But, and, despite my multiple jewelry boxes of wonderful items, I was determined to buy something specially for this year.

I ended up ordering a custom-made silver item that arrived looking much skimpier? (nicer word: more delicate?) than the online illustration. It looks like a ripoff in its cotton-lined box but when I tried it on the artist was right, it is a delicate, classy necklace for someone who doesn't want to hide her age but doesn't want to squawk it out loud either.

I'll post a photo of that close to my actual birthday. If I don't buy something better before then...wink...no, really, just kidding.

Do I have to do this topic? WEIGHT ON DISPLAY

2011-09-18T16:21:00.003-05:00

3 PARAGRAPHS - MAX...

UGH! This is a hard one...

My husband's family likes surprises and he gave me a surprise party for my 40th. Thus, I need to prepare for something broadly social during the month of my 50th.

Is it important that I am now a weight I never thought I would be? (Not a terrible weight in terms of our obese-trending society, even I admit that, but a very high weight for moi...I am Texan, not French, so pardon the foreign language, but I like to think I have high aesthetic standards...) As a person of petite height and for many years, obsessive dieting to maintain weight...evolving into my almost-50 self that now ranks other aspects of life (i.e. hunger and stress-ameliorated-by-food) as more important than poundage...I find myself in an odd place. A place I never imagined I would be. Overweight and, most of the time, not despising myself. But on my birthday, there is a new equation of self assessment.

In October there will likely be a social, public, event. I will NOT likely lose 50 pounds in the next month. So - I will be overweight on this big birthday. Will a tasteful (affordable for fashion but taking money out of my art budget, damn it) new outfit from Chico's or Lane Bryant cheer me up? Can I look at whatever party photos are taken and have the perspective of, "What a great party!" and not - hahahahaha, but not really laughing - who is that fat cow with glasses.........

I saw two very wise friends this Saturday who reminded me, in a broader context, People are not looking at YOU. And I knew this was meant in the nicest way.

I hope I can follow in their vein. Not sure I can. BUT - I will show up for my birthday surprise. And I will probably eat. And at some point, I will make make peace with the photos that are taken :)

Kick Start the Blog Series

2011-09-18T16:10:00.006-05:00

RULES (from a non-rule person...)

Pick topics in advance and post them - mostly stick to them ;)

Aim for 2-3 paragraphs and probably force a stop after 3 - can split to a new topic - because otherwise my perfectionism will make things too cumbersome to do the speed and volume I want.

Difficult topics - nearing 50 - but my topics are always difficult...

1. Weight on display

2. Birthday jewelry

3. Now I really feel older than Mother and Tim

4. Do I want a dog for Christmas?

5. Do I want Craig to get a bird for Christmas?

6. When someone dies you can't take them for granted anymore.

7. Motherless birthdays

8. Continuation of 7 - birthdays with a father

9. 600+ Facebook friends (Facebook birthday)

10. October can be too warm for sweaters and too cool for tee shirts

11. No alien tattoo (I don't think...)

12. Birth date on a ring - or a tattoo or - ... (identity theft...?)

13. Three family Libras (are we?)

14. I am a presents-at-breakfast person

15. Should I - will I - work on my birthday?

Oops - surprise! January goals not on track (or are they...)

2011-07-26T19:06:00.019-05:00

I follow the blog of Laurie Justus Pace - http://lauriepace.blogspot.com/ - and around the turn of the year she talked about creating index cards for personal goals.

I am SO anti-self-help at this point in my life but I liked the index cards idea. I stole some colored ones from Craig's desk (he still believes in the power of old-fashioned office supplies) and went to work on Laurie's suggestion.

I was so proud of how my cards turned out - on the printed lines I looked and sounded mature! Centered! I discussed the goals I created with my therapist and she admired them too.

My Four Needs (in order): Food and shelter, Love and friendship, Self acceptance, To write.
My Four Wants (in order): Better job, Improved finances, To be less angry, To feel less lonely.

HMMMM...

Once again, the cards have proven their value. I admit I hadn't looked at them for months (ANOTHER SURPRISE! but not really). And I assumed I had gone way off even whatever gentle, organic path I had planned for myself in January.

But really -

Yes, really -

Upon reflection....

Anger is better, i.e. less. My job is better. Writing is almost nonexistent - that always seems to get sacrificed first in times of change (another Sarah trait).

I did NOT have the goal of buying another hundred paintings in a very short timeframe. But, having done that (an unassigned goal) - is there a way to look at it other than as complete addiction/dysfunctionality? I made new friends during my purchases, which ties into the index cards for loneliness and self acceptance.

Whoa - I don't know - am I really ready to explore these questions?

Finances - financial security - didn't I already decide, since January, on some level (secret or blocked, buried or whatever) that art was more important?

No matter how old we get, don't we keep hoping we can have it both ways? To grab new things like a child would, but feel protected like an adult would keep us. I think this have-it-all fantasy skewed my goals.

I could probably blog about this every week and feel it was new.

I'll be basking in this for a while!

2011-07-22T07:09:00.003-05:00

Artist Jessica Torrant has profiled me on her blog! Yes it shows my addiction/obsession/hobby??? to even more people but the fame makes that worth it!

http://jessicatorrant.blogspot.com/2011/07/interview-with-sarah-scholl-bowie-art_21.html

Her intent was not just to glorify me but to show fellow artists the collector's viewpoint. Well, "a" collector's viewpoint - I'm not your average collector. I don't know what an average one IS, but I doubt I am it.

Jessica added this comment on Facebook: "As an artist, I just think it is such a rare thing to get this kind of perspective from buyers. Usually a painting is shipped out, (sometimes) feedback is left or we have a brief email exchange, and that's the end of it. To see Sarah's commitment to not only supporting artists but sharing her love for art with others is a wonderful, rare thing."

Dream State During Business Hours

2011-04-05T19:23:00.019-05:00

It seemed surreal at the time and yet all too real – similar to situations of my childhood and since, where I am the odd woman/girl out at a party or feel slow and stupid when called on in class... Games being played that I didn’t understand and couldn’t focus on…feeling stupid, worrying I am being rude, thinking I am being judged for my poor social performance. OOOOPPHH! Not a nightmare but merely (haha) my corporate department open house last month. I have to live with, need to process, the knowledge that I am probably the only employee who had such a strong reaction. From reading a couple of books about introversion I have learned that the freezing when asked to answer test-type questions out loud is not so unusual – introverts take longer when verbally quizzed because we tend to access our long-term memory before responding. We also prefer real conversations to…chit-chat?...talk that doesn’t lead to knowledge sharing? Social interactions where the purpose, outcome, are not clear? Anyway, the “dream” (surreal vision) itself… I had to get directions to a cubicle aisle upstairs that I had been to before but didn’t know the name of…there I met a group of people, some of who I knew, some I didn’t…we tried to follow our printed instructions that didn’t quite make sense…made our way to where multiple choice questions were yelled at us and we were told to squirt foam darts at targets outlined on the glass walls…I didn’t understand a lot of the questions and I struggled to operate my gun properly…soon I gave up my gun to a fellow team member but had to half-hide behind a column to avoid being pushed to shoot again…our company CEO strolled by and fired off a few darts, we all applauded his talent… It took me 20 minutes to realize the VP who was reading off the questions was wearing Dr. Spock ears. At the next workstation the questions on our slips of paper seemed even more complicated than at the foam-dart range…I pretended to write on my test paper with a pen but really just dropped my blank form into the “completed” box… I picked up a free calculator on the party favor table but it was dead so I slipped it back onto the pile. We arrived at the next stop early and a tall black man dressed in a Leprechaun Pimp outfit (yes, really) made conversation with us. I struggled with the Pimp’s written test although he told me I probably knew most of the answers (a compliment which only made me more tense). He was a nice funny man but I didn’t know how much I should stare at his hat or his four-leaf clover medallion. As in a typical dream, semi-significant people kept floating through – the hiring manager who didn’t hire me in January…an employee who I recruited who never smiles, I sure hope he is happy since it took us 6 months to find him…a peer who shares my love of Chucks and to my great gratification, noticed my new ear piercings! I think the department managers had been told to stock candy but not given budgets for it, nobody had good candy (i.e. nothing chocolate) but I was glad not to deal with food temptations.

One area was wallpapered with fake federal currency – that did tempt me – it was a feel-good look I might attempt in my home. After a little more time was killed we were in my own workstation area. When my coworkers (who were more practiced at the spin than I was) took over the tour narration I went to my desk and started working online. Too soon somebody noticed that and pointed me out like a fish in a tank, “Why is she working?” – so I had to rejoin the tour, at least temporarily (till that group went around the corner). My manager had designed a questionnaire whose questions encompassed sister departments – another test I knew I would fail, even though at least one question had to do with me. (“Hint: She is an art collector!”) Of the few of us in my department (two were out with new babies, one was out sick-yes really), I had been one of two assigned to split off early for a tour – the others had intensive guide duty for more than an hour and only now did they have their chance to be tourists – meaning that I and one other coworker now had to be the people explaining what the heck our gang did every day, all year. Uh… Sometimes when a new tour group came in my teammate was trapped on a phone call and I had to go solo (OMG!, nightmare stuff), other times I didn’t see the new arrivals, sometimes they came from a different direction and I couldn’t tell if they were starting or ending (I wanted to pretend they were ending, but if they stood still and stared at me I had to admit they were starting). Two departments down from my coworkers but still part of our group was the mailroom, a vast open space usually off-limits to all but mailroom people. Today it was a sea of flower-pattern cups containing cheese popcorn and other snacks. I went there twice, only once as part of a tour tidal wave – learned some things about the mailroom and put popcorn kernels in my colon. We were supposed to start our department presentation by talking about 6 photos on a poster board and I couldn’t remember what half those photos were…at one point the Spock-eared VP came by and I had to ask him who was which executive and what was which hospital – I thought he might be smirking at me but I might have overreacted to the pointed ears. But before that drama I had to go upstairs and find my group to finish my tourist circuit…we found our group way to an unnamed, unnumbered conference room that one of us (not me) somehow deduced was our destination. Inside were several tables’ worth of employees explaining special initiatives I barely understood. At one station I was given a plastic lei (what was that theme?) that scratched my skin – I took it off my neck and put it around my wrist, couldn’t tolerate it there either. Everyone in that room, some of whom I had earlier seen in other workstations (their energy was impressive but their continuous movement was creepily surreal) seemed to be doing a great job at whatever they were saying/doing – another insecurity attack for me… (This event did not play to my strengths.) On to a high-energy department decorated with cartoon photos (real faces on cartoon bodies, usually embarrassing for both the subject and the viewer) where the employees were wearing yellow tee shirts and red capes. More questions on a verbal quiz…I stood back as far as I dared. The prize was having your photo taken with a color scanner, printed out and taped to workstation walls… Uh, no…I backed up until I was near the stairwell and then crept down to my floor. If someone had asked me I would have said I had a deadline…

I felt like a rodent in more ways than one. Nope, the afternoon did not play to my strengths. It did trigger my instinct to burrow into or under something… I’m not sure if it was introvert overload or employee guilt, but the afternoon left me with a sense of unease. Friday afternoon…by the time I got home I was ready to cross the Chardonnay sea on a cork boat.

Control the Putting Down

2011-02-24T20:09:00.012-06:00

If you're in therapy enough years you will occasionally have some insights, and if your therapist's office has a window you may even occasionally see the sun break through clouds within the same half hour as your mental breakthrough – pretty darn cool.

In my session today we endeavored to find some new approaches to my spending, my compulsive behaviors…if not stopping, at least trying to get inside my compulsion to buy so much art so fast. We made some real progress in exploring how negative self-talk, anti-Sarah thought patterns, contribute to the urges to have something external that I consider beautiful, or at least more valuable and attractive than myself.

My behaviors are strong and my motivations are complex. One of my favorite things about Dr. Sally is that she does not try to simplify me. I have always hated that – in all people, and certainly in a therapist. I am complicated, damn it! Dr. Sally can even outthink, out-insight me, and that's why I pay her and why I go to see her.

Last night I was thinking (kind of a night-before-therapy thought), when you stop compulsive or addictive behavior the key is to get at the pre-thought thought. It's not just willpower to stop the finger from pushing Purchase (I had to laugh when Dr. Sally imitated me doing the finger click, which was almost as funny as my friend Henry commenting on Facebook, “Sarah will stop buying when they pry her cold dead finger off the Pay Pal button”)...beyond willpower, it's how to stop the negative pressures from building up and the thoughts and urges escalating and taking me to a place where I create more negativity for myself by buying.

Yep, it’s so easy to ignore those yellow-triangle warning signs saying HALT (a mainstay of 12-step and self-help programs): Don’t let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. If I made a bar graph of those 4 bad things, mine would be maxed out a lot of the day, every day.

There are many stages where I could fight the buying – and they are all resistant to lasting change. The "just one more" seems like an obvious danger point – you should stop before the last purchase, the last glass of wine that makes too much. But really you should, could, try not to open the bottle of wine or get on the art website...and really you could go back and get at the earlier thinking and living that made you crave satisfaction, attention, ____? in the first place.

(Notice how I changed from the me to you pronoun? That makes this only slightly less embarrassing to write about.)

Behavior changes – so difficult. Not easy.

No magic pill for it. In fact my anxiety pills may contribute to all the purchases – I have a little less guilt and anxiety than I would have had pre-pill. Back then I bought too much stuff but I felt almost constantly horrid about it. Now, chemically enhanced, I buy even more/much stuff but it is easier to let go of the anxiety for chunks of time (during which I buy more).

Many years ago I bought a diet book in the grocery store checkout line, a 1980s version of self-published, displayed next to the pamphlets of vitamin cures and baby names. The author was not a nutritionist or personal trainer but simply someone who had figured out and stuck to behavior adaptations that helped her lose weight and keep it off. Portion control was key – control in general.

She talked about how during traumatic times like having a family member in the hospital she had figured out that by sticking to her diet, she felt more in control of the situation, and therefore better. She was able to reprogram her brain from, Daddy is having surgery and a cheeseburger would make me feel better to, I can't control what the doctors are doing to Daddy in the OR suite but I can control whether I eat healthy meals today. The feel-good feeling of staying on her diet kept her at a better place than a cheeseburger would have gotten her to.

Well…let me state for the record that I have never managed to not eat during stressful times with this kind of rationale. During my semi-anorexic phases I did control (many uses, some different meanings, of that same word in this post) the food I put into my mouth, but anorexia is in a bigger way about a loss of control. Sometimes I wish I could transition myself back to those anorexic days (last such phase was in my 30s) but it seems that in one's 40s the mental and physical mechanics that trigger that kind of eating are almost impossible to summon. (Which is a good thing, riiiiight?)

When I started reading that diet book I was eating something like a Sonic steak sandwich – I came home loaded up/down with the book, whatever trashy groceries accompanied it (probably Pop Tarts and Coke), and a Sonic lunch. I remember so clearly reading, "Don't start your diet this weekend, or after you finish the next big meal – start it now." Literally the words in the book said to me, "Put the sandwich down." And I did.

I thought that was brilliant advice and I believed I could intervene my cravings for deep-fried breaded stuff, I would throw away the 2nd half of that lunch and move forward to skinny glory.

But that was not an anorexic phase, just a plain old diet attempt, and I only lost a few pounds before I binged on a streusel poundcake. How do I remember this 1982 stuff so vividly...a new type of streusel cake mix had just come on the market, very moist, evil science at its best. After eating half a cake my diet seemed irrelevant somehow.

Of course that was many years and many weight changes ago.

It’s amazing what our brains and bodies store.

Shaken, Not Steered?

2011-02-16T06:12:00.009-06:00

I’ve owned my car since 2004 and never realized it has an adjustable steering wheel – yes, that’s how car-oblivious I am – until I started driving to work yesterday and realized the steering column was wobbly. It took several miles before I had a long enough red light to find the page in my owner’s manual (those are not the easiest texts to navigate, even sitting still) that told me where the lever was. Whew, easily fixed. It must have been altered ("altered" - good word that takes the blame off me) when Firestone inspected my car on Saturday.

I was on a completely straight stretch of my commute on a road with a 40 mph speed limit so the car wasn’t hard to navigate, but it’s impossible not to feel uneasy when a steering wheel is wobbling in your hands. It’s also impossible to avoid the metaphor…barely in control while moving forward. I’ve been told that in a car dream, usually the car is you (the dreamer) – thus I’m piloting myself through…something.

To somewhere. (Should I be all dramatic here – use italics, put a question mark after somewhere, etc.?)

Uneasy times at my company, frustrations in my job…evolving roles within my family and my marriage. Nothing bad, just sometimes…uneasy. Not completely in control under my hands.

And/or I focus so much on what’s under my hands that I’m not properly looking ahead. (See what I mean? So metaphor rich I feel uncomfortable typing it – sounds corny.)

(As corny as this Fotosearch photo...)

I hate the car dreams where I’m forced to drive up an extremely steep road or down one, with terror that my car will slide, fall… Those dreams are rarely about the actual drive, more about contemplating the steep stretch ahead. Even in the dream I have a dim idea that physics of car weight could keep that from happening but I’m convinced of disaster anyway.

There’s another horrible one where I have gone on a hometown visit and can’t get back to Dallas without merging onto two highways that terrify me. I try to remember the back way that takes calmer roads, but I never manage that and instead end up doing death-defying traffic merges (almost a close-my-eyes-and-hope-for-the-best) or missing my exit and carried in the wrong direction, with traffic I can’t keep up with.

Just writing about those last dreams is giving me tendrils of night terror.

The wobbly wheel thing is so small in comparison.

Maybe that’s good perspective for today, as I head in to work. Maintain an appropriate speed and move forward. My wobbliness to date has not taken me off course.

Fears and Dreams Time Capsule

2011-02-14T19:37:00.009-06:00

(Funny what turns up on Fotosearch when you enter “time capsule” – this image is called "Pills and Time")

Just because I'm blogging on Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean I have a Valentine’s Theme – in fact, I’ll state starting out that I may not even mention Craig much in this post. Considering how important he is in my life, it’s interesting what a relatively small presence he has in my night dreams, my writing and even my psychotherapy. I think this is because he has always been one of the least complicated parts of my life – there is less to work through, resolve, hand-wring about. It’s not perfect but it’s been consistently good. (This statement from a glass-half-empty person means a lot.) Well (here comes the Sarah disclaimer), not every day is great but overall it is…good. OK – this is sort of a Valentine’s post, LOL.

The other day I was thinking about life milestones, ways to find perspective… A silly memory that always pops up is my friend Joe saying when he got fuzzy on the timeline of his life, he wrote down all the cars he had and the years he had them. What’s funny about that to me is that I have so little interest in cars, in driving…at first thought it's a ridiculous memory tool but actually I have had few cars and the acquisition and divestiture of each was so painful (I hate car dealerships!) that I actually could track a good bit of life and memories that way. Except that would force me to think about bad car experiences - uh no, I'll try a different approach.

I have already done some timelining on the Formative Experiences list on the lower-right of my blog, but this exercise is different. I am going to force myself to go with the first memory, initial impression, my gut-generated words. No belaboring, no wordsmithing – cough it out!

Okay, counting from 1961 in 5-year intervals, which seems reasonable…(at least in car purchase terms, LOL).

(Fotosearch titled this image "A woman sitting in front of a calendar, clock and pills.")

1966: FEAR: I must not be smart because some kids know how to read before they start school, and I don’t. DREAM: Someday I will be a real princess, not just a play one - I already have a white bed headboard with a crest on it (yes, the paint is flaking off a bit – in the 1930s it was my grandparents’ jade green bed, as I learned later).

1971: FEAR: I am stupid because I am not a good knitter, the scarf I’m making has constantly widening edges (my 3rd grade homeroom teacher taught us all to knit, for some reason). DREAM: Someday I might be a teacher, I like it when my teacher has me help other kids with reading.

1976: FEAR: Nobody who is not my teacher will ever talk to me in high school. DREAM: Maybe I will mature into somebody who has an easier life than mine.

1981: FEAR: I will never get promoted out of this file clerk job because one of the senior people noticed I have jagged nails. (He thought I bit them – not true!, I only eat food, I ripped nail-to-nail, that was my tic.) DREAM: Maybe I will be a secretary someday.

1986: DREAM: Maybe my boss means it when he says he might move back to California and take me as his secretary. FEAR: I will not have the courage to move…I will not have the patience to put up with this boring job.

1991: FEAR: I will lose the patience to put up with this incredibly demanding job. DREAM: I will win the lottery and tell my boss to Shove It.

1996: DREAM: Craig and I will live in a bigger, nicer house and have more money than we do now. FEAR: If he proposes (his proposal being a combination dream/fear), he will soon get tired of my weirdnesses and break up with me OR he will insist on having a bunch of kids immediately OR he will insist on moving to Seattle right away.

2001: DREAM: Now that I have volunteered to be downsized with a severance package based on 14 years with the company, I will write the great American novel. FEAR: I have no talent OR I have no discipline AND I will have to go back to the office one day (and I don’t miss the office and I love being out of the office).

2006: DREAM: When I graduate this November I will tell my boss to shove it, and move on to a job better than anything I have had before. FEAR: I will hate whatever job I get, I don’t know what I really want to do and I am still not qualified for an alternate career.

2011: FEAR: I am heading toward unemployment, bankruptcy and divorce, along with the rest of this declining country. DREAM: I will finish the Great American Novel, make money from it and be able to keep buying art, and if I have enough money Craig will stop grumping about the art.

And to end this post, on Valentine’s Day 2011, here is a final image from Fotosearch: "What looks like an old space capsule has crash landed in the desert."

Yep - that sums me up! LOL

Empty Purple Tool Box

2011-02-08T20:18:00.009-06:00

A couple of HR heads ago we had one who used to give out tool boxes – Joe’s Tool Box – at HR department meetings. Each little wooden container held a Home Depot gift certificate. Kind of cute until you realized (it took most of us about 1.5 meetings to realize) that Joe did not necessarily give these boxes to employees the rest of us would consider deserving. For example if Joe’s admin left early one day and someone else had to help him do something he should have known how to do or at least tried to do himself, that would be rewarded by a tool box. They went to those who went “above and beyond” to help Joe – but it had to happen seemingly accidentally, he seemed to want to believe people helped him because they were just that engaged and empowered, not because he was Big Boss Man.

At home, I don’t like Craig’s tool box because it has a weird plastic or rubber smell from some of the older tool handles, when I open the top I get a waft of something bad like 1950s toys stored too long in a hot Texas attic. (This association is based on some degree of person experience.) I finally started keeping my picture-hanging hammer in a kitchen drawer so I can avoid Craig’s tool box altogether. Yes, that drives him crazy – as does almost everything about my picture hanging.

Third tool box example and the real motivation for this blog… Dr. Feelgood, my silly name for the educated and respectable professional who does my quarterly Medication Management (I love that term!, sometimes it makes me think of throwing a drugged steak into a tiger cage) and I were talking about tool boxes at my last appointment. She is not my regular therapist, she does med management only, which puts her in what seems to me the odd position of evaluating my mental health in a 25 minute discussion held every few months. She tends to seize on one thing I say and run with that – a memorable early session was spent discussing Wal-Mart’s corporate headquarters in Arkansas. I could tell you the dialogue that led to that topic, but it’s still weird.

While we talk she makes notes with a timing that I can’t connect to my comments or my laughter – is she noting that I’m depressed? manic? Maybe she’s just making notes to remind her of who I am for future. Sometimes between appointments I decide I will ask her next time, “What do you look for exactly in our sessions?” but I never do. Anyway – it’s her renewing the Happy Pill Prescription that really matters.

Well, last time Dr. Feelgood and I met I was venting a bit about work, and she gave me advice on coping with my frustration and angry feelings – not bad advice, it was well-meaning, clinical yet sympathetic, but since she has, frankly, only scratched the surface of knowing Sarah, I had trouble taking it to heart. And you know when you are complaining and someone gives advice and you don’t take it to heart, you tend to feel annoyed by it.

She said, “Why don’t you empty out your tool box when you drive to work tomorrow…” (She meant why don’t I stop doing the obsessive mental lists and rants that have gotten me nowhere) “…and put all new tools in the box.”

Then she asked, “What’s your favorite color?” I said, I like many colors…how about purple... “Well, a purple tool box then.”

Leaving her office and driving back to work, I felt the frustration stuff churning up again but when I flashed an image of an empty tool box – even, or especially, a purple one – it just annoyed me. Maybe that was partly because of the association I make between tool boxes and former SVP Joe. (25 minutes didn’t give me time to delve deeply into the tool box thing with Dr. F., so she couldn’t have known that word alone would remind me of feeling unappreciated as an employee.)

I know there is merit in the idea and I wish I could bring fresher thoughts to it. I want to act calm and positive and mature in the workplace. And really I want to be those things!, not just act them.

However the only activity I have managed with the concept to date is making fun of it. For example, when bouncing ideas off my cousin I joked that I could put a loaded firearm in my tool box, but of course I would never do such a thing and I’m not even comfortable typing that in my blog. (REALLY.)

My cousin and I talk about dogs a lot (our dogs, TV dogs, dogs who have died, dogs we saw while driving somewhere, do dogs go to heaven?, etc., etc.) so I suggested I could put a puppy in my tool box.

My cousin has a puppy who possesses the power to stretch and relax In The Moment, to an incredible degree. In fact before I get my blood pressure checked these days I spend a few minutes looking at cell phone photos of that puppy stretched out and snoozin’. Even a tiny cell phone photo lowers my systolic and diastolic numbers, I swear.

Similarly…I could put a blanket in my tool box. Aaaah – another great nap idea. Think relaxation…

Jack Daniels? Yes, I really suggested that to Cousin but I wouldn’t really do it. Alcohol is not for during work – after work is soon enough, and enough in general.

I didn’t get much farther than these ideas but there is surely more to be thought and said about the empty tool box - no, not empty, ready to be filled with better stuff.

Seeing it as purple seems silly – but it’s silly anyway, so purple might be right.

Do I have a bad attitude? Quite possibly.

Do I need more medication? Maybe...

The Red Planet Sends Me A Sign

2011-02-06T17:56:00.013-06:00

Original painting by Rivkah Singh, see http://rivkahsart.blogspot.com/

Sometimes it takes some clicking to find the correct title of online art, especially pieces sold on eBay – there may be a listing title as well as a real title that you see from scrolling down or going to the artist’s blog. One or both of these titles may have extra words, like Orange or Landscape or Alien, to help with selling. I thought "Alien Family Portrait" was a very satisfactory title for this recent painting by Rivkah Singh, until I saw the same image on FineArtAmerica, where it’s called Greetings from Gliese.

Hmm…what or where is Gliese…I knew I would like the answer because when I first Facebook-friended Rivkah last year, I saw she was a fan of the movie "Contact," based on a novel by Carl Sagan. She knows there are many things outside our tiny seen universe.

First click of Google, this awesomeness came up:
From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gliese_581
Gliese 581 (pronounced /ˈɡliːzə/) is a red dwarf star with spectral type M3V, located 20.3 light years away from Earth in the constellation Libra.

Libra is my zodiac sign! OMG!

Looking for more online references of the fun and easy type, I found a cool image (fictional?!) at http://www.solstation.com/stars/gl876.htm - this link taught me that Gliese 581 was previously known as Ross 780 (named after the astronomer who may have reported it first…yawn, boring). I also really like this sentence about Gliese: “Like other red dwarf stars, however, it is not visible to the naked eye.”

Yeah well, many things about Sarah are not visible to the naked eye either. YEAH!

So OK, the painting is a greeting from a red star…that’s why the view from the family’s window, and the landscape/skyscape framed above the mantel, are of red vistas. Rivkah brings so much of her rich brain life into her art – connections, evocations, metaphors. But Rivkah admits she was originally hesitant to post the painting online, wasn't sure people would know how to take it.

Maybe at first glance there is a certain Halloween element to it all – Addams family, face masks…but I took a closer look since it was Rivkah’s art, and then was hooked.

I could maybe do an entire blog (not just a blog post, a whole new blog) of alien metaphors. I know I’m not the only person, certainly not the only person I know, to sometimes feel like an Other Being in my family, at my job, in my society.

I joked yesterday that in a real Sarah family portrait, only Sarah would have an alien head. But not really – one of the ideas behind the memoir-type book I’m hoping to finish this year is how much I am like my birth family, even though that took years to see and some more years to accept (if yet…).

In some ways, my entire family, at least before the stepfamily diluted us a bit, was an alien presence in our small town. Not in a bad way, we were mostly embraced, seldom harassed, but still… I’m not the best one to state how we were different since it’s hard to have that perspective, but… My mother could probably correct the grammar, baking and organ playing of anyone else in town, my father would shower after a day of rebuilding appliances to read Greek philosophy (well at least one summer when he was in a book club), and TV was forbidden in our house for years, not for religious reasons but for mental development. (Sorry Mom, but lacking the shared cultural references of TV was for years like me wearing an alien mask to school.)

So I guess if you added a couple more kids to this portrait, it could be the original 6 Scholls.

But when I think about the painting being of us Scholls, something else comes to mind…a home visit from the family therapist I saw the summer after Mother died. We served him and his counseling assistant Sharon homemade pie with burned edges (that was before I picked up the anal trick of putting foil strips on the pie dough edges) – I think it was a choice of buttermilk or pecan – in our formal living room, which my dad had finished only the year before, with completely hand-done hardwoods, his wallpapering and a new nubby-orange sofa (it was the 70s, yes).

ANYWAY…I don’t think we were necessarily nervous since we had had a couple of family-group sessions with this therapist already, but we were on formal behavior on a Saturday afternoon, serving pie to our Dr. Whatsit and Sharon, and that made it somewhat surreal. In a new room, in an un-new house where the mother had died less than a year before, and where everyone was behaving (acting?) as if they were AOK – from newly-dating widowed dad through a teenage boy in denial and one in withdrawal, through Sarah who was the primary recipient of therapy, to a little sister, friendly and cute but bouncing off the walls, possibly with unlabeled ADD.

I remember feeling a bit alien-ish during that visit and I’m still not sure if I was glad or sad when Dr. Whatsit said at our next private session some form of (I wish I could remember his exact wording, his meaning came through so clearly but I hate not having an exact quote): You are the only person in that household who is in touch with what’s going on. Having a professional validate my feelings and thoughts was a good thing, but knowing I was facing more years living at home with people who were in a different place, different plane, didn't feel so good.

I think he meant that I was the only person acting out to some degree – well, experiencing – and articulating, at least in therapy…loss, anger, guilt, messy emotions.

Actually, guilt we were all more comfortable with, it didn’t take as much therapy to dig down to the guilt rock-bed. My family could usually turn anger into guilt, which we thought was the mature way.

Wonder if that’s what they do on Gliese – gosh, I hope not.

Well…anyway…it’s my love of the red planet thing that contributed to my buying Toni Grote’s Red Surreal Skies last year. I love the mood of it. Skies are not exactly clear here – not in my life either. http://artisttonigrote.blogspot.com/

Merging to WHAT?

2011-01-31T21:48:00.004-06:00

Some of you know that January has been a challenging month for me at work, and in life – not terrible, no major life or work changes actually resulted (a supportive or annoying friend would say, not yet), but there were lots of emotional/mental challenges and thoughts and feelings. And what’s maybe worse – the net result seems to be, no change in direction.

Funny metaphor on my drive home tonight (working late again, not that that gets me any more money or anything else professionally…who's bitter, right?, LOL). Funny place for a traffic jam, not far from my house in Garland, a few blocks from Garland Road (used car lots, generic-brand car repair shops and gas stations, a thrift store…).

An arrow was telling the left lane to merge into the right, but the people in the right lane had their blinkers on to go left, because the Garland Road light was taking so long and we were on an (on a short strip, not the most vibrant section of Garland) industrial strip with no cross streets that went through to anywhere.

The merge arrow light (yellow, not orange, made of obvious dots, like a fresh Vegas sign) was so bright on the suburban four-lane road at 7 pm – kind of perky and fresh, working hard but doing nothing much. Meaningless-looking road repairs causing the lane closure…but that’s typical, right? I saw one guy in reflective road gear poking a stick into a pile of road dust – not sure if there was a hole under the dust, it really didn’t matter.

I have had just enough wine that I know I don’t need to speculate on metaphors to do with sticks and holes, and dust.

My lane was closing, and it was taking me 15 more minutes to get home. That was my experienced reality – that was what made a difference in my life expectancy, from whatever little difference it made in my daily stress load.

My lane feels constricted (my work/life lane is not really closed, it’s more of a feeling, an interpretation, a new awareness) and I feel (there’s that word again) forced to merge into what’s next to me. A lane I haven’t evaluated, which is probably temporary anyway.

See how stressful this sounds? That’s why even those of us not 100% thrilled with our jobs every day stay in them.

It’s so hard to evaluate potential changes. And impossible to see the future. (We never get used to that.)

Corner Seating

2011-01-31T21:33:00.012-06:00

I wrote the beginning of this one last Thursday at Trinity Hall, a Dallas Irish pub (I guess in Dallas, we should say "Irish-STYLE pub") where a friend was having a surprise birthday party.

I had 10 minutes to kill and made myself write without knowing where I was going with the writing. (How could anyone do that without a drink in hand…)

A corner’s not a bad place if you yourself choose to sit in it. Not put there. Not herded, trapped, shunted, not having lost out on a better seat through an office – life – game of musical chairs.

Even though I can’t see out very well I like how the high back supports me. I can see in front of me.

Not like the caves, tunnels where I get stuck in my nightmares.

I don’t remember a dream where I get out – I’m in the dark place, then I wake up or the dream shifts. Sometimes walls shrinking toward me, never much room, air... Also tipped or lying horizontally in the narrow space – disorientation added to the claustrophobia.

***

I am an observer type person, I hate to be invisible but sometimes I want to be watching what’s going on, hear what’s going on, before I got involved. Even after years of therapy and 4 years of medication, I sometimes get self-conscious in public. Who might be watching me, what are they thinking about me? I don’t necessarily care, but I wonder anyway.

A high bench seat is nice because my back is not a blind side, instead it is bulwarked! I am supported there, no one is staring.

The corner seat does block some visibility to one or more sides, but the blocking feels optional – you could scoot sideways, you could stand up. Again, OPTIONS. And there’s my issue with a blind side – my right eye has less vision, and if someone was going to stare at me, they would probably stare at my discolored right side.

I may need more medication.

Or I may need to sit in corners of bar benches more often.

Might need to get a bar bench for my home – it felt pretty good last Thursday.

MUSE PROTECT ME

2011-01-26T21:41:00.004-06:00

Who could look at this print title and not want it – "Muse, Protect Me." Anyone who has any interest or makes any effort, even accidental, at creating anything (words, pictures, other dimension) should receive this print FOR FREE!

Yes, I know she looks unfriendly. Isn’t that how we regard our personal muses? Critical, judgmental, only intermittently available like our parent of origin…blah blah blah, years of therapy, we know.

But, MUSE. That word alone should inspire, excite, INCITE, make us want to do fun stuff with crayons, paints, pens, a keyboard…whatever tool we grab to express ourselves.

DEAR MUSE:

(I’m concentrating hard on this message…)
Please help me stay focused this year to complete a book. I think it will be one I started a couple of years ago, you know the yin & yang on that (topic and motivation), which doesn’t matter, what matters is FINISHING. Maybe a Muse doesn’t help with selling, publishing, marketing, but I am hoping you can – counting on you to – help me finish the damn thing. With reduced anxiety and perfectionism. THINK YOU CAN DO THAT?!

I know how to write, I know how to work, how to create, get up and apply myself, but MUSE…I might need your help with the magic dust. THINK YOU CAN DELIVER?!

Can you be like a pharmaceutical product that makes me forget my day job and focus on the evening’s creative writing? Can you be a forgiving deity that helps me start every day, maybe even hour, as a new creative person – not hung up on past nowhere-going thoughts, authorship mistakes, but moving forward?

How much money (or other stuff???) would I need to sacrifice at your electronic/virtual altar for me to feel appreciated, loved, read, understood, all the things a writer wants…?

OK, let’s get real – would I need to cut my finger and bleed onto a cotton ball for you to help me write THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL in 2011? Or at least the Great American Autobiography? In my mind they are the same thing – I don’t care if they are in yours, Muse.
I know the book I want to write. But so many things – people, alarm clocks, weather changes, elevator stops, crop yields, seemingly ridiculous things derail me.

CAN YOU HELP ME WRITE A BOOK IN 2011?
FINISH A BOOK?

I’m not asking you to help me sell it – I think that requires a different god (OOPS, I first typed “dog,” LOL) from the galaxy.

You are not a god of selling, but of creating. We have to look elsewhere in the pantheon for help with selling.

Please help me finish a book and not beat myself down near-death in the process.

That is my request for you, dear Muse.

To recalibrate – this post was inspired by an Etsy print by an Italian artist (Vincenzo Rizzo), I clicked Purchase on Monday but none of it is really real yet. He has not shipped, and I have not paid.

IT’S VIRTUAL. Like the Roman and Greek gods and goddesses we studied in pre-junior high grades in the 1970s. Theoretical, words on paper.

Really…are our daily lives more solid than that? Let’s discuss…HMM…

Crazy Socks

2011-01-24T19:42:00.006-06:00

(Images from LittleMissMatched.com – really, I don't make this stuff up.)

My cousin is a part-time nanny, which obviously exposes her to a different reality than mine, and she recently told me about something that blew, no kind of cracked open, my brain – MISMATCHED SOCKS.

The girl she takes care of got a new dresser set and of course Nanny (slash cook, housekeeper, sometimes maid – well, light dusting and some procastinatory silver polishing) was told to move over the princess’ clothes to the new furniture. (I’m the only real princess on the planet, but I acknowledge that some other people pretend to the title, for themselves or their kids.)

She was temporarily confused when she did the sock drawer – even after dumping out the old drawer and storage bin on the bed, she couldn’t get everything matched up. Then she realized that was the point!

Little Princess had Crazy Socks – they were made that way – they came that way. Cousin said, “They are so cute – she has different colored stripes, leopard socks, some with monkeys…”

I could hardly concentrate on what she was saying because my brain train derailed when she told me the socks don’t match.

Looking for patterns has always been my brain thing. Sometimes I exhaust myself looking for patterns that don’t work out – or I think I see patterns that are really just paranoia, through misperception – but I always have the pattern orientation. Which contributes to my craving for collecting numerous colors and varieties of things (shoes, jewelry, recently PAINTINGS) and maybe also for whatever insight I possess into human behavior – everybody is like some piece of somebody else, even if in another place and time, in my view, and I find that view interesting. In my 20s a nice psychologist (not all psychologists are nice but I have typically fired the ones who weren’t) told me it was a good thing, the ability to see patterns. After 20-plus more years of corporate America, seeing and trying to alert coworkers to patterns that nobody else acknowledges (really – sometimes the Emperor IS naked), I’m not sure I would choose the Matching trait at a swap meet.

So, but, thinking of Crazy Socks is my new mental ___...well, something shocking…not shock treatment…maybe colonoscopy? (LOL) It kind of pulls me apart a little bit and makes me refocus.

Who said that needed to feel good.

Sunday night journaling before a work Monday

2011-01-24T19:12:00.008-06:00

(I was too tired to post this last night - thought of doing it this morning but first wanted to make sure I survived the work day, so as not to negate what I had written.)

What will be required of me this week? Or really, the concern is, can I deliver what will be required… But what if I’m not optimum? Already some healing sighs just from writing these first sentences Even the worst week – with me dropping some balls--

Pause here to comment that I had started this new purse journal on the first blank page – always a little scary, but I remembered to warm up my pen on a different piece of paper. I hate a dry pen start to a writing page…

Anyway, when I got to page 2 I realized it is a lined journal and I had started my stream of consciousness on the blank header page. Which is kind of like my concern for the work week – I am so close? quick? to launching into fear and venting (articulation of concerns), but sometimes there is more structure ahead than I expect, something I should check out (explore) or try to remember.

On page 3, I am not loving the printed lines – they don’t fit my handwritten line spacing. Double is too much, single not enough. It’s been a long time since I used a lined journal and I don’t like it. Me not fitting…like at work? But really, don’t I fit well enough?

(Interlude over, for now)
Back to what I was saying, if I drop balls… Or to address what is probably my biggest fear, if I don’t act perfectly calm (with no personal agenda – haha) every work day, won’t I still be providing very acceptable service? Even if I took a sick day, feeling headachy or sinus-dragged or too tired after Tuesday’s OB/Gyn appointment (the thought of which is a significant undertow) – there would be no repercussions.

Sunday night before a work Monday – Claim that! Feel comfort in it.

The job that has not rewarded me as I believe, consider, appropriate is still a relatively safe place. Takeover attempt postponed (“they” say, till later in the year) financial performance OK this quarter…big sigh of feeling calmer.

Keep up the calm, Sarah self!

Put down the pen and watch the movie that’s about to start. Take a Xanax later at home if you even think you need it.

Just get yourself to work in whatever degree of mental, emotional readiness tomorrow morning. (8 am meeting – yuck – possibly Xanax-assisted early sleep is needed.)

Even if tomorrow (can I dare to think?) the work is not OK (correction – not Sarah ideal) it will be OK.

(Ball, balls and all.)

Purple Chucks Photo and Purple Boots Painting

2011-01-19T20:58:00.011-06:00

I saw a painting called "Purple Boots" on Daily Painters, during a recent bad weekend…and I tried to talk myself out of it – and I did! For at least a day.

It’s not like I even own a pair of boots right now, any kind of boots. (I am too short-legged, too short, too dumpy, too much of a Chuck-lover, whatever.)

I searched for purple boots on Zappos.com, just to try to get a better synchronicity with the painting I had been staring at, and nothing there even tempted me – too mud-puddle in style, too high-heeled...otherwise annoying.

I even printed out an image of the painting (with my home color cartridge, which skewed all the colors) and convinced myself it would NOT work in the Sarah room. But that same night I had an insomnia epiphany (I have a LOT of those) that the painting would work great in the guest room, never mind the Sarah Room.

I had posted a link to the painting on Facebook, saying I decided not to purchase it, but it would be a find for somebody. Quite a few people said how much they liked it, even people who don’t typically comment on my art postings. Which reinforced that it was special. (I don’t know how that last sentence helps to justify my purchase…but I hope it does.)

Did I mention it was on sale? Whatever that means – I don’t know when it was originally posted or what the original price was, but the phrase “January Sale” did catch my eye. My January is not so bueno, and I am El Broke-O, and this painting is cute… I LIKE SALES!

The artist, Vicki Shuck (http://vickishuckartwork.blogspot.com/), wrote this on her blog about the painting: “I love the swinging of her skirt and her purple boots in the middle of the summer.”

OK, that sounds like a Sarah mission statement.

In my case it would be CHUCKS.

But they would be purple, and I would wear them regardless of season – regardless of what other people were wearing in that particular weather – and I would be SWINGING.

This has been a rough week at work already (it’s only Wednesday night, and Monday was supposed to be a holiday, which it wasn't for Sarah), and I knew I wouldn’t have the energy to write a lot on this topic, but I thought, I could start the post with a photo of my purple Chucks. Lord knows I have some purple Chucks!

Maybe it would have made more sense to not buy the Purple Boots painting and to have asked the artist to do a painting of somebody in purple Chucks. Maybe.

But this painting is so cute. And I think it’s true to the Converse-Chucks mood. SO I BOUGHT IT. Yes.

Come on, guilt storm. (Or don't.)

Here is it: "Purple Boots" by Vicki Shuck (see blog link above).

Sequin mask dream and red tattoo idea

2011-01-16T15:19:00.017-06:00

Several nights ago I had a rare good dream (non nightmare), or fragment of a dream. I don’t remember a whole story line but the dream was like mini scenes of an entertainer who wore a very interesting mask in public (out to dinner, meeting with the public and the press), a Mardi Gras type thing that had one side decorated with sequins and the other bare. (Yes, there was a definite Mardi Gras element, I think he was wearing a yellow silk suit in one scene.)

As a spectator in the dream I realized that the man had a facial birthmark like mine, on one side of his face, and rather than cover it with makeup as you would expect for someone in show business, he either showed his bare face, with the birthmark, or he wore a mask that had a birthmark shape made with pink sequins. Whether or not he wore the mask didn't have to do with how many people were around him, it seemed to correlate only with his mood.

I remember experiencing happy feelings in the dream – not only was the man not hiding how he looked (how we look) but he was actually emphasizing it. I had never had the idea of doing that, but wow, how empowering it was to see someone else do it.

I have a draft version of a blog post about living with my birthmark that I can’t seem to work on when I’m not drinking (drinking a lot) and so have put on the back burner. It was a nice nudge to have the mask dream, which prompted me to do at least a baby steps version of blogging about my birthmark today.

Think of living with a facial birthmark as being between two extremes. One extreme would be the Houston cosmetics sales lady who told me in 1977 (the year after my mother died, real nice timing), “Oh honey, you should always wear this makeup.” It was nasty thick odd-colored makeup and I felt she was condemning me to a life of nastiness - nastiness if I wore it, shame if I didn't. The other extreme would be friends telling me that they never notice my birthmark anymore. I live between these two extremes, and it’s not the easiest country of residence.

Another subject – tattoos… I toyed with getting a tattoo for my 40th birthday but couldn’t mute the in-my-head voice of my former gastroenterologist, who had a big sign in his office saying that tattoos give you hepatitis. (He warned against pedicures too.) The most memorable article I found through Googling said that researchers saw a link between drinking, tattoos and hepatitis, which they theorized might indicate that it is unsafe for people who drink a lot to get a tattoo. Or, the article was fair enough to say, the only connection might be that people who drink a lot get tattoos at parlors that might not use clean needles. I took from the article the idea that drinking and getting a tattoo would be like taking birth control pills and smoking, a heavy combo of risk factors. I didn’t want a tattoo enough to push through my fears.

But…maybe I do want a tattoo for 50. My 3 sets of ear piercings have not quieted my rebel urge. I would go to a clean and well recommended place – I already have several referrals.

Craig never believes that I could handle the pain. Yes, I have a low threshold of pain, but I can manage through it when the result is very important to me. Best example – the two arduous rounds of laser treatments I had for my birthmark, one in the 1980s and one in the 1990s. (The 1990s doctor corrected what the 1980s doctor had done - typical modern medicine.) Pre-laser anesthesia shots in your eyebrow hurt. Laser beams on your cheek and nose hurt. HURT.

Both laser doctors praised my endurance. I guess to me it was a form of how women routinely withstand discomfort for something like a bikini wax. Now, this sentence will sound extreme, but here goes (I don’t feel this way every minute of my life, but the thought/feeling has crossed my mind): If you think you are physically repulsive, you will withstand a lot of pain and hassle to change your looks.

OK, let’s please pull this writing back to tattoos, I didn’t mean to trick myself into doing the birthmark blog, my glass of wine doesn’t have enough in it.

I wouldn’t get a tattoo until October (which marks the date of 50 Years of Sarah!), so I have lots of time to turn over the idea in my mind. I am currently thinking…I'll get it on my forearm. That’s the only reliably skinny place on my body, where the tattoo will keep its shape and where I won’t be embarrassed to show it. I’m trying to avoid mental associations with the Nazis tattooing ID numbers on Jews in camps…that is a horrible image and I would like to get past it. I could get the tattoo on my upper arm so it would be easier to hide, I wear long sleeves most of the time. Or I could get it on the inside of my forearm…the spot the Nazis used…(Stop it!)

I can’t decide on just one image so I might get two, one on each arm. Debating between an Eye of Horus, a yin & yang symbol, a princess crown (Sarah means princess! in indelible ink!), a sun, a star, a moon.

I didn’t think I wanted a colored tattoo, I thought black would be simpler, show up more clearly and age better. But today I had the thought, what if I got a pinkish red tattoo, or at least red & black?

I have red on my face from the birthmark…that tattoo would give me red on my arms. Would that make me feel better matched, more integrated somehow? Maybe I have always felt off balance. It could be that a red tattoo would give me the satisfaction I feel when I buy a painting that looks great near a painting I already had. Patterns – I always see patterns. Even when I don’t see them, I think sometimes I feel them unconsciously.

I would not have had this tattoo color idea if not for the sequin mask dream.

I would like to know that man in the dream. Hey…maybe the dream is about knowing myself. Correction: wanting to know myself.

Time for another deal with the devil?

2011-01-14T21:04:00.005-06:00

I think the devil concept solidified in my mind (to the extent anything in my mind is solid, LOL) from a 1996 Suzanne Somers TV movie, "Devil’s Food."

Here is IMDB.com’s synopsis: “When a TV anchor woman finds her career to be hampered by her uncontrollable weight problems, she closes a deal with the devil. He lends her her ideal weight, she promises him her soul. By contract. Soon enough she realizes she's made a terrible mistake and tries to negotiate her way out of it. Alas, the devil knows but one motto: "a deal is a deal", and now he's ready to collect..."

In 2004 I surprised no one more than myself by reenrolling in college after a couple of decades. One big concern was stretching my energy, pretty much non-stretchable even on a very good day, for the requisite hours of homework. I can get up early, but I can’t stay up late, and I needed to work fulltime.

The energy equation worked out better than I first thought it would, in a scenario that sometimes seemed like a deal with devil. It was as if I had said to Satan, “Give me a job where I am not so challenged that I will have mental energy left for homework, and where I am low enough on the totem pole that I can take full lunch hours during which I can do homework.” Or maybe it was more like a bad wish from a genie in a bottle – where I remembered to ask for energy and time for homework, but didn’t think to ask for anything else that I would need for survival or even sanity. But, this post title is about the devil, and even just the word “devil” may have made someone click to the blog, so let’s go on in that vein…

Post-Satan (I am speaking metaphorically), some office lunches streeeeeeetched a bit past the hour slot. But the homework all got in on time and I stayed on my “I’ll only do this if I can finish in less than 2 ½ years!” schedule. Some months of my job were almost intolerable (bored, disrespected, I’ll stop at those 2 words) – I remember a long phase where I was marking big X’s on my calendar at the end of each day where I DIDN’T KILL NOBODY. Remind me to put a few more footnotes into my next contract with The Dark One.

Several years later, I am wondering what that burning smell is in my office. A coffee maker malfunction? Today someone said it smelled like curry powder. Well…it smells like something that has gotten hot. (Sulfur? Brimstone?)

I don’t think (most days) that I would summon dark forces to enhance my office career, but maybe at least on some level I have considered such an evil thing for my writing. How far into the darkness would I go to have success as a writer…even to finish a book? Uh, even to get to the middle of a writing a book… Starting I can do, but beyond that I seem to need supernatural intervention.

In the movie "Devil’s Food," Suzanne’s character found a creative way to get her soul back. The Satanic Deal had been that she would not gain a pound. Well, with the help of the man who entered her life when she became slimly lovely, she got pregnant, and the baby’s weight meant Suzanne stepping on the scale got a higher number. It wasn’t Suzanne, but it was Suzanne’s weight. So the deal was invalidated!

Suzanne found a loophole – and neither Suzanne or the characters she plays are the brightest bulbs in the firmament.

Surely I can find a way to achieve professional success – even if I have to redefine what that means – without downgrading my afterlife.

Disliking Winter – Then and Now

2011-01-03T20:08:00.007-06:00

Actually I think when I was much younger I did like winter. I lived in a warmer town then and I had a warmer coat. The polyester fluff thing pictured here kept me warm enough to walk from where Mother dropped me off for school and from the parking lot at church, and that was about the only walking I did in elementary school (for 4th grade through 6th I did have to walk to school, it was a short walk but in drive-your-car Texas it freaked out other parents, almost every day one would slow down their sedan or pickup truck to ask if I wanted a ride).

Cooler weather meant different clothes and less pressure to “Go do something outside” – during one developmental (or not so developmental, LOL) phase Mother literally gave me money to go out into the fresh air and sun, and I still took my book with me. Once I learned to read, making mud pies and climbing trees (I could go up maybe 2-3 feet in the tree closest to our carport) lost the little appeal they had ever had.

Cooler weather meant more baking – three October birthdays, each person getting their own cake or in my dad’s case, pie (we usually had a dessert choice of my leftover 10/19 cake or his 10/25 pie), and then Thanksgiving and Christmas. We saw relatives during these holidays, sometimes the absolute favorites – Uncle Harvey from New York and the wonderful Dallas cousins.

And while my mother was alive, Christmas gifts were awesome. It wasn’t that she spent a lot, she got most things on sale, but she really researched what each child wanted and we even got holiday gifts AFTER Christmas – some that she saved for day 1 or day 2 after so we wouldn’t get so whiny, and some that she had temporarily lost in the clutter that was her closet (piles and piles of blue-gray Foley’s shopping bags, a year or more worth of sale items saved for the right occasion). Winter weather (Tomball style) meant GIFTS!

OK, to get back to what I didn’t like: DRY SKIN. My mother’s skin was even more sensitive and dry than mine, and it helped to feel that solidarity with her – since her passing, I feel more freakish. She used to make us mother & daughter appointments with a Houston dermatologist who every fall would give us prescriptions for a wonderful creamy-but-not-greasy lotion that had a hefty dose of steroids in it. That stuff would heal red, cracked skin before your very eyes! In the 1980s I used to beg Dallas doctors for this magic goop but they said it was no longer prescribed…topical steroids weaken the skin layers, blah blah blah…like anybody whose fingers and wrists and other sections of skin itch and hurt cares about long term.

I also disliked scratchy winter clothes – I didn’t love tights. I like the look of them (this was the Twiggy/mod era, a whiff of which actually penetrated to Tomball TX) but not how they felt on my legs. My mother was mostly sympathetic – I remember her sewing a soft lining strip behind the scratchy lace collar of a Christmas recital costume – but on occasion she did remind me that as a girl SHE had to wear WOOL stockings…and had to put them on early in the fall, and wear them till late in the spring. Then and now I shudder with horror at that.

In my 20s I bought wool sweaters but finally had to acknowledge I rarely wore them – wool just does not feel good on me – and have not bought wool anything since, not even cashmere. My skin is highly sensitive, I guess. In a different climate I would have had to bite the wool bullet, but in Texas I can get by with layers of cotton and dramatic shivering.

Yes, shivering… As a young child I don’t think I minded the cold so much – I hated the static electricity from my brushed-nylon nightgowns and pajamas but our house was warm, if in a spotty way. We had wall heaters in the bedrooms and bathrooms – of course those scared me but they were warm as hell. Yep, almost a noisy-fiery-hot-hell motif with those, a bit creepy for a sensitive child. (Shoot, I am scared in 2011 of my current home’s furnace…I dislike cold but heat scares me, that is a pretty good summary of my psychological problems).

My first major weight loss came in my preteen years and although I had fluctuations after that, I always thought the low body fat around my neck and shoulders was what made me miserable in cold wind and cold air conditioning (Texas is notorious for the latter, if not the former). But in the last two years my neck and chins have filled in substantially and I still shiver.

Maybe it’s a family thing – my oldest brother, probably the least over-sensitive of the three genetic Scholls (I’m not saying he was not sensitive, just that he was not OVER-sensitive) – used to carry a jacket around in many kinds of weather, especially in restaurants (the air conditioning thing again) and take it on and off his shoulders repeatedly.

Our ancestors came from cold Germany – I doubt I would survive even an early fall in that country, but I am not genetically predisposed to handle hot summer either. I can’t achieve self acceptance until I remember, as a start, that I come from pale white, potato & cheese loving German stock and my parents were (third) cousins. Several things, many things, going on genetically.

Although I am sure the Nazis would discard me as a substandard physical type within 5 seconds. Thank goodness my great-grandparents came to Texas in the 19th century. (My husband likes to call me a Nazi, but that is not timeline-accurate AT ALL.)

Whack-A-Mole for the new year

2011-01-02T18:24:00.013-06:00

It seems like when I pull back one of my addictions (ok, maybe we can say compulsions, just to sound nicer and maybe fool somebody), another one ramps up. Less drinking, more eating…buying less jewelry, buying more art. My mental image for this is the carnival game Whack-A-Mole. The bad stuff is gonna bubble up out of some hole! And I am not the most effective whacker…I don’t fear my own whacking and I avoid others who might whack at my behaviors, so the moles keep coming up.

I was shocked to read that some people who have gone through surgical stomach reductions and can no longer overeat turn to drinking, drugs…even (I don’t know why I said “even,” I’m not assigning degrees to this list!) gambling and sexual acting out. But on reflection that is not really so shocking…I guess other people have a Whack-A-Mole board in their head too.

I just Googled to check myself on the previous paragraph, and I must be correct because a blog came up quoting “gastric-bypass poster child Carnie Wilson” and terming the process “Addiction Transfer," which certainly sounds official and clinical.

My anxieties are like Whack-A-Mole too. Put one to rest (replace an ancient furnace) and another one (what if the water heater developed a leak while we’re at work?) is anxious!!! to take its place. My blood work comes back normal, then I start feeling a strong pulse in my fingertips. Now, what did the doctor tell me about that…he said some people feel their fingers pulse and others don’t. But what does that doctor know, really? Maybe my pulse is dangerously high…maybe my blood pressure has zoomed since it was last checked…

For the medical anxieties I pretty much need pharmaceuticals to whack down the worry moles.

While searching for images of the Whack game (and learning how to spell it – I think I started out with “waccamole,” which just got me guacamole recipes) I found an article by Bonnie Boots, Has Putting Your Head Up On the Internet Made You Feel Like Whack-A-Mole? http://www.theinternetwizards.com/A-whackamole.htm

It was the leading image that drew me in – a freaky version of the photo at the top of this post – but when I looked further at the article I realized it was Sarah blog fuel too. Bonnie relates the negative emails some bloggers receive to the insults that get hurled at those whose have a public profile in any kind of media - the newspapers, TV, etc. I am not a big enough anything to have gotten hate mail, but even my degree of “fame” (had to put that word in quotes) sometimes feels like too much attention.

Relative strangers start out conversations with me by saying, “You have a REAL problem with buying art, don’t you…” (in scene settings ranging from a dirty-floor Mexican restaurant to Christmas dinner). My drinking and my job comments draw a lot of attention too. But just as I start to MAYBE question my let-it-all-hang-out web philosophy, I remember the baking comments from the 1990s…

In my 30s I loved to try out new cookie, bread and cake recipes and took my experiments into the office at least once a week. Coworkers complained about their diets but of course they inhaled the stuff. Every group-signed birthday card from those years had almost 100% comments about my baking. “Keep up the baking! Keep making me fat! Love your cooking!” etc. At first it was cute but by year 3 there was so much sameness to it that it felt impersonal. But…when I got busier with other things and stopped baking, the card comments got even more boring. What does anyone say when they sign an office card, after all? “HBD!” is about the best innovation even my creative self has come up with in decades of office work.

Yes, my head sticks up on the internet. But I have a big head, always have, was born with a large skull. And parts of my personality like attention. And nothing is really private these days, anyway…and writers want to be heard. Hell, women want to be heard! Although we get smacked down far too much!

When I came up with the idea for this post it was going to be doom & gloom, “I sure hope 2011 is not another whack-a-mole year like 2010 was”…going from one fear, one anxiety, one overspending category to the other…

But now that I have typed two pages of stuff, found 3 cool images online, and am having a little Chardonnay (not too much – a small mole, barely sticking its fuzzy head up) and listening to Buddy Guy wailing and banging in a live blues album from 1979…

At this brief point in time, I am feeling kind of good about moles coming up through holes.

If I think more about it, I will fear 2011's moles...so I will stop writing and click on Publish Post.

Think of the Flowers

2010-12-30T13:51:00.004-06:00

(Poppies by the artist Venus: http://www.etsy.com/shop/theartofvenus)

Especially when I was younger, my aunt Diane, when talking with me about an upsetting situation, would advise, “Think of the flowers.” Bless her heart & I knew she meant so well, but that image always sickened me. It made me think of old ladies (probably wearing the kind of perfume that people shouldn’t wear on an elevator)…the large exotic arrangement I got when I was in the hospital with a scent so cloying I sent it to the visitor’s lounge within 10 seconds… and worst of all, sometimes “think of the flowers” made me think of my dad’s honeymoon with my stepmother in the 1970s, a short road trip to see a botanical garden, after which, unforgivable to my preteen ears, my dad made a joke about using their borrowed RV for what people do on honeymoons.

Last night while trying to calm myself about something hugely upsetting like the faint sound the furnace was making, I remembered the flowers advice, and from somewhere got the inspiration to try to make it work for me. After all, it’s not that I don’t like flowers – I like many flowers (just not the stinky, old lady ones) – and I even have floral paintings in my collection. Not surprisingly, thinking about my paintings brought in some endorphins.

When I woke up I made a special online art album of just my florals. It was fun although in my Sarah way I got hung up on rules – well, not really rules, but with a project like this I try to impose order that can’t ever be consistent. I didn’t allow myself to include paintings of trees or tree leaves since this was meant to be a flowers experiment, even though I love the combination of flower paintings with tree paintings in my house (the green and the height and stalks of the trees dilutes any remote cloying quality the flowers might have). I decided it was OK to show flowers in a field and of course a still life of flowers with fruit was OK, but I hesitated about a still life with 4 bottles, only 2 of which held flowers…so is this a painting of flowers, or bottles? (See how my mind works? See why I have night anxiety…and other anxiety.)

http://picasaweb.google.com/sarahbowieme/IGuessIDoLikeFlorals?feat=directlink

If you had forced me to recall all 36 paintings in this album from memory, I probably couldn’t have done it, so part of the fun of making the album was the surprise of, “Oh yeah, I have this cool one too!”

The earlier flower paintings I bought were not girly (that’s part of what I like about Carol Nelson’s style, it has a boldness of line and color you don’t always see in female painters) but they were more realistic (more like real flowers) than more recent purchases, some of which are almost abstract. This change wasn’t just because my taste evolved but also had to do with the artists I happened to discover first versus the ones I found more recently. Also when you collect pieces from different phases of an artist’s career you realize that they evolve too, sometimes with some quick changes and even U-turns.

This winter I started making wish-list type online albums of paintings. Capturing the image of a painting I would like to buy feels a little like the satisfaction of making online albums of the paintings I have really bought. It helps a little with the craving to purchase.

With the wish-list paintings I am less picky with my decisions to “acquire.” I have a lot of flower paintings in the wish-list albums, but I hesitate almost every time I attach one. I never stop asking myself, “Do I really like paintings of flowers? Is this too girlish?”

Girlish… old ladyish…I should really give flowers a break.

Brown as a Color Mix

2010-12-28T18:41:00.005-06:00

Several months ago an online artist acquaintance (http://www.gerardboersma.blogspot.com/) reminded me that colors, including the ones I rhapsodize about on Facebook… “Look at the red in this painting, you can’t have too much purple!, I can’t resist orange…” make brown and black, when they are mixed.

I like to wear dark brown (chocolate brown especially) but I don’t like brown in home décor, although it is hard to avoid in home décor, at least the brown shades that are usually the default readiness of a living place at my budget range. I also really like to wear black, but it is quirky in home décor so I don’t have much of it – also dog hair is not kind to black things in the home.

I think Gerard was responding to something I said about craving color. I liked the deeper meanings in what he said – that colors are building blocks more than we may realize, colors are contained within what seems to be non-color, and color not treated properly appears muddy, unappetizing.

I didn’t realize until a friend pointed it out that on Facebook I most often showcase paintings with blue and orange. And guess what those two colors make, mixed - yep, brown.

If you Google color mixing you get many, many how-to articles about paint mixing, and many of the sentences sound unintentionally poetic. For example, from Rosemary Pipitone’s site Handpaintedphotography.com: “Blue and yellow do not always make green; sometimes you get mud... If your color is too dull or too muddy, just start over using only two colors. Mixing with too many colors will always mix muddy colors. Avoid over mixing colors, too many colors will result in a dark muddy hue.”

Actually, re-reading these sentences, they are maybe not so poetic. I read poetry into them because I relate to them. I have been known to overmix my writing, which clouds the points I’m making. Sometimes I group emotional issues in ways that makes the combined murk harder to deal with.

From childhood:
I remember that after rinsing the watercolor brush too many times without changing water, the water turned purple-brown or gray-black. When we used colored dough to make “stained-glass” Christmas cookies and got tired and sloppy with the leftover scraps, purple-brown dough accents were what we got.

My mother’s mother usually only made 2 kinds of cakes when we visited – Brownstone Front Cake, which everybody but me loved (I found it dry and not chocolaty or caramel enough, I never quite “got” that cake) and angel food, a cake that to this day bores me. Sometimes Grandma stirred red sugar sprinkles or red food coloring into the angel food cake…didn’t help the taste. The same lame trick was used on vanilla ice cream at Grandma Schmidt’s house – the adults would put some red sprinkles on the vanilla ice cream and let the kids stir it a bit to make a pattern. Usually what would happen, especially in an unairconditioned house in Texas, was that both the red sugar and the ice cream would melt really fast.

Following the messy food tricks of my older brothers, I would also stir up my Neopolitan ice cream. Of course that turned it into brown melted goop, which disappointed me – no more pretty tricolors! (And in this case I would call the ice cream brown “pretty,” since it was chocolate.) I think we believed, at least I did, that one day we might get a different ice cream color from stirring. Well, occasionally if your serving had more strawberry, the brown goop would have a pinker tinge.

When Googling goofy things like “blue orange makes brown” to look for illustrations for this post, I found Q&A forums where people were asking things like, What color can I mix with orange to make blue? Uh no, it doesn’t work that way. You can’t work backward to get a primary color.

One answerer suggested that if you were determined to get blue from orange and blue, you could add a whole LOT of blue to the orange and then the result would look blue. Not really color mixing – you would have pushed the combination unnaturally.

Pushing the mix, forcing a color result by exaggerated means…good metaphors there, in the intention, the process and the results.

Want, Need - a short essay on a big topic

2010-10-10T18:52:00.013-05:00

In 1982 I had a short stint working weekends at the Dallas Granada, then an art-house movie theater. At that age and stage I was so self-conscious I could barely move in front of strangers – my happiest hours as a theater employee were spent cleaning the parking lot. (Even though that particular job dirtied my new leather K-Swiss, but the manager said he appreciated my hard work, so at the time I thought that made it OK.) My scariest hours were spent sweeping popcorn off the lobby carpet (the manager didn’t like my technique and loudly told me so – he was no kind of an introvert) and much worse, waiting on customers. Actually all I did at the snack counter was scoop up popcorn and put butter on it while a more mature, outgoing employee asked order-related questions (thank God) and rang up the sale (really, thank God). My only verbal interaction was asking customers if they wanted butter.

Well, the manager’s supersonic ears picked up on my poor delivery of that question. “Don’t ask, 'Do you want butter on that'! You should say, 'WOULD YOU LIKE butter on that'!”

I was SO embarrassed. A Scholl of Tomball, an “A” student, daughter of an English major, and I had to have my grammar corrected. All I can say in my defense is that I thought I sounded professional regardless of grammar and was trying to present a casual (hahahaha) persona.

I think that was one of my last nights at the theater. This was a 2nd job for me and after a month I still dreaded every shift. I didn’t have the awareness or labels back then to say, this is not a good job for me since with my personality I am not comfortable dealing with the public. (Or being yelled at by a petty despot.) Rather than give a generic reason for resigning – maybe I didn’t know of any, being 22 and really naïve – what I said was “I am having some emotional problems.” To which the shift supervisor – not the manager – said, “Oh, me too! I hope we can stay in touch!” (We didn’t.) My next moonlighting job was…waiting on customers at a doughnut store! After that, waiting on customers in the Dillard’s lingerie department. So sad that entry-level jobs are seldom suited for the introverted…

The movie theater manager’s phrase correction has always stuck with me. Not just because I was embarrassed to be corrected – and because I think the manager overreacted, I’m sure I WAS professional – and this was a sticky-floored, hole-in-the-upholstery little theater anyway, why was he being so lah-de-dah about things – but also because I was told not to use the word “WANT.”

Really, with butter on popcorn, isn’t it Want, not the dainty “like”? When I go to the movie with Craig he usually buys our tickets but then stands 30 feet from the snack counter, waves for me to go stand in line, and says, “I want popcorn with extra butter and a slurpee and raisinettes and a pretzel and a hot dog…” He is kidding (he only wants popcorn and maybe to share a soda), but the “want” part is true. Nobody “likes” spending a fortune on movie snacks. But they “want” to munch and slurp junk food in the dark.

This came up as a blog concept because yesterday when I was at a church craft fair, I announced my purchase decisions as, “I need…the sangria colored pair of earrings (the wine bottle bar light, the green millefiori earrings…)”. Three vendors in a row laughed at the word “need.” The first vendor laughed with me, with the second vendor I directed the laugh at myself…the third vendor laughed in a puzzled way. In fact when I said, “I need the Malbec,” she didn’t realize I was requesting her bar light made from a recycled Malbec bottle, she asked hesitantly, “Are you saying you need a drink?” Said with a nervous laugh.

Why aren’t we – people, adults – supposed to say Want and Need? Does that mean we are spoiled, gluttons? Children – immature?

But why put a wordsmith coating on it? When I click the “purchase” button, haven’t I decided and stated that I Need another original painting…one of the dozens I have bought this year…more than I Need a savings account?

I don’t think Need is a value judgment – or is it? Maybe all of us have gotten that confused.

Most people would agree that Want is not a value judgment – it is a gut desire. The “Should” may be applied to the Want in order to be…adult? (haha)? responsible?

But I guess Need is thought of in a different category – we Need water, oxygen, food. We need recognition, friends, various categories of things, in different intensities of need, to survive and to thrive.

But is it wrong to say, I need this novelty bar light? I need a 500th pair of earrings?

I guess I will keep laughing when I say “I need.” The laughter, real or fake, seems to help navigate the choppy seas of social interaction. And I will only say “I want” within my intimate circle, whatever that is.

I wanted and needed to blog about this. Aaaah. Satisfied! (For now...)

WRITE WHAT I WANT TO

2010-10-08T21:01:00.006-05:00

(This was the best generic photo I could find for this post...LOL...doesn't she look like me? With no computer. And RED wine. And a couple other visual details that might be different...)

So I have this title I wrote down a couple of weeks ago: “Write what I want.” I think I stole it from a painter’s blog, the painting version of the line: paint what I want. It seemed resonant and important. It was going to be an empowering topic.

Now I am scared of it! Or made lazy by it.

I am only working with this topic because the other titles on my inspiration list are about topics I am certain will be hard to write about – Sarah work/family angst – and this one looked easier.

(Sitting back in chair, deep breath)

Right now the problem is that I don’t know what I want to write. Sometimes I know what I want to write but…I’m not energized enough to dig into the topic or I worry too much about my audience. Those are problems too, since they keep me from writing what I want.

In the bigger picture, I liked the topic/title because it seemed like a battle cry for Expression, Creativity, Turn Off the Editing Voice, Don’t Worry about Saleability…

I guess it also means, why doesn’t someone pay me a big salary, with benefits, to sit home and write what I want when I want to write it. Yes this reads as silly on paper but I am not the only one to have this creative dream!

I believe I intended the writing on this topic to be serious, about motivation, psychology, memory, personal history…maybe listening to music and drinking wine and Friday night after a loooooong week are not the right environment for such lofty goals.

I should probably turn off the music – I don’t usually write with music, unless it’s a wild topic or I’m just editing/publishing. Noise short-circuits parts of my brain that I need for the deep-thoughts writing. Music is fun though. Especially music on Friday night with wine.

(Music off)

(Can’t I click over to Facebook for a break from working on this? NO!)

In the corporate world we think of short- and long-term goals, sometimes broken down into little bits, 30-day, 60-day, etc. I have Writing Wants for the long term and the short term. Long term: Get things published, be famous. But what’s inside of that is that I want to share my inner self with people who connect with what I say. I’ll always love the philosophy that when you read, you don’t feel so alone. Especially when you connect with what you are reading, you don’t feel so alone. I actually made a written note to myself in 1982 (yes I was a young puppy), a mission statement before I knew what a mission statement even was – heck the term may not have been invented yet – that I wanted to make readers feel better about themselves by sharing myself with them.

Short-term: I would like to write without picking myself apart (“you suck, nobody cares”) and feeling tired and lazy and cracking the whip. Deep breath, that sentence felt good to type!

Slightly longer than short-term: I would like to be more regular with the blog and more confident with it. More in-the-mood, stream-of-consciousness. Less editing voice! Less worry about readers!

Painter David Larsons Evans’ blog states, “I paint because it’s a nuisance not to.” (http://davidlarsonevans.blogspot.com/)

I think the gut-level Sarah feels that way about writing. If I don’t write fairly often and about a lot of things, I get locked up. Stopped up. Not-writing is not what I am meant to do...it means I’m off my track. BUT I so rarely do it – write every day, freewheeling choices of topics – I have the same old obstacles, worrying about whether I am in the mood for a topic or have the energy to finish it (who says I have to finish?, I only have to start!), or whether I am a good enough writer yet to tackle it.

Many painters redo old canvases – writers can do that too.

Yay, this post is getting at least a little empowering! Maybe a bit preachy though…I don’t like that, and I will definitely not like it when I reread it. Oooooh, I am a cruel rereader: “Why did you say THAT?!”

And another time category, longer than slightly longer than long-term: I would like to find a way…have a way occur to me, fall into my lap or however it may happen…to get the blog habit into a project-writing habit that could be a book. I have several books in development. And notes to be added to those books in development. These are kind of collecting dust right now.

Most of the time it feels like all I can do to create a blog post. Occasionally post, not even regularly. Which is depressing, and as I have said, a blocked Sarah.

OK, let’s go back to the gut – lots about breathing in this post, I know, but here I insert a deep breath in and out:

I want to write…

(Music back on as an hopeful aid…will check Facebook as a hopeful break…)

(That was a good long break – opened more wine, also Craig came home and took over my computer to check his FB page…)

I thought of more words I wanted to write but not sure I can collect them now…here goes something…

Tonight I wanted to write, period. I wanted to blog and I wanted to publish it and send it to my subscribers and whoever else happens across it. I want to keep wanting to write and trying to write and trying to write better.

I also remind myself there can always be a part 2, a revision, an apology, whatever – a redo. Deep cleansing breath! Perfection is not necessary. (Smaller breath but still cleansing.)

(I just had another long Facebook break including listening to a video someone posted…I think I am done blogging for tonight…)

Winter Inoculation part 2 – beyond the holidays

2010-10-05T21:31:00.030-05:00

I thought the 2009 Christmas holidays were a bit blah, but the dark and/or rainy January, February and beyond were worse. At some point during that I had a routine appointment to see the MD who does my medication management, and she changed my medication. That stressed me out further and I ended up going back to the old prescription, which I guess in a way was comforting – as if it validated my mood being appropriate to circumstances. Also in Dallas spring comes pretty early, at least in its intermittent way, so it is hard to make a case for the necessity of chemical proactiveness.

A decade or two ago (fuzzy on the self-realization continuum) I dimly got that I was affected mood-wise by the onset of September, very likely because Mother had died early that month. Also it’s a time of year when things cool, die…in Texas we experience that more as rain and murk/muck but still, one can sense a change is coming weather-wise, at some point.

October used to be a more purely happy month – my birthday and the weather finally staying cool, so you can more consistently wear your new fall clothes (yes I have been hot in lumpy new cotton sweaters, but kept them on anyway, because they were new and it was my birthday day). But since my oldest brother Tim, he of the 10/14 birthday always before mine on the 19th, died, I have a mix of honoring and celebrating and mourning…all of which could be approached (my first version of this said “managed” instead of “approached”, LOL) with alcohol and food abuse, but how much and on which date? And now that my dad is in his mid-80s, his birthday is not just an “oh geez another family birthday” but a time for angst also.

When my mother was alive we never combined birthdays, even when they were a week or less apart – it still, turning 49, startles me that my dad’s is less than a week after mine – which didn’t sink in more deeply because Mother made them separate occasions. Usually we had a cake for Tim, another cake for me, then a pie for Daddy – sometimes 2 pies in that sequence – very occasionally 3 cakes – but there was always something on The Day of each birthday person. With the blended stepfamily of an additional 7 people, it all got diluted. My second year in college, I received a card mailed by my stepmother fairly close to the date but not received until after the birthday that she had obviously signed for four people – all the same signature. I wasn’t ready for that level of birthday acknowledgement, but it wasn’t only her fault. My dad has said for many years, “We have too many kids to make a fuss over birthdays.” In response to which I always thought, that’s not the kids’ fault.

So I started dating an only child, who I only later realized had beaucoup relatives with October birthdays. During the years of must-please-hubby’s family, the card buying and mailing was intensive. I also added people like my dentist’s office staff who had October birthdays. I called it a Mission , the sending out of cards to friends and their kids and even the person at the dentist’s office who deals with insurance companies – now I have backed away from it as not the best use of Sarah resources.

This year I have a new perspective of maybe being a Highly Sensitive Person (http://www.hsperson.com/), which maybe (not all experts agree, some would say I need shock therapy to patch my flaws) helps explain my discomfort with low temperatures (also high temperatures), scratchy clothing (i.e. winter clothing that sometimes feels claustrophobic and warm, even in Texas), and sensitivity to noise, movement, and a zillion other things. Add to this my anxiety syndrome that has me worry our world will end every time the planet turns into winter’s dark position, and you get a person who hates summer but doesn’t think she likes winter either.

My first semester of college was spent at St. John’s in Santa Fe, NM. A lot did and didn’t happen in those short months, but I definitely remember beauty, dryness, desert light and desert darkness. My Uncle Harvey took me to New Mexico on a college tour while I was still in high school and blessedly visited me, flying in with a fellow artist and long-time family friend who enhanced the experience further, during that first semester and my first Thanksgiving outside of Texas. Since I dropped out that December, I have thought of the school and the location many times. I went back to visit a friend a couple of years later, but that was an odd trip because of things to do with her relationship and I cut it short – a surreal weekend framed by desert scenery that I didn’t even have time to appreciate. My New Mexico memories, and select photos of Uncle Harvey’s from our trip (he mailed me a wonderful half a shoebox of them, back before digital cameras you got photos with glossiness and weight!) have somehow encouraged me toward the images of Georgia O’Keeffe.

Recently I was looking on Art.com for a copy of O’Keeffe’s “Red Hills with White Shell” and saw a print of “Black Door With Snow,” an image that was totally new to me. Wow – not like she’s still painting new stuff (sadly), I just hadn’t seen it before, which felt fortuitous in an exaggerated way. The image both warmed and calmed me. I immediately thought, with this visual I can face the winter. Not that what she painted is cozy – it is stark or at least plain in its rendering, a black doorway, brown wall, there is earth and sky and snow flakes. But somehow , looking at it, I feel less lost and in the dark. The image seems to be of a back door, which reminds me I have a front door…and a richer life, and a future, and a spring to come. Yes, all this from a simple O’Keeffe image. She is an artistic genius!

I know it’s always a trap to think, if I just get this, buy this, I will feel better – but as soon as I saw the print online I was convinced that if I had it on my wall I could feel so much better, could better face the winter. For a week I tried just looking it at on my computer desktop – uh, no – of course that was not satisfying. Plus I kept thinking how good this print, with its black & beige colors and white mat, would look hung on my right-hand office wall with my O’Keeffe print, “Above the Clouds.” I wouldn’t necessarily keep the snow print on the wall all summer, but I could put it up in the fall, like a seasonal tradition – a ritual, something that would bring a spiritual or maybe even pagan consolation. (Isn’t fear of winter really pagan at its core?)

Maybe not so differently, I have been for several weeks intrigued by Rivkah Singh’s Breaking the Cycle trio of paintings. I was disappointed when it disappeared from eBay, but when she relisted it the next week I couldn’t quite commit to purchase – I love the look and the thought behind the look but…you will rarely hear me state this…my house is SMALL.

I love the red underpainting, the tree image (metaphor), the small dimension (the paintings are just big enough to show significant detail), the triptych aspect (I always feel a power in repeated patterns) and the use of snow, especially Rivkah’s explanation of that, as part of her detailed blog post. (http://rivkahsart.blogspot.com/2010/09/breaking-cycle-set-of-3-8x8-paintings.html) These are beautifully and complex representational paintings, and I hope they find a wonderful home soon.

So on the week of September 27, a blah Monday with weather that stayed cooler than we expected – which I had thought might be a relief but instead seemed to trigger a pre-lapse of winter anxiety – I became convinced I need Georgia O’Keeffe’s snowy image although not sure it will help me through Christmas (so many complexities come up during the holiday weeks) – I clicked Purchase. I am still thinking about Rivkah’s trio of trees against snow, although also leaning toward several Mark Rothko prints I have had in my shopping cart on Art.com, thinking their warm colors and small, well-priced size will help me cope…especially if I hang them near “Above the Clouds,” which sort of echoes winter in terms of tone – acceptance of space – alleged vastness.

Waking during the night after I started writing this post, I made this note to add regarding O’Keeffe’s winter image: “Acknowledge the snow. But emphasis is on the house, the being protected from the snow.”

That’s it – my winter mantra. It may need the reinforcement of more art, more prescription medication (and/or more carbs and alcohol?) but at least in early October I am approaching things proactively.

Trying to inoculate against winter, part 1 – the holidays

2010-10-04T21:01:00.016-05:00

Last winter I found myself depressed at Christmas, which surprised me because don’t all working people think of the holidays as a release? We had some nice relaxed plans with Craig’s family who came to town, and I also saw some of my Scholl family that month, although I didn’t get to spend much time with my sister, who I really reconnected with last year and thus thought about so much during Christmas, only our second one as recommitted sisters.

I love the house we moved to in early 2009 and I generally find the low ceilings cozy, but last winter there were many days the house seemed too dark. Funny, since our old house also had brown wood and brown carpet, and not enough windows in the right places, and in so many ways I prefer this house, but… I figured it was midlife angst or delayed adjustment to the move.

I don’t think Craig and I are the only childless couple who even after many good years together struggle to establish meaningful routines at Christmas. We always have things to do, with each other, other family, and sometimes outreach beyond that – and some years we have made major trips, as in, off the continent – but still, there is an internalized perception that Christmas is for kids, or people with them.

I did have a strong inkling last year that some emotions from the past were churned up when right around Thanksgiving my shipment of a gumdrop tree (I don’t even like gumdrops, but I wanted to acknowledge the 1960s family tradition of poking them onto plastic tree limbs) disappeared, the package apparently stolen….also and maybe not less importantly I had ordered an orange crystal pendant I wanted to wear at Thanksgiving – gumdrops and costume jewelry for the special day – and when I first put it on the chain for the pendant broke. Yes, I overreacted to that, the world seemed dark and dysfunctional (which it is, but on higher-endorphin days we try to ignore that fact).

It was fun to entertain Craig’s family on Christmas Eve, at least those who could get here with the unexpectedly heavy snow, but that same weekend I remember calling my sister-in-law B. and her asking if I had been drinking. Uh yes? Holiday, hours spent alone (I like to be alone…don’t I?), thinking of deceased family members, doesn’t that fit the profile of someone who would fill up a glass before dialing a phone number?

As I go through more life ages and stages I am getting more…and less…adjusted to missing my mother and my oldest brother at holidays, and the traditions, or at least activities, we did and didn’t share. I am glad that widowed sister-in-law B. has a new husband as of 2010 and is making new traditions. I also established new routines when I married Craig, but every holiday I still feel an unexpected yearning …stuff that’s either not expressed or maybe only occasionally expressed in a therapeutic setting – for my family of origin (the 6 of us intact until 1974, before my stepfamily and several deaths) and our traditions, imperfect as they were.

Craig has at least two families, being an adult child of divorce, and I have a few extended families myself. You would (I would) think this cluster of people would feel warm and homey. Sometimes it does – other times you miss your original little unit from the childhood decades, or just want to go out to a restaurant as a family/couple of two and have wine with dinner and please only yourselves all day – the restaurant concept being not a bad Thanksgiving, as I will testify. (No muss, no fuss, being with your favorite date!)

Decorating a tree is a hassle, worth it if you care – many years I have, some I haven’t… We have a small mini tree that’s prelit that I no longer bother to decorate, and for Christmas 2009 we pretended that tree was a décor accessory and left it up and sometimes lit till…maybe April?

I also bought a cheap Wal-Mart tree (we had been boycotting nice big trees since our dog Billie ate two of them in her teens) that since I waited too long to go shop for ended up an odd size/color, skinny/tall/black, the Wal-Mart early December remainder of whatever they had had when their Christmas stock first rolled out. “Black spruce” but looking almost witch-like in shape and color. I put ornaments on it, got out my camera and posted images on Facebook but something was not right. Not really wrong, but not right either.

I think last Christmas went wrong inside Sarah – I don’t blame the tree. Regarding gifts – I got some nice ones, practical ones plus unexpected, from Craig (he stood in line at a holiday-crazy accessory outlet store and got me a chartreuse watch with a puppy on the dial!, which I love, of course). My sister somehow managed to sneak a handmade blanket under the tree, mailing it to my cousin who has a key to my house, without my realizing it was from her…the drama was heightened because we have another relative who shares my sister’s name, so I didn’t even figure out the gift tag till I opened the package.

(The perfect gift - it just took me by surprise!)

Last winter I didn’t have all the colorful art I have today – although even with all the couple of hundred (yesssss) of colorful paintings in this house, on overcast days it still feels dark. Which makes me think/wonder/worry, if I hadn’t bought the art, would/should I have spent that money on new lighter-color kitchen cabinets, painted the walls bright colors and? had enough in the bank not to worry too much about resale-ability if our jobs or marriage, or lives otherwise, took a downturn…are these thoughts wrong? (More wrong than the lack of preparation?)

(To Be Continued…)

Reading to Escape, part 3: Transported Beyond the Tomball Library

2010-09-15T22:50:00.010-05:00

The Tomball library was a block and a half from our house, which for this indoor child felt like 10 miles when I walked there in the summer heat. This new location was completed when I was in elementary school, and I remember going to the opening reception, at which I wanted to pick up more cookies than was polite. They were small cookies, and until Mother hiss-whispered, “Sarah!, that’s too many!” at me, nobody had spelled out that it was impolite to put more than 2 on your little fancy napkin. (Guess I should have figured that out by the size of the napkin, but I never scored high at spatial relations.)

The high-ceilinged, well-chilled building was huge compared with the old library that had been crammed into a little frame house and had a couple of roaring window units that probably could hardly keep the humidity out of the books. This new library probably wasn’t as big as I remember because it only had 2 toilets total, one for men and one for women. The bathrooms impressed me too, because they were new and large with echoey tiles on the floor and walls, but my sister ruined that for me when she said sister-snidely after one library visit, “I could hear you singing in there.”

In the first year or two the books rattled around on all the new shelves, but I liked that because the volume and density of the books felt less intimidating to little me.

I usually went right to the youth section, except for occasional detours for a couple of feel-good favorites from the children’s section. (There was one I really loved about a hamster or some other rodent, I can’t remember which, that took his lunch to school, a lunch that included bread & jelly and a boiled egg and salt, and he ate on a paper placemat…never mind.)

Gradually I ran out of material and bravely (guiltily) ventured into the adult section. It seemed huge, and once I found Harold Robbins I tended to stick with that aisle. I picked up best sellers and then looked for others by the same authors, but it took awhile before I really browsed much beyond Robbins and Victoria Holt (whose Gothic romances balanced Robbins’ smut nicely). When I went too far afield I always seemed to make direct eye contact with a nonfiction book about The Devil that my brother Dave had read a couple of years before, which (both the book cover and his having read the book, and I think he read it twice, looking for more meaning) both impressed and scared me. My dad had asked him if it was any good and Dave said something both dismissive and inconclusive that, as usual, intimidated me Dave-style.

I used the periodicals section if I had to do a school project , but since I got so stressed out over homework (I had trouble rewording factual sentences from National Geographic without plagiarization terrors) and I was grossed out by the scratched, sticky protective magazine covers on Time and similar magazines, if I was over there on a non-homework day, I was probably just sitting in a chair with a hardback book, feebly trying to make this my home away from home.

Near the seating area were revolving racks of skinny, tousled-edge romance novels with lurid red covers toward which I somehow had an innate snobbery. I don’t know what made me pick up one – supreme Tomball ennui, probably, and it was probably during yet another long summer. I don’t even think I surveyed the selection on the rack, I just grabbed one with dismissive wrist posture and thought I could glance at a couple of pages, put it back – after a mental checkmark, I have checked these out – and keep feeling superior.

I’m not even sure I took a bathroom or water break – I sat there and finished the book. Probably took me at least 3 hours. I had felt bits of romantic giddiness before but not the swoon that sweeps up through your whole body. Yes, I had been swept away by the book and would have liked to be swept up by the male lead character. Of course he would have terrified/ignored me in real life but the point was, I had been taken completely out of my real life, but taken someplace that felt intensely real, or at least I really wanted to be in that place, which at that town in that year was almost the same thing.

The book had what for several years was my favorite plot (yes, I now see psycho-sexual-social problems with it), marriage of convenience followed by love. (And some of the Harlequin and/or Silhouette romances, at least in the late 1970s/early 1980s, had forced marital consummation, very disturbing by modern standards.) I think this one was set in South Africa, even more exotic than the Australian ones I later grew addicted to, both types generated by foreign writers documenting their experience and their fantasies. Later my preferences transitioned, I am proud to say, to men and women who were platonic friends or stated enemies first and transitioned to romance, or who were consciously attracted to each other early on but then got blocked by situations of varying credibility. (The preferred modernistic version would be women less dominated by the men, both man and woman dominated by the power of their love.)

I also later discovered a Dutch Harlequin author whose men were at least highly educated (usually doctors) and gentlemanly, and not abusive unless you would consider a blunt marriage proposal after absolutely no verbal foreplay (and/or what Americans call “dating”) to be abusive – the men were not critical but neither were they flattering to the women, and the heroines were rarely pretty and slim…while the men were always tall, strong and wealthy. Often widowers with kids…confirmed bachelors…yep, marriages made in heaven – but somehow the author made it all gel, at least for 20-something Sarah.

Anyway, back to my Tomball Library breakthrough…the setting was exotic, the heroine was short and hen-like (think Jane Eyre) and the man was powerful and enigmatic – they lived on a farm but it was quite successful, more of a ranch, and the setting was exotic enough (African hills in the distance, employees of varied colors) to provide escape from Tomball, which of course was rural in its own right. I think there were some incidental issues with stepkids and an old girlfriend of the husband, standard stuff but new to me since this was my first Harlequin (wow!, hard to remember that freshness). I was a virgin reader, and this book was just comfortable enough that flat-chested, shy me didn’t feel horribly intimidated by it, but sweeping enough that I felt blessedly carried somewhere.

Afterward I walked back home, floating on a cloud of swoon, and for reasons I can barely remember felt compelled to share my discovery with my new stepmother. Disclaimer: I know she tried and/or wanted to be a good parent to me, but we were such different people and my first mother had been so different… I can’t remember (maybe I don’t want to know) whether I was so excited by my discovery of Harlequins that I just wanted to share it with the family matriarch, or whether I more simply (?) wanted to let her know where I had been for 4 hours.

Ooooommmmmppppphhhhhh. She said in a very critical tone something about how I didn’t need to spend all day reading. Somehow I took this as a criticism of sensuality and escape (which concept was worse?) and not just a criticism of time away from chores (which we both knew I would probably not have been doing anyway).

More to the disclaimer: She was very driven for all her working years – she had 6 kids and her first husband had died suddenly, then she threw herself into a church secretarial job, working many hours as secretary, church daycare assistant, doing church cleaning and other duties. (Work equals virtue, right?) I have only seen her read books in the last few years, and sadly she may have waited to be a reader until her comprehension had already diminished.

But back in the 1970s, she was probably wanting to help me out of my introversion and social discomfort, and didn’t always know a better way to do that than criticizing my solitary activities. In a way her critical speech was a good thing for me since I needed signs to help me understand that, well, frankly, this woman was not my mother and I would need to look elsewhere for Sarah-centric mothering, or learn to do self-comfort, haha at that developmental age – yep, both scenarios were problematic, but at least during the next few years when I continued to defer to my stepmother I had the reminder to brace for criticism (or to blame myself if I hadn’t braced…well, everybody who goes to therapy has some kind of trigger, I had many).

AND, YES…maybe the adjudged criticisms, my guilt about Harlequins, made them sweeter to read.

**

I didn’t have access to Harlequins at my first college in Santa Fe – gosh, I stood out at that highbrow place for even having a tiny TV set, but I read my copy of Kathleen Woodiwiss’ “The Flame and the Flower” over and over. And I watched All My Children almost every day between classes…and the school library’s idea of fiction was Gertrude Stein (as a modern writer). Which I checked out, but couldn’t read. I left that worthy school at the end of the semester. (I would love to be there now! As a full-time student, studying the classics in seminar fashion, like the ancients – what’s not to love about that, when you are middle aged and more confident in yourself.)

In my next college in Georgetown (Texas, not the East Coast), I worked my way through the Harlequins at the city library, which didn’t take long, and then bought more at the grocery store. One of my favorite non-Harlequin library books from the tiny town library (I think it was on Main Street), was one I have never seen or heard of anywhere else, the second novel from Kathleen Winsor, whose first book was mega-breakthrough “Forever Amber” (notable in the 1940s for its length and sexuality), which I never read. Her second one was about the difficulties of being a writer with a first bestselling book, which I saw as a roadmap for…something.

After moving to Dallas I checked out Harlequins from 3 different libraries, bought them at the grocery store, and at a small used bookstore - a place so small and friendly that when I told the manager I was writing my own formula romance (which Harlequin turned down, as they should have, it was not worthy) she immediately said they could have a signing party for me, and seemed to believe in me as a professional.

Years later I found out that the same store was soon after bought by my recently-rediscovered childhood friend Henry and his wonderful partner Jeff, who turned it into a gift shop, which probably made more money than the bookstore ever did. When I saw from the sign that the store had stopped selling books I probably never walked in it again, so it took me another 2 decades to reunite with Henry. (But he is kind of the platonic Love of My Life, so there!)

Reading to Escape - part 2, other kids' lives

2010-09-08T21:41:00.009-05:00

(Love this opening image because she is reading books and wearing orange - THOUGH LOOKS NOTHING LIKE ME!) Now, back to the Sarah blog...

I always had a library book with me during the school day, and despite whatever noise was going on, if I finished my in-class assignment early I would take out the book and read. I would never say I coasted through school – I was obsessed with grades so I spent a lot of time on my class work – but given some of the unfortunate others in my class that were part of our main stream…let’s just say I almost always had time in class to read my book.

I never read nonfiction – probably didn’t read it voluntarily until my 30s, except for biographies or autobiographies. (Correction: I used to do the summer reading program at our library where you had to read a certain number of books including science and social studies – I remember forcing myself, in great boredom and other discomfort, to read a book about flower stamens, and one only a little less boring about life on an Israeli kibbutz.) I only wanted to read about people – people with more fun lives than me – which meant biographies or FICTION.

One of the thousand reasons I never considered myself smart in grade school was that I shunned the Newbery Award children’s books. They were always on a special shelf at the town library, which was proud to have them – but I couldn’t make myself like them. I remember one had details of an Eskimo boy chewing whale blubber, and another had a Middle Eastern girl embarrassed by her farts, inevitable since her diet had so many chickpeas. Now, who wouldn’t rather read a late 1950s/early 1960s teen romance, with hardly even a kiss at the end, but lots of description of 50s clothing and dates at coffee shops and soda fountains?

I am proud of and grateful for my family, but frankly the family element of a lot of books I read was a big part of my escape. Families where both original parents were living – where the younger siblings were not too bratty – where although dating didn’t come easy, there was usually a bad boy (safe-bad) to be rejected and a boy-next-door to be accepted. These books sound really old, don’t they! They were possibly nowhere in circulation other than the Tomball, TX library by the early 1970s.

One of my dad’s early dates with my stepmother was a Christmas concert, to which of course I took my book. Basically I took a library book to everything but church – trust me, if I could have gotten away with it, I would have been reading during church services too. Dim concert lighting? No problem – I would squint and just not read as fast. On this particular date that I remember, my youngest stepsister-to-be Debbie came along. Debbie was friendly but shy-me soon ran out of dialogue. I remember her saying, “I’ll just let you read your book,” and thought, uh-oh, I hope I didn’t seem rude. But really, I DID want to read my book. The heroine and her mother were baking a family specialty for her birthday, brown walnut cake – I think they used burned butter – it sounded kind of like a cake my maternal grandmother used to make, but better… I think the heroine was in the school play, there was some kind of drama going on, centered around her birthday – her life was not without conflicts but the book was very upbeat in a Midwestern kind of way. Actually this book was not set in the 1950s!, a rarity for me. I remember loving it. I wish I could remember the name of it…

As an adult I almost never reread books, but back then I read lots of my favorites multiple times. Yes, I guess this was partly due to the poor selection… But in retrospect it was a good thing I absorbed them so thoroughly, since today I could not find those books if I tried! (And I HAVE tried to locate a couple of them online.)

**

A few of my favorites, murkily remembered:

A motherless girl spends her last few years of high school with a relative in Florida, visits an orange juice stand shaped like an orange (actually I have seen such a thing in the real Florida, but that’s irrelevant), finally comes to appreciate the relative she lives with (uncle? aunt? step-somebody?) and make a new life for herself – gains a nice sweet dark-haired boyfriend who at first was “just a friend.”

A girl in a largish family spends all the money from her summer job on herself – she buys grownup clothes like a black sheath dress, a linen jacket, linen pumps – just as she is about to make a deposit on an apartment for after high school, she comes to her senses, re-embraces her family (she will live at home during college), and returns the unworn professional outfits to the boutique where she bought them.

(I have saved the best for last:) A plump, surly teen loses weight, learns French, and gains savoir faire while on a study program in France. When she returns to her family in New York City, she has become poised enough to sing a solo on her father’s TV program (I kid you not), something she had whined about for years but was never truly ready for, before. As she sings on live TV, she half-closes her eyes and thinks with sweet sadness about the French boy she left behind.

**

OK – excuse me for digressing, but here is a final image as silly as some of those plots. The official title is, “teenage girl holding book.” Holding – not reading! Excuse me, this is soft porn! (It came up when I searched for Young Girl Reading Book.) The photo, not the book, is porn…there’s no telling what is in the book. She certainly doesn’t know.

Reading to Escape - a rough Part 1

2010-09-07T20:35:00.009-05:00

I do have high reading & writing skills – I won’t be overly modest about that, it’s been tested – but unlike a lot of kids/people who intimidate me, I didn’t know how to read before I started school. In fact I’m not even sure I knew the alphabet before starting school – I remember it seeming new in First Grade. (I didn’t get bored until maybe the end of Second Grade. Before then I was avid for what Tomball Elementary had to teach me!) In Second Grade I learned to read – words, sentences, not a lightning flash of comprehension but no big road block either. In my memory, it seems that as soon as we had learned to read short Dick & Jane sentences (yes, I think that book was still in use…at least in 1968 in Tomball) there was a “who can read the most books” contest. Pressure…2nd grade version. For the first few weeks, other kids (girls, and nerdy ones at that, of course) were in the lead, but then I pulled ahead. I didn’t stay in the lead for weeks at a time, but I emerged as a contender.

Because the competitive Sarah reared up – that Sarah who had already been oriented to competition simply (or not so simply) by being the little sister of two intelligent, book-loving older brothers. A historic letter of my mother to her mother quoted me as saying that when I got a little older, I would be The Oldest Child! – apparently I couldn’t wait for that ascension – not only did I want to rule but I wanted to be the smartest of my siblings. I wanted to correct their mistakes. For example, a zillion years later I am still smarting that my brother Dave – snarkily, adolescent-style – corrected my pronunciation of “salmon.” (I argued with him, but of course I lost. I still check dictionaries sometimes to see if the pronunciation I thought was right is at least secondary. Dave still acts superior though, so it doesn't matter.)

Anyway, books…early reading, and reading since…what reading seemed to mean to my family…the horrible periods of time that I couldn’t read because of no access to books, or even worse, no ability to concentrate…the times I couldn’t stop reading... This big subject could almost use its own blog, my gosh.

To try to help myself get started – yes, I am intimidated by this topic – I looked for a section I remembered from one of my draft novels. OK, yes, it is a romance novel, but I don’t always refer to it as that, don’t want to pigeonhole it, would prefer it considered in a special category. (I would like myself considered in a special category! In all things. Unique is the way to go.)

Even if not a published writer, I have written a lot of stuff in my 48 years and it feels good that I have something available to borrow when needed…don’t have to create after a long day at work, can ethically steal (great phrase!) from myself.

Although actually this excerpt below was hard to clean up – when I last worked on it, in 2002, I was not yet on anxiety meds and could only write creatively if I put a huge number of question marks in every sentence. It made me too anxious to make actual final word decisions when I was in the creative mode – I left that for the editing phase, which never came – I mean, which hasn’t come yet. If I live to be 100 I know I will have time/resources-energy to finish this particular book! Given 50 years to procrastinate that ship will finally dock, I think.

My blog readers might find a few questions marks cute, but not dozens, not in 2-3 paragraphs…so I must draw on the anxiety-suppressing meds I swallowed this morning (hours ago), and persevere.

DEEP BREATH. (And yes, big gulp of Chardonnay.) I am going to take out question marks, delete mysterious phrases, add missing words, and basically smooth out the sentences. This is not to submit to a Manhattan book publisher – this is for a Tuesday night blog post. And the finished product will almost surely NOT please me anyway. I wrote it years ago! I have evolved since then and so has my writing. Why didn’t I just do this from scratch...is editing really easier than creating? Is the editor part of my brain still awake? OOOOKKKKKAAAAYYYY. Geez – it is such a short excerpt – but so hard to contemplate an unfinished novel – where is my wine glass…

***

Beth was hard on herself that she didn’t have more pop cultural knowledge as defined by, for example, Wheel of Fortune – not that Wheel of Fortune was the height of culture, but game participants and viewers were assumed to have a certain degree of cultural knowledge. She read a lot of library books but too much teen romance (1950s teen romances, which the library had a lot of, plus a few recent Judy Blumes) and Harold Robbins. She had read the newspaper – at least skimmed it – for 3 World Events topics during a high school social studies project. Had clipped a couple of recipes since… Maybe the problem was not enough primetime TV (the family still had TV rules, just having finally gotten a TV hadn't busted open the floodgates) and not enough nonfiction. Beth knew she mostly stayed in her own world – not the junior high world. Not the hometown world. Lots of visits to fictional worlds, but…

She had done what she could to move her level of knowledge up toward an adult notch. Not at an adult notch, but aiming that direction. One day she came home and announced, “Mother, I checked out some books from the adult section,” and her mother had said OK. Having already – if unknowingly – started her last year on earth, although having a not-bad day, Mother did sound a little weak and distracted. Beth didn’t clearly see that sad future either, but she immediately felt some guilt because she didn’t think a complete, coherent approval had been approved from her mother. Mother probably assumed Beth, who was an early and good reader, needed more challenge book-wise.

Yes, Beth felt guilty over having sneaked Harold Robbins and his smarmy writer compatriots past her mother this way, but once she started with Robbins she didn’t want to stop and the ability to continue without confrontation felt more important than complete honesty. She was far from articulating what would later become a prime philosophy of hers, “It’s OK to tell a white lie when you know people don’t want the truth.” But she knew that when the grandmother-age librarian lady usually stationed at the desk, who unfortunately attended her church, balked at stamping the Harold Robbins check-out cards and worse, suggested that she read some kind of smarmy series about somebody with freckles – sounded like an extra-boring Anne of Green Gables – she should hold her head high. “Mother knows I am checking these out.” There wasn’t much that grandma-lady could say that to that.

Of course the next time Beth checked out another book that – in Beth’s mind – would prove to be a valuable resource in understanding about pornography, prostitution, and transvestites in general – the Grandma librarian would ask again about the Freckles series. But Beth would hang tough.

Beth suspected her junior high peers weren't reading these books. They knew more than Beth about almost everything in the pop culture. But they were strangers to Harold Robbins. Yeah.

Line in the Sand

2010-08-31T22:08:00.006-05:00

Periodically someone whose opinion is important to me makes a comment that brings up this topic – drawing a line between self and work (not so different from the line between self and family…but that’s too long a topic for one little nightly blog).

From 1986 to 2000 I worked for an executive search firm that was obsessive, as most of the successful ones are, with client service. (One of the best ways to justify high prices, apparently.) We admin assistants usually had to take up the slack on ignored deadlines – our bosses would run out to do something they pretended was important – with a client or their personal lives, their personal lives of course being more important than ours. I remember many instances of making family or friends wait while I finished typing or proofing or copying a project to get it in that night’s Fedex, or even canceled doctor appointments when an important client or even just a prospective client (any degree of client being God in that environment) was waiting for something from us.

In our office we had a saying that the more dysfunctional admins were more successful. I don’t think we spelled it out to each other but we admins, maybe even the bosses, all had some degree of awareness that those who were children of alcoholics and/or motherless daughters, and in some sad cases women in currently abusive relationships, did “better” at putting up with the pressure to sacrifice self.

The New York office had a different cultural dynamic than our Dallas one – there the admins still worked very hard and probably made similar sacrifices but were known to utter comments like this infamous though brilliant “Enough!!!” cry:

"And why don't you stick a broom up my butt while you’re at it, then I can sweep the floor while I type!”

Even after I was no longer an admin and had transferred to a sister company that did less pricey work but still prided itself on customer service, I found myself working evenings and weekends. The overtime wasn’t specifically requested of me but I was praised as someone who “got” business needs and showed a sense of urgency and service orientation

Only after my 6 months at home in 2002 (I had volunteered for a severance package to focus on my writing) did I really pull back from the martyr end of the worker continuum. After I went back to the corporate world – in a job with yes, a client service focus since that was what I knew and had a pedigree in – I still grieved for the months at home when Sarah was both boss and employee, peer and janitor, everything. I missed the world where only Sarah made the rules, scary and imperfect as that world was (no completed novel, no paycheck, frequent questioning of my talent and my work ethic…sunny fun!, yes). That sense of loss hasn’t sunk down too far from the surface years later, but I have a strongly automatic response to the sad twinges: “You need a paycheck!” Yes, OK.

The psychotherapists of my lifetime have had varied perspectives on office pressures. One took extra pains to listen since she was developing a subspecialty as a workplace coach, my current one is experienced and compassionate enough to let me tell my story and respond as if the story is new. But another therapist, that I saw briefly in the early 1990s and think of as the Monkey Man (he was small and hairy with a twisted expression, once I spotted him on Greenville Avenue in an expensive convertible and I swear, he looked like a monkey in a clown car), was determined not to see anything positive in my attachment to my job.

Here is some good perspective on Dr. H, who by the way was recommended to me by a former therapist, a wonderful and helpful and sensitive guy, who had moved out of state – one day I waited 10 minutes past our start time for Dr. H. to come out of his office into the waiting room. (He had a solo practice with no receptionist). At which time he barked at me for not knocking. I said, I didn’t knock because your door is usually open so I thought you might still have a patient in there. He said, But this is your appointment time. Don’t you think enough of yourself to announce your arrival? (oooookkkkkaaaayyy)

Now you see, or wonder, why I kept going to him for multiple months – well…because he was so extremely challenging of my personality type that I thought I might get some good balance out of it. And when I fired him – which in the therapy world means, calling to say, “I’m not coming back,” without agreeing to come in for a goodbye session – it felt really good.

In our most memorable session, after what I admit was a l-o-n-g Sarah Monologue about a Rubik’s Cube set of international travel arrangements I had had to make for a client, covering time zones including China, and requiring me to go in early and stay in late and check messages from home (folks, this was before the Age of Email, so checking in from home was especially cumbersome), Dr. H. asked this thunderously resonant question, in reference to work-life barriers (come to think of it, I don’t think the phrase “work-life balance” had been invented yet either):

Why don't you draw a line in the sand with your boss.

My response was immediate, since I had thought about this question – even if it had not been directly asked of me – a lot and defended my choices a lot: “Well, the admins who draw that line, and stay on the side of it, are not successful in my office environment.”

His response was a monkey-like smirk.

“So....Dr. H., are you saying that it’s not possible for a well-adjusted person to be a successful admin assistant?”

In my memory, he just kept smirking at that.

I meant to mention earlier – it sounds quite dysfunctional to mention it here – really, it sounds dysfunctional anywhere I would mention it…my boss and his wife always made a point of remembering me on all holidays (including Valentine’s Day and Halloween), work anniversaries and birthdays. Think of the impact of this on a 20-something, even 30-something motherless daughter who felt lost in a family of 3 siblings and 6 stepsiblings. My boss D. and his wife felt like my family in a way. And I expected family to expect things from me. Yep. That was our office dynamic.

After Dr. H. I tried to stay with therapists who were at least willing to discuss my work dynamics – to talk through the complexities with me – without making blunt statements and donning monkey faces.

I made the big career break with the big boss D. in 2000, but I made a smaller, earlier break in 1997 when I stayed in the same office but transferred from him to supporting two junior partners. At first it was a blessed relief – the pressure of our workload and our 11 years together had gotten me to the point of literally yelling at him to get his attention – but I found that within a few months, hell maybe even just weeks, I missed working for him. It was partly the prestige – an admin’s rank is clearly determined by the rank of her boss – but I also missed the busy days, the sense of work importance, the Being Needed, with capital letters. My then-therapist, the workplace coach type, said there might be an important lesson in learning to embrace the less-busy daily reality that my new bosses generated, but I confess that idea made even less sense to me than “line in the sand.”

My old job was available because my replacement, a tough-talking Chicago native who told me proudly in the interview that she was “Not afraid to say no to people like him” (and I don’t think I imagined the dig at Southern-gal Sarah in there) had had one issue too many with D. and was ready to move on. Her story was that she questioned D.’s ethics. His version was that she had made too many major mistakes (this could have happened to anyone…but one night she parked a super-important binder of client info in an empty cardboard box without noticing the box had an old “trash” sign on it…). After I went back to D., more than one client told me that my temporarily permanent replacement did not have my customer service orientation.

For a long time this same woman was the only person I knew who had returned a shelter dog to the shelter, after having given up on him. I think I connected that with her giving up on a tough office job. Saying it was the right thing to do, but basically not being up for the challenge.

But…this July I also gave back a dog that I had earlier sworn to love. That experience changes a person’s judgment of situations, self and others.

These days I really try not to work more than 40 hours. Yes, finally, I consider myself more important than the job. (And I have guilt repercussions for that. Maybe genetic, definitely familial. More therapy is needed…)

But the job I have right now does not generally demand – at least not loudly – more than I offer. During the mega-hours-a-week years I got superlative reviews and frequent raises. And often a bonus. And annual profit sharing. That was their part of the deal. They met it.

So, what is the moral. I don’t know, and I won’t ask the Monkey Doc. But it needs more therapy…enlightened therapy. Non-simian.

Chips & Drink, the perfect unbalanced meal

2010-08-25T19:50:00.007-05:00

One of the combos that drove me toward a diet – and that I most miss, being on a diet – is having chips (pita chips, sesame sticks, anything starchy and salty) and wine for dinner. I never quench my hunger or thirst with this combo and I keep wanting more. That’s mostly in the past tense…mostly. Tonight I have had 2 (make it 3, 4) almonds, 6 (6-plus) pieces of turkey pepperoni…and “some” wine” so far. (And I still might eat a real dinner. You never know.)

In an earlier cycle of overdrinking and being overweight, 2006 version, my favorite chips were one of those snack mixes – wheat Sun Chips, little cheesy bits, I forget what else. Back then Miller Lite was my beverage. Slurp, snack, repeated a million times…again, never got full, finally got drunk, definitely got bloated from the salt. When I realized in 06 that my blood pressure was up, I stopped buying that kind of snack mix.

(That was a funny end of paragraph above, but true. I did some other good things, but not great things to improve my lifestyle. I am still on blood pressure meds. There wasn’t a nice long PS to “stopped buying that kind of snack mix.” The stopping of the buying of that particular poison was pretty much a standalone thing.)

Yes, I have had chips since – and after the beer years, the wine years came – and that food & drink combo still sounds so good when I get home from work. Is it the self-indulgence, the naughtiness? Maybe just the salt…maybe whatever feel-good chemicals come from giving into a food addiction. Or obsession, compulsion…what’s more acceptable to say, what’s more realistic. I usually say addiction because it feels right – self-critical, but right. Not very compassionate, but I don’t waste my best compassion on myself, haha.

Can I for the rest of my life blame my junk food love on my deprived childhood? And some definitions are needed – I don’t love all junk food, but the kinds I do get a deep and guilty love – something that feels illicit, almost sexual? (Maybe for a Libra food is the sexiest thing, at least consciously – LOL – we Libras have deep layers.) My childhood wasn’t deprived of food by any means – we always had plenty to eat and the cookie jar was full of homemade stuff. And we also got certain junk food items, like Oreos, Hershey bars, greasy hamburgers – for special occasions. (Mother added the cheese at home, why pay an extra 10 cents…you know there is a novella in there somewhere!) Now, what kind of message does that send, processed food being a treat!

Well, I know the message it sent me…I am a special person and I want every day to be special. (I think we know where that kind of thinking leads. Serial killers would be one end of that spectrum...)

My first real paycheck was from a summer job when I was 17. My stepmom suggested I write down everything I spent it on. In a new spiral notebook, I wrote down 3 magazines, 2 candy bars…looked at the page and thought, Uh no, this documentation thing is not for me.

And I am still paycheck-to-paycheck in 2010, still prefer to forget everything I just spent money on.

Around that same teen age, I discovered a prehistoric version of what became today’s Chips & Wine. I would get an order of fries from the Tomball Sonic, with a medium or large Coke. (I don’t think Diet Coke had even been invented yet…but I wouldn’t have ordered that because this wasn’t really a diet meal.) My theory was that since I was not getting a hamburger or hot dog, I was cutting calories. I remember feeling virtuous as I ate! I thought this combo was an advanced version of the tip my older cousin (and guru in all womanly things including the art of the diet) had said years before, “You don’t have to eat all the Thanksgiving dishes – just focus on the ones you really like.” Eureka! So I could have just dressing, beans, mashed potatoes and 2 kinds of pie at Thanksgiving. (No turkey, cranberries, salad, sweet potatoes – belatedly I see I was skipping the healthy parts. Oh well!) And at the Sonic I could have fries and a soda.

My eating life has had cycles of binging and cycles of dieting, and French fries have been woven into all of the above. I remember baking frozen French fries on a little pan and tearing dainty pieces of one slice of cheese to anoint the fries. Someone else in the room with me (some stupid man, a family friend circa the 1970s) said, You can’t eat that on a diet. He was wrong! I knew exactly how many calories I was preparing, and it wasn’t many. (And it wasn’t filling. And it didn’t have vitamins. But I was young so my body manufactured vitamins out of the humid Tomball air.)

Here I am, out of Tomball but still in the state of Texas, summer 2010. Still craving the wrong foods. Still spending my paycheck on the wrong foods! Just another cog in the state’s economic machine, I guess.

Actually, I don't feel quite so freakish during State Fair time of year...chocolate covered bacon, Krispy Kreme cheeseburgers...those and more nasty recipes are part of this year's pre-Fair hype. Why, I am relatively mainstream in my appetites!

Determined!!! to get Back to the Blog

2010-08-23T19:27:00.007-05:00

I did update my Grateful/Grieving section a month ago – but the last blog post was TWO months ago. Really? That’s even worse than I remembered. Glad I didn’t check the date because I would have been even more down about the situation than I’ve been not knowing the date.

Have been combinations of busy, lazy, not feeling good and otherwise buried semi-alive under Dallas heat. At what point do the discomfort/inertia and the procrastination merge? Hard to say, maybe too frustrating to speculate on. But tonight I had a little zip of energy – it’s a week since my sinus-allergy explosion hit – and I am determined to blog something. Something. It won’t be perfect. But it will be sent live.

At an earlier point in the murky summer I was wanting to blog about the flip sides of Grateful & Grieving. The list at that time (June? July?) lent itself better to that. Tonight, with my updated list, I am not so vividly aware of the two sides of things. Well actually I am, because I have yin-yang notes with several entries, but I guess now I’m back to my usual personal style of putting the contrast right up there with the original statement. Immediate shades of gray, cross-hatching of black with white (like when you choose a pattern in Microsoft Excel for shading), that’s me.

Also back in the summer's murk, a friend asked a question that annoyed me at the time: "If you could change one thing, what would it be?" Gray-area Sarah doesn’t like those questions but since this was asked after a litany of my whining about everything not up to par in my life, I gave some thought to it. Actually I answered him right away, “I would wear Chucks to work.” He and others laughed, but I was serious. Every morning I grieve that I can’t start dressing by choosing my Chucks first, and when my feet get hot and tired in non-white non-cotton socks and non-canvas shoes, I grieve more.

The dress code is not within my power to change. I have tried to strategize ways that it could be, but it isn’t.

My next thought for what I would most want to change (I hate corny phrases), kind of casting about, was… “I would like to lose weight.” That surprised me a bit. I have been wanting to lose weight for years, and it has been years since any diet attempt was successful for more than 3 days.

Finally, I had a perfect storm of diet motivation. (Yes, amazingly...I should say, "Finally...amazingly...") Observing overweight others, being startled how I looked in a recent photo, realizing even my feet were getting fatter (the Chucks were tight!, and I have hundreds of size 7’s!). And my friend’s question was also important, because it somehow propelled me past the “I should” approach to dieting to a personal version of what I would gain from the journey, not just the outcome – every day would bring a greater feeling of control, I would be heading toward a goal. More corny stuff but when you come out of the perfect storm, the corn becomes a strong crop. It’s where you choose to put your efforts.

I had been unblogged for so long that when I found my spiral pad of notes, I had forgotten what was on there. Actually…that felt kind of good. Sometimes I feel too aware of my thoughts and to-dos and everything else. Being lost in this summer has been miserable but finding my way back to blogging has felt like an adventure hike – more natural than I usually am, me against the elements, not so much preplanning…not so much second-guessing or play-by-play criticism.

Another topic note on the green page: “How am I doing? Fine? Bad? How do I know?” When I hear Craig describe my state of being as “fine” to relatives who ask on the phone, I want to correct him, but to say what? The people that life assigns as your relatives are not necessarily likely to understand or want details of how you aren’t fine. And even when talking to people who I would consider to be some degree of a Sarah Intimate, I would not necessarily be so likely to give details.

Maybe the “I’m fine” comes from me after all – not from Craig – or not just from Craig – or not originally from Craig, or…

No, it’s not that simple. The inner Sarah wants an audience for her voice. She doesn’t want to be squelched. But sometimes she is too tired – too beat down – too hot – to go into details. And sometimes it feels kind of comfortable to pretend that Craig is the one who doesn’t invite questions about the state of “fine,” while Sarah hibernates with a book in another room.

"One More Chapter" by Belinda Del Pesco

http://belindadelpesco.blogspot.com/

Painful new features

2010-06-29T20:47:00.006-05:00

Why is it so hard to start blogging again after a break…what is the biggest problem – perfectionism? Lost the pipeline of paragraphs-in-development? Inertia? Maybe it’s more specifically June-July, Dallas heat.

I have been thinking for a while about retiring the Endorphin Index and Addiction Archive – they are getting repetitive anyway, I always eat and drink too much and buy too much art and worry about family and have a hard time dragging myself to work – even I run out of different ways to say that.

But inspired by artist-blogger’s Tilly Strauss’s list of “grateful for,” which I find more inspiring for its no-frills format, I have been wanting to do two new sections: Grateful For and Grieving For. Tilly is an internet friend and responded on her blog, http://tillystudio.blogspot.com/ , that she liked the idea of a Grieving list. She has been doing a gorgeous multi-media series on the topic of her divorce and several pieces of that had to do with grief, so I knew it wasn’t too far from her consciousness.

While driving to work this week (isn’t that everyone’s best time to think?) I started on a Grieving list and it seemed to stretch out exponentially. So now I am having creative blockage writing it down – will it scare most people?, will it offend certain people?, will writing and reading it make me feel worse? Can I really focus on a Grateful For list or is that just a feeble thing offered as a balance to the long list of complaints? And I also realize that the Grateful For and Grieving For lists have different qualities, not just quantities. Grieving is sometimes, at least for me, easier to identify. Grateful I take for granted – or do I? Of course the relative weights and merits shift often, if not constantly. But there is still a sense of Sad-Bad List and Good List, the two being separate.

Now, maybe that last sentence is something to focus on – can I take things to another level so that I see good in the grief, at least some parts of it? Yeah maybe, but not tonight. I am intimidating myself with this idea – stop it. Of course I am good at finding grief in the good. I think I was born with that skill!, certainly had it back as far as toddler years, LOL.

GRATEFUL FOR:
(Not necessarily in priority order – please readers, don’t nitpick about that, I am trying not to obsess about it.) Husband, job, house, sister/father, cousin-sister-friend, other important family and friends. Those that are not part of the problem are usually an important part of the solution!, or at least make the process bearable. Friends include internet friends! Therapist, therapy family, favorite authors, favorite painters – my art collection. Blog readers!, if not already covered in the friends mention. The renewing human body that absorbs so many of my excesses. Dogs – when they are good, and I guess as a learning experience even when they are bad. The good parts of my genetics. The low cost of living in Texas.

GRIEVING FOR:
Certain aspects of the jobs I used to have – special handling of my special talents, projects that utilized both sides of my brain. A work dress code relaxed enough to allow Chucks. Two living brothers, a living mother. The slimmer body I used to have (and didn’t appreciate…but that’s another story). The available credit I used to have…the retirement savings I used to have. The healthy feeling of my feet and legs in the cooler temperatures of mid-June London and Paris – the energy and stamina I had there, sigh.

WOW! The Grieving list was relatively short! Am I too drunk, too tired to keep listing or to amplify my thoughts...or maybe (maybe) writing down the most compelling bad-sad controlled it somewhat.

There may be more, or a lot more, next time - but that's OK. (I can state that with certainty after a big gulp of Chardonnay.)

London 2003 - Dukes Bar, WEDNESDAY night

2010-06-04T19:54:00.017-05:00

(isn't this stolen web image JUST like me?, LOL)

[After a long day of sightseeing I spent a couple of evening hours at the Victoria & Albert Museum, where I had already had a glass of wine…one of the many pleasant features of their weekly “Late View,” where selected galleries were open late and there was food, wine and live music. K. had originally agreed to go with me but then said she was very tired and had too much work to do. I knew this was a working trip for her but it was still a little disappointing and I had trouble suppressing the thought that she had never been gung-ho about the idea anyway... I had noticed that her ideas got canceled less than mine did.]

It wasn’t all that late when I got back to the room, but K. was prone on top of her bed, in her jeans and t-shirt, as if she had had a surprise energy wipe-out in the middle of doing something. She stirred when I entered the room but wasn’t able to say much. Although her laptop was open on the sofa, the screen was dark – in fairness, that was probably a screen saver feature, but I had enough bitchy feeling left in me to suspect she might never have turned it on, because there were no papers sitting around and her briefcase was closed. However, it seemed obvious she wasn’t up for any social activity, and I admonished myself that there was little point in my taking her wipeout personally.

I shrugged off my coat, picked up the key again and stated pleasantly that I was going down to the bar. Any remaining doubt I might have had about how K. was feeling was settled by her not making any pretense of joining me, unusual for her since she is definitely the over-commitment, “Do till you drop” type (which of course I envy/admire). Instead, in response to my announced leaving, she slid down to an even flatter position on the bed, which moved her to the zone of appearing so pathetic that I felt I couldn’t (didn’t want to) have any residual resentment over finishing my evening alone. I laid the room key down on top of a spiral pad to carry both downstairs – although the prospect of attempting to get down detail on even my few days so far was still overwhelming, making trip notes was going to be my prop/justification for sitting at a table alone to have more wine.

This time I sat in the outside room – nearest the entrance, not the seating area closer to the bar. There seemed to be fewer people here. I saw clusters of fancy-looking couples out together, which was kind of depressing given my solo social state, but at least they didn’t seem too drunkenly loud yet. My waiter, the younger-looking bar employee from the night before, introduced himself as Tony. He remembered me well, asking, “No most post cards?” Hoping I sounded wittily appreciative and not too desperately grateful to have made conversational contact, I laughingly replied, “No, it’s my diary tonight…I did 20 post cards yesterday.” Tony seemed properly shocked (which isn’t the same as being impressed) at this postcard count.

I was sure this guy was the one I had seen on the Dukes web site, making a martini at a counter stagily set with a heaped silver dish of olives and an over-large lemon that had a strip missing (ostensibly cut off to make a garnishing twist for the drink). Tony himself was shown with a smirky expression that could have meant a personality disorder or just shy nervousness at being photographed for the web. Even if I hadn’t seen him on the Dukes site, Tony would have seemed familiar, because he kind of looked like a Central Casting Italian (which is probably cliched racism, but seems to reflect how people’s minds work) – meaning, medium-sized, early-mid-aged Italian type, with the expected accent but also the expected English ability, so that he could talk to you in enjoyably-accented English (enjoyable to listen to, adding to the evening ambience and whatever sense of Anglophile superiority one might have had).

In retrospect, Tony was a very significant character of my week, even if just by my learning his name. Funnily (embarrassingly) enough, when I got home and unloaded the extra business cards that I had taken in my purse (packed despite my insecurity/self-consciousness that no one anywhere on the globe would want to know Sarah) in case I made some Brit pen-pal friends, I had to admit to my socially-challenged self that I had hardly learned anyone’s name in England except Tony, “Sam Elliott” (who may or may not have really been the Gilberto so familiarly mentioned on Graffiti Wall as the go-to man for offsite Italian dining), the Canadians Mary Ann and her sister (sadly, I had no clue of the sister’s name) that I met at Tower of London, and also from Monday’s tour, guide David and John-the-driver (David’s term for him).

Maybe it was because of the hour – later than when I had come down the night before – but tonight my table top held no snacks, no nuts or crackers. I didn’t know if this was something to do with the table size (a two-seater tonight instead of Tuesday’s four chairs), or with the time of day. Maybe it was assumed that everyone in here now had already had dinner and wasn’t hungry, although I would have thought that by Continental standards, any time prior to 10:00 was too early to assume that anyone had a full stomach.

At several daytime (and sober) points of the trip, I had entertained the idea of having champagne next time I found myself at a bar – the concept seemed appropriately romantic and celebratory, since I was on a special trip (maybe even the “trip of my lifetime,” since it was possible I would never get the money together to come back after this) – but when asked for my order in an actual bar, I continued to vote for Chardonnay, even though I was never quite sure whether Chardonnay was actually the variety of white wine I was being served. Maybe I subconsciously went for Chardonnay because in the U.S. such a request often gets you a generic potion, and here I was hoping I would get a similarly cheapish bar brand of white wine, and thinking that this would be easier and better to chug than something truly special or expensive.

Tonight I made a feeble attempt at “branching out” and instructed Tony, “A white wine…whatever you think…” He seemed happy with my pliability – or maybe he and the bar staff were tired of looking for a bottle of Chardonnay for me, since for all I know, actual Chardonnay is in short supply in London. Whatever Tony’s personal thoughts were on the matter, I have to say that the wine he promptly brought me tasted a lot like the “Chardonnay” I had had the night before (and the white wine of Sunday’s room service).

As a change from my usual procedure, I forced myself to try sipping it slowly – my previous gulping style wasn’t conducive to nursing the wine long enough to last for a decent amount of writing. The writing needed to be my focus tonight, and I wanted to get a big chunk of writing done, in my real notebook – not on the back of something, like an afterthought, as happened the night before. Just having brought down the notebook had increased my feeling of trip-recording/diary pressure, although it also felt nicely official and validating to have a dedicated notebook. A notebook that was already partially filled might have lessened the pressure, but I always pack fresh new ones for a trip…as if I might get marooned, and inspired (out of boredom due to the marooning), and write my way through all the empty pages.

The wine helped push down the curling tendrils of writing-panic – more wine would have been a stronger anxiety suppressor, but I needed to be mindful of the delicately narrow balance between alcohol-triggered creativity and confusion born of too much alcohol. I knew I had crossed over to confusion on Postcard Night – I was embarrassed to remember how after I finished each postcard I started murmuring aloud the sentences I had just written, to see if they made sense or whether I had left out key words. I wanted to stay in an anxiety-managed but still coherent zone for as long as I could manage it tonight. This zone shares a highly permeable border with the land of compulsive writing and rabid getting-down of details, but I knew there was no way to avoid all the discomforts of such proximity.

I really did have just one glass of wine, although since the Dukes bar was generous with portions (which felt almost virtuously welcome here, since as a guest I only had to stumble upstairs to get to a safe sleeping place), it was not a small one, although not inappropriately overfilled either. Rather surprisingly, Tony didn’t bring me any unwanted refills – maybe he was busy, or my table on the side of the room was away from his main circuit of other customers, but he proved to be easier to manage than Gilberto/Sam E. had on the previous night. I don’t think I sounded more insistent or stern with Tony than I had with Gilberto, but maybe Gilberto had picked up on the negation (“No means yes”) in my giggly/slushy tone, a sound that I didn’t have enough grape in me to achieve tonight. It also helped that now I was alert enough to signal by dragging my hand up to cover my glass when I saw Tony come through the doorway. Or, maybe the lesser emphasis on refills was a feature of this outer bar room, somehow related to there not being free snacks on the tables when I sat down.

Having less wine may have contributed to my somewhat negative mood, or maybe this was just a classic symptom of being past the halfway point of my trip, on the waning end. Wednesday was my fourth day of being in a hotel where clearly all the other guests had a more glamorous, affluent life than mine. Although now comfortably ensconced in the Dukes bar, I didn’t feel settled there and reflected that I was kind of ready for a change from this posh hotel. I really didn’t fit in at Dukes, although none of the staff or other guests had been rude enough to outwardly hint at this.

My lifestyle was probably several cuts above that of most of the brown-toothed Dukes employees [who by their accents I guessed were immigrants from Eastern Europe], but this perspective didn’t ameliorate my state of covetousness toward the other guests. A somehow wealthy-seeming and otherwise imposing lady (in a simply cut skirt and blouse but with real-looking gems in her necklace and earrings) came walking out from the room that was nearer to the bar, and she called out a hello to Tony as he was leaving a table near me. To her bossily plaintive comment, “We were here at Christmas but you weren’t here!”, Tony replied in a respectful/seemingly sincere manner.

The act of my writing was mostly involving, but in other ways almost boring, as I flew [well, maybe not that weightless of a transition] back and forth between a chronological listing and important/must-get-down stuff that I was compelled to add even out of sequence. Since I have shifted mental gears like this for most of my life, I was able to stay on track (such as the track was) and the wine (even one glass of it) helped the interruptions feel less schizo than they would have normally. Despite the loud conversation in the bar (the volume was high only by genteel Dukes standards), most of the words were pretty easy to tune out, except for snatches that I absorbed intermittently and reacted to in a patchwork combination of interest and annoyance.

I admit that some of my gut responses were born of jealousy… The two couples at the table near the window were having a conversation guaranteed to intimidate an American of my working class – I heard one of the guys mention “my new BMW” more than once, in a tone meant to convey that this was one of a series of the car that he had purchased. It’s not that I would never hear this in the States, but my attention was grabbed by how somehow similar and yet subtly different it sounded here. The matter-of-fact tone and brevity of his comment almost seemed to express modesty, yet the fact that he had announced a purchase and specified a brand name had to be some form of a grab for attention. It seemed to me that in America this category of rich but pretending-to-be-modest people was fairly rare – American rich people either hid their money completely or shouted the exact (or inflated) amounts of it from the rooftops.

I tried to keep in mind that I wasn’t versed on all the class complexities of London bar conversation – these people weren’t necessarily old money, they could even have been ordinary suburban dwellers, but I now had a general idea how expensive it was to park, buy and gas a car in the London area, and a BMW, while not the highest-price option, was still an expensive car. The men were wearing office-type suits and the ladies were in nice blouses and skirts which could either have been nice office clothes or cocktail-time attire. No one had on anything traditionally English-tweedy or elbow-patched, but I was kind of hoping to see or hear something English-cliched so I could more neatly categorize this group. My desire was met when the other man at the table, who looked beef-fed (with a thick head, broad shoulders and blond hair like a Midwestern football player), said in a somewhat grim tone that I think was meant to convey casual pride, something about getting a “viller” in Mustique and inviting everyone there to visit. I almost clapped my hands in glee at the classically British-Continental pronunciation of “villa” (a luxurious country house) with an “R” stuck on the end – this was the kind of people-watching/listening I had been wanting.

I realize that a broader cross-section of classes go on sun holidays from the U.K. as compared to the U.S. – since southern Europe is not so far away and there’s a big business in all price ranges of vacation rentals and timeshares in Spain and other countries that get hot and sunny for at least most of the year. However, I had a dim idea that Mustique was not a cheap resort, and it struck me that the beefy guy mentioned it in the kind of commonplace way a Texan would refer to going to Galveston or Padre Island for the weekend.

Even allowing for real estate agency hype on the sites I found in my later web research on Mustique, the prevalent adjectives “luxury, privacy, celebrity” reinforced that we weren’t talking about a place in any way resembling the Texas Gulf Coast. This “unspoiled” Caribbean island (with only one hotel but many private “villa rentals”) was originally developed by the British for its sugar trade, then purchased by a private individual, and was only opened to outsiders in 1968. Between the original development by the first British people and the 1960s opening to visitors, I was struck by a couple of timeline items – “the native tribes were quickly decimated with the arrival of European planters” and “the English fought off invading French troops.” I doubt that today’s visitor has any awareness of anything in any way turbulent in the island’s past.

Per Villa-Rentals.com, the Mustique development company provides a video library with over 500 movies!, a number that is meant to impress us since the island is only 1 ½ miles by 3 miles and contains less than 200 homes. CaribbeanVacationGuide.com explained, “The tiny island is not easily accessible without a private plane or yacht,” and told me that these private planes have carried homeowners and visitors “the likes of” Mick Jagger, Phil Collins, Princess Margaret, Kate Moss and Calvin Klein.

Even before realizing that Princess Margaret was a Mustique fan, I knew I had little in common with a person who was talking about going there. I was getting fussy from reminders of my economic and cultural status, which was definitely a part of my looking forward to a return to more modest activities and more laid-back creature comforts. When I changed hotels tomorrow I would be in a different part of town, and I thought I had seen on an Internet map that there was a movie theater near the St. Giles. I felt a disproportionate sense of excitement that I could soon enjoy the simple pleasure of seeing a movie (and not feeling much concern about what movie might be showing), which told me that I was definitely on the low end of my trip if I was craving the kind of time-killing comfort I would have availed myself of at home.

Still sober enough to efficiently multi-task, I listened to this foursome by the window while scribbling fairly furiously about what I had eaten and who had annoyed me in the last several days of my trip. I wasn’t sure what the exact mix was of my being a little trip-fussy (thinking about home and simple, non-Dukes comforts) and being more specifically annoyed with the personalities of the two couples. There was also a mixture of my being intimidated by their apparent wealth, degree of sophistication, and London-ness – and my strongly wondering how much class they really had by London standards. It was inarguable that they were from a different country than I was, but they were less surely of a vastly different class than me.

They spoke in gay (upbeat) tones and what I was pretty sure (from the brandy snifters and wine glasses in front of them) was a glibly liquored manner. I continued to struggle to categorize them – just when I became bored by the pedestrian nature of their topics, such as “We’re due for a parent-teacher meeting soon…” (spoken by a man and woman in unison) and “I’m feeling a bit nervous about having the laser surgery…” (from the blond lady, slightly plumper than the brunette one, but still very trim, with a short, smooth bob of hair) – they talked about something closer to what I would consider a human interest category. The Mustique Guy went on about a mutual friend who, according to him, continued to “Look for the wrong elements in her relationships.” This seemed a bit non-macho as a topic – I think Craig and his male friends occasionally discuss their single friends’ psychological problems, but my impression is that they have to be drunk on whiskey, and/or high on cigar smoke, to do so. Unfortunately for my piqued interest, the group immediately went from talking about the girl who loved wrongly to discussing mutual friends who had died. I couldn’t always identify the voices and I wasn’t facing the table – I was only clear that it was the beefy blond guy who had mentioned Mustique because I turned to stare when he first said that vacation word, and I also knew from that same brief look to blame him for the reek of cigar smoke that continued to permeate the room.

I think it was the Mustique Guy who said in a loudly heartfelt way that so-and-so was “a great chap…” and “You know his wife died of cancer…?” Everyone murmured appropriately after hearing the C-word, and when someone mentioned that the specific disease was breast cancer, they uttered a group “Umm-hmm” at the unfortunate commonness of this disease. When the guy continued, “He calls my son every morning, to check in with him,” this comment got a few approving-type murmurs too, although it sounded odd to me. How many male family friends call someone’s young son every morning, to the approval of the parents? Maybe these people were desperately looking for any type of positive socialization for their kids – all four of them went on about how their kids watched “too many DVDs,” a complaint which certainly put them closer to an American-middle-class range of parental problems.

They conversationally ended their evening with what I felt was a letdown of jet-setting class – the brunette lady with slightly past shoulder-length hair cut in an expensively casual/girlish style giggled that she had had too much wine, and oh dear, now she had to make her way on foot to the Tube. My surprise at hearing this went along with my disdain at the OLDH tour agent’s Monday question of what tube stop Dukes was near, but I was beginning to realize that my dismissal of the subway was misguided snobbery – how silly of me to think I knew what was and was not within proper social parameters for an upper class of people. And how logistically narrow-thinking I had been – probably their fabulous/palatial (historic?/inherited?) London homes were right by a tube stop and they had learned it didn’t make sense to drive and have the hassle of parking…or maybe they lived in a suburb that was very ritzy but near enough the city to be on a tube stop. My never having ventured onto the subway didn’t show any kind of superiority, it just made me look more like an ignorant American tourist.

Belatedly, my limited degree of altruistic concern for my fellow man kicked in and I realized it was doubtful that these people were sober enough to drive their own cars home anyway. I assumed that Britain had little tolerance for drunk driving, and in this (as in few other U.K. cultural and legal things) I was correct. Per the U.S. Department of State’s Consular Information site, “U.K. penalties for drunk driving are stiff and often result in prison sentences.” A novelty site with semi-serious travel info, “American Girls Are Easy” (subtitled, How to Find a Man in Europe and Leave Him There) says that the British are “extreme” about drunk driving and gives the interestingly practical example that if your date is “caught with keys in his pocket and he’s within 50 feet of his car, he can be arrested for a DUI.” I’m not sure how reliable a source “American Girls” is for U.K. facts, due to the goofy meanness of some of its tips and insights (example: “There’s nothing noteworthy about the dogs in Britain, but you might be curious to know that the nation’s number one road kill is the hedgehog”) but I was impressed that the site went to the trouble to clarify (in its acid tongue) a common subject of tourist confusion: “Great Britain is England, Scotland and Wales. The United Kingdom is Great Britain plus Northern Ireland. Most people don’t understand this technicality, nor do they care.”

Tony didn’t protest my request for my check much more than he had expressed disapproval (with a small frown and a slight shake of his head) at my refusal of more wine. I was gratified that I felt clear-headed after my one glass of wine – this made it easier than usual to figure out how much British money to leave, and I felt more confident than usual about my calculation. Maybe I had drawn energy from the process of writing out my inner thoughts (having finally started in earnest to belch forth a degree of detail that it was unlikely anyone would even pretend interest in)…and/or maybe I had finally arrived at the exactly optimum amount of alcohol I should consume in order to have a solo evening with a doable amount of creative output. I felt I had at least a little more writing in me still, even without having another drink (this lesser than usual need for alcohol signified true inner fire), so I went across the small hallway to the drawing room, a new setting for my creativity.

There were no other guests in the drawing room at this weeknight hour of 10 pm, but the empty room had a better vibe than on Monday – that night K. and I had had to look at other people’s dirty dishes on some of the low tables, but tonight everything was completely clean and quiet. The peaceful atmosphere didn’t immediately make me sleepy but it didn’t encourage my work ethic either – I was suddenly moved to fold shut my notebook and pull out my trusty purse book. I did pretty well at managing my guilt that I had stopped writing, because I was feeling rather kind to myself, given my mostly successful solo adventures of the day and my numerous countable pages of writing output this evening. It also seemed possible to make a case that although four days in London had provided me with enough material to potentially keep scribbling all night, for sleep and health reasons it would be better to set a limit on writing and concentrate on reading Ann Rule’s published words.

London 2003 - Dukes Bar, Tuesday night

2010-06-03T20:49:00.013-05:00

Although I knew that K. would be busy tonight with the business dinner she had told me about in advance, I was proud that not only did I have productive (productive-seeming/sounding) solo plans but I was looking forward to them. Combining task (at least purpose) and vice (more kindly, indulgence), I was going to venture into the Dukes bar, past the imposing mahogany door that opened from the lobby. All I really knew about the bar was that I had seen nicely dressed people walk through the door and heard politely/moderately loud laughter drift out.

My bar-centered mission was to write postcards – I find drinking or dining alone in public more comfortable if I have some kind of mission or project underway, and writing becomes a much more involving type of project when the motivation/output (such as postcards) is designated – instead of left frighteningly, loosely (shades of drunkenly) creative. I had also had thoughts of starting a London trip diary tonight, but even after just three days in London, that scale of a writing project loomed as so giant that I knew I would need to have way more than my usual amount of wine (beyond personal responsibility considerations) to step across the anxiety threshold.

Given these considerations of otherwise scary writing scope, I was glad I had the postcards to focus on, and the idea of doing them in a bar seemed much more fun than doing them holed up alone in my room – or God forbid, schlepping the postcards home to mail from Texas. Home postmarking was surely the worst scenario for any travel correspondence.

As previously, I felt frumpily underdressed when entering the Dukes lobby, although (somewhat unusually for me) today I was at least monochromatic in a brown sweatshirt (a generic brand from Oshman’s) which almost matched my brown stretch jeans (another generic brand, from Mervyn’s). Most of the few other guests I had seen at Dukes looked posh to a somewhat intimidating degree, which was not surprising considering the price of the rooms at Dukes – although of course I wasn’t paying for the room, I had peeked at prices on the web as soon as K. gave me the name of the hotel. I had seen one no-nonsense blond type guest (not a young, trendy blond – more like a Camilla Parker-Bowles) wearing tennis shoes, but the shoes were immaculately clean and worn with a pinstripe double-breasted shirtwaist dress. I can’t say the dress looked good with the shoes but the contrast did upgrade the footwear a bit.

It was a little scary opening the door to the Dukes bar without any previous view of what went on inside. And walking in, I wasn’t sure if it helped or made me more uncomfortable that the bar was so intimate (i.e. small like the lobby) – two rooms, each almost smaller than private home living rooms (and filled up with more tables and upholstered chairs than you could cram into your home), a partial wall with a fireplace between, and a bar counter to the left. The first room seemed to have more people in it so I walked toward an empty table (that just happened to be near the bar) in the farther room, trying not to think about whether people I passed were looking at me – all the conversations sounded to be in alcohol-fueled high gear so maybe no one noticed the new arrival. I felt a little bad about taking up a table that had four chairs around it, but the few two-seaters were all occupied. The bar itself didn’t have stools in front and was used only as an area to serve from – in any case, I would have felt uncomfortable bellying up to a bar so petitely sized (the scenario would have seemed like getting drunk in a friend’s kitchen).

The bar furniture, although a bit commercial-looking (in the thinness of the upholstery, etc.), could have worked in a private living room, and the walls were painted a dark solid color like people use when they want to seem artsy or at least show off their artwork. I’m embarrassed (fearing my memory loss implies alcohol intake) to say I can’t remember the exact color of the walls – eggplant?, dark gray?, navy? – something that hovered on a borderline between classy and ugly.

Somehow the homelike setup and colors looked comfortable and elegantly natural here, whereas in the U.S. – other than maybe at really expensive hotels in some of the oldest, most traditional American cities – a similar setup would have looked like a decorating project, with the fabrics too shiny and the artwork looking too manufactured.

I had misunderstood the Dukes web site description of its bar, having gotten intimidated by the glamorous professional photos (and the hotel prices) and not comprehending the down-to-earth meaning of the adjective “comfortable”:

Famous for its Martinis, the bar at Dukes is a comfortable and relaxing place to enjoy the company of your friends or a contemplative drink [what a nice way of saying, “drinking alone”]. Guests can enjoy a cocktail or glass of champagne at any time [“any time” sounded intriguing…?], but perhaps it is best to wait until after the theatre before sampling one of the famous cognacs.

Even a Graffiti Wall poster had mentioned the Dukes bar (I should have realized that if a Rick Steves bargain-hunter acolyte had come here, the place could not be too glitzy), with the suave-sounding advice to “Ask for Gilberto, who makes the world’s best martini,” followed by the instruction to take a cab to such-and-such Italian restaurant in Soho. The restaurant was a logical follow-on of the martini experience, because “Gilberto can call his nephew the owner.”

Theoretically, I could have gone to that restaurant – I love Italian food, and before my trip I had promised myself not to skimp on nice meals in London, regardless of other budget concerns. That resolution had sounded good at home but so far my mood/energy just hadn’t been right for me to make an big effort to get somewhere I would eat alone – even on Sunday night I had settled for a place that I could easily walk to (and hadn’t actually eaten a meal there). K. had said that on previous trips she took cabs out to restaurants people had told her about – this was really her only exposure to London outside her office, since she usually only had time to get the day’s work done and then have dinner before bed. Her meal experiments were impressive compared to my having so far settled for simpler food closer to the hotel, but I thought she had sounded a little sad and lonely (though in a strong, brave way) when she talked about journeying out to eat by herself.

I thought my Dukes bar experience (once I relaxed a bit more on the question of whether people were wondering about me) would be a good compromise between the familiar (with my room right upstairs) and the new. The drinking aspect would provide some mood-shifting as my usual thoughts and hangups were shifted around a bit – sitting alone at a public place where the meal was the focus, and forking up pieces of food in a conversation-less vacuum, was less appealing.

With my vantage point facing the bar, I immediately noticed a dark-haired person delivering drinks who looked like the unnamed man pictured on the Dukes site next to the description of The Bar. The professionally posed web photo had captured him deftly placing a twist of fruit peel in a fresh martini, surrounded by a full bottle of gin, a silver dish piled high with olives, and a plump round citrus fruit that had a strip of peel missing. Without stepping out of my introverted zone to ask someone, I couldn’t tell if this was the web-famous Gilberto. He did look a bit young to have a nephew who was a restaurant owner, but maybe Italian men aged more attractively in London than they did in the U.S. (at least, as pictured on “The Sopranos” TV series).

Another hotel-uniformed man seemed to spend more time behind the bar than at the tables, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was Gilberto either. This guy was short and wiry, with a craggy face and thick silver hair – he looked kind of like an Italian-esque (and shorter) version of the actor Sam Elliott. (The real Sam has had an impressive, although somewhat B-level, career in supporting roles and had recently been on-screen quite a bit – 2002’s well-regarded “We Were Soldiers” was followed by “The Hulk” in 2003. He has been married to actress Katharine Ross, who he met on the set of “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid” for two decades, which is surely close to being a Hollywood marital record. My friend Pam went to college with Sam but turned down a date – Sam had not exactly blossomed yet, personality- or looks-wise, and in her own bloom of sexy blond youth, Pam felt she had better options.)

Although I saw both Sam Elliott and the dark-haired younger man do things with a cocktail shaker, I wasn’t really tempted for a martini. I knew that not having one would weigh heavily with the nephew’s-restaurant Italian meal on the list of opportunities I was missing while staying here, but I really wanted a drink I could nurse while (coherently) writing. My alcohol consumption goes up and down, but my tolerance for the effects seems to decrease with each year and in my 40s, I have become very cautious regarding mixed drinks.

When Sam Elliott asked what I wanted to drink, I said a glass of Chardonnay, hoping it would turn out to be something approaching the wine at the Terrace on Sunday – unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me that since I was at Dukes and not Le Meridien, I would end up with the same poor runner-up that had been served with my BLT from Dukes room service. Heard and seen up close, Sam’s Euro-gravelly voice and rough appearance (I would say “rugged” appearance, but that seems more like a Hollywood Sam Elliott term than one for a London Italian waiter) reminded me even more of the movie star, who some critics and fans lament was born too late to capitalize on the cowboy films he would have best suited.

My remaining guilt at taking up a table for four had taken a delicious turn over my enjoyment of the table’s dishes of mini cheese crackers and mixed nuts (which were just as good as Le Meridien) – generous portions of both, with me as the only consumer. My glee diminished somewhat when I remembered I hadn’t washed my hands after using the computer keyboard and mouse after who knows how many other people – but this thought didn’t occur to me until about five handfuls each of nuts and crackers had been consumed, so I figured the contamination had probably already occurred and there was little point in getting up to go to the ladies’ room.

I just loved these nuts, and I was intrigued by them – the variety and freshness of the nuts and the generosity of the portion might be a European thing (since I hadn’t encountered it in America), but with my stubbornly Colonial viewpoint, I couldn’t stop believing that bar nuts were an American concept. However, the assortment (cashews, almonds and pecans, or maybe they were walnuts) didn’t contain peanuts, so this placed it in a different category than peanut-reliant American bar offerings. I especially admired the flavoring of the London nuts – not smoky and salty, but just the right amount of salt. I was still probably taking in too much salt but I wasn’t aware of it, and surely this unknowing state is the food experience that every consumer wants/needs.

I was still a little nervous about coming in alone, but I continued to take comfort from the official-seeming folder containing my work project and my sense of purpose in pulling things out of the folder. As I worked on my postcards, congratulating myself on the cool ones I’d picked out and thinking/hoping they made me look tasteful/discerning and not like your average Euro-tourist, and managing to write something different on each one, the bar traffic thinned and Sam Elliott became increasingly attentive to my table.

I had allowed myself to gulp the first glass of wine so as to get my writing juices going, but I really did try to slow down after that for literary clarity (if for no other reason). However, Sam E. was doing that dangerous thing – which rarely happens in most restaurants because the waiters are too busy and/or the managers are too cost-conscious – of topping up the glass frequently, so that I lost all sense of how much I was drinking. During the course of my Dukes Bar evening, I have a vague awareness of having had 7 or 8 half-glass refills, which I guess comes out to about 4 total glasses. Surely this was way too much for my small stature and my increasingly middle-age tendency toward water retention, but it’s difficult to refuse an Italian man with a ready wine bottle (I don’t mean for this last phrase to sound as dirty as it might).

Not surprisingly, my lips felt gradually looser and I began to get a bit more conversational with Sam E. At one point I held my hand up over the top of my glass (I was already at that point of questionable sobriety where I had to carefully measure the motion so I didn’t tip the glass over) and when he poured more anyway (which was easy for him to do since my hand wasn’t really all that close to the glass), I told him I was getting out of control and could no longer write articulate postcards. I had just caught myself crossing out the words “acceptable” and then “respectable” in my attempt to produce the word “perspective” on a Stonehenge postcard to Tim. In a way this didn’t matter, since Tim is a very understanding brother and it wasn’t Tim’s only postcard – I was sending him a series of three cards like he has sometimes sent me from trips (it must be a weird family thing) but I know he is very conscious of proper grammar and spelling (in a non-judgmental way). Bottom-line, it wasn’t a problem to send Tim a card with words crossed out but it was important that the final word be correct, and I was losing confidence that I could evaluate whether any of my final words were correct.

I didn’t go into all this detail with Sam E., but my no-more-wine message finally came through loud and clear. In a classic (Italian?) macho manner, he shrugged away my (probably fake-seeming) protest and growled, “You sound like my wife…” as he poured me another half glass. (When Sam Elliott finally agreed that I could stop downing wine and brought me my check, I saw that I was only being charged for two glasses of wine. This struck me as an interesting concept of customer service and guest-consumption liability.)

Slightly past the midpoint of my wine refills, I heard someone say, “Sarah!, I didn’t know you were here!” Immersed in creative postcard phrases and Chardonnay, my temporary befuddlement at the interruption led to a gratifyingly free-and-loose sensation (almost like, “What continent am I on?”) before I recognized K. as the speaker. She was in full business-to-evening (less authoritative and more gushy) mode and dress, perhaps with an alcohol enhancement of her own. After a maybe slightly guilty sounding, “I didn’t know you were here?!” she introduced me to her business acquaintance François with the tag, “Sarah has already seen more of London than I have.” François was young and attractively dark-haired, from Belgium, and I was later told he likes the ladies – I realize this information plus the inclusion of the “ç” in his name seems like another Euro-cliché, but apparently such types really do exist on the Continent. It was fun although a bit startling to have my solo outing interrupted by someone I knew, and I made chit-chat with the two of them about Stonehenge in what I hoped was a more animated than inebriated fashion. After K. said, in a tone somewhat confiding of her own intake, “The martinis here are so delicious…don’t you think?” I stopped trying so hard to act sober, lt my enthusiasm flow and let my hands wave about for emphasis. What the heck, we were all in European mode here… I said I hadn’t been disappointed in one sight that I had seen so far. I believe I also made some quirky comments about the Stonehenge sheep, which I hope I was able to relate back to whatever point I was trying to make.

After K. and François went off for their 9:30 reservation (how Continental was this?! – a late dinner, and at a French restaurant), I maintained my glow of satisfaction about my week in London. Maybe glass-full metaphors are too obvious for philosophizing that takes place in a bar setting, but I tend to be a glass-half-empty, negative perceiver and this focus on the good stuff (the glass-half-full perspective) was new to me. I continued to be surprised at myself when I told people that I genuinely was enjoying the sights and truly was not disappointed in the trip so far.

Maybe I had had a sudden leap in maturity and my London good feeling was a combination of well-managed expectations and self-fulfilling prophecy, in that I had repetitiously told myself that if I could just get over the ocean, everything would be OK. I’m usually so much better at the negative repeated messages than the positive ones, but maybe this time the mind-over-matter focus of so strongly wanting to go on this trip actually helped me to achieve a positive slant on things. Or possibly, because the whole flight aspect of the trip was so horrible to contemplate and only slightly less horrible to endure, I was overextended worry-wise from the over-ocean part of the trip and had only calm positivity left to face my on-ground adventures – I wish managing my anxiety was really as simple as this theory tries to make it sound.

I wasn’t sure what time I had started the postcards but it was feeling like two hours ago, or some other long period – multiple postcards are like Christmas cards, the addressing and individual note-making aspects always take much longer than one thinks they will. The addressing part had been easy since I had such a neat list to start with – I continued to feel almost giddily self-congratulatory over having a cleaned-up, large-font list to copy from, even though it wasn’t pristine since I had written “Ps” and “Ds” on it to remind me at Christmas which people needed to be sent a Photo of our dogs and which also needed a signature from the Dogs (a couple of people have actually called me when I forgot to sign for a dog, asking, “Has something happened to Marley – did you not want to tell us?”). After some dithering over whether more people should get postcards, or more of the people I had already sent to should get additional postcards, or whether I should keep more postcards for myself, I put the postcards aside with a sense of accomplishment…and actually felt like making a few trip journal notes.

The trip notes had to be done on the back of the address list since I hadn’t wanted to intimidate myself (inhibit my writing impulse) by bringing a writing pad. I tried to start out in day and time sequence but as I thought of more “important” things that I really had to record, the calendar structure loosened up. Making travel notes feels like a big “suck” of concentration and energy although in some ways the intense involvement is enjoyable, as if I am doing something important – when really, all I’m doing is spouting off about my food and drink indulgences and my half-formed philosophies. The most suck-like aspect is that once I start making trip notes, no matter how tentative and sketchy they are, I feel like I need to write more and more, and record still more supposedly humorous and interesting happenings and layered complexities of trip angst – the pull to get everything written down intensifies.

I did start to feel that suck in the Dukes bar but since I hadn’t started the trip notes until after the postcards, I soon got tired and even the suck could only pull me so far. I only wrote a couple of pages, and I was able to keep my notes very brief instead of getting into the crazed-feeling, long and detailed paragraphs that I sometimes do.

Minor Adventures in Losing It

2010-06-02T20:43:00.010-05:00

Not to justify the amount I drank at our Sunday night Memorial weekend party as appropriate, but I do think my prescription anxiety meds combine weirdly with wine. The medication helps me let go of anxiety. With 3 bottles of wine (slight exaggeration) I let go of a lot of memory too. It is interesting to have people tell me what I did and said and to have no recognition/recollection as they tell me things. Yes this is extremely disturbing from an alcohol abuse perspective (public service announcement) but taking the space-station view it is kind of interesting.

I was reminded on Monday that on Sunday I had made social plans (news to me…that was lost when the tape erased) and although I felt quite toxic that morning I love the friends I had plans with so I showered and got in the car and was social…and ate a lot of salty food and drank Cokes so that did not exactly help with detoxing.

Not remembering things was only part of my surreality on Monday. I felt rather detached from my body – I mean my consciousness was not in synch with the rest of me. Or it wasn’t Sarah’s consciousness. This is hard to put into words but so interesting. Getting cleaned up and dressed was mostly routine although my short-term memory was shot…I had to be careful to remind myself to take with me directions, hostess gift, etc. The mechanisms that would normally remind me with nags/guilts were still inactive…I was functioning on very low power, in terms of careful-obsessive thoughts.

Getting into my car and driving out of the driveway felt strange. Almost like when more than a week goes by without driving, like when you have been sick or traveling by plane, and then back in your own car at last you sort of take it on faith that your body will know what to do with the gas pedal and steering wheel, not to mention all the other actions and reflexes required. Yep, very disassociated. Of course I got on the road anyway!, but not the highway.

When I walked into Tom Thumb to buy some hostess flowers I had a flash of a new surreality, a new questioning of what would normally be so nonthinking…was I wearing pants? Was I wearing clothes? Really, I was just not in Sarah at that hour of that day. I felt fabric with my hands and glanced down as a double-check but I still didn’t feel completely reassured. I was not in my center.

But I kept thinking – as the disassociation continued for a few more hours, until I got tired and fussy and thus more like my Sarah-self… Isn’t not being myself something I usually think would be preferable? To have a break from myself?

Like a minor out-of-body experience? Not caused by trauma…just caused by 3 bottles of wine (again, slight exaggeration) plus pharmaceuticals.

That afternoon I enjoyed the people I was with but when I did a lot of talking, I felt clunky. I talked anyway, and that was interesting too. Managing my concerns over feeling clunky was something I knew I needed to do. People are not perfect. I don’t have to be perfect. I don’t judge myself objectively in conversation and it’s important to minimize the critic when I perceive it. My self-improvement goal is to be less self-critical and to move forward. But on Monday I was clunkier than usual and my meds didn’t mute the self-critic as efficiently as usual – I can only assume they were not being processed efficiently by my still-polluted liver and brain. But I maybe didn’t care since I was not quite myself. Yes, interesting.

This morning I was looking for a lavender shirt and found a darker shade shirt, also from Chico’s. I stared at that shirt with a where-did-it-come-from look. Still can’t access memory of wearing this thing! I can tell it’s not brand new and I must have gotten it with my Chico’s online order (OK, maybe orderS) last year. I probably wear it with black pants – I somehow know that much – but I don’t remember what I accessorize it with. And for me – with a drawer OR MORE for each color jewelry (pink and red have their own drawers, orange has 2! drawers, etc.), this is odd.

That was kind of interesting, probably more interesting than scary. (Maybe the shirt had been hidden behind another one that I recently moved?) But I am scared for my brain that right now I can’t remember the name of that shade of purple. I have another, older shirt that color, a sweater that color, and Chucks that color. I receive compliments when I wear the color. But…drum roll…I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE COLOR IS CALLED! Will have to Google but I am still a little…maybe…worried about brain cells.

Although today was a long day. And I have various anxieties floating about that pull my mental resources. And not so many days have passed since the big drunk episode.

Damn it – that shade, blue-gray-purple, is not exactly seasonal for June, and will be hard to find on a retail website (and I am trying to stay off shopping websites, right?...) Google didn’t bring up the right color name… I even dared to look at Converse shoes but the shade I wanted is called Aster Purple by Converse, and I thought this color was a one-word name…

Boy, now I feel lost in space. Lands End calls it Alpine Purple. I know there is a simpler word for this!

OK I am pouring out the rest of my small glass of wine and eating a bowl of pasta with vegetables.

Big breath. I am not crazy. The color name is not important.

It has been a long day. I am a middle-aged woman. I still have plenty of brain power…for important things…which this is not.

Big deep breath.

I may need a pill to sleep. Or more pasta.

Adventures in 1990s house-sitting continued: Ant Attack (and angst attack)

2010-05-26T20:44:00.016-05:00

Actually S.’s rabbit was not such a traumatic experience – the subsequent ant attack, which this blog post was supposed to be about…came closer to being the last straw, the thing that really shook my interest in house-sitting for D.

I broke the news to S. at an office Christmas party, after a few drinks had been served. She didn’t quite get my reasons – when I said, “I worry about things that happen at the house – probably overreact – because D.’s my boss,” she responded, “Oh, think of us as friends.” (Really…?) I should also mention that D. never mentioned my no longer staying there, even though I worked for him for quite a few more years. I think they had really thought they were doing me a favor – in some ways they were – and as everyone knows, it is awkward to refuse a favor.

Years later they offered their house for my wedding – such a nice gesture – but I deemed this scenario fraught with not-so-subterranean conflict (who would have really been in charge…) and refused, I hoped politely. We compromised at them hosting a wine shower (wine gifts instead of registry items) and that was a big success.

For the more than 10 years of my working for D., he and S. remembered me on birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Secretary’s Day, and Christmas. In some ways I was an extension of their family – the kids, the stepkids, and me. In recent years our paths cross once in a while, but mostly our relationship ended when I left the company in 2000. I miss him in some ways. Working so closely with a boss is almost like a marriage, and there were probably father-daughter elements too.

We used to have a saying in that office that dysfunctional females made the best admin assistants. It was a high-pressure, hierarchical, somewhat sexist environment – strong women said to hell to this and left soon after hire. Co-dependents worked long hours for minimal validation – we diligent bees would have been held up as the standard except that would have given us too much recognition and jeopardized the equation of subservience. Instead we were locked into trying to please, for which we received a slightly above-market salary and job security.

But anyway!, this blog post is about ants, not my slightly sadomasochistic secretarial nostalgia.

And, but…you know…

Sometimes when I had planned for a nice solitary weekend at the palatial manor of D. and S., one or more stepkids would show up. They were pleasant, but when you have planned to be alone, you want to be alone, and as with my own stepsiblings, I was all too aware that I had no grounds for complaint – they had plenty of right to be there. I would get all settled in with my Classic Coke, tortilla chips and Pop Tarts – and then one of the stepkids would show up and ask politely, do you mind if I use the phone for a while and sleep in the guest room, and can I have a Pop Tart? UH… It was like the way D. and S. always left a few dishes in the sink – I was under no obligation to wash them, but if I didn’t wash them I would stare at them my whole time there. HUH. Introverts get lonely but we don’t like sudden changes in our alone status, sigh.

One of my most important duties for D. was covering for him during his numerous vacations. He truly was always reachable, but it fell to me to decide what was important enough to reach him about. In assessing importance I had to respond to all calls. This was in the years before cell phones, and for odd-hour coverage it sometimes became obvious that I was staying at D.’s house. I always thought it was suspicious when I explained, “I'm house-sitting." Our company's then-COO, originally married with kids, ended up divorcing his first wife and marrying his admin, so I kind of felt I was being watched, even if that scenario was very, very, very! remote.

Before I get to ants, other animal stories…

I dimly remember something about a bird coming down the chimney into the formal living room, I think it soon died and/or I found someone to remove it before soot stained too much stuff. The flapping and squawking stressed me out of proportion on that one. Bird flying around the living room, valuable objects on the floor and walls…I must have blocked out the resolution.

Worse was the time I panicked at finding a strange, large dog domiciled on the upstairs patio and opened a gate to let it out, only later to find out stepson K. had parked it there on purpose. Ruh-roh! K. is one of those uber-nice guys but I sensed his strain that night…he had put the dog there on purpose but it was not really supposed to be there…he never said how/if he ever found it or where he moved it…one of the mysteries of that house.

Once in a while it was a bit pleasant watering the plants, feeling drizzles of water against my legs, listening to my Walkman. But usually it was a pain in the ass – an anxiety trigger, how much do I water so as not to burn or drown this once-green thing?, and of course an opportunity for mosquito bites – bare white legs, water, waning light…a blood-sucking picnic.

I hardly ever used the pool, but I liked looking at it – it was part of the undefined, undemanded, but understood package. When D. “forgot to tell me” it had been drained for cleaning before my stay, I was none too pleased.

Whatever complaints I had about the house-sitting I usually balance with my very guilty memory of the night I invited a friend over, and after we came back after a quick supper and parked in the front, I saw the front door was swinging open in the breeze. Wow. I had parked in the back, she arrived in the front, and I had not latched the front door. D. and S. maintained, at least in their first, smaller house, that their street had low crime because it was just a few blocks from impoverished apartments, and people won’t steal so close to home. (I think later on they did have an alarm system but were never obsessive about setting it.) So many things could have been carried out the door, vandalized, during that hour we were gone. Wow. Literally the door was OPEN. I still shudder to think of it. (Deep breath…) I didn’t even know that lady very well – she was our travel agent, worked on the same floor as our office…it was kind of an awkward evening, in the big picture not worth threatening my job for, may I say.

Well, the ant story will be anticlimactic now!!! But here goes…

On my last day of what I remember as my last stay I got started on laundry, thinking how much nicer to do it in a residence than a laundromat. However the few ants I had noticed during my first load grew to a wider, darker trail during my second trip to the laundry room, which was a kind of sunken converted-garage area on the way out from the kitchen.

I tried to ignore the ants but by load 3 I could not help but see they had increased to a vital cavalcade.

I called the most available, local stepson but he was laissez-faire about it – he told me about some bug stuff that if I even found the right bag on the garage shelf, didn’t seem toxic enough. Or it was for a nest, an ant hill…not a damn pioneer trail across the laundry room concrete floor!

With no external help and the prospect of another half-day and night in the house, I was forced to fall back on Sarah experience, which was, confusing the ants with chemical sprays. If it had worked in a couple of infested apartments, shouldn’t it should work here? I took the concept one step farther by spraying the visible ants with 409 and then wadding up those wet ants in toilet paper (I had learned from a friend whose dad retired from a paper company that Kleenex was not flushable, so I knew to avoid Kleenex) and flushing them down the downstairs toilet. I didn’t want any plumbing complications so I was careful to flush every few wads – the wads were rather big, to prevent my fingers touching dead wet ants. This mean a lot of flushing. I soon raised the toilet seat to be more business-like, feeling like a bulimic or at least a plumber, someone who wanted to get real close and personal to the flush.

This particular toilet had a padded beige seat that was a bit surreal anyway, and the process seemed Sisyphean – a word that’s defined by web resources as endless, toilsome, useless…Sisyphus being the legendary guy who kept trying to roll a stone up a hill.

I had gone right for the 409 spray - I knew where it was since I usually wiped the kitchen sink and counter first thing when I arrived. I didn’t always move the few dirty dishes right away – coffee cups and breakfast cereal bowls that showed the last home meal before whatever cruise or fancy trip D. and S. were going on – but I did wipe down the counter. It wasn’t obviously dirty, this was more of a territory-marking thing. They had regular cleaning ladies who supposedly dusted and disinfected all the surfaces, but this particular wipedown was more about ownership – they are gone, I am here!

Yeah, here in an ant-infested house. But eventually I had flushed all the visible ants, and the 409 that I was careful not to wipe up from the blue-gray painted concrete floor seemed to repel the not-there-yet ants. Whew. I checked again the next morning before I packed my stuff to go home, and I only saw a few ants, which I promptly wiped and flushed.

But something had been altered in the house-sitting equation. The many minutes, probably more than an hour, maybe two, that I spent flushing away ants had felt as long as an eternity and had in content too much resembled my nightmares. Yep, too many triggers of cleanliness obsession and too much pushing of childhood-angst discomfort buttons…dirt, bathroom stuff, insects, invasion…

For a paid job, maybe OK. For an unpaid job? Uh, no. I was still a fairly codependent administrative assistant at that point, but in terms of house-sitting if nothing else, I was mobilized to say, I don’t want to do this any more.

Adventures in 1990s house-sitting – Rabbit Care

2010-05-24T20:00:00.025-05:00

Not Rabbit Care - excusez-moi!, French Lop care!

The first few years I worked as an admin assistant for my boss D., I would house-sit for him when he and his wife S. were out of town. I didn’t receive any money, because they (and I guess I, since at that time I lived in an efficiency apartment) considered that having the use of their large house and pool, in a lovely Dallas historic district, was payment enough.

It might have been enough (they had cable TV, plus I loved using their top-of-the-line washer and dryer), but it seemed I always had to water LOTS of plants (the inside downstairs and upstairs, out by the pool and on all three patios) and deal with crises (fire ants, birds in the chimney, urgent messages - both business and personal - on their answering machine that I felt I had to handle). Combine my conscientious personality with being the key-holder for an expensive home without an alarm system, and you get a tense housesitter.
One year S. was going through a pet phase [this was a decade before they got real pets – matching white German shepherds named Sola and Mia, get it?, a little opera reference – Sole, Mio, to reinforce D. and S. being sponsors of the Dallas symphony and maybe the opera too] and I was forced to maintain her rabbit while staying at the house. (Previously she’d had a bird, who died when she put him back in his triple-decker cage too soon after she’d freshly spray-painted it in designer mauve…I could say more about this, but I don’t think I need to.)

For some reason she felt this fancy rabbit had to be sunned and aired every day. She had noticed he liked to hop around on the wood chips in her rose garden, which was basically an area of flower bed next to the swimming pool that had had several rose bushes planted in it, with mixed results.

After about a half-hour in the summer sun (helllllooooo! Dallas in AUGUST) this fluffy/fuzzy thing would supposedly hop into a shady corner and I supposedly could easily reclaim him. Unfortunately, I’d have to hang around out in the heat and watch Francois (I had been corrected that he was not a mere rabbit, he was a French Lop, with of course a French name) during his half-hour of freedom - I guess to protect him from cats and snakes and from his own stupidity in general.

Insert on French Lops – my housesitting was eons before the blessed help of Google, and only now do I understand (sort of) the pride that S. felt in her pet:

(from http://www.gopetsamerica.com/small-animals/rabbit/french-lop.aspx)

“The humorous antics of the French Lop have endeared them to many people all over the world and earned them the title of "the clown of the bunnies." [I was not amused.] They thrive on attention and love, aim to please, love to play with toys and have been known to die of a broken heart. [I would have liked Francois to have SOMETHING broken…] The French Lop is a massive breed having the heaviest bone structure of the Lop breeds. Very muscular and large boned, the breed has a longer coat with roll back to enhance massiveness…. Possessing delightful personalities [in WHOSE opinion?], French Lop rabbits are the most lovable and easy to handle regardless of the weight and size.”

Counter to this charming essay, Francois did not aim to please ME – I had a terrible time getting the darn rabbit (oops, was it a problem that I did not vocalize the word “lop” to him?) out from behind bars. He was very set against me (did he, by chance, sense my hostility?) and, although an extremely lethargic creature in my observation, he would muster all his energy and spread his heavily muscled legs (he was over-fed and fat, but he WAS A RABBIT with the corresponding musculature for jumping), spreading them inside the cage - behind the cage door - so that he was firmly braced inside. With his legs extended, the total width of his lop self looked to be more than three times the width of the open door.

There I was, trying to drag the stupid thing out, against his will, so he could have his outing…his airing, his treat, his sojourn in the rose garden. (And neither of us was getting paid…don’t forget that part.)

Maybe in my next life I’ll be more highly evolved, or less evolved, or whatever change will take away some of my conscientiousness…I truly did try to “walk” this damn rabbit at least once a day. And why? Not like he would have complained about me…even fancy French Lops cannot talk!

Another question I could never fathom the answer to…how long should I leave him? It was quite hot outside. But didn’t he need time to recover from the trauma of my grabbing him and carrying him out? How much recovery time before he had heatstroke? How much heat could a European rabbit handle?

And when I looked for him – beating at the wimpy rose bushes to see if he had sought shade behind - should I call his name? I knew he wouldn't come, but it might establish some familiarity, and I felt silly moving silently (except for my cursing) to look for an animal. I am not a whistler…and I assumed he would not hear a whistler.

But geez, what did I know…

***

Other adventures of that particular house-sitting stay included the pool/yard man yelling up at me in Spanish - I was up on the second-floor balcony, watering plants - that he needed more toilet paper. (He always used the poolside bathroom, which wasn’t well stocked with supplies.)
It took us some time to cross the language barrier, but I guess he was really desperate because he persevered for what felt like half an hour. It took me a while to figure he had a reason to be on the premises (we had never been formally introduced), and much longer to figure he was talking about tp.

And you know, something else that I’d like in my next life is to be able to sit beside a swimming pool, unselfconscious about my much-less-than-perfect body in an old bathing suit and unashamed of my relative laziness, knowing a citizen of the Third World (i.e. the pool/yard man) toils just a few feet from my toes… But, again, would this change in my personality require that I be more or less evolved?

PS I delayed asking D. or S. about Francois after my stay, in case he had complained about me…but when I finally did inquire after his health, months later, I was told that a neighbor’s dog had eaten him. !!!!!

London 2003 - Getting There, part 2

2010-05-21T20:08:00.020-05:00

Since the plane was a larger one the takeoff was fairly quick and very smooth, even by my phobic standards. However, when other normal flight activities followed, such as the plane angling steeply for its ascent and then encountering minor turbulence, the Ambien effect didn’t feel sufficient for my ongoing panic and I ordered a Bud Light (the only light beer they had). I’m a Miller Lite woman and consider Bud Light metallic-tasting, if not low-brow (they don’t even have the trademark “lite” spelling), but it was delicious right now and gratifyingly potent on top of the Ambien.

I was on the left aisle seat of the center row, and to my right sat a family of 5 – I actually wasn’t sure how many were in the family because the kids kept changing seats, one or another getting on the mother’s lap, I thought there were 3 kids but then it seemed like maybe the 3rd one belonged to a family on the far right row – was that one getting on the mom’s lap too or did I lose track of the brats... The father was next to me and conversationally volunteered that it was a shame American no longer provided complimentary cocktails. I pretended to agree while privately thinking I would pay any price asked of me for online booze, in fact I would have bought more Ambien onboard if that was possible.

I was kind of hoping the man would talk more as a distraction for me (in general I’m not big on conversation with strangers but it becomes more appealing when I’m drunk and/or flying) but he was busy monitoring his kids’ activities – seat-hopping, roams down the aisle ostensibly to the bathroom, and watching kiddie shows on the inflight TV. I thought they were watching kid shows – whatever they were watching seemed to have kid colors like a lot of pink and yellow – but maybe that was a distortion from the seat-back screens.

I started reading again and almost without my noticing it, the whole family zonked into sleep. I had wanted the multiplicity of kids to settle down but I hadn’t necessarily wanted things to get so quiet so fast – the silence was isolating. In my best attempt at Ambien-fueled laissez-faire spirit, I told myself this was fine, each to his own – anyway, regardless of the innocence of intent, the guy would have been unlikely to direct much more conversation toward me with his wife just down the row.

The flight continued to be fairly smooth and after gulping down my beer I felt fairly calm and mostly able to meditate on the pages of my book, but anxiety signs were still there – such as my inability to follow any of the TV channel choices and my compulsion to stare at the flight path graphic, a visual of a little white plane traveling across the U.S. map. The graphic map was so small that the plane didn’t constantly move but would jerkily update position every few minutes. Alternating screens showed current time and temperature at various locations – DFW, London and the area we were flying over. Other screens showed our changing altitude, which I ridiculously tried to keep track of (wondering, should we be this low?, this high?, why did they change altitude again?). (As if I am any kind of aeronautics expert, or scientist, or engineer, or anthing other than an anxious person...)

The book I started out with, Ann Rule’s Every Breath You Take, immediately got my interest – I don’t take that for granted, you never know if a new book will really work out, and it was a relief that my first trip book seemed promising. I’d like to call it nonfiction but it was more accurately a true crime book: Allen Blackthorne was convicted of hiring someone to kill his ex-wife Sheila Bellush in this “true story of obsession, revenge and murder.”

I always enjoy “#1 NY Times Bestselling Author” (to quote the cover blurb) Ann Rule, who’s known for the sensitivity (I say this without irony) and attention to detail she brings to her tales of true crime. I wasn’t overjoyed by the trashy-looking cover art (breathily parted red-lipsticked lips) but the book was small enough to fit into my purse. Our petsitter Claudia doesn’t just cover vacations but also comes every weekday since we’re at work too many hours for the dogs to be inside without a break, especially our puppy Billie, who is crated for everyone’s good – Claudia spends a lot of time in our house, had seen the book sitting on top of my proud pile of “trip reading” and left a note asking if she could borrow it. I now kind of felt pressure to finish the book so I could loan it to Claudia, but in another way it was pleasant to have a “mission” (defined as finishing it promptly for Claudia) in reading something that wasn’t otherwise edifying or educational material, unless you would call it educational to learn how “not” to have your ex-spouse killed.

Still struggling to get across the ocean, I couldn’t yet face the thought of whether I would create a journal for this trip, but it was hard to avoid early comparisons with one of my inspirations in previous attempts at travel-diary writing, the novelist/travel writer Paul Theroux. Paul often includes his impressions of the books he reads while on his solo tours of various off-beaten-track locations. He doesn’t just read historical and cultural/sociological books about the countries he’s visiting, he also reads semi-classic literature related to nothing specific that he never quite got around to reading at home. My impression is that most of his reading choices are fairly high-brow, certainly when compared to my lipstick paperback. However, I would consider as an exception a book he read during his 1980s trip through China (Riding the Iron Rooster: By Train Through China) – I was a bit shocked by how much he had to say about an ancient erotic novel that had apparently been banned in China since the Ming Dynasty. Paul tends to take a lot of train trips, which understandably require a lot of reading material (I remember him saying in another travel book that he kept putting off finishing the last book he had with him, for fear he would be left with no pages to read), and 2,000-page “The Golden Lotus” struck him as a good choice, lengthwise and I guess, interest-wise. He introduced this book to the reader as quasi-cultural research but I was taken aback at some of his enthusiastic quotes from it – one scene involved an intimate act with ripe plums. Paul marveled at Golden Lotus' “blend of manners, delicacy and smut,” and I decided that if a writer of his reputation could admit to reading smut on a trip through a Communist country (which China unquestionably was in the 1980s), I could certainly mention my London exposure to a true crime book.

When the flight was smooth I almost enjoyed the inflight experience – I had reached a pleasant kind of awake but zonked state where I alternated between reading (yes, sometimes having to reread sections of my book for full comprehension, but what the heck) and semi-obsessively monitoring our activity on the flight graphic. A couple of times the TV flight image went dark and of course I became concerned until it reloaded. I got more and more into my book and was disappointed to realize when the main lights were dimmed that there was no reading light above my seat – I asked the flight attendant what was going on, and after pretending to stare upwards (as if she had never been asked this before) she reluctantly admitted, “I think the light cutoff must be this row.” My section of seats had armrest light controls like all the others in the plane, but they were dummy-style only – apparently, due to the curved shape of the ceiling and overhead compartments here, no lights had been installed above me. I continued to try to read in the dark – I wasn’t having full comprehension anyway, so squinting and missing a few words here and here were maybe not so much worse.

At exactly halfway through my flight, I allowed myself to take a second Ambien but I had no more beers – I considered this fine self-control (as if I would have turned down a beer had one been offered to me, Ha!). I was actually able to doze a little, although the cabin was cold. I kept trying different positions for my airline blanket and finally had it over the back of my head for a while, so that it would cover my chilled ears.

I always feel a pull back to my childhood with things like this over my head, bringing memories of my mother going through a phase of sewing me matching fabric scarves (a 60s thing) for clothes she made me. I try to avoid the memory of my preteen self wearing a blue bedsheet head wrap to play Mary in the church Christmas pageant – I didn’t feel right in the part because I knew Mary didn’t wear glasses, although back then I did at least have the requisite long hair, but there were very few girls in my Sunday school class and the others were not reliable church attendees or had taken their turns the year before…yep, I can see why they made me Mary...slim competition.

I wondered if the coldness had to do with our high flying altitude – that seemed more travel-romantic than the fact that American Airlines wasn’t aware of the discomfort of its passengers. The cabin was very quiet and many people seemed asleep – in fact, my family-man neighbor accidentally leaned on my shoulder for a while. I assumed the etiquette for this situation was to leave him alone until he moved away on his own. (Yikes!!!)

The success of my Ambien-beer combination was confirmed by the fact that my inflight toilet experiences were less traumatic than usual. In addition to the knowingly-irrational fear that the plane will develop a mechanical problem and rapidly hurl to earth before I can get out of the bathroom stall (leading to thoughts that the inside of the stall looks like a coffin), I have some kind of neurological maladjustment that makes it hard for me to go when I don’t get the sound feedback of my water hitting the water in the bowl, so that going in an empty bowl requires a lot of calm and concentration. But, with my travel friends Ambien and Bud Light, I was able to handle things satisfyingly while in the toilet coffin.

I was still nervous about managing my logistical arrangements when I got to London, but more of my positive excitement was breaking through my negative (guilt and superstition) barriers – it was gratifying, actually exciting, to be on a plane going over the Atlantic and not screaming in terror as I had always imagined I would be. In fact, it was almost a surreal feeling to be somewhere I had always had trouble thinking I could manage to be.

Fear of flying was probably the biggest reason I had not seriously pursued a European trip before, and now it felt like I was had really broken down a barrier. I realized I had created a bad phobic image by not paying attention when people told me that many Atlantic flights take a route over land for most of the trip – my imagining thousands of miles of roiling (I like that word roiling, so much better than rolling) ocean being crossed by a plane was not completely on target. It was relatively reassuring to be on a smooth flight over the North American continent, but I was not a calm camper when we left Newfoundland and flew over open ocean for the last few hours of the trip.

The descent was a little bumpy due to cloud cover but this didn’t get in the way of my gladness that we were landing. I knew I was a baby to feel so tired of sitting on a plane, since even I realize that 9 hours is a short international flight.

I continued my mental rehearsal to make sure that when I walked off the plane (hopefully not stumbling) I would retrieve both checked bags, purchase my ticket for the Gatwick Express train to London, then take a cab from Victoria Station to K.’s hotel. I might also need to manage the situation of K. checking in later than me and I needed to find some kind of Internet hookup so I could send Craig an “I’m here!” email (my 10 am arrival time didn’t work too well phone-wise with the 6-hour time difference in Dallas).

Also, I needed to eat something since I had had only pretzels, Ambien and Bud Light on the plane. I had watched, heard and smelled the other passengers sawing with their plastic cutlery at the pizza squares and steak?/chicken? (hard to tell which from the color and smell) that had been served to them, but I didn’t partake – this wasn’t just from a snobbery about airline food, but more a desire not to dilute the Ambien effect by putting protein mush in my stomach.

London 2003 - Getting There, part 1

2010-05-19T21:29:00.030-05:00

How does one launch into a very personal and overly detailed (“personal” for me meaning overly detailed, since that’s my personality) travel narrative with an interesting bang – the kind of bang writing experts say you need? My personality makes me want to laboriously scribe all whens and wheres of the trip’s start, instead of following the more dramatic convention of first describing me mid-trip, plunked down in some embarrassing or dangerous location.

In the case of my London trip, I would have to choose between scenes like my tipsy bar evening writing postcards and trying to remember how to spell words of more than two syllables, or maybe trying to eat an un-tasty Cornish pasty (“pasty” does not rhyme with “tasty,” as I learned) that was so hot it burned my mouth... Are these sorts of descriptions, used to start the narrative, really any better than the boring “How I got there” details?

Of course I feel compelled to start out by saying I went with a friend – I think I’m uncomfortable that people might think I made such a glamorous (at first breath, it sounds glamorous, although the reality was more mundane and Sarah-like) trip on my own, without majorly contributing circumstances. My friend K. goes to London several times a year on business, and I had fake-suavely told her (pretending I wouldn’t have to jump a high stack of anxiety hurdles in order to make such a trip) that I might go with her sometime, she should keep me informed of her schedule. In early January she told me about a trip a couple of weeks away, offering to share her company-paid hotel room, and timing caught me in a weak moment of January boredom and post-Christmas claustrophobia/angst – with some seriousness and intent, I checked with Craig, and surprisingly, instead of telling me to save my money for something he and I could do together, he suggested I go ahead and investigate airfares.

And since people will wonder why my husband didn’t go and, according to the thoughts of some of my more backward relatives, will wonder how he allowed me to go without him, I must early-on mention the Craig angle of things: I have trained Craig to operate on a marital “point system,” and I think he had a good idea of how many points he could get by saying “yes” to me on this. We had talked in theoretical terms about going to Europe together, but my first choice was England and his was Germany, and we couldn’t quite figure out how to compromise on a destination – or to budget for a two-person trip. Actually, I had occasionally fantasized about going as a single member of a tour group when Craig sounded especially Ameri-centric in his rants about why he did not want to visit the rude, ungrateful French (who didn’t appreciate what we did for them in WWII) and why he saw no need to go to countries where people smelled bad – after his 2002 trip to see his cousin in Sydney, his outlook couldn’t help but become more global regarding travel, but he still drew a line around his requirements for Ameri-gratitude and personal hygiene.

I also find it important and think it cute to mention a physiological reason why I said “yes” to the trip: I had a medical procedure (routine but invasive) that required anesthesia the day before K. invited me and although the procedure’s findings were normal, I didn’t feel normal for the next couple of days but rather staring-through-muddy-waterish from the drugs, a little out-of-bodyish, and I guess it was easier to think I could overcome my fear of flying when I was feeling like somebody else.

Attractive off-season airfares propelled me further, and I felt savvy for figuring out that it was cheaper, and more convenient laundry-wise, if I left Saturday and returned Friday. I was increasingly failing at keeping my pre-fear dread (pre-dread fear?) of flying at bay, but I kept on with these plans, hoping that outward circumstances would move me along. If I had already bought a ticket, I would feel forced to get on the plane despite my terror. My work responsibilities hadn’t slowed the momentum either – the first Monday of my trip was conveniently a holiday and my boss immediately said that I should feel free to take advantage of this terrific multicultural opportunity, kindly not reminding me that I was a new employee and had little accrued vacation time.

K. laughed when I told her how supportive and pleased Dallas coworkers and friends had been about my going, saying “London is a big deal for people in Dallas…it’s not a big deal in New York, people from here go there all the time.” She has lived in New York, and been gone from Dallas, long enough that I don’t find it too patronizing for her to say things like this. Her New York orientation has also slanted her take on the London weather – she said it was “pleasantly warm,” which (after purchasing my ticket, and only then looking at Yahoo weather) I realized meant only warmer than New York, i.e. 40s as a high. She had had an easy time convincing me about the weather because on the London soap opera East Enders (said to have been one of Princess Di’s favorite shows, if that’s a recommendation) that I watch on BBC America on Saturdays, the weather (on the show’s outdoor stage) looked pleasantly breezy but far from frigid. I knew the BBC America broadcasts were delayed several weeks from the filming but seeing characters wear only light coats and jackets while I was watching the show in December and January was still persuasive.

As with the weather, K. used New York as her frame of reference for London prices, saying London restaurant prices (meals etc.) were even higher than in NY. I was appropriately frightened but intrigued on hearing this, figuring that I could find some kind of cheap snack food if necessary – and big-picture, I had always wanted to see Europe and I figured this trip was probably worth going into some degree of debt.

When I felt I had weighed enough options/concerns and been whipped around enough by my anxieties, I officially committed to going and decided I would buy my ticket online that day to lock in the price (and hope that my formalized commitment to this decision would allow my energies to settle toward accomplishing a goal of travel sanity). This decision brought a brief calm but I still had to get a confirmation on dates and other details from K. – we didn’t connect until after work, so in order to meet my self-imposed anxiety-accommodating deadline, I had to buy the ticket on our home computer.

Our computer has such a slow connection that even on a normal day when I have no transatlantic plans, watching the almost motionless, graphically straining screen makes my nerves raw. I wasn’t just nervous about the ticket’s lack of refundability, I was also hyper-aware about the thought of spending time alone in Europe (I would be staying a day or two after K. left and I would arrive before she did) and of course the fearful thoughts of the flight itself had not dissipated a bit. I felt almost physically shaky when I typed in my name as the passenger – this wasn’t my first online ticket but the experience felt intimidatingly uncharted, as if I saw vast, dark, churning ocean waters behind the computer screen where I was entering my travel details.

Not quite jokingly, I wished I had the meditative skill to "wish”/metaphysically move myself to London without flying over the ocean. Purchasing my ticket as an external catalyst felt psychologically proactive but I continued to experience anxiety undertows – such as waking in the middle of the night with to-do lists scrolling across my consciousness and a racing pulse. I knew my pulse was racing because I checked it a couple of times with a blood pressure cuff and then verified through worried web research that the number was at least a little high. Also, my teeth became very temperature-sensitive, which I was pretty sure meant I was grinding them in my sleep during this time of pre-trip trauma.

Usually before a trip I accidentally channel-surf into TV movies about real-life airplane crashes (there seem to be a lot of them, usually with stars like Donna Mills or Shelly Hack, who for some reason are late 20th century casting of choice for flight attendants) – I managed to avoid that this time, but one night I did happen across a computer simulation of what “A plane crash on Mars” would be like. I learned that if a plane tried to fly on Mars it would inevitably crash (in boiling red clouds) because the atmosphere isn’t conducive to flight – this was a Discovery channel show that I think was meant to discuss Mars and not the safety of air flight. I knew that a plane going down on a strict vertical in computer-generated red clouds and high winds was a ridiculous image to keep in mind when contemplating a North American flight, but I had trouble dismissing it.

For anxiety variety, I worried about things such as whether I should wear my newer pair of Payless clunky fake-suede black shoes or my older pair. They were identical models but the older pair was unattractively stretched and creased – however, I had a strong premonition that the newer pair would give me blisters. I showed them both to Craig, asking, “Do the old ones look OK?” and he immediately said he couldn’t tell the difference – but I’m pretty sure that in an anxiety management situation like this he goes more with my tone of voice and the look on my face than the item I’m asking his opinion about.

K. was honest about how busy she would be while I was there and tried to be cooperative about her schedule and, but I continued to worry about my arriving before she did (me on Sunday, she on Monday a.m.) and whether the hotel would let nonpaying-me into her room. My mood continued to swing between the fairly positive, at least by my standards: “I’m going to a place I have always wanted to go!” (which it truly was, since I considered London my #1 travel destination) and the certifiably anxious: “K. hasn’t answered my email yet, maybe she hasn’t given the hotel my name yet, maybe the hotel won’t let me in her room, and the hotel is too expensive for me to get my own room!!!”

A few days before departure, K. announced she was leaving London on Thursday, not Friday (Friday being my departure day) to go to Paris and asked if I wanted to come to Paris and somehow find my way back to London for my departing flight. Despite Paris being another city on my fantasy-travel list, I could feel even the prospect of this rushed mini-trip pushing me toward the anxiety precipice, so I immediately said no. I had already researched hotels before I knew she would be able to confirm the room for her early arrival Monday (meaning it could also accommodate my Sunday arrival) and said I would change to one of them on Thursday.

I was a little frustrated though because I had been fantasizing about taking an all-day tour called “Edinburgh in a Day” on Thursday which started at 6:30 and ended at “22:16”, meaning an after-10 pm return at a train station. This schedule wouldn’t combine well with checking out of one hotel and getting to another, dealing with transportation, check-in and checkout times, hotel luggage storage, etc. I wasn’t sure which other days I could do Edinburgh because I didn’t know how tired I’d be after I arrived and also thought that since I was dealing with tour operators I had found on the Internet, I should probably prebook/prepay only one tour in advance and see how that went before confirming more of them. Intellectually, I knew I could reshuffle my other days’ plans (which were all tentative anyway) but despite having at least a limited focus on the fact that being on my own so much meant I could be the leader of my own day, chooser of my own schedule, I kept experiencing a control-freak panic over not being able to confirm everything in advance. In fact, the level of my anxiety over this was giving me a pretty strong impression that I was displacing my trip concerns from flying onto other aspects of the travel plans.

I had to acknowledge that my pre-trip research had gotten a bit frantic and anal-loopish as I went back and forth an embarrassing number of times between discount sites and London maps, trying to guarantee (with no surprise and no last-minute changes) that I would be in an area where I could walk to sights and making sure the hotel was big enough to provide a private bathroom and other American-style amenities such as phone and TV – it was maddening that the discount sites wouldn’t give hotel phone numbers (because of course they wanted you to book through them) and gave otherwise limited information on addresses.

I emailed one site with a question on ground transportation from the airport and got a return email that didn’t answer my question and more disturbingly, was signed by someone at a hotel reservations center in Singapore. At another point I had dizzyingly clicked back and forth between several hotels but despite my eye inertia, I was almost positive that I had seen sample hotel room photos for two different hotels that were identical in the pattern of their pale chintzy bedspreads, the dark headboards and small curtained windows, in absolutely every detail. Both hotels had the exact same photos? Trying to investigate this deception, I hit the back arrow and returned to an Internet hotel map whose price-organized links I had been clicking from – I remained convinced that something bogus was going on with the photos but I couldn’t recreate the same images when I clicked on what I thought were the same links.

In any case, I had pretty much decided on what seemed to be a more modern, or at least bigger hotel (“Europe’s largest independent hotel [whatever that meant] with 700 bedrooms”) and the duplicate photos were from smaller places where I felt my private access to a bathroom was in question anyway.

I did receive a response to my email from Dukes Hotel, where K. had made her business reservation, confirming that I could store my bags with them if I arrived before check-in time. Dukes didn’t come out and say “We’ll let you in your friend’s room before she arrives” but more importantly, they didn’t respond with confusion or negativity to hearing my name, so I felt better about the hotel aspect – however, who knew if the person at the desk when I arrived would be savvy on all my arrangements, so I felt that I still had quite a bit to worry about.

I had wanted to use American Airlines for this trip to beef up my miles with them, and Gatwick is the only London airport where American flies direct. I saw no reason I should subject myself to a plane change, meaning a longer flight, if I didn’t have to – and since I had such a strong concern about being able to drag myself onto the plane in Dallas, it didn’t seem wise to plan a transfer. Additionally, I targeted only flights that would give me at least one weekend day at home at each end of the trip. This worked out well fare-wise, and it really helped my peace of mind to know that if I wasn’t leaving until the evening of Saturday the 18th, I could run errands, do laundry and pack that same day. [Yes, I know this blog post mentions laundry several times but as I remember it, the laundry planning was a calming thing for me.]

Despite this intellectual affirmation I still had a nightmare two nights before the trip that I was late for my flight and had nothing packed, and I still set my alarm for 7 a.m. on Saturday in case by some mysterious relaxation of pre-trip tension I overslept and my obsessive-lengthy packing consequently ran too close to my 7:10 pm flight time.

So now my intro has gotten the reader to trip departure day, which will presumably be the start of more interesting reading, although since I’m the writer, the narrative can’t help but be told in continued overly detailed style. My desire, and to be cornily honest, my mission, is to capture all details for my reader. I want the reader to be/feel they are on the trip with me, not just skimming through artsily described “wow” highlights and silly-me incidents of clutziness.

Probably there are good reasons that travel writers leave out all but the most resonant details, but I’m firm that my mission requires me to include even the mundane stuff. Experiencing, retaining and analyzing details is how I live, and how I want to write. Ahem...

Despite my fears of oversleeping, I did wake up before 7 – I was totally bright-eyed and my nerves were running at a high pitch before my alarm even went off. I got my laundry, packing and other domestic tasks regarding our dogs, my bills, etc. handled by noon and Craig and I even had time to see an early afternoon showing of “Narc,” with Ray Liotta and Jason Patric (Patric being an actor whose major claim to fame, as far as I knew, was running off with Julia Roberts three days before her 1991 wedding to Kiefer Sutherland). The plot-murkiness and violence of this movie forced a pleasing involvement of my mental faculties (pulling my thoughts away from images of the Atlantic churning beneath my frail plane), and with the bonus of knowing that I had two suitcases of clean clothes packed and ready at home, I was able to focus on the movie to a surprising degree.

Despite his personally liking to cut things close (he considers sitting in a waiting room in anticipation of boarding time to be a colossal waste), Craig got me to the airport by the airline specified early time although he still didn’t quite believe what American had told me, that for international flights you couldn’t check in curbside. I admit I kind of liked the feeling that I knew sophisticated international travel info, such as this important check-in info, that he didn’t understand.

Our parting was a little bittersweet in a marital/protective way – despite my anxiousness to get this trip underway (and end this anxiety) and his desire to get rid of prickly-nervous me, we were very aware that we would miss each other, and he wasn’t completely convinced I could navigate the start of the trip alone. He doesn’t trust me when I take Ambien, maintaining (exaggeratedly, in my opinion) that when he’s traveled with me and I’ve taken it, I stare into space and all but drool.

My doctor is very conservative and doles out this very small dose of a relatively mild sleeping aid only when I insist to her nurse that I have already purchased an airline ticket and am really going on a trip. The nurse always asks for details, “And how many hours will you be on the plane?” For this trip’s prescription, I emphasized that I was going on “an international round trip” but didn’t specify the actual destination of London – most people, even those in Texas, know that London is a fairly accessible part of Europe and my doctor might have shaved off some milligrams.

Somewhere (not real close to the top) in my layers of anxiety/excitement there was “good excitement,” because I did want to make this trip, but the good stuff was mingled with a superstitious fear of disaster. The disaster fear seemed to be some kind of Puritanical, almost-religious view (odd considering my moderate Methodist upbringing) that I come up with in times of stress, where I have the thought that a pleasure trip might meet with disaster because of its self-indulgent (at least, far from selfless) aspects. This stringent line of thought would probably only be satisfied by a trip that was something like a Red Cross/humanitarian type mission, whereas the only conceivable way my London trip might be seen as of benefit to any of mankind other than my selfish self would be that my not going would disappoint K.

I was so grateful that Craig got me to the airport at a fairly early time, because the check-in line at the ticket counter took forever. I couldn’t figure out why it was so slow – it took me less than 2-3 minutes to do everything, so I have no idea what those other passengers were doing at the counter for so long and what crackpot questions or issues they had come up with. I started out fairly near the front line barrier but within a few minutes the line of people behind me got very long. I thought I felt relatively sane, even this close to my major flight over the deep, freezing cold ocean, but I noticed that I kept staring at a bandaid on the floor – this behavior didn’t make sense except as obsessive behavior because the bandaid wasn’t all that disgusting (didn’t have noticeable blood on it) and it was to the side of the people path, so I didn’t really need the constant reminders I was giving myself to avoid stepping on it. I also used a lot of nervous energy staring/glaring at a chubby black lady in very tight stretch pants who I first thought had cut into the line but then realized had just rejoined the rest of her family – there’s nothing like getting annoyed by other people to serve as a distraction.

After I made it through the check-in, baggage screen and gate security process, I did feel a little more relaxed but still had a somewhat obsessive determination to change some dollars at the airport – I was planning to take a train from Gatwick to London but I wanted to be sure I had British pounds in case for some anxious/logistical/apocalyptical reason I ended up taking a cab to London, which my Internet research told me would take 80-90 minutes and cost £50-60 pounds, with the current exchange rate being approximately 1.6 dollars per pound.

I had only just discovered that Britain does not use the Eurodollar like I thought they did, and felt that my not having known before was an example of how Americans are really nation-centric or more specifically, how we lump together news and happenings about the European countries. Apparently there has been significant controversy over the Euro in Britain, but despite Tony Blair’s strong advocacy, the Brits have said “no” (although Ireland did adopt the Euro). I thought Internet research would further clarify British currency for me but although I read that there were 1 penny, 2 pence, 5, 10, 20 and 50 pence coins, also a pound coin and two pound coins, with paper notes available in 5 pounds, 10, 20, and 50, I couldn’t find pictures since pictures of actual currency are considered a violation of something-or-other. I stupidly (or at least, with American-centric conceit) thought it sounded simple enough – meaning, close enough to American dollars – that I should have no problem.

Since I had 200 American dollars and wanted to get at least 100 pounds before landing in London, I walked up to the Thomas Cook desk at DFW thinking I knew what I was doing, telling myself this was a different scenario from when we went to Acapulco and my mother-in-law browbeat us not to change dollars in the U.S. but to wait until we got to Mexico. In true stupid-tourist style, I shoved my dollars through the window without even looking at the posted rate, but as soon as the counter person began counting out my money, I felt uneasy – with a Thomas Cook fee and a less-than-bank rate this was quite a suck-down of my $200.

However, I rationalized that I needed to get used to my dollars not buying much of what I might have liked them to and anyway, my time of worries and concerns was drawing to an end. After a pre-trip snack (for which I had already spied a McDonald’s, just the sodium addition I needed after 2-3 Dr Peppers that day and movie popcorn), it would be almost time to take my Ambien – I could feel myself regarding this event with the schedule importance of a doctor appointment but a lot more joyful anticipation. The McDonald’s food would be my early dinner, and things were feeling more and more like evening, or twilight – or metaphorically, shrinking horizons and increasing darkness. I was about to take a sleeping pill…

I had had frustrations on previous flights that Ambien wasn’t “strong” enough (basically, I would like to go unconscious until the plane arrives at the arrival gate) but it does have some effect and a couple of trips previously, I had decided that since combining Ambien with alcohol didn’t lay me too low (despite the pill bottle warning), I would continue to do that. Despite a small glitch when my doctor’s office had accidentally called in one pill for the entire round trip, they were quite cooperative – I had obtained four pills for my 9 hours out and 10 hours back. A friend of Craig’s and mine who has taken Ambien during an emotionally difficult time stated, “It clears your mind so you can sleep.” It doesn’t necessarily put me to sleep but it slows my anxious mental churning to one track, which I can divert with reading or happy thoughts, and on evening flights it has occasionally helped me at least briefly shut my eyes. Our friend’s description also sheds light on how I can focus on one paragraph of a book (sometimes, I admit, with what is probably a tipsy smile on my lips) for much longer than it would normally take me to read that same paragraph – I probably average a half hour per page under peak Ambien conditions.

Considering that I could spend so long on just one page I brought way too many books (four new paperbacks) for my 5-day trip, but in my view the most nightmarish trip is the kind where one runs out of books. I won’t go into my buried-alive teenage experience of visiting my stepmother’s family with only 2-3 sub-par library books as escape from the Nebraska winter – a more recent example would be my getting deeply into a new health food cookbook during a flight that was fairly turbulent and provided nothing better to read. I almost always buy a People magazine in the terminal too – sober, the magazine’s content is too flimsy to distract me from the flight’s horrors, but on Ambien, People with its dumbed-down articles and highly recognizable celebrities is good fodder for my drugged brain. If given a quiz on the stories I’d read in People while on Ambien, I would probably fail it – I’ve experimentally flipped back through the pages at the end of a flight and been unable to remember whether I actually read this piece on…Madonna, Janet or Marky Mark. That isn’t important though because my life wouldn’t be changed whether I did or didn’t absorb that content and I could always reread the thing, anyway. However, today I might have passed the People exam, because I finished most of it during the pre-flight wait before the Ambien really took hold.

London 2003 - Thursday Evening excerpt, part 2

2010-05-14T21:33:00.016-05:00

Although I (surprisingly) still had some beer left (it was a large-size glass) I couldn’t help forming the survival-oriented question: Does the beer tap still work after this power outage? I had no more idea than when I ordered my first drink whether I should hail (whatever that means for an introvert) the waitress, wait for her to amble over, or whether I should go on over to the bar if I wanted another drink. With the zero pace of being waited on at my table and the slow pace of my being acknowledged at the bar, I couldn’t see how this whole roomful of people had ever gotten drinks, but some of them had what looked like fresh ones. (Craig said later in response to my whining about this experience, “Maybe when you stood at the bar they thought you were waiting for someone,” and I hated the fact that even from home he had a better grip on the bar experience than I did.)

Now I noticed that the corner lights I had seen over the metal pizza counter had gone off, although I did see dim emergency-looking light (backup lighting, so the cooks didn’t burn themselves at the stove) through a swinging door into what I thought must be the real kitchen. It wasn’t pleasant to be given thoughts of a kitchen right now, since I envisioned partly cooked food sitting on cooling cooktops and unpowered refrigerator units. If the kitchen was not closed, it should be.

The bar in general looked darker now, with the darkness somehow reflecting off the dark TV screen, whose grainy image I had been staring at earlier (before it lightning-zipped off), reflecting in annoyance that a talking head newsperson viewed while listening to bar music wasn’t much of an entertainment package – but now, it would have been great to see any type of show flash back to life on the screen. I was comforted that I had at least a little (warming) beer left in my glass, which defined me as a person in the moment, a still-consuming customer waiting for things to resume.

However, the rest of my planned evening was in question – venturing back toward the restaurant was no longer an option, since I could tell it was dark down that hall. Someone in a hotel uniform had shut the wooden swing doors, with only darkness showing through the small round windows at the top. I didn’t understand why they needed to be closed (other than to keep bar customers from noticing that the entire hotel was dark), but I hoped it was a temporary thing – I didn’t like my budding thoughts on whether the closed doors might signify fire safety, panic control, or what.

Despite everything, I was glad to be on the ground floor and not power-stranded in my small-windowed room or, worse thought, in the very box-like shower. Continuing to look around the room for comfort and distraction, I noted that only a few tables of people had left and the people currently sitting (there were only a few bar stools) and standing at the bar seemed unfazed by the power outage, probably because they all had visible drinks. I didn’t feel an immediate urge to leave…since tripping with my candle earlier, I didn’t think I was sufficiently in command to walk back to that bar down the street, and despite this place having no power, I (with some shame at my provincial-ness) liked its American-like openness, with an outside wall of windows and double doors to the street outside. I also liked the relative lack of smokiness, even though by choosing low smoke I was surely depriving myself of anything near authentic pub life on a Thursday night.

I felt comfortable now, but I pretended I was at least toying with the idea of going outside to that other pub, by now almost mythical to my imagination, although I knew exactly what street it was on (hardly mythical) since it was so close to the St. Giles. After all, I could have set my parameters to have one glass of wine, which I wouldn’t glug like beer, and which wouldn’t render me incapable of protecting myself from any pub or street dangers. I could then return to the safety of my hotel for more wine, if I wanted it, as a nightcap. (Uh, yeah.)

The St. Giles bar tap did seem to be working, since I saw a guy bringing drinks back to a girl at their table. Probably the beer tap wasn’t electric, and I guessed the staff could do at least cash transactions manually. Actually the guy I watched had a bottled beer but his female companion’s was draft. The draft glass had no foam head on it, but I didn’t know enough about the physics of draft beer to extrapolate much about the beer setup from this…bar power on?, off? Who knew.

Other than being down to my last sip of Heineken, I was surviving well and felt no rush to leave – the room temperature didn’t seem much colder than before, and I had my coat with me anyway. If I got tired of staring at customers who had the fresh beer I coveted, I could go back to reading, squinting in the dark like I did on the plane coming over when the lights didn’t work for my row. Admittedly, it turned out to be a little difficult to concentrate on reading, especially after I drained my beer glass, but I hoped that if I went through the motions (i.e. glancing through the same book page three or four times with only slightly increasing comprehension), the repeated act would eventually bring me more fully into the moment at hand. The concept of using forced repeated activity to enter the moment (a useful tool for the shy person who can’t think of much to say to strangers other than a rote, “Where do you work?”, which fortunately is usually a well-received question), was one of the points I liked to ponder in my writing, but in tonight’s context, it seemed rather futile and more lonely than usual.

No level of management ever made any kind of announcement to the customers, but I did see men in hotel uniforms and cheap-looking suits walk briskly (yet somehow conveying worry) through the corner of the room and in and out of the doors to the lobby. While I was feebly trying to manage my slightly fussy thoughts that back in the U.S., someone would have come out and given us a status report (and/or, at least a few customers would have rudely demanded a report), a young woman that I hadn’t noticed before (she wasn’t in uniform and she wasn’t taking drink orders, which was why I hadn’t noticed she was an employee) came around with a tray of lighted votives and replaced the one on my table that I had killed. I thanked her with enthusiasm – immediately getting the impression she didn’t understand much English, but I wanted to thank someone anyway – and immediately basked in the cozy glow that my marble-topped table re-assumed with this little flame. (This votive was in the more traditional round-bowl holder, not as pretty/glam but a sturdier set-up than the flat-bottomed votives in the tapered-bottom martini-type glasses I had struggled with earlier.)

Although my table had now been recozy-fied, I was feeling less content there. I was getting hungry and wished I hadn’t left my snack nuts in my room, where they felt inaccessible right now – even if I wanted to hike up the stairs, would the card key work without electricity? I really wasn’t sure what to do about my hunger, since I assumed that the restaurant was still dark. Speaking of that, the lobby was probably dark – what a scary thought, a dark lobby open to a busy and less than genteel street. The bar doors to the hallway were now open again and I slowly walked out to check the lobby. I went far enough to see that the automatic doors to the street were staying open, with several employees hovering protectively in the front-lobby area including the blond doorman with glasses who had given me the soccer map when I arrived that morning – what a long shift this was for him. I could have asked the nearest employee what the extent of power outage was (concerning elevators and room electricity) but I felt I didn’t really want to know. Walking back toward the bar, I saw through the restaurant windows unhappy-looking people in the dim dining room sipping wine in front of dirty, empty plates – definitely the bar seemed to be a better, warmer atmosphere than a dead restaurant.

I stopped at the hall bathroom, which happily was fully lit (I considered this an excellent allocation of emergency lighting), although it took me a minute to figure out that I needed my card key to get through the outside bathroom door. There was a bumpy slant in the slick-linoleumed hallway back to the bar that was marked with colored tape, but I almost tripped on it anyway, both going out and coming back in – not surprising by my usual clumsy standards, but not impressive on a sobriety continuum. I realized that about an hour of main-power darkness had now gone by, a time unit which felt like a kind of milestone and mathematically helped convince me that I needed to eat before having a second Heineken (which I figured was stronger than my usual Miller Lite, accounting for my near-pratfall antics with the votive and walking in the hall).

My conscious combination of hunger, acknowledged inebriation and need for safe-seeming comfort took me no further than back across the street to Subway for a cheap, filling sandwich of predictable quality. On this second trip to the combination Subway-Internet cafe, I realized how little of the space was dedicated to eating – just a few not-quite-cleared tables near the front window. Obviously the primary focus of customers was to get online. Thinking of keyboard cleanliness, I did my best to wipe the tuna and mayo off my fingers with the single napkin included in the Subway sandwich bag, and then went over to a computer. I didn’t look for a place to wash my hands before joining the crowd of typists, but my lazy rationalization was that it would have been more disturbing to touch the keyboard first and then eat my sandwich – eating first (with hands recently washed at the hotel) and then sliming a keyboard for the next person (in a country I didn’t live in) was selfishly less of a concern.

This time I was more savvy about my money timing out and I felt in control as I ended an email to my sister-in-law Belinda, “I’m going to log off now, I may get some more bottled water at the grocery store next door and then try the bar again – hope their beer hasn’t warmed up too much.” I had neared – or probably crossed – the point where I was acting out things I had written about in my script, rather than just documenting what had happened.

Sainsbury was less crowded than when I went in earlier, or maybe I was just in a more relaxed mood from my beer and the warmth of email connection – I drifted around a bit and gawked at the multiple selections of Old El Paso chili mix and sauces, refrigerated cans of Dr Pepper that I hadn’t seen all week, anywhere, and two sides of an aisle full of premade sandwiches. Few of the sandwiches had much visible green stuff in them, and I was glad I had already found myself a healthier, crunchier sandwich at Subway (tuna on wheat with fresh veggies). The store did have quite a few ready-to-eat entrees and frozen things that I guessed I could have heated up here in the store’s microwave and schlepped back across the street, steaming in a plastic bag, perfuming the elevator (assuming the elevator worked) and attracting curious stares at the food smell. Considering the Sainsbury options, a Subway sandwich seemed even more suitable in retrospect, and in fact, my overall reliance on sandwiches on this trip seemed wise.

Going back to the bar, I had a rather silly sense of anticipation – I was convinced that for my earlier inconvenience, my venturing out (although that was not so impressive since I had only crossed the street), and most of all, my having waited to get a second drink…that for those things, I truly deserved, guilt-free, another beer. (This kind of reward thinking is probably close to being included on the classic “Are you an alcoholic” checklist.)

The bar looked a little less cohesive now, with fewer customers in it and a sense of people drifting through and waiting for others. I held out cash at the bar counter and quickly received my Heineken from a rather lost-looking woman. She was a far cry from the perkily rude ones that had been working here earlier – either those had run off to a more happening spot, or the stress of the power outage had drastically changed their demeanor. With its now more vacant atmosphere, the unelectrified bar looked darker. However, it wasn’t really any darker and was lit primarily by light coming in through the picture windows, the same ones I had earlier mocked as being painted with pizzas and coffee mugs. Although the outside light was welcome, this wasn’t really a well-lit street, since office buildings and hotels, not retail, filled the blocks on that side of the hotel.

I sat down in my same area, got out my paperback to pretend to read and my red-covered book in case I wanted to write more gossip about my surroundings, but I couldn’t settle into reading or writing and instead kept gazing around. At first it puzzled me that a trickle of people kept coming into this relatively dead place, but then I realized that from the outside, the dim lighting probably looked like normal bar ambience. After all, there was no kind of warning sign on the door and certainly no staff waving away newcomers while explaining the problem. Probably the St. Giles’ assumption was that if people wandered in and found their way to the bar with correct change for their drinks, well, business was business.

There was a group of young white guys downing pints who I eyed several times because they almost had a punkish troublemaking look, from their posture and ghetto-imitating dress. However I felt less intimidated after they gave me a good laugh – one them got a cell call with a girlishly musical ring, and I couldn’t quite believe it was what it sounded like – the beginning chorus for the R&B/hip-hop Nelly/Kelly “You’re my Boo” duet so overplayed in America – but when the phone rang again a few minutes later, I was certain.

One reason that I put those song lyrics in the humor category is that we sometimes call our dog “Boo” (short for Marley-Boo, which is even sillier). The actual song is called “Dilemma,” by Nelly (from his 2002 Nellyville album) and features Kelly Rowland of Destiny’s Child, with a chorus that goes: “No matter what I do…All I think about is you…Even when I’m with my Boo…Boy, you know I’m crazy over you.”

I was rather ashamed of my lack of political correctness as I stared at an interracial couple that turned into an interracial group – it started out as a woman wearing a tight, low-V neck top that caught my attention because the leopard print was so like things that the character Kat (Kathleen) wears on BBC TV’s East Enders. Kat has a heart of gold and more IQ than she gives herself credit for, but she dresses in a lot of animal prints, feather accessories and skimpily cut leather. Around the time of my trip (on the BBC America weekend rebroadcasts before I left Dallas), Kat had gotten involved with the neighborhood doctor, who happened to be a black guy (and coincidentally, her illegitimate daughter’s ex-fiancee…yes, really). Continuing the East Enders tableau, almost immediately a business-dressed black guy came into the bar to join “Kat” and her East Indian-looking companion. The St. Giles Kat was more trim and slim than her TV counterpart but was noticeably the only person at the bar wearing anything near to a leopard print.

At 10:00, the bar was still dark but I realized that didn’t really matter, since I was done with food and drink for the night. The 10:00 time was remarkable only as a point of pride that I had ended my solo day with a solo evening that kept me out of my room until 10 pm, considering that I often nod off at home before 9:00 – I won’t say how much before – I thought this was pretty good.

There were uniformed St. Giles employees at the lobby counter in their usual position when I went up to ask about the power situation – I can only imagine how arriving guests reacted when they came into this dark place, but the counter ladies tried to maintain an attitude of normalcy. My question sounded a bit whiny but after they asked what floor I was on, they immediately said that floors such-through-such had maintained power the whole time, although the lifts were still not working.

I wasn’t sure whether I considered this news to be good, knowing my room with my stuff in it had never been dark, or whether it made me feel silly, having killed time in a dark area before getting back to a lit place. I walked toward the stairwell, which still smelled of pool chlorine from the basement, and with what I hoped was a moderate amount of self-pity, trudged up clanky metal-and-concrete stairs (nothing like Dukes’ wide carpeted ones – I missed my last hotel) to enter my room hallway through the fire doors. My heart rate got really rapid – I was only on the 3rd floor of rooms, but since the lobby ceiling was so high they must have skipped a level before numbering floors. It wasn’t cold in the stairwell but I immediately took my coat off, and the weight of carrying was not welcome.

By the time I reached my floor, I was only slightly gasping but ready to drop my coat and water bottle. I checked my reaction to the room again since I was much closer to feeling the right degree of tired for bedroom appreciation. The room did seem more welcoming now that it was dark outside and since I had had to hike up to it. It became easier to think of the small size as cozy for small me, although I kept wondering how this room, supposedly designed for two people, could fit two people, not to mention their luggage, with any degree of comfort – there would have been no place for my second suitcase if I hadn’t put it on the other bed. I still couldn’t avoid noticing that the beds were narrow and flat and the carpet was stained.

Due to the questionable power situation, I didn’t even try calling down to ask about a wakeup call but fished out the alarm clock that I had packed, only now realizing that I had dragged the small plastic thing to Europe with a dead battery. I had not used it since I bought it when Billie was a puppy, attempting to find something that would make that supposed help-the-puppy-sleep sound, a ticking that frantic (sleep-deprived) shopping had taught me was difficult to find in today’s age of electronic timepieces. Even with a dead alarm clock, I thought I would be OK – my flight time didn’t require me to get up super-early anyway, and by combining my jet lag sleep disruption with some obsessive can’t-oversleep stuff (must-catch-flight) mixed in I would be up in plenty of time.

London 2003 - Thursday Evening excerpt, Part 1

2010-05-12T20:15:00.015-05:00

(I so love FotoSearch...when I looked up “woman bar beer,” none of the results look like me – they have manicures/toned bodies, one lady smokes – but they look like they are having fun! Which means they are not quite right to illustrate this story…but I couldn’t resist using two of the generic images anyway.)

Here is my journal from Thursday evening – after a day of changing hotels from the nice Dukes to the marginal St. Giles and of going to the British Museum, which is huge, and of struggling to find a lunch restaurant and seeing a movie and getting lost at least once, maybe more times depending on how you define lost…

I felt good about myself as a jaded reporter, but I felt like a self-conscious tourist again when I passed a very popular-looking pub – its open door and window were jammed with people, and loud glassware clinks and pub chatter carried toward me. The pub was in the ground floor of a warehouse-looking building that was set back several hundred feet from the sidewalk, with grubby cracked pavement in front of it, like a partial alley – maybe one of London’s odd streets that had been dead-ended by construction of buildings around it. Surprisingly, there was only one car in the paved area – either this was due to some odd zoning rule, or all of the pub’s customers had staggered there on foot.

This place looked fun (at least other people were having fun there, whether or not I would) and it was very near my hotel, but I knew I wouldn’t have the nerve to walk in here alone. The sad certainty of this knowledge led to poignant thoughts of Craig, who would have eagerly led me inside if he had come on this trip – I don’t mean to imply an inappropriate eagerness to drink, but he would have been eager for the experience. Craig shares almost none of my hangups…I felt sure that if he had come to London on his own, he would have had absolutely no hesitation walking into the pub alone.

So far I had spent no time in a pub this trip (the Dukes Hotel bar was clearly not a pub), which was surely a devastatingly wimpy admission for a drinking person – and as a possibly even worse admission, I had not pursued any of Rick Steves’ book or online suggestions. In my distant observer/wallflower way I had formed the theory that there were two types of pubs here – almost empty ones, and ones with people spilling out of the windows and doors against a background of cigarette smoke.

I felt very certain that Craig would be intimidated by neither pub scenario, but that knowledge didn’t really help me now, other than to compel my umpteenth resolution that I should try to get Craig to make a trip to London with me. I didn’t necessarily want to delve into the question of whether my need to share with Craig was more of an altruistic urge to introduce Craig to authentic British pub experiences I was sure he would enjoy, or the more selfishly specific reason that I would have had a comfortable passport to pubs myself if he had been my companion.

Partly because of this alley-end pub sighting and the accompanying angst, partly because I continued to be intimidated by other dining and eating places I passed, and also (not least) because I needed a drink, I now felt even more determined to go out and have a beer around people tonight. Not surprisingly, I had quickly come up with the wimpily safe idea (which I was trying to re-label as convenient or efficient) of going to the St. Giles bar-restaurant. Never mind my thoughts about it earlier this afternoon, that it looked like a pancake house/coffee shop – after all, I had only seen the outside, the interior might be full of charm.

Even though I tried to reframe this plan as being bold by Sarah standards, I couldn’t escape the thought that it was a poor-second, an also-ran, and did I mention wimpy?…idea in comparison to even theoretical thoughts of going to the alley-end pub by myself. Trying to get my plans back to an appropriately adventurous mix of the safe and the semi-scary, I told myself I would check out the St. Giles bar first, and if nothing was happening there (or I felt otherwise uncomfortable) I would go outside and down the street and maybe/potentially visit the alley place.

Yes...at this point I was feeling more good anticipation than negative nervousness, which small feat of confidence-normalcy I felt inordinately good about. I was able to counter my nerves pretty well by self-repeating forms of, “I am a paying guest at this hotel…it’s my right to visit the bar.” The murky image of me potentially going to an outside bar required that I experiment with higher though more vague forms of self-talk…which raised my level of overall optimism but didn’t convince me I was ready to charge out into the street.

My going-out ensemble was more carefully chosen than it would have appeared, had anyone glanced at me (which, sorry to tell my then and present self, was doubtful) – I thought it would be safe to go back to my black suedeish shoes that caused blisters, since they only did so on long walks (which tonight would not be). I also revisited the gray shirt that I thought now seemed aired out from Monday night’s smoky wine bar (I felt it had aired out, if only by absorption, from sitting on top of cleaner clothes in my suitcase), and slightly creased black slacks which seemed better (cleaner, dressier, or at least different) than the day’s jeans, which were now stretched out, subtly stained, and otherwise ready for nothing else but wearing on the long flight home.

Comparisons with my other dirty clothes elevated tonight’s outfit – for example, tonight’s gray shirt was a fashion gem compared to the sweatshirt I had worn all day, a gray button-neck, loose-bottomed, Old Navy sweatshirt circa 1996. I knew the year for a fact because the day we bought it was the same (dramatic/traumatic) day that Craig and I made our first experimental trip to look at wedding rings (pretending our interest in rings was all very theoretical).

While dressing, I maintained my positive going-out attitude despite the mild wrinkles apparent in every item I put on, but it was a bit harder to rise above the shoes – I had packed them up this morning without thinking about my Dukes Hotel room-freshener concept of shaking talcum powder into them as they sat beside the bed, and the powder had now (in suitcase transit) made it out of the shoes to join other dust and dirt on the shoe tops. The white powder between the laces, over the tongue, and in the crease of the sole, was especially difficult to brush off.

I carried my coat downstairs with me, still telling myself I might go to the place down the street – I really felt I was, for now, reserving judgment on my destination. Open, freewheeling…yeah.

The lobby directional signs for the hotel bar first took me to the hotel restaurant – that was scary, first thinking this well-lit, half-empty place was the bar – but when I reoriented myself, I realized I was supposed to walk past the hotel restaurant. The bar itself was down a hallway patterned with scary-smooth linoleum, past restrooms that I, with proud practicality, made mental note of for future use. Although the bar was large and had a far wall of mostly windows, the general look was not very open, because the place was dimly lit and crowded with small tables. However...there were enough empty tables to make me feel comfortable coming in with my book but not so many vacant seats that I felt I had entered a backwater.

I picked a table near the edge of the central cluster of seating and sat still for a few minutes, with my book spine-mashed open in front of me but not quite concentrating (being more than aware enough of my surroundings to once again lament that Ann Rule’s paperback publisher had chosen tacky lipstick lips for the cover illustration). I maybe-not-so surreptitiously watched the (surprisingly few) bar employees in an attempt to figure out their routines.

None of them came anywhere near me, and I thought maybe this meant that I was supposed to do some version of bellying up to the bar – but I didn’t want to make a mistake of where/how to order that was in any way reminiscent of my aborted pub lunch experience earlier [humiliated over being ignored, I had fled a real pub to eat at a coffee shop that didn’t have great service either].

Unfortunately (or maybe it was a good thing, since I could blame the lack of service on the bartendresses not seeing me instead of them being rude cows), despite there being little seating in front of the bar there wasn’t much empty space to stand near the bar (another possible sign that the bar was where one was meant to order).

At first I stood near the spot where the two barmaids who actually seemed to be circulating at some of the tables came and went to pick up drinks, but after a couple of near body-bumps with them, I moved and stood behind some guys who were holding money in their hands, hoping that after they were waited on, I could move up to their spot and be waited on. I didn’t exactly manage my body language right to move up (several other people pushed in front of me and got several other drinks) but finally a guy next to me, who a bartendress was smiling at very encouragingly, gestured that I was next and should be served before him.

When the petite brunette standing as short behind the bar as I did short in front of it finally asked my order (after first looking right and left as if there must be someone else more important in the near vicinity to wait on – or maybe I just felt self-consciously unworthy because she had to look down and over the tall bar to see me, but she really did seem especially unenthused that short, female me was next in line), I had had plenty of time to decide on a Heineken as my first drink. I did notice Budweiser bottles on display (not my favorite Miller Lite, but at least from the same continent as Miller, unlike Dutch Heineken) – but the Heineken had looked light as I watched it coming out of the tap for so many other people’s glasses (pints), so I figured I could choke it down.

I had had plenty of time to get my pound coins together in the proper amount for a pint as per the chalkboard behind the bar, but unfortunately, by this time I had missed happy hour by 10 full minutes, as the barmistress didn’t seem too disappointed at telling me. I wasn’t sure if she was yelling this fact out of annoyance or whether she realized I was having trouble making out her non-British accent (a British accent would have been bad enough) over the bar noise and recorded music. She held up a glass, gesturing the question of whether this large size was OK, and I nodded in response (what a stupid cultural exchange this was).

I felt silly for my surprise that the beer was served cold – maybe it was only the real home brews, at truly local pubs (dark beers served at bars that really have locals in them) that are served at what we Americans screechingly describe as “room temperature!,” i.e. warm. I mentally enthused that my Heineken tasted really good after the four days of drinking wine and all my previously beer-less meals (namely/primarily sandwiches), which would have been enhanced by beer. I hoped my lip-smacking impulse was only mental and not audible as I thought how light and refreshing the Heineken was as it went down. I immediately worried that I must really miss my home routine of drinking Miller Lite while writing – I had to admit I was guzzling this London Heineken.

Maybe it was partly in an attempt to slow (to find a new perspective for) my guzzling that I dug my red-leather bound book out of my purse to make notes. It was a beautiful Italian leather blank-page book that I bought at Barnes & Noble in the late 1990s for traveling. Just picking it up made one feel like an author – but what I didn’t think through at the time of purchase was, not only was the book heavy and an awkward shape (squareish) inside one’s purse but it was also impossible to tear out the elegantly thick pages (which is necessary to give a note to someone, or to dispose of something embarrassing that one has written) without destroying the book’s binding. I had been dragging around this bound book all week in the bottom of my purse while using more convenient things like the backs of Internet printouts to make notes on – but this seemed like the right time to set out the book on a tabletop.

This evening was not exactly momentous in the big scheme of things, but there was a ton of previous trip stuff nagging at me to be recorded, and tonight (in the end zone of my trip, with little action left ahead) I felt I could (comfortably, in this setting) scribe the more persistent memories thus far and make some good in-the-moment notes about what was going on around me in the bar.

It wasn’t just the alcohol helping me feel warm in remembering that sister-in-law Belinda had said she really liked my emails. Despite the effort required for scribing, I was grateful for Belinda’s push at launching me toward documentation mode. I tried not to put too corny a point on this, but in thinking of Belinda (and potentially others, but with Belinda as the ideal) as my avid audience, I felt that I had better than virtual company. As my gulps of beer continued (I attempted to gulp slowly), I couldn’t help feeling a nice glow that it was almost as if I had a mini-mission in London – making reports to Belinda in Ft. Worth.

The menu I had picked up from a neighboring table turned out to be a lunch menu, but I kept it since I thought maybe visualizing the hotel food choices could get me thinking about what I might want to order for dinner later. My new mission of reporting to Belinda enhanced my reading of the otherwise not-so-interesting menu. For purposes of sarcastic reportage I was happy to see that the menu had a cliched-British tone, with almost every item accompanied by chips (which actually were called “fries” here at the St. Giles, obviously for American tourists).

I immediately decided that the menu was so classic, for purposes of sarcasm, that I should copy down the whole thing in my Italian leather book. It started out sounding fairly sedate, with the expected several kinds of specialty pizzas (there were signs inside and outside the St. Giles advertising pizza) and then sandwiches: ham and tomato (tomah-toe); the Brit-classic “tuna mayo”; “vegetarian Cheddar” with salad (apparently if you wanted vegetarian they thought you would want salad too); Chicken Coronation (I thought I had read in Rick Steves or elsewhere on the web about this Brit-invented sandwich filling, which I was pretty sure was very high-fat), which specified after its name “and lettuce” in case people needed to be forewarned that there would be something green with their chicken, mayo and bread; smoked salmon and cucumber garnished “with salad and crisps” (the “salad” designated this as another health choice – the last such healthful item).

The menu then moved on to entrees, starting out with the St. Giles’ rotisserie chicken: ¼ chicken and fries; ½ chicken and fries; whole chicken and fries; Italian mixed salad (I wasn’t sure where the mixed salad fit, unless maybe with the following steak & kidney item), homemade steak and kidney pudding, served with gravy and fries (my mind and stomach were boggled at the stodgy combination of steak/kidneys/”pudding”:/gravy/fries); homemade lasagna, salad and fries; homemade cannelloni, salad and fries; and lastly (presumably, the best – or the heaviest – for last), “bowl of fries.” Even without having copied this down, I knew I would have remembered to tell Belinda and other U.S. friends about the lasagna served with chips (fries) – I was already formulating my witty reportage, something like, “This being a decent hotel, a salad does accompany the lasagna and the chips.”

I guess I have a love-hate relationship with french fries, which puts them into a guilt-charged private category – regardless of how much I like them, I have always recognized they must be the first food to be jettisoned (at least avoided) when I feel the need to go into some sort of diet mode. Craig likes to tease me about my liking for them, which always gets an indignant reaction out of me, since he has no idea how many times I want to order fries but don’t allow myself to.

Not surprisingly, I hadn’t been able to get out of my mind the most chip-related posting from Graffiti Wall (acerbically titled, “Another use for fries”), about a Chicago woman’s visit to the British town of Banbury. The item said, “My host family had gotten the traditional fish and chips one night, and my host-mom wanted to show me how to make a ‘chip butty.’ It was white bread, spread with margarine, topped with fries, and rolled up. She offered it to me but I politely declined. I want to live to see my 30th birthday, after all.” I loved the high-fat baroqueness of the Chicago woman’s comments but I resented the correlation of fried foods with middle-aged mortality.

As I copied down the restaurant menu and started on other notes, my Heineken – alternately sipped and gulped as I tried to control my consumption – did much to enhance my feelings about myself and my handling of today. I had gone out and seen things and I had functioned well alone in this city. Maybe more importantly (for writing-oriented me), my emails and notes would later remind me how much interesting detail (of all the specific experiences and angst) I had gotten out of it all. The beer was even starting to lend an almost-philosophical perspective to my earlier moments of panic in the hotel room and my less-than-confident, less-than-joyful treks in the crowded streets.

I had worked hard not to let the tendrils of lonely panic remind me of non-brave scenarios I would like to forget, parts of long-ago trips…an afternoon in downtown San Francisco where I didn’t feel like exploring alone but had to kill time while waiting for my friend Q. to get off work – after a frustrating ten minutes in Macy’s (everything seemed too petite-sized or too expensive) I dodged street people and entered the public library, where I read romance novels for three hours…and my foreshortened trip at age 20 to Washington DC, when my uncle Homer had flown back home after our first day and I immediately got a giant case of homesickness, waking up feeling horribly displaced and anxious, such powerful feelings that I took a cab straight to the airport.

The almost-professionally therapeutic powers of Dr. Heineken helped me realize that I had been too harsh on myself. I needed to keep in mind that I had grown up in a very small town and then moved to a middle-class part of Dallas – although not spoiled, I had been sheltered. Even if I avoided saying or thinking things like, “Dallas was never like this,” it was impossible not to admit that I wasn’t used to such a vibrant urban life, with crowds of diverse people, lots of street noise, and traffic-intense street crossings.

Suddenly, my chemically rebalanced orientation was disrupted by a ripping, zipping type noise and the bar’s music and lights dramatically flipped off. I thought for a minute that the bizarre noise might be some kind of disco promo (a startling song intro) but when the lack of sound and lights continued and people around me remained stilled in a befuddled way, I realized it was a power problem.

It took a few minutes to sort out what lights were still working – the hotel had an emergency lighting system, so there were still lights on in the pizza-kitchen corner of the bar. Oddly, although the bar’s big-screen TV had gone dark, the cigarette machine under it was still lit. I could still see lights from the street outside, so thankfully this wasn’t a city blackout, just a St. Giles one.

(To be continued...)

(No, this image is nothing like me, that night or any other night – but I kind of wish it was.... )

Attempt at Looser Precision

2010-05-11T20:52:00.019-05:00

There is something so engaging about painter Carol Marine’s work – an incredible mix of passion and control, I would say. Relaxed but limited color? Broad-brush precision? I have 8 (yes, EIGHT, what of it?!) of her 6-inch square paintings.

The one posted here I paid too much for on eBay because I had gotten so peeved the week before at missing out on another one I wanted. I’m not sure what drove the bidding war so high this time…maybe the painting stood out because it came after a long series of whole and sliced apples, and then cracked-open eggs...maybe it was one of Carol’s better (they are all good) titles: “Pre-Blackberry,” because it is a blackberry blossom, before the fruit.

P.S. Carol your work is worth whatever it commands, and really more, so I’m not complaining about the $. Just shocked at myself for spending it, but what else is new…

Other artists admire Carol’s style – is it as easy as she makes it look? Not really, but I’m sure it is a pleasure to attend her seminars. On her blog she makes a lot of references to bribing the “kids” (always calls her students that) with chocolate and them plying her with wine. Yeah, baby.

She’s certainly known among her fellow Daily Painters (www.dailypainters.com). One painter that I won’t name was recently admonished by someone posting to his blog, you should study Carol Marine’s style – that might help you do a better job on the way your fruit looks like it’s floating above the plate. (ouch!)

Carol’s newsletter last Sunday had a response to students at a recent Sedona workshop that really resonated with me.

I mentioned one day last week about an exercise I had them do with a minimum number of brush strokes and subsequently got lots of emails/questions about that. One of the biggest reasons I hear about why people take my class is to become looser/less fussy. Of the things I suggest to my students, among them are: squint and see shapes and values rather than objects; make each brush stroke count/be deliberate; rather than defining your subject, consider suggesting it, with brush stroke. These things are very important in how I paint. I hope that explains it.

Source: http://carolmarine.blogspot.com/

I think one of the reasons I have bought a zillion (slight exaggeration) paintings in the past 3 months is that I see, feel, so many parallels between writing and painting. Most of all, the urge to produce a creative and heartfelt product for which you crave an audience, while knowing there may not be one, but you are going to create anyway – write, paint, even if you ask yourself, why the hell am I doing this, there is no payoff, etc.

I know my previous paragraph is fascinating in its own right, but the main purpose of my sticking it here is to explain that I found meaning for my writing in Carol’s paragraph about painting.

What Carol’s painting students seek is exactly what I need (always hard to use a strong word like need, almost a “should”…restate as want to? am thinking about?)…anyway, what I would like to do with my writing – be less fussy, less specific?, more suggestive than definitive. Well, not sure I can do it, but it is a goal. OK…a perspective, a reference point.

Here’s a practice subject that I’m scared to handle under pressure but will try anyway. Doesn’t need to be perfect (note to self that will be ignored) – that’s a big part of the point – this is about trying a new technique.

From rough blog notes – the draft was titled, Two things I really miss as a motherless daughter.

OK, following Carol Marine my technique will be:

Squint – look at shapes and values
Suggest, rather than define

THING 1

Child Sarah:

Going to bed when sleepy, knowing Mother would still be in the kitchen finishing our joint project. Smelling the last batch of cookies baking, hearing drawers and cabinets slam politely, hearing the sink water run and splash – she always cleaned up. Some nights the whir of the sewing machine seemed to go on forever, she made so many of my clothes. I didn’t really learn to sew – or to fully cook - until after Mother died, because she supervised the hot stove and the fast electric needle.

With my stepmother, it just wasn’t the same. I was older, less trusting, supposedly less in need of supervision. She was a different person, more brisk, less intense. Is it cruel to say, less thoughtful? Not Mother.

Adult (I won’t say grown) Sarah:

It hurts to stay up late when I’m tired, to toss the last party chips, to wipe counters, to pull clothes out of the dryer, to get to a stopping place with paperwork. No mother to rescue me. No subject expert to take over. (Yes, when you lose a mother in childhood it’s easy to make her a brilliant goddess in memory.)

THING 2

Child Sarah:

Mother would make me choose – this dress or that one, we are only buying one today. The 2nd choice might show up for my birthday or Christmas, often enough that I felt loved and listened to, not so often that I expected it. I felt safe pushing her for things I wanted because either she would agree or say no. I didn’t have to handle the shoulds, the guilt.

Adult Sarah:

Rather than just say I am now a mess at making purchase decisions, at postponing gratification, I’ll use the metaphor of colors:

Red for pleasure and excitement, orange for wanting.
Gray for guilt that stretches back for decades.
Shades of blue for learning from the past, present reflections.
Green? Whatever. It means things, but I don’t always know what.
Black – the framer, the delineator. When suggestion is not clear enough.

IN CLOSING – suggested, not defined:

I keep going back to the broad brush strokes of "Pre-Blackberry" – but there is nothing rough or abstract about it. It has fewer colors – a narrower palate than other of Carol Marine’s recent works. I think she said she also tried simplifying her background technique, doing less prep on the painting surface.

But when you look at the blackberry blossom, it’s clearly there. Nothing is missing. The image is strong.