tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10242925488865388962024-03-08T06:48:43.094-07:00Love Shall Not<b>Though lovers be lost<br>love shall not</b>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-20899274162129810192015-01-21T18:20:00.000-07:002015-01-23T12:49:53.799-07:00My Frugal Accomplishments<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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Monday, I received a check for $17 for writing a tutorial about rebuilding
a carburetor (after Googling “what is a carburetor,” then “how to rebuild a
carburetor”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was unusually warm for
January, so I decided to walk to the library, and then swing by the thrift
store to spend my income-stream money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a dozen library books to
return, and they didn’t all fit in my backpack, so I put them in our
wheelbarrow, after power-washing it in the garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a two-mile trek to the library, and the
wheelbarrow was listing pretty seriously to the right, so I returned home after
a block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I put half the books in my
backpack, and the other half in the ticking-striped front-pack I used when my
son was an infant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It smelled faintly of
breast milk, Desitin, and optimism, and I slung it on happily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hurried to the library, realizing I looked
a bit like a post-menopausal suicide bomber.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">After returning the books, and checking one out (the book jacket
promises that I’ll never buy graham crackers again, once I realize how easy they
are to make), I stopped at the thrift store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, I donated the
ticking-striped front-pack, and scored a 30-percent-off coupon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then bought an over-sized Fiestaware mug, an
unopened package of embroidery floss (50 colors!), a flannel sheet that I’ll
use to make 36 cloth napkins, a maroon sweater-vest from Lands’ End in a boys’
husky XL that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i> will fit me,
and eight Mason jars (they’re actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">less</i>
expensive when purchased new, but they’re “greener” when thrifted) (not
literally…literally, they’re blue).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
couldn’t carry everything, so I called my work-at-home husband, and he picked
me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We stopped for Mexican food,
because we love Mexican food, and because it was a special occasion (MLK Day).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used a coupon, but tipped generously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took half of my enchiladas home, and cooked
them with eggs the next morning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Tuesday, after a delicious and economical breakfast, I walked to my
neighbor’s house, and offered her two homemade pumpkin muffins in exchange for
a 4-inch sprig of rosemary from her indoor herb garden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Recently—after Halloween—the same neighbor gave
me four carved pumpkins in exchange for walking her Labradoodle for 20
minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cooked, pureed, and froze the
pumpkin, and later used it to make the muffins.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She agreed to the swap, and I immediately
used the bartered rosemary to make Rosemary White Bean Soup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(For my birthday, my sister gave me a Door
Snake that she filled with white beans, but I already have a Door Snake, so I
cut the new Door Snake open, poured out the beans, and soaked them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then cut the Door Snake fabric into 5-inch
squares, and tucked them into my quilting cubby.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the soup was done, I took a photo of it,
and attached the photo to a thank-you email I sent my sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My husband and I enjoyed the bean soup for
lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(To be honest, he didn’t
specifically claim to have “enjoyed” it.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I put the leftover soup in the thrifted over-sized Fiestaware mug, and
walked to my aunt’s house, a block away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was a chilly day, but the hot soup kept my hands warm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was visiting my aunt, I trimmed her
polydactyl cat’s claws, and—to show her appreciation—my aunt gave me a box of
empty baby-food jars (the cat is a picky eater).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I returned home and organized my
office-supply drawer, using the jars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She also gave me a cutting from an aloe plant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Wednesday, I got word that my great-niece lost her first tooth <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> had her very-long hair trimmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I requested the tooth and the hair trimmings
from her mother (my niece).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She agreed
to the request (“whatever”), and I dropped by midmorning and picked up the
tooth and the hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I then cut two
3-inch circles from the Door Snake quilting squares, embroidered my
great-niece’s initials on one of the circles, and stitched the circles together
using embroidery floss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right before I
finished the circular stitching, I stuffed the hair and the tooth inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I added a small loop for hanging, and I plan
to give the ornament to my great-niece next Christmas (it’s very cute…the
fabric is red plaid).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tangentially, my
niece (the mom, I mean) recently began using flannel sanitary pads (guess who
made them for her?!?), and I asked if I could have some of the “soaking water”
produced, because I read that it’s excellent for plant watering (I was thinking
about the aloe start), but she said no, and I respect that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At 2:30 that afternoon, I had an appointment with my OB/GYN (who
happens to be my best friend from high school!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In exchange for an Annual Exam, I gave her a
pint of apple butter (made with gleaned apples), a halter-style gingham
sundress for her school-aged granddaughter (made with fabric inherited from my
mother-in-law), pumpkin muffins for her staff (see above), and a handwritten
haiku about my vagina (matted and framed at JoAnn’s, using a gift card and a
50-percent-off coupon).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(The haiku was
matted and framed, I mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not my
vagina.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Thursday, there was a snowstorm, and I stayed home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched a few youtube tutorials, located a box
of nitrile gloves in the home-improvement closet, and expressed my dog’s anal
glands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent a group-email offering to
express the anal glands of friends’ and neighbors’ dogs, but there were no
takers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were some off-color jokes,
but no one was willing to rototill my garden this spring in exchange for a
monthly Expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were also some
off-color jokes about “rototilling my garden.” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That afternoon, when a young Hispanic man knocked on the door and
offered to scoop our driveway and sidewalk, I was enthusiastic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gave him a list of a dozen tasks that I
would trade for snow removal, including data entry (QuickBooks), medical
transcription, button replacement and zipper repair, small-group non-kosher
catering, and—of course—anal gland expression, but he insisted on ten dollars,
cash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think if my Spanish were better,
I could have made my case. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Friday, I made a coupon book for my husband’s birthday, with one coupon
for each year he’s been alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
included coupons for his favorite meals and desserts, for his favorite…wifely
duties, for pretending to listen when he talks about Pink Floyd, for not
gagging when he puts green olives on his turkey burger, for remembering to wish
him a happy Aphelion Day and a happy Perihelion Day, for laughing when he
shares a Brian Regan line, for refraining from rolling my eyes when he calls me
to his computer to see yet another photo of Emilia Clarke, for loving him even
though he refuses to concede that Rush Limbaugh has <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i> redeeming qualities, for watching all three Bourne movies in one
sitting…that kind of thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Saturday morning, after staying up late and being inspired by the
hunkiness that is Matt Damon as Jason Bourne, I asked my husband to cut my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Scary version?” he said, which made me laugh
(even without a coupon).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He used my
Dollar Tree scissors, finished in less than a minute, and I looked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nothing</i> like Franka Potente or Julia
Stiles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t blame him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It all went sideways,” he said, and I
laughed again, there in the bathroom. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That afternoon, my sister and I went to Walgreens, suspecting that the
price of Christmas candy had been drastically slashed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>90-percent off!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Better than expected!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We bought everything that wasn’t obviously for
Christmas (so we could pass it off as Valentine’s Day candy).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We bought 82 boxes of chocolates for $26.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once home, using red construction paper from
my art-supply stash, we made 82 heart-shapes with the words “From a Fellow
Traveler” scrawled across the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We drove
40 minutes to a neighborhood near the homeless shelter, and began handing out
boxes of candy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were requests for
money, cigarettes, sex, real food, and transportation, and one suggestion that
we take our privileged white asses back to the suburbs, but no one turned down
the chocolates.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sunday, my great-nephew visited, and we made cookies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanted to make snickerdoodles, and I had
cream of tarter, so I said yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
substituted whole-wheat flour for white, brown sugar for granulated, olive oil
for butter, flaxseed for eggs, baking powder for baking soda, and nutmeg for
cinnamon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been “shopping from the
pantry” for a while, so stocks are getting low.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’re out of salt, but I suggested omitting it, after considering using
fish sauce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are they supposed to get
all flat like that, and touch?” he asked as they were baking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That happens sometimes,” I said, which
wasn’t a lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were tasty!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I washed out a baggie and sent some cookies
home with him, for his family.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That evening, my husband and I went to my brother’s house and watched
several episodes of “Game of Thrones” on HBO.GO.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took some of the snickerdoodles-in-bar-form,
a quart jar of hot spiced cider, and some sliced meatloaf from lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ended up taking all of that (and more) back
home, ‘cause their snacks were better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We had fun, though!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a good
week!</span></div>
Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-56493487210701569982012-05-31T18:44:00.001-06:002013-03-13T18:24:26.543-06:00A Weight-Loss State of Mind<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I recently lost 50 pounds in five months. To achieve optimal health, I need to do it again immediately. So, this is an interim report in the form of a blog post, focusing on Lessons Learned. Item #2 includes two rules, and the rest of the items are guidelines, or musings, or hypoglycemic blather.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>1. Eating less than you want to in an attempt to lose weight can really mess with your head.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The
instant I form the thought, "Starting immediately, I'm going to eat less than I want to
in an attempt to lose weight," a less-reasonable part of me responds, "No! Please...no! We'll <i>starve</i>! And if we manage <i>not </i>to starve, we'll <i>always </i>be hungry! We'll <i>never </i>be full! We can't <i>possibly </i>be
that attentive, day in and day out! If we're not allowed to
spontaneously and un-self-consciously eat French fries from a loved
one's plate, there's no reason to <i>live</i>!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Occasionally--infrequently--I
recognize this less-reasonable part of me as wrong. I created her, of
course, and I did so by depriving myself of food in my late teens and
twenties, by telling myself that half of a small baked potato sans
toppings constitutes a meal. The more-reasonable part of me can quiet
her (gently, affectionately) by pointing out that my plan is to eat <i>slightly </i>less, but still plenty, and all the good things.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's
easy, though (if one has known only over-eating and under-eating) to
suffer Leonard Cohen's "panic of loss" when faced with an alien and
perhaps-tedious middle ground, and to anticipate facing it <i>forever</i>.
Equanimity, patience, and assertiveness are key, as are self-awareness,
self-care, and expectation management. And it's a good idea to limit
blaming, complaining, and excuse-making (especially if you spend any
time at all hanging out with me). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2. A plan-of-eating needs to be less like a balance beam and more like an airport runway.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the beginning, eating less than I want to can be difficult, and after a month or two I begin to look for a way out. The easiest way out is to fall off the wagon, eat everything in sight, and then climb back on the wagon a year (or five) later. Desiring a long-term solution to my recurring obesity, I designed a plan-of-eating with only two rules:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Daily, count the calories of everything I eat, and log that number.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Weekly, log my weight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The first rule prevents mindless eating. At restaurants, I make <i>one </i>careful estimation of the caloric content of a meal, and then I stop thinking about it. At home, I'm more careful; I weigh and measure the ingredients of most meals. During the last five months, I've eaten as few as 950 calories and as many as 3600 calories (my average is about 1650, and I always round to the nearest 50 calories). Physical, emotional, and social states affect my eating choices, and I'm comfortable with that. Sustainability is <i>everything</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The second rule ensures that I'm actually <i>on </i>a weight-loss path. After the first two weeks, I've averaged a 2-pound loss a week, losing a minimum of 0.6 pounds and a maximum of 3.8 pounds. This rule dictates that I <i>must</i> hop on the scale at least once a week, but I can do it more frequently if I like.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I cut myself a little slack with this rule, allowing myself to record <i>any </i>weekly weight as my official weekly weight. My weight-logging day is Monday, but, if my lowest weight happens to be on another day, I can log <i>that </i>weight. I find that this results in fewer bleak Sundays (Sundays are bleak enough without limiting dinner to a bowl of watermelon, 'cause it's a diuretic).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. A plan-of-eating needs to include plenty of protein, fat, and fiber.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There
was a time when about 90 percent of my calories came from
carbohydrates, and I was willing to feel ravenous day after day because I
knew the feeling would culminate in skinniness. No more. For the last
five months, I've been aiming for 20 to 30 percent of calories from
fat, with the rest of the calories evenly divided between protein and
carbohydrates (with lots of fiber and very little sugar). I'm no longer ravenous.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>4. A plan-of-eating needs to include all the foods you enjoy. In fact, those are the <i>only </i>foods that a plan-of-eating should include.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I
know this is obnoxiously first-world, but if your meal is
disappointing, stop eating as quickly as possible. Put your fork down,
take a deep breath, and imagine what you <i>want </i>to be eating. Then, if possible, eat <i>that</i>.
It's a mistake to gaze at a menu, or gaze into a pantry or
refrigerator, and ask, "What choice will make me thin?" Keeping in mind
that sustainability is <i>everything</i>, a better question is, "What's
yummy?" Or, "What would I choose if this were my last meal?" Or,
"What would I choose for someone else, perhaps someone I was attracted
to sexually?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>5. A temptation-free environment is a fantasy.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I know it's widely recommended that we purge our environments of foods on which we might binge. And it's true that I don't want to see a 2-pound box of See's chocolates or a family-size bag of BBQ chips every time I open the pantry. But if one is adequately motivated to overeat, one will, whatever the environment. I once made a decent batch of bar cookies using nothing but oatmeal, peanut butter, and concentrated apple juice. And if you melt enough part-skim mozzarella over any whole grain, and add a few drops of Sriracha, you've got a tasty snack. Additionally, there are five fast-food restaurants within a half-mile of my house, and they all take credit cards. Or, if I'm already in PJs, I can have pizza and/or Chinese food delivered to the front door, and--because of efficiency and proximity--the orange chicken and crab rangoon will arrive within five minutes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's a friendly neighborhood, so just as I purge my home of temptation, a neighbor might drop by with fudge, a Girl Scout might drop by with cookies, or my sister might drop by with lasagna. All are welcome. Because temptation is everywhere, it's much more realistic to learn to resist temptation (or to succumb to a degree with which you can live) than it is to cocoon yourself in a temptation-free zone. Who wants to live <i>there</i>? When my nephew suggests a late-night trip to the Chevron ExtraMart for snacks, I don't want to respond with, "But sweetheart...you <i>know </i>Aunt Polly's on a diet!"</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>6. Exercise is a great idea, and I admire anyone who occasionally gets off his or her ass.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">For the last five months, I burned calories by running errands, by traipsing around a split-level home, by standing up while waiting for a booth at my favorite Mexican restaurant. I did a modicum of housework, a soupçon of yard work. At least fortnightly, I took the dog for a 20-minute walk. Now that I'm in Phase II (the next fifty pounds), I take the dog for a 30-minute walk every morning. Eventually, I'll do a bicep curl with a soup can, or attempt a half-dozen jumping jacks, or power-walk a 5K. Just not yet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>7. Weight loss doesn't need to be physically painful if you're making the right choices, but be prepared for emotional pain.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I numb myself to painful emotions by eating and--especially--by bingeing. Grief, guilt, fear, anger, envy, and uncertainty all melt away during the process of becoming painfully overfull. While adhering to a plan-of-eating that results in weight loss, I'm frequently visited by these unwelcome feelings, and I have no tools, no strategies, no defense mechanisms to make them go away. I am bereft. These feelings wash over me like ocean waves, and I let them. I sit quietly, and I let them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">That said, there's no harm in trying to maintain a serene (if not cheerful) mood. When crap happens, I pause and ask myself, "Is this important crap?" It usually is not, and, while I don't <i>banish </i>the feelings of agitation or upset, I do nothing to encourage the feelings to linger. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There's also no harm in trying to have a good time. Right now, I'm working on a list of Activities That I Always (or Almost Always) Anticipate With Pleasure. I'm up to seven. And I try to schedule one for today, one for this week, one for this month, and one for the next six months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>8. Beware the crutch, especially if <i>you </i>don't have absolute control of the crutch.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A
crutch is a useful--and temporary--tool for navigating a difficult
situation. Maybe, when I'm eating less than I want to eat, I shop a bit
more, or nap a bit more, or watch "Ally McBeal" on Netflix a bit more.
I pay close attention to what affects my mood, and I protect my mood,
as much as possible. If that borders on narcissism (or laziness) (or
both), so be it.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But it's essential to avoid crutches
that can be unceremoniously kicked out from under you. Years ago, I
relied on a malfunctioning gallbladder to keep me from overeating. As a
crutch, it worked well for months, but eventually I had surgery, and
two days later I was making up for lost time at an all-you-can-eat buffet. I've
also used the attention of men (in person and in cyberspace) to distract
me from eating. That particular strategy makes relying on a diseased
body part seem like a <i>brilliant </i>idea.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>9. Don't be influenced by the weight-loss efforts of those around you.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A
weight-loss buddy, or even a group effort, can be--but probably
isn't--helpful. Perhaps you've been inspired by others, so smile gamely
when someone is inspired by you, and wants to hop on the weight-loss
bandwagon. Keep in mind, though, that it's not really one big
bandwagon, but many individual bandwagons.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As stated earlier, the best weight-loss
state of mind is one of equanimity and patience. Competitive
feelings of envy and/or superiority are not useful in this endeavor. I sincerely
wish everyone the best, because if people are successful in achieving and maintaining healthy
weights, it's good for the individuals, the nation, and the species.
However, my path is the only path that I can see clearly, and it
behooves me to train my focus there.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>10. If you feel pressure from anyone to eat more or to eat less, ignore it.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I once said to a friend, "Don't you <i>hate </i>it when people exert subtle--or not so subtle--pressure on you to eat more or to eat less than you want to eat?"</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"No," he said. "I ignore it."</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Freak show. Could that possibly <i>work</i>?
Could I change my responses to people, rather than trying to
change...people? When my stepmother jokes that my helping of veggie
fajitas could feed a small village...when my sad friend suggests that
the only way out of her bad mood is to share a family-sized
sundae...could I remain unaffected by the comment, and eat <i>exactly </i>what I want to eat? Of course I can! I am <i>always </i>in charge of what I eat.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>11. The rules and guidelines don't change simply because there's a well-loved child in the room.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Eating
with children has always been a challenge for me. I'm already feeling a
little stress (because I'm temporarily responsible for another human
life), and suddenly we're at Wendy's, and someone wants nuggets, fries,
and a Frosty. Or at least a couple of nibbles of nuggets, fries, and a
Frosty. I don't want to throw the leftovers away, and I don't want to take them
home, and all that grease and salt and sugar is calling my name, and I
cave. Later, there are additional snacks during a movie or a tea party,
and I find myself eating gumdrops and animal crackers, and sipping some turquoise version of juice. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Recently, I quit that behavior
cold turkey. I was actually beginning to resent the children, which was
ridiculous. Now I ask myself, "Would I eat this if I <i>weren't</i> with this child?" and I only proceed if the answer is yes. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>12. As much as possible, detach from outcomes.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Granted, it's almost impossible to do. When you weigh yourself, you're going to <i>care </i>about
the number. I like to imagine measuring other things: chopped walnuts
for cookies, fabric for a skirt, a room for new carpet. I can do <i>those </i>things
without an emotional investment. Weight-taking is merely an element of
charting; it's not an indictment of my body or my character. It's
useful information, and that's all.<b> </b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I follow my two rules, and I manage expectations. Sometimes, after a couple of days of Big Macs and TV, I lose 3 pounds. Sometimes, after a couple of days of veggie chili over brown rice, with dog walks at both sunrise and sunset, I gain 3 pounds. I don't know why. And it's not in my best interest to get all spun up about it.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In all of my
endeavors, it doesn't make sense for my mood to be dependent on
something I cannot control. I <i>can </i>control how well I stick to my rules
and guidelines, and it makes sense for my mood to be somewhat dependent
on <i>that</i>. I'm a firm believer in the science of weight loss (and I
roll my eyes at the suggestion that losing weight after menopause
is tantamount to raising quadruplets or winning an Oscar), but there <i>will be </i>fluctuations
in weight that I am unable to predict or control. The only option is
to detach. Obsession and extreme behaviors will lead to agitation, when
what you need is serenity.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>13. The bad news: Weight loss doesn't make everything okay.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">It
will almost certainly improve your health, but--even as you wiggle into
those size-eight jeans--loved ones
are still dead, dreams are still dashed, cruelty and tragedy and
inequity and despair still reign. You're only thin. That's all. Don't
expect more.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>14. The good news: Jettisoning the impediment of obesity is worth the angst, and worth any sacrifice of food or drink.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Obesity
is unhealthy, uncomfortable, embarrassing, and expensive. It's
limiting. It can make bold people shy, and active people sedentary.
It can create people who are experts at avoidance, rationalization, and
deception. But once you figure out a way to walk away from it, it
quickly loses its grip, and the freedom is exquisite.</span></div>
Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-82989951534169254782011-02-10T19:47:00.016-07:002011-09-20T14:48:37.398-06:00Go List Yourself<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">This afternoon, my older sister and I were sorting through a stack of books that belonged to our dad, who passed away two weeks ago. We stumbled upon a book called "List Your Self: Listmaking as the Way to Self-Discovery." It'd be great if I could lovingly share the contents of the book with you</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">his memories, his fears, his favorite things</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">but the book is as bare as it was the day my sister or I sent it to him in 1997. Don't fret, though: That same year, I bought a copy for myself, and I have a record of life as I knew it in the late nineties.<br /><br />Chapter 1: Yourself<br /><br />Under "List the activities you'd do if you weren't so afraid," I unwisely include "pick up a hitchhiker" and "be a hitchhiker." I didn't do those things, but I did "learn to swim," and I occasionally "say what I'm feeling."<br /><br />Under "List the compliments you receive on a regular basis," I enthusiastically fill the page, including "you don't act married."<br /><br />Under "List what consistently worries you each day," I fill the page once again, including "that I have (or will soon have) cancer, Alzheimer's, or an STD."<br /><br />Under "List the animals that really scare you," I include worms and bears.<br /><br />Under "List all the qualities in yourself you like the least," I include but 2: "my tendency toward procrastination" and "my pesky shyness."<br /><br />Under "List all the things you'd like to say to your mother," I include 13 items ranging from "I miss you" and "thanks for staying up late sewing for me" to "I'm sorry I was occasionally disdainful" and "let's go shopping for slutty clothes."<br /><br />Under "List all the people who love you for who you really are," I limit it to 6 people: husband, son, an ex-coworker, two neighbor children in Dallas, and cousin Suzy.<br /><br />Chapter 2: Daily Life<br /><br />Under "List the things you do between turning off the alarm and walking out your front door," I include "weigh myself," "check email," and "open the blinds and verify there isn't a drowned child in the pool."<br /><br />Under "List all the things you've lent that have come back broken," I write "Nothing, that I recall."<br /><br />Chapter 3: Business<br /><br />Under "List what you'd like to shout out loud to your boss or coworkers," I write 1 thing: "Shut the fuck up!"<br /><br />Under "List the names of all your past bosses," I list 14, including "Dad" and "some guy at Camp Williams."<br /><br />Chapter 4: Change<br /><br />Under "List all those events you went into with doubt that turned out surprisingly well," there's a blank page.<br /><br />Under "List the attitudes and habits you've had to give up to get through life," I include "being nice is all-important," "men are trustworthy," and "people want to see other people happy and successful."<br /><br />Under "List the ways you sabotage yourself from getting what you want," I include "I'm unwilling to compete, confront, work hard, or be inconvenienced."<br /><br />Under "List the menu for your Last Supper," I include 5 items: fresh-squeezed OJ, warm cashews, corn-on-the-cob, a thick slice of white bread with Sally's strawberry jam, and a mint truffle.<br /><br />Under "List the major changes you feel you need to make in your life right now," I include "stop backing away socially," "stay the budgetary course," and "stop eating meat."<br /><br />Under "List the rivers you've crossed," I include "I stopped fearing dogs" and "I stopped chatting online."<br /><br />Under "List all the elements of a perfect vacation," I start with the most important: "low expectations."<br /><br />Chapter 5: Culture<br /><br />Under "List the contests and awards you've won," I include 6 items, the most memorable being "an apple-bobbing contest at 6th-grade sleep-away camp."<br /><br />Under "List all the things that could happen to you when you park in an underground structure," I include 4: I could wind up murdered, trapped in a collapse, lost, or "seduced."<br /><br />Chapter 6: Men and Women<br /><br />Under "List all the typical reasons you end a relationship," I write 1 thing: boredom.<br /><br />Under "List what's wrong with women," I include "they're unreasonable," "they're too attached to possessions," and "they use words like <span style="font-style: italic;">boobs</span>." Under "List what's wrong with men," I include half-again as many items, including "they leave," "they don't say good-bye," "they're awful in groups," "they believe in UFOs," and "they wear hats too often." I have no idea to which UFO-believing, hat-wearing man I'm referring.<br /><br />Under "List the reasons for getting married," I include "being pregnant," "wanting to be a stay-at-home mom," and "needing health benefits."<br /><br />Under "List the reasons you haven't met the man or woman of your dreams," I write "I have."<br /><br />Chapter 7: Greater Truths<br /><br />Under "List all the things you don't want to think about," I include "getting old: being weird, sexless, demanding, pathetic" and "watching Dad get old."<br /><br />Under "List what heals your aching heart," I include 4 items: a diet Dr. Pepper on ice, talking with my husband, a long drive, and a long walk. In fact, on the last page of the book, I jot down a Kierkegaard quote: Solvitur ambulando. "It is solved by walking."<br /><br />Chapter 8: Health<br /><br />Under "List all the self-improvement techniques you've experimented with," I include 3 items: "Mormonism," "that book on est," and "that Franklin Quest class on time management."<br /><br />Chapter 9: Growing Up<br /><br />Under "List the foods, candy, and other treats that you loved to snack on," I include goober peas, Big Hunks, tacos, and coconut-rolled-oats cookies.<br /><br />Under "List the warnings and old wives' tales you were taught," I include "men are more interesting than women," "all women are potential threats," "sexiness is good," "perfume is essential," and "don't wear ankle straps (always unflattering)." Gee, I wonder who was advising me.<br /><br />Under "List all the details you can remember about your childhood bedroom," I include many, but my favorite is "my neatness, and Sally's lack of neatness."<br /><br />Under "List who you wanted to be like when you grew up," I include my mom and Norma.<br /><br />Under "List the experiences you had as a child that you knew were truly significant," I include (among others) "epiphanies related to Don Black" and "ditto Marvin Payne."<br /><br />Chapter 10: Suddenly...<br /><br />Under "Suddenly your house is on fire. List the stuff you'd grab to save," I fill the page. I start</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">of course</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">with son, husband, and animals. I add photos, favorite furniture, and layabouts. By the halfway point, I include mini-skirts, "vests and nighties," field jacket, <span style="font-style: italic;">Franny and Zooey</span>, award-winning pinewood-derby car, and teeth-bleaching trays.<br /><br />Under "Suddenly you are as thin as you want. List what would happen now." Again, the page is crowded with my small, neat printing. Very few items have to do with health or happiness (or sanity or humility or devotion or adventure). I'd probably still want to "swim laps," but that's about it.</span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-42231610433858108962010-09-29T08:05:00.070-06:002011-02-11T09:56:43.511-07:00Stocking Up on Leonard Cohen<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Lately, you can't throw an Old Testament or a pair of silk panties without hitting a Leonard Cohen song</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">. Earlier this week, it was "Bird on the Wire" at the end of "Sons of Anarchy." Last week, it was five different songs on a two-part "Criminal Minds." In the endlessly charming "Pirate Radio," it's a generous helping of "So Long, Marianne." On "American Idol," it's not if but when someone will sing "Hallelujah." I've heard his songs on "Without a Trace," "House," and "Lie to Me," and his songs are just as likely to be performed on shows I <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span> watch. From "Shrek" to "Secretary" to "Natural Born Killers," you can find his distinctive brand of sex and spirituality, of nakedness in all its forms, of repetition, juxtaposition, and parallel construction that are by turns too much and not enough. So, in case your collection has some holes in it, here's a list of albums, in the order you should buy them.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Essential Leonard Cohen (2002)</span><br /><br />This is desert-island music<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> 31 songs spanning 34 years. The hopeless is balanced</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">or at least ameliorated</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">by the hopeful, so wrist-slashing can be deferred. Allow these exquisite songs (performed in chronological order) to help you get your bearings. The first time through, the album should be listened to in its entirety, with earphones, while sprawled on the bed, alone. This technique should also be employed by first-time listeners of Pink Floyd's "The Wall" and Janis Ian's "Between the Lines."<br /><br />When I'm listening to "The Essential LC" in the car, I only skip one song ("First We Take Manhattan"), and I don't <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> skip it. Another song ("Ain't No Cure for Love") is in sore need of a ruthless edit and a new arrangement. I'd suggest that to Leonard, if he and I were sitting together at a sidewalk cafe in Krakow, or Toronto. I'd drink tea. He'd drink room-temperature milk. I'd wear a black skirt, tall boots, and a cashmere scarf I purchased at a second-hand store. He'd talk about a woman, and how they once spent a weekend at a nearby hostel. Her thighs were flawless, and she had a birthmark near the small of her back. The birthmark was the color of nearly ripe plums, and the shape of Krakow, or Toronto.<br /><br />Also, feel free to spend a couple of hours locked in the bathroom with the album cover.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Songs of Leonard Cohen (1967)</span><br /><br />Now, it's time to trace the roots. I bought this record album for two dollars in the early 1970s when it was remaindered in a drugstore bin. I was in high school, and this music was somewhat of a departure from "Rocky Mountain High" and "Sweet Baby James."<br /><br />"Some girls wander by mistake, into the mess that scalpels make," Leonard sings. There are songs about strangers, and teachers, and masters. Masters! Imagine! I sneaked out of school during mandatory pep rallies, rushed home, and lay face-down on the shag carpet to listen to this album on the console stereo. "Are your lessons done? Are your lessons done? Are your lessons..."<br /><br />So, I don't recommend it lightly. I haven't been able to face it in decades. The sepia photo on the album cover looks like a passport photo. It was taken "by machine." "Of course it was," I imagine my younger sister saying, as she slips her hand between her legs.<br /><br />This album contains five songs we haven't yet heard, and all are good. Four of the five will not show up on subsequent albums, and "One of Us Cannot be Wrong" will be addressed soon. Of course, you <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> listen to this album before "The Essential LC." I'm simply trying to protect you from spending too much time in the fetal position.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Field Commander Cohen: Tour of 1979 (2001)</span><br /><br />This album features live versions of three great songs that</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">inexplicably</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span>—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">do not appear on "The Essential LC." They are "The Window," "The Smokey Life," and "The Gypsy's Wife." There are live versions of songs we've already heard, and we're introduced to several more good songs.<br /><br />I've noticed that the live version of a song perfected in the disciplined confines of a studio is not always a treat (a lesson that was driven home at a very disappointing Don McLean concert). But Leonard is an exception<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> The live versions are sometimes <span style="font-style: italic;">better </span>than the studio versions. The arrangements are interesting; the pace is unhurried. I don't know how he elicits the necessary discipline from the musicians and singers. Maybe he threatens to stop sleeping with them.<br /><br />The album cover features another black-and-white photo of Leonard. On the album mentioned above, he looks a little wounded. On this album, he looks like<span style="font-style: italic;"> he'll</span> be the one doing the wounding, thank you very much.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Recent Songs (1979)</span><br /><br />What a pleasure to listen to this album! We know one song from "The Essential LC" and three from "Field Commander Cohen." Five more good songs are included here, and nowhere else. All are beautiful, all are brilliant, but my favorite is "Ballad of the Absent Mare." This song, perhaps more than any other, reminds us that Leonard is a poet, unsurpassed in this century or the last. The themes pile up, one on top of the other, each more intimate and enduring than the one before, until I can hardly draw breath.<br /><br />It seems to me that Leonard's abiding popularity stems from his willingness to look at a situation long past the point when others look away. He keeps watching, he keeps writing, while others avert their eyes in an attempt to avoid pain and shame. Usually, his gaze is turned inward, and he shares what he sees, without making it pretty, without making it easy. He offers no excuses. "Here's to the few who forgive what you do, and the fewer who don't even care," he writes (but not on this album).<br /><br />I frequently skip "The Lost Canadian," which he sings in French. One might suppose that would be enough of a draw, but it is not.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cohen Live (1994)</span><br /><br />Let's enjoy one more live album. It includes an orchestral version of "One of Us Cannot be Wrong" that should not be missed. The barely-in-check emotions, the wretched humility, the truly impressive rhyme scheme...this song is perfect. The 1967 version no doubt tore you apart, and now you can suffer along with this larger version. The album includes many songs we've already heard (including additional verses of "Hallelujah"), and we're introduced to a couple more good songs.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Songs from a Room (1969)</span><br /><br />Now that we're feeling more emotionally robust, we can revisit the 1960s, and another heartbreaking album. Don't be fooled by the cheery melody of "Tonight will be Fine." It's tragic. Not in a French-resistance-fighter way like "The Partisan," but in a more typical way, as a lover anticipates things ending poorly. Again.<br /><br />More than half of the remaining songs on this album are excellent. There's some fairly grim subject matter (suicide, abortion, ritualized abuse), but I always smile as I sing along with "Lady Midnight."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Songs of Love and Hate (1970)</span><br /><br />This is your only chance to hear "Love Calls You by Your Name," which is lovely. The songs on this album (those that we haven't already heard) are mostly good. And it's the only cover photo in which Leonard is smiling.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Future (1992)</span><br /><br />My younger sister gave me this album several years ago, and it served to reignite my love affair with Leonard. I listened to it dozens of times before calling her and declaring it the perfect album. It has social commentary, old-time religion, and senior citizens getting some action. In my opinion, it also offers the sexiest song ever written, "Light as the Breeze" (which manages to be even sexier when performed by Billy Joel). Most of the songs, though, are on "The Essential LC." Those that did not make the cut are not up to Leonard's usual standards. So, the only reason to buy this album is to hear "Light as the Breeze." Do it. Also, buy "Tower of Song," for Billy Joel's cover, along with several other topnotch covers.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear Heather (2004)</span><br /><br />This is Leonard's last studio album. (He has released three live albums since, but I don't have them.) It would be a mistake to let this album serve as an introduction to Leonard, because it is not representative of his body of work. In fact, the song "Dear Heather" is baffling. I don't know if Leonard is outsmarting us, testing us, or messing with us; I <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>know that I <span style="font-style: italic;">always </span>skip this song. However, there are other songs that make this much-maligned album worth owning. I love "The Letters" and "The Faith," among others. There's a heartfelt song about the attacks of 9/11, and there's a song about a woman and her small child "...caught in the grip of an undertow." So...enjoy!<br /><br />This album reminds us that Leonard adores women, and that they adore him in return. I <span style="font-style: italic;">think </span>he adores women<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> He <span style="font-style: italic;">seems </span>to. I saw him on film once, alluding to the possibility that it's all just a con (but maybe <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>was the con). We're all con men to some degree, willing to manipulate others to get what we want. Leonard admits it, though, which makes women trust him. Which sounds a bit like the premise of a "Criminal Minds" episode...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ten New Songs (with Sharon Robinson) (2001)<br /><br /></span>We've heard the best songs from this album (pay attention to "Alexandra Leaving"). The other songs are romantic, and seem to encourage slow dancing. I'm glad these kids collaborated.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">New Skin for the Old Ceremony (1974)</span><br /><br />We've heard several of these songs, and the rest are good, with an occasional glimpse of greatness. He's so <span style="font-style: italic;">young</span> here. He seems...undefended. Here, and elsewhere, he invites us to watch him suffer (he <span style="font-style: italic;">demands </span>that we watch). I bought this record album when I was seventeen, listened to it once, and decided I hated it. I didn't throw it away, because I liked the name of the album, and the scandalous cover art. But I refused to listen to it a second time, until I was in my forties.<br /><br />(I've been listening to this album more since I wrote about it, and I've fallen quite in love with it. I can't get enough of the nearly overwrought "Leaving Green Sleeves." Whenever I listen to it in the car, I think "That's a little weird," and then I hit Repeat and listen to it until the car pulls into the driveway. He's so naked in the song.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Best of (1975)<br /><br /></span>This is an excellent compilation, but you have all of these songs if you've been following the recommended order (up to and including "Songs of Love and Hate").<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">I'm Your Man (1988)</span><br /><br />This is also a very good album, and another decidedly sexy song. Almost all of these songs, though, are on "The Essential LC," and the remaining two are forgettable.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Various Positions (1984)</span><br /><br />We've heard the best songs from this album. There are a few we haven't heard, and they're fine, but not...essential.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Live Songs (1973)</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span>We've heard the good songs from this album. Enjoy the album cover, though, and the somewhat menacing photo. In earlier and later photos, he appears earnest. Here, he looks a bit ruthless, like the "thin gypsy thief" he mentions in an earlier album.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />More Best Of (1997)<br /></span><span><br />Again, we've heard the good songs from this album.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Death of a Ladies' Man (1977)</span><br /><br />This unfortunate album was produced by Phil Spector, who is currently serving a prison sentence of 19 years to life (for unrelated crimes). The only good song is "Memories," and it's much better on "Field Commander Cohen" than it is here.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*<br /></div><br />Buying and listening in this order will ensure that you don't miss any really great songs, or any exceptional arrangements. Of course, there's nothing wrong with buying all the albums (minus the then-unnecessary Greatest Hits albums) and listening in chronological order. That sounds like a fun (if long) day.<br /><br />And there's nothing wrong with taking a more haphazard approach to loving Leonard. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I</span>'d</span> like to study him in college, the way one might study Jane Austen or Marcel Proust, graduating with no discernible skills. But I realize that others are content to hear "Suzanne" on the radio occasionally, or "Anthem."<br /><br />There's a film in which we watch a young Leonard order room service in French, wearing somewhat-ratty skivvies and T-shirt. When the grilled cheese sandwich and glass of milk arrive, he eats standing up. One can imagine (well, <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >I</span> can imagine) that he's thinking about what to do next, that he's weighing his options, both sacred and profane. And as quickly as those lines are fixed, they are blurred. And those blurred lines fuel a career that spans 43 years and counting.<br /><br />So, go buy some music. Preferably <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> we're subjected to "Famous Blue Raincoat" as performed by the cast of "Glee."<br /></span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-49362485302614522402010-09-24T08:10:00.013-06:002010-10-06T08:18:38.182-06:00The Bootstrap Myth<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Everybody knows that the fight was fixed,</span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">the poor stay poor and the rich get rich</span></span></span></span>.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">That's how it goes</span></span></span></span>.<br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Everybody knows.</span></span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">L. Cohen</span></span></span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />In the United States, there exists a deeply held belief that the poor can rise to the ranks of the middle-class or upper-class through hard work and perseverance. Examples abound. Most of us know of someone who started off poor and ended up rich. The tendency is to celebrate these outliers and to ignore the masses that stay poor. Here, we examine the masses that stay poor, and the circumstances that conspire to keep them poor.<br /><br />“Being poor matters a lot,” states Corcoran (1995:261), who studied four ways in which poverty is transmitted from generation to generation. First, low-income parents…have low incomes. They raise their children in disadvantaged neighborhoods with lower quality schools, fewer good role models, fewer job networks, and less social control. These children are likely to have poorer health, delays in physical development, more stress, a less stimulating environment, and lower cognitive skills. They are likely to acquire less schooling, make less money, work fewer hours, and cycle in and out of poverty as adults.<br /><br />Second, low-income parents have other disadvantages. They have less schooling themselves. A poor family is more likely to be headed by a woman, which leads to less access to community resources and higher rates of high school dropout, teen pregnancy, and joblessness (even when income is held constant). In addition (and the subject of much debate), low IQs may contribute to parental poverty, and those IQs may be passed genetically.<br /><br />Third, low-income parents are often mired in a stigma-free welfare system that leads to self-defeating attitudes and poor work ethics, which are passed on to children. Girls are more likely to drop out of high school, have children out of wedlock, and go on welfare. Boys are more likely to drop out of high school, father children out of wedlock, avoid work, and break the law. The negative effect of welfare use is much stronger if the welfare is received during the child’s adolescence as opposed to the child’s early years, and if the welfare use is long term.<br /><br />Fourth, well-paying manufacturing jobs have been shifting from urban areas (where the poor live) to suburban areas. This causes an outmigration of the middle class (and a reduction in the tax base and in public services), while leaving the poor highly concentrated, socially isolated, and unemployed. Many of these parents are unable to teach their children strategies for job networking, risk taking, and confidence building; however, they <span style="font-style: italic;">may</span> teach their children ways of dressing, talking, dealing with authority figures, and relating to small groups that will <span style="font-style: italic;">hinder</span> their ability to land a job.<br /><br />Barton (2003:1-37) focuses on conditions that lead to differences in achievement between students from poor and non-poor families. “This is a search for the roots—those aspects of the life and school experience found to be correlated with school achievement,” he writes (Barton 2003:1). At home, children from poor families are more likely to have been of low birth weight, to have been exposed to lead paint or pipes, to be hungry, to live in single-parent households, and to change schools during the academic year. They are less likely to be read to by parents, and they watch more television.<br /><br />At school, students from poor families have higher class size and less-experienced and less-proficient teachers, with higher rates of teacher absenteeism and turnover. There are fewer computers and less internet access in classrooms, and fewer students pursue a rigorous curriculum. These schools are more likely to have street gangs present.<br /><br />Inner-city joblessness is the target of Wilson’s research (2000:300-310). He lists three reasons for the scarcity of jobs for the inner-city poor<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> the computer revolution, the internationalization of jobs, and the suburbanization of jobs. He examines the impact on children of parental joblessness versus parental poverty. “The consequences of high neighborhood joblessness are more devastating than those of high neighborhood poverty,” he writes (Wilson 2000:301). Work in a formal economy provides a framework for daily activities, with expectations and goals; it requires regularity and consistency; it demands discipline. A child growing up in a home with employed adults will tend to develop good habits, such as "a recognition of the hierarchy found in most work situations, a sense of personal efficacy attained through the routine management of financial affairs, and endorsement of a system of personal and material rewards associated with dependability and responsibility” (Wilson 2000:301).<br /><br />Wilson also asserts that the social conditions of the inner-city poor make them less desirable as employees. In the greater Chicago area, an overwhelming majority of employers—both white and black—expressed negative views about inner-city poor, including a lack of reading and language skills and poor grooming.<br /><br />Wilson’s work is bolstered by that of Small and Newman (2001:23-45), which examines how cultural and behavioral patterns perpetuate the conditions of the poor. “Long-term unemployment generates a low self-efficacy among urban dwellers, making it difficult for them to take advantage of economic opportunities if and when these arise,” they write (Small and Newman 2001:38). People find it difficult to <span style="font-style: italic;">start</span> working, even when jobs become available. Neighborhood poverty can cause residents to develop a culture that is directly opposed to the norms and values of the middle class, and consequently reject employment.<br /><br />They are also likely to reject marriage. Once the poor are isolated in neighborhoods—without role models, job networks, or social networks of employed people—adolescents have a difficult time envisioning success for themselves. Small and Newman offer three possible cultural explanations for the high incident of teenage births among the urban poor<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> a shared code whereby promiscuity (versus virginity) improves a girl’s social status; a girl’s desire to have a satisfying relationship with a child (as opposed to the unsatisfying relationships she has with parents, teachers, and boyfriends); and a link between loneliness and poverty.<br /><br />Ore (2003:182-204) also links culture to intergenerational poverty. She defines “cultural capital” as the “social assets that include beliefs, values, attitudes, and competencies in language and culture…the ideas and knowledge people draw upon as they participate in social life, including ‘proper’ attitudes toward education; socially approved dress and manners; and knowledge about books, music, and other forms of high and popular culture” (Ore 2003:193). The rich usually decide what counts as cultural capital, discounting the values of the poor. And the educational system perpetuates class stratification by unevenly applying the lessons of cultural capital: Schools in poor neighborhoods focus on rote memorization, while schools in affluent neighborhoods focus on creative and critical thinking and the application of abstract principles to problem solving.<br /><br />Schwarz and Volgy (1992:159-173) take a very practical view as they examine two working families living at <span style="font-style: italic;">150 percent</span> of the poverty line. “Life is grim,” the authors conclude (1992:169). They describe the economy budget that must be embraced by families at this income. At a very modest level, they can pay for food, an apartment, utilities, an older car, clothing, personal/incidental expenses (tampons, light bulbs), and <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> medical care. They cannot afford movies, museums, concerts, ball games, or any establishment that charges admission; preschool, summer camp, lessons or any activity that charges a fee; books, magazines, music recordings, or toys (except for a $50 per year allotment for each family member for birthday and holiday presents); or pets, children’s allowances, cable TV, fast-food or restaurant meals, vacations, haircuts, alcohol, cigarettes, charitable donations, life insurance, college funds, pension plans, or emergencies.<br /><br />To some degree, this paints a happy picture of a frugal family, eating wholesome made-from-scratch meals at home, spending time at libraries and parks, and avoiding many types of over-indulgence. But (in addition to living without a financial safety net), this level of near-poverty offers a paucity of opportunities to learn financial responsibility (no allowance), devotion and selflessness (no pets), and public manners (no restaurants). Apartment living doesn’t allow for frugal choices such as growing fruits and vegetables in the backyard, hanging laundry to dry, or keeping cars, bikes, and tools safe and out of the elements in a locked garage. One cannot depend on stable and well-known neighbors with whom to swap services such as babysitting or sewing. And a world can grow small without travel, and with limited cultural and educational opportunities.<br /><br />In her lyrical and timeless analogy, Frye (1983:4) writes<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> “Consider a birdcage. If you look very closely at just one wire in the cage, you cannot see the other wires.” When the cage is observed so closely, it’s unclear why a bird—eager to escape—wouldn’t just fly <span style="font-style: italic;">around</span> the wire. It’s necessary to step back and look at the entire cage. “It is perfectly <span style="font-style: italic;">obvious</span> that the bird is surrounded by a network of systematically related barriers, no one of which could be the least hindrance to its flight, but which, by their relations to each other, are as confining as the walls of a dungeon” (Frye 1983:5).<br /><br />And so it is with long-term poverty. Any of the obstacles, taken individually, might be overcome. A person might be able to clear the hurdle of a mediocre school or a less-than-stimulating home environment, and find success. But when taken in totality—when faced with hunger, stress, lower cognitive skills, fractured families, social isolation, neighborhood crime, teen pregnancy, an oppositional culture, poor work habits, joblessness, and a marked lack of community support and role models—it comes as no surprise that people are unable to pull themselves up by their bootstraps. They flounder, and the rest of us watch, unwilling or unable to help.<br /><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left; font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">References Cited</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Barton, Paul. 2003. Parsing the Achievement Gap: Baselines for Tracking Progress. <span style="font-style: italic;">Educational Testing Service</span> 1-37.<br /><br />Corcoran, Mary. 1995. Rags to Rags: Poverty and Mobility in the United States. <span style="font-style: italic;">Annual Review of Sociology</span> 21:237-267.<br /><br />Frye, Marilyn. 1983. The Politics of Reality: Essays in Feminist Theory. Trumansburg, New York: The Crossing Press.<br /><br />Ore, Tracy E., ed. 2003. The Social Construction of Difference and Inequality: Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality. New York: McGraw-Hill.<br /><br />Schwarz, John E. and Thomas J. Volgy. 1992. Economic Self-Sufficiency in Present-Day America. <span style="font-style: italic;">In</span> Great Divides: Readings in Social Inequality in the United States. Thomas M. Shapiro, ed. Pp. 159-173. Mountain View, California: Mayfield Pub.<br /><br />Small, Mario Luis and Katherine Newman. 2001. Urban Poverty After <span style="font-style: italic;">The Truly Disadvantaged</span>: The Rediscovery of the Family, the Neighborhood, and Culture. <span style="font-style: italic;">Annual Review of Sociology</span> 27:23-45.<br /><br />Wilson, William J. 2000. Jobless Ghettos. <span style="font-style: italic;">In</span> The Social Construction of Difference and Inequality: Race, Class, Gender, and Sexuality. Tracy E. Ore, ed. Pp. 300-310. New York: McGraw-Hill.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-24334739706616349172010-03-20T08:58:00.004-06:002010-09-30T16:59:37.766-06:00Girls' Guide to Being Jack Bauer<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Recently, I started carrying a 4-gig USB drive in my purse.<span style=""> </span>For what reason, I know not.<span style=""> </span>It isn’t for work or school, but perhaps for something larger.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps it will come in handy should I be called upon to save the world.<br /><br />But other than my ability to quickly download data from a terrorist’s hard drive, I’m woefully unprepared.<span style=""> </span>And if my experience organizing potlucks and bake sales and office Christmas parties is any indication, saving the world will best be accomplished as a team.<span style=""> </span>So, my fellow women (or at least the half dozen who choose to skim this blog entry): Let’s acknowledge that it was fun shopping for shoes we didn’t need, it was fun spending Christmas Day in our PJs watching Keira Knightley movies, and it was fun amassing throw pillows in shades of avocado and dark avocado.<span style=""> </span>But it’s time now to leave all that behind, and embrace the Jack Bauer in each of us.<span style=""> </span>Consider this a primer.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack is prepared for anything</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>He speaks four languages.<span style=""> </span>He pilots planes and helicopters.<span style=""> </span>He’s well versed in military strategy, current events, history, psychology, culture, politics, and protocol.<span style=""> </span>He can hotwire a car, treat a sucking chest wound, and decrypt your encrypted files.<span style=""> </span>To get up to speed, you’ll need a carefully selected reading list, a dozen college classes, and a few hundred hours of professional instruction.<span style=""> </span>More importantly, though, Jack adapts quickly to changing situations.<span style=""> </span>And so do you!<span style=""> </span>As a woman—and perhaps as a wife and mother—adaptation is your strength.<span style=""> </span>Remember when your mom left her entire estate to The Mormons, because a couple of bored missionaries offered to mow her front lawn one autumn afternoon?<span style=""> </span>Remember when your first husband announced he was gay, then straight, then gay again?<span style=""> </span>Remember when your eldest daughter dropped out of medical school to pursue her dream of playing the didgeridoo professionally?<span style=""> </span>You adapted!<br /><br />Next, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack is physically robust, with muscles aplenty and a low body-fat percentag</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">e.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span> </span> </span>As women, we probably can’t match that.<span style=""> </span>As middle-aged women, we’d look silly trying. <span style=""> </span>However, we each have a personal best, and there’s no good reason not to achieve it, and soon.<span style=""> </span>When Katrina hit, perhaps you felt inclined to join other civilians rescuing abandoned pets; when the earthquake ravaged Haiti, perhaps you imagined yourself donning a Kevlar vest, strapping on an AK-47, and protecting much-needed food supplies from looters. So did I!<span style=""> </span>But those dreams were soon quashed by the realization that my overweight, hypertensive self would merely get in the way.<span style=""> </span>Also, I have only the vaguest idea what an AK-47 <i style="">is</i>.<span style=""> </span>So, there’s much work to be done on this front.<span style=""> </span>There’s a slightly smaller gap between fantasy and reality as we examine his third essential attribute…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack is emotionally robu</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">st.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>He doesn’t whine, burst into tears, or crawl into bed when things fail to go his way.<span style=""> </span>He might <i style="">want</i> to, but—always the soldier, always the stoic—he refrains.<span style=""> </span>He doesn’t have a never-quite-satisfied need for praise or reassurance.<span style=""> </span>He doesn’t need others to agree with him or validate him.<span style=""> </span>He’s the opposite of needy; he’s self-contained and interior.<span style=""> </span>Next time you find yourself complaining about the raise that should have been yours, the son or daughter who didn’t call on your half-birthday, or the diminishing space between your bust line and your waistline, ask yourself WWJBD, and then spend an afternoon at the shooting range.<span style=""> </span>Speaking of the shooting range…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack is dangerou</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">s</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Like James Bond without the lame jokes, or Jason Bourne without the pesky memory loss, Jack is formidable.<span style=""> </span>Granted, he has trained as a Special Forces soldier, and has worked for the CIA, FBI, and Counter-Terrorist Unit.<span style=""> </span>I have not.<span style=""> </span>It’s never too late, though…not for any of us.<span style=""> </span>Self-defense is offered as a community ed class, and shooting ranges often advertise Women’s Night.<span style=""> </span>The very earnest can seek out professional instruction in hand-to-hand combat and evasive driving techniques.<span style=""> </span>Consider it an exciting alternative to spa day.<span style=""> </span>And don’t worry for an instant about losing The Cute, and being mistaken for Rosa Klebb in “From Russia With Love.”<span style=""> </span>Because…<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack always looks terrifi</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">c.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Sure…he’s dressed for a particular brand of sexless action, in sturdy shoes, boot-cut jeans, a leather belt, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket.<span style=""> </span>But he’s handsome, comfy, and protected from the elements.<span style=""> </span>He has plenty of pockets.<span style=""> </span>Most importantly, he’s not hampered by his fashion choices: His clothes increase—rather than decrease— his ability to respond effectively in an emergency.<span style=""> </span>Add a little color/pattern/texture/shine to his outfit, and you, too, can be ready for anything.<span style=""> </span>And unless you’re about to go through airport security, consider the ultimate accessory: a knife strapped to your calf.<span style=""> </span>And jettison that most nonsensical accessory: the clutch.<span style=""> </span>Instead, opt for something that leaves both hands free (see below).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack wears a canvas cross-body, chockfull of world-saving gizmo</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">s</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>It contains a laptop, a USB drive, an extra cell-phone battery, a monocular, a knife, a gun, and extra ammunition.<span style=""> </span>In all likelihood, it also contains sunglasses, leather gloves, phone chargers, cable ties, waterproof matches, first-aid basics, a flashlight, several hundred dollars, and a couple of energy bars. Just imagine how powerful you’ll feel—how powerful you’ll <i style="">be</i>!--when equipped thus.<span style=""> </span>You’ll never miss your Great Lash mascara or your Arby’s coupons.<br /><br />Next,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Jack keeps his wo</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">rd.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>Like other characters of the same ilk (Robert Crais’s Joe Pike, Robert Parker’s Spenser and Hawk), Jack does what he says he’ll do.<span style=""> </span>He doesn’t agree to <i style="">anything</i> frivolously or casually, whether he’s talking to a girlfriend, a terrorist, or a Commander-in-Chief.<span style=""> </span>He values the truth; he has no time for bullshit.<span style=""> </span>How refreshing!<span style=""> </span>How freeing!<span style=""> </span>Let us commit to be trustworthy, to be true.<span style=""> </span>Let us allow no exceptions.<br /><br />And finally, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Jack doesn’t engage in small talk or gossip</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">.</span><span style=""> </span>He’s comfortable with silence, with an unexpressed thought.<span style=""> </span>It bothers him not at all that friends or strangers might perceive him as cold, unfriendly, or too intense.<span style=""> </span>He’s not exactly humorless, but he doesn’t attempt to amuse by quoting lines from sitcoms, SNL sketches, or standup comedy routines.<span style=""> </span>He avoids distractions; he doesn’t embrace them (despite ever-increasing encouragement to do so, especially among middle-class and affluent Americans). We can make these fairly easy changes, and we can make them today. We can take a break from the chatty, outgoing, beguiling, pleasing self we perfected in high school, and find a quiet place—a slightly menacing place—inside.<br /><br />Perhaps you’re wondering why I didn’t choose a female role model.<span style=""> </span>I mean, Peta Wilson portrayed TV’s deadly Nikita, and it seems that Angelina scores a new ass-kicking role every year.<span style=""> </span>However, both women routinely squeeze into size-zero black leather pants.<span style=""> </span>That seems more difficult, really, than learning to disarm a nuclear device.<br /><br />And perhaps you think I’m attempting to diminish the importance of traditional feminine strengths such as nurturing, peacemaking, multi-tasking, and ovulating.<span style=""> </span>I am not.<span style=""> </span>Women—now more than ever—are an efficient lot.<span style=""> </span>We can embrace both ways of being.<br /><br />There’s much to be done, so let us begin.<span style=""> </span>And since luck favors those with mental agility and sufficient bone density, let’s make significant progress before menopause looms large.<span style=""> </span>Master one area and then move quickly to the next.<span style=""> </span>And it won’t hurt to occasionally yell “Drop your weapon!”—to the postal carrier, the receptionist at work, the cat.<span style=""> </span>Embrace the <i style="">spirit</i> of being Jack Bauer, and the rest will follow.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-42873111392834822722010-03-15T13:11:00.011-06:002011-01-17T17:04:33.425-07:00P.S. Please Write<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Most people are thrilled to receive an unexpected letter in the mail…not a bill, not an ad, not a notice that the cost of your strep test was applied to your deductible, but a real letter: a friendly, chatty missive from someone you care about, from someone who clearly cares about you.<span style=""> </span>It can be typed or handwritten, organized or rambling, intimate or not-so-much, but it should have meat and meaning, and it should cause the reader to settle in for a moment to enjoy.<span style=""> </span>Some tips:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Embark with enthusiasm.</span> “Hey you!” or “My dearest—and my loveliest—aunt” or “How do I love thee?<span style=""> </span>And, more importantly, when and where do I get to love thee next?”<span style=""> </span>Let the reader feel adored from the onset, and assured that he or she has your full attention.<span style=""> </span>Stifle any tendencies on your part toward aloofness or sarcasm.<span style=""> </span>Remember: A good letter always flows from an open heart.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Capture the moment. </span>“I’m at the computer, listening to a pre-disco BeeGees CD.<span style=""> </span>Henry’s in the garage changing the oil in the Corolla, and the twins are napping.”<span style=""> </span>Or, “I’ve been in bed all day with Salinger’s short stories, and now I’m depressed, and all.<span style=""> </span>I’m wearing those PJs you sent for Christmas.<span style=""> </span>God, I miss you.”<span style=""> </span>Then, capture a slightly broader moment: the movie you watched last night, a failed attempt to make ice cream at home, your child’s latest unreasonable fear.<span style=""> </span>Depending on the recipient, mention your mammogram or the NCAA standings.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Write the way you talk. </span>If, in conversation with a friend or family member, you’re stilted and humorless, write that kind of letter (but not to me, okay?).<span style=""> </span>If, in conversation, you’re candid and gregarious and you seldom finish a sentence, write that kind of letter: “The other day, I was at the grocery store buying tampons and a case of Mexican-style stewed tomatoes because they were on sale and you’re never gonna guess who I saw.<span style=""> </span>Becky Callahan, you know, the student-council secretary when we were juniors?<span style=""> </span>And she had four kids with her, and the youngest was sucking on a Lion King toy…Simba, I think.<span style=""> </span>I said hi, but she obviously didn’t recognize me.<span style=""> </span>Well, maybe she did, and just pretended not to…”<span style=""> </span>Like that.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Don’t be afraid to bond. </span>“This is what I like about you.”<span style=""> </span>“This is what I’ve learned from you.”<span style=""> </span>“This is what I remember most fondly about our time together.”<span style=""> </span>And don’t spare the details; when you think you’ve provided enough detail, go ahead and provide a bit more.<span style=""> </span>Take a moment to say thank you for a long-ago gift or compliment or piece of advice.<span style=""> </span>Allow yourself to tumble into love with this person (even if it’s your mother-in-law, and even if the feeling is fleeting).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ask questions (but only if you really care about the answers). </span>What have you been reading?<span style=""> </span>What have you been watching?<span style=""> </span>Which celebrity would you choose to be the father of your child?<span style=""> </span>If you were to move to another country, which would it be?<span style=""> </span>What’s your take on the health-care debate?<span style=""> </span>Have you come across a really good recipe for low-fat cheesecake?<span style=""> </span>Think: What is the most intriguing thing about this person?<span style=""> </span>Follow that lead.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Divulge something. </span>Describe the romantic details of your first date at age 15, the time you dropped a full tray in the college cafeteria, the time you ate a dozen glazed donuts for lunch, the time you checked out the men’s room when you were working alone on a Sunday afternoon. And feel free to ramble for a moment. Describe your dream last night, your take on the Kennedy assassination, your recent (brief) foray into vegetarianism. Reveal yourself in all your goofy, messy, joyful glory.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Share a quotation. </span>It broadens the scope of communication by inviting a third person to the table.<span style=""> </span>I like Thoreau, but I usually opt for Leonard Cohen (especially if the letter has become too cheerful).<span style=""> </span>Or quote someone from your household: “Tom says ‘Hi, Mom!’ He says thanks for the $33 you sent for his 34<sup>th</sup> birthday.<span style=""> </span>He bought a package of socks, a bottle of pinot noir, and two apple fritters.”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Imagine your letter being read aloud. </span>(I imagine my letters being read by Mr. Darcy to Miss Bennet.)<span style=""> </span>A good letter will be tucked into a pocket to be reread in a more private setting, like a bathtub, or a parked car, or a grassy meadow at dawn.<span style=""> </span>Take the time to make the second reading worthwhile: “I’ll never forget that night you made me a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup.<span style=""> </span>Remember?<span style=""> </span>It was August, and it was raining, and we’d been to the nursing home to visit my grandma, who was dying…”<span style=""> </span>It isn’t necessary to hold back.<span style=""> </span>Really…it isn’t.<span style=""> </span>“Remember that first time I said I love you, and you said thank you, and I stood and pulled the sheets off the bed to wash them, and you said don’t be like this, and I said don’t tell me how to <i style="">be</i> goddamnit…”<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Assume the letter will be saved. </span>Maybe it seems unlikely today, but a good letter can survive decades; it can survive marriage, divorce, an out-of-state move, the occasional house fire.<span style=""> </span>So take a minute to review the big picture.<span style=""> </span>Mention a war in which the country is engaged.<span style=""> </span>Mention the latest political scandal.<span style=""> </span>Mention the price of a new pickup truck, a one-bedroom apartment, a gallon of milk.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">And save a copy for yourself.</span> This is a journal entry of the best kind, especially if you were forthright and revealing (and of course you were).<span style=""> </span>Years from now, when you’re home alone, you can eagerly retrace the to-and-from steps of a relationship, whether it was with your mom who died unexpectedly, a lover who dumped you unceremoniously, or your best friend from college who was at your side on both occasions.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Before sending, and if you feel so inclined, add something extra to the envelope. </span>Enclose a snapshot, a recipe, a $2 bill, a coupon or free sample, some postcard stamps, some stickers, a paint or wallpaper swatch, an editorial from the Sunday paper, a magazine article, a snip of something from your herb garden.<span style=""> </span>Stuff that letter.<span style=""> </span>Nothing says “I love you” like extra postage.<br /><br />“They don’t need to be immortal, just sincere,” says Garrison Keillor, about letters.<span style=""> </span>So write!<span style=""> </span>Today, spend 44 cents and half an hour delighting someone and, perhaps, learning a little about yourself.<span style=""> </span>Start with “Hi there” and don’t stop until you find yourself describing the weather.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-78175028610909641372010-01-20T15:13:00.015-07:002010-03-19T16:59:05.465-06:00Remembering Grandpa Chief<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I assume my grandfather was sober when he was ten years old, and he and his brother left desperate circumstances in Denmark to find work as cabin boys aboard a square-rigger. But he was drunk several years later, when his brother drowned as they were swimming back to the anchored ship after a night of drinking and whoring onshore. He was drunk in the 1920s when his ship pulled into the Port of Los Angeles, and he swam ashore and stayed ashore, then and always an illegal alien. He was drunk when he found work in San Pedro as a longshoreman, a job that was a surprisingly good fit for many years. And he was drunk on payday, when he visited a neighborhood whorehouse and admired the madam’s young daughter, Inez. Eventually, he married Inez, and she gave birth to their three children. Then, she did the unthinkable<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> She turned her back, forever abandoning the confused and ill-equipped little family.<br /><br />My grandfather was drunk during my father’s childhood, which was defined by neglect, fear, and loneliness. But my grandfather <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wasn</span>’t a mean drunk, and my father was uncommonly resilient. My father made it to San Pedro High School, where he hit the jackpot when he met my mother<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> a dark-haired girl with a flashing smile and deep reservoirs of love, which she shared eagerly, spontaneously, and sometimes imprudently with this tall, handsome, and damaged man. They married young and had three children in four years (and</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">much later</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">—</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">another baby girl).<br /><br />A couple of Sundays a month, we visited my grandfather, whom we were instructed to call Grandpa Chief. My first memories of doing so are in the early 1960s, when I was five or six. We piled in the car and took a 20-minute drive to San Pedro where Grandpa Chief lived with his grown daughter, Lillian, and her family. Lillian was bossy, shrill, and overweight, garnering my mom’s poorly hidden disdain.<br /><br />I remember the house as windowless, and at the top of a steep and unfriendly driveway. We entered from a side door, and were immediately assailed by the odors of cigarette smoke and bottled beer. In the background, I discerned the odors of onions and garlic, of spices my mom <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">didn</span>’t own, of cheese that was not mild cheddar. There was occasional cursing, and the sound of a blaring TV in the middle of the day.<br /><br />Week after week, I stood there in a Sunday dress…always an exact duplicate of my sister’s Sunday dress, and always sewn lovingly by our mom. I observed the differences between this house and the house of my <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> grandparents, who were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mormons</span>, and had recently moved from California to rural Utah. <span style="font-style: italic;">Their</span> house smelled of chocolate cake and lemonade and lilacs and hymnals. Sunlight streamed in, highlighting shelves jammed with books and family photos. My grandparents would beam at me, admiring how nice I was, how clean, how adept at memorization. I’d perch on the edge of a chair, smiling shyly, trying—because of a speech impediment—to avoid words that started with J or Ch. Someone would tousle my dutch-boy haircut; someone else would play “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” on the piano.<br /><br />Back in San Pedro, I watched as my dad played cribbage with Grandpa Chief at the kitchen table, which was a vinyl-covered booth tucked into a corner. My dad seemed happy and relaxed. Maybe even more relaxed than usual, I observed, in that quiet and deadly accurate way in which children have always observed adults.<br /><br />I don’t recall that Grandpa Chief fussed over me, or asked me about school, or noticed that I’d grown. He sometimes glanced my way as I slumped against the table, as I enjoyed the rhythm of the cards and the pegs, the murmur of male voices: “…fifteen-two, fifteen-four....” I never admitted this to my mom, but I even enjoyed the smell of Grandpa Chief’s beer and the smell of the burning match as he lit another cigarette. I sidled closer for the smell of the man himself…the smell of wool and fish and age. I don’t remember that he smiled at me, but he occasionally nodded in my direction, or narrowed his eyes in a way that might have indicated interest or concern.<br /><br />Grandpa Chief was probably genetically destined to be a tall man (my dad is 6’4”), but a lack of food during childhood, a congenital hip deformity, or both resulted in an adult height of around five feet. Despite that, he was a force to be reckoned with on the waterfront. And despite <i style="">that</i>, he possessed a certain <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">elfishness</span> that endeared him to an easily intimidated granddaughter.<br /><br />The highlight of the twice-monthly visits was a gift from Grandpa Chief, a gift rather specific to his lifestyle and his means. He handed us a carton that had once held ten packs of cigarettes, but now held dozens of empty boxes of matches. They fit into the carton perfectly, and were of many colors and designs, so the effect was one of books lined neatly on shelves. (Later, at home, the tiny boxes—with their slide-out inner boxes—would continue to bring enjoyment. Once, I glued four of them in a stack to make a bedside table for a Barbie doll.) Each week, we gasped at the wonder of this gift. Then—to my mom’s chagrin—my brother, sister, and I sprawled on the floor with our cigarette carton, opening each matchbox looking for the money that Grandpa Chief had hidden there. As I recall, he hid fifty cents for each of us, and we squealed as we found it. He <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">didn</span>’t watch us, but he was well aware of our noisy pleasure, and it—of course—fueled his quiet pleasure.<br /><br />At that point, he reached into the pocket of his khaki work pants and gave us additional coins to spend at the liquor store nearby. We descended the steep driveway (my siblings more easily than my chubby self) and cheerfully walked two blocks to the Busy Bee. The store was dimly lit, and a ceiling fan at the entrance slowly stirred the air. I stood on my tiptoes and looked down into an ice cream freezer. I slid the freezer door open, extracting an orange-and-white <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">creamcicle</span>, otherwise known as a Fifty-Fifty (which I pronounced <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Wifty</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Wifty</span>, so apparently I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">couldn</span>’t say my F’s, either). We skipped back to the house, giddy from sunshine and sugar and independence.<br /><br />A few times, Grandpa Chief accompanied us to the Busy Bee (<i style="">maybe</i> because he’d run out of beer or cigarettes, but most likely because he adored us). When I imagine the three children and the old man on their errand, it’s from a remove, as if I’m observing the action from a neighbor’s roof. And the foursome is not in a group, but in a jaunty line, like the Beatles crossing Abbey Road.<br /><br />Usually, though, we walked and shopped without adult supervision. Upon returning to the house, we found our dad and our grandpa still happily engaged in their card game, while our mom waited for the visit to end, or conversed briefly and uneasily with Aunt Lillian. There were offers of dinner (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">cioppino</span>, tripe, oxtail soup), but they were usually declined. We said our good-byes and our thank-you’s, we grabbed our carton of matchboxes, and we left. I could tell—I swear, I could tell!—that Grandpa Chief wanted us to stay longer.<br /><br />It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">wasn</span>’t much later that he died. I was nine or ten, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">didn</span>’t attend the funeral. Weeks later, my family returned to San Pedro in the station wagon, with a flower arrangement for his grave. We drove through the large cemetery again and again, unable to locate the grave. “You know,” my dad said (his eyes straight ahead, his tone measured), “I think he’d be happy if we kept the flowers, and put them on the table at home. I think that would please him.” He tried to sound cheerful, like a responsible husband and father, but he was a broken-hearted son, and we all knew it. We watched from the backseat as the rows of graves passed by, and then we drove home.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-10629147013164396022009-12-11T13:30:00.032-07:002009-12-14T09:43:13.661-07:00Tubby or Not Tubby<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In a time-honored tradition called "re-frying the beans," I'm going to share an essay of mine that was first published in 1996 in Network magazine, "a monthly publication for progressive Utah women." They paid me fifty bucks, and won my heart by not changing a single word of the original manuscript (including the title). The table of contents describes the essay as tragicomic, which also pleased me. Is it wrong to want to make you laugh <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> cry? Here it is (enjoy the 90s pop-culture references):<br /><br />Blame nature, blame nurture, blame Hostess, but, at 38, I glanced down and was horrified to find myself...not thin.<br /><br />I distinctly recall losing weight during the Carter administration. I was motivated by the desire to...facilitate romantic relationships (although we used a shorter, more vulgar phrase in the '70s). But now, with a romantic relationship (well, a marriage) in place, I was forced to root around for another motivating factor, another way to trick myself into eating less and exercising more.<br /><br />I began by dividing journal pages into two columns and labeling one Not Morbidly Obese and the other Morbidly Obese. Every morning, I imagined a situation and filled a new page. For example:<br /><br />An elderly aunt dies, and, if I'm to collect my inheritance, I must attend the funeral. I look like a wistful French schoolgirl in black tights and flats. My large green eyes are moist, my clear skin is pale. Chestnut hair tumbles to my shoulders and frames my face, so lovely, so vulnerable. A 12-year-old niece cuddles up next to me on the pew and admires my dress, congratulates me on completing my surgical residency, and asks if I'm still dating the Grammy Award-winning folk guitarist. Later, a handsome cousin (whom I haven't seen since our 20s when he moved to San Francisco with his Siamese cat, Babs) hugs me tight, tells me I look good enough to <span style="font-style: italic;">eat</span>, and asks where I work out. During the service (in fact, while we sing "Abide With Me"), I'm overcome with grief, and a young man who lived next door to my aunt when he was a boy holds me in his arms and gently strokes my hair. Later, he and I have coffee and stay up late talking about deforestation.<br /><br />Or: I'm late for the funeral because I can't get the crotch of my black tights past my knees. By the time I stop at the store for anything queen size, and rush to the church, I'm flushed and tense. When a cousin asks when my baby is due, I laugh nervously and tell her I'm not pregnant. As I'm backing away from her, and--for some reason--apologizing, I bump into an arrangement of chrysanthemums and knock it to the floor. During the service (in fact, while we sing "Abide With Me"), I sob loudly, damply, convulsively...feeling sorry for myself, for my aunt, for her unfriendly little dogs that no one wants. I hear a child say, "Mommy, what's wrong with that fat lady?" and I flee to the restroom. I blow my nose and stare at this person in the mirror, at her blotchy, swollen face and hideous rayon dress, and think, "When did I stop liking myself?"<br /><br />Okay. Wasn't that fun? It truly helps to add rich detail, even dialogue. Next:<br /><br />I'm home alone when the doorbell rings. I pause the Cindy Crawford exercise video and take my pulse on the way to the door. When I open it, I see a six-foot, bearded stranger with a boyish grin. He introduces himself as my husband's college roommate, Tim, on his way to L.A. for a job interview. We sit cross-legged on the floor, chatting. We sip jasmine tea, and I peel and section tangerines. We flirt casually, and he plays Beatles' love songs on my guitar. I'm thinking about touching the dark curly hair at his open shirt collar, when I hear a car in the driveway. After kissing my husband, I excuse myself to take a shower. I slip into a pink cotton sundress, and the three of us go to dinner, then dancing.<br /><br />Or: I'm lying on an unmade bed, wearing sweat pants and a men's XXL Save-the-Whales T-shirt that my mother-in-law sent for my birthday. I'm rereading a Mary Higgins Clark novel and eating frosted animal cookies. I leap up when I hear the bell, hoping it's a truant teenager selling overpriced peanut brittle door to door. But it's a very handsome man, who--after rechecking the address--claims to be my husband's college roommate. "Does he still live her?" he asks tactlessly. I invite him in, but my heart's not in it, and he opts to come back that evening. The two of them go out for beer and pizza, and I stay home and watch a Susan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Powter</span></span></span> infomercial.<br /><br />You can imagine how inspiring this can be every morning before breakfast. A favorite:<br /><br />My son and I eagerly enter the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">IMAX</span></span></span> theater in San Diego to watch a movie about the Grand Canyon. I take a seat and pull my knees up under my chin, ready to enjoy the magic that a 40-foot screen offers. I'm comfy in old jeans, a white cotton T-shirt, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Deja</span></span></span> Shoes from the Real Goods catalog. Before the lights go down, I feel a tap on my shoulder, turn around, and recognize David, a man I dated briefly in high school. I squeal with delight, stand, and throw my arms around his warm neck. We gush over each other's children, and I shake hands with his wife, who seems shy but sweet. I can't stop smiling and touching him: his hands, his clean-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">shaven</span></span></span> face, his well-pressed chinos. After the movie, we walk out together, arm in arm, sharing private jokes and memories. Right before we make his wife cry, we embrace and part, but not before I slip my business card into his shirt pocket.<br /><br />Or: I'm exhausted after a day of wandering through museums, and I feel like a tired old cow as we're herded into the auditorium. I collapse into the uncomfortable seat, its armrests digging into my thighs. While sitting quietly with my eyes closed, I feel a tap on my shoulder and ignore it. When I feel it again, I look behind me and recognize David. I stare at him, his pretty wife, their golden-haired daughter. He says, "Polly?" I say, "No." He persists: "Polly Nelson?" I see my son, confused, a little worried. "You've made a mistake," I say, my voice breaking. After the show, we leave quickly, but not quickly enough. I see David watching me as I file out in too-short polyester slacks with elastic at the waist, a color-blocked tunic, and extra-wide brown leather slip-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ons</span></span></span> from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Naturalizer</span></span></span>. He puts his arm around his wife's slender waist, and they head for the other exit.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />There it is, minus a sappy one-paragraph conclusion. And, of course, now I want to indulge in a post-menopausal version:<br /><br />I'm stranded at the airport in Colorado Springs. A blizzard led to the unscheduled landing, and now all flights have been canceled, and all ground transportation has been shut down. I'm surrounded by weary and frustrated strangers, in the middle of a moonless night. It's chilly in the airport, but I'm comfy and cute in boot-cut jeans, lug-soled shoes, a red cashmere cardigan over a white cotton tank, and a chocolate-brown wool coat that hits right above the knee. People probably mistake me for Olivia Benson's self-possessed aunt.<br /><br />I sip tea from a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">styrofoam</span></span></span> cup, and notice--several rows away--a Spanish-speaking woman and her three small children, including an infant. I speak fluent Spanish (after completing an immersion program last year), so I head on over, after buying an armload of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">SunChips</span></span></span> and Juicy Juice. (Phone lines are down, and vendors are unable to accept credit cards, but I have plenty of cash.) I introduce myself to the mom, we chat briefly about the lousy weather, and I offer the treats. Soon, I'm holding the baby (it was inevitable). The toddlers busy themselves with the spiral notebooks and colored markers that fill my carry-on (I'd been on my way to a cabin in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Telluride</span></span></span> where I was going to write a surprisingly good novel). Later, after much storytelling and a song or two (I manage--on the fly--to translate "Puff, the Magic Dragon"), they fall asleep, and I cover them with my coat. A handsome gray-haired man sitting nearby dog-ears his Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Bryson</span></span></span> paperback and asks if he can be of help. I send him for diapers, and he also brings back a four-cheese pizza. We talk for hours, and I fall asleep with my head on his shoulder. By the following afternoon, the storm clears, and we continue on to our destinations, after a <span style="font-style: italic;">lot</span> of hugging.<br /><br />Or: During the rough landing in Colorado Springs, it occurs to me that I should have carried on a coat, my blood-pressure medication, something to read, and more than a couple dollars in cash. As we deplane, I say a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn't necessary to use the emergency slides, because someone might have captured my descent on video, posted it on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">youtube</span></span></span>, and labeled it "This looks like the birth of a baby whale...he he." Eventually, I find a seat and plop down, feeling angry and lonely. My clothes and shoes fit poorly, and I yearn to be stretched out on the sofa at home in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">oversized</span></span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">PJs</span></span></span> and no bra. I want to visit the restroom, and get a drink of water, but I'm afraid someone will take my seat and I'll have to sprawl unattractively on the floor. People probably mistake me for one of Marge Simpson's lesser-known sisters.<br /><br />My husband is under the impression I'm on my way to a cabin in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Telluride</span></span></span> to begin writing a novel, but my plan all along has been to hole up at the Holiday Inn, watching "Office" reruns and ordering room service (novel writing is best left to smarter and more tenacious folks). While rummaging around for a piece of unwrapped gum in the bottom of my purse, I notice--several rows away--a Spanish-speaking woman and her three small children. They look as miserable as I feel. I regret my failed attempts to learn Spanish, because I'd like to befriend the woman and hold her fretful baby. Instead, I try to make out the title of the book being read by the middle-aged man sitting across from me. Sure enough...it's "A Walk in the Woods," a book I recently enjoyed. The man looks up, catches my eye, and quickly turns away. I wrap my arms around my carry-on, and stare into the middle distance, trying to ignore a persistent ache in my left shoulder and a vague tightness in my chest. It's going to be a long night.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><br />Well. Not <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> as much fun as it was fourteen years ago. Right now, I feel a little hypertensive, a lot depressed, and not at all inclined to "facilitate romantic relationships" with my husband or anyone else. But I'll rally: I'll have a cup of tea, and shop online for the perfect chocolate-brown wool coat that hits right above the knee. <span style="font-style: italic;">That's</span> how lives get turned around. Really.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-4579907471398737622009-11-17T09:30:00.058-07:002011-01-17T17:03:56.170-07:00Injuring Eternity<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A couple times a year, I find myself home alone for a few days. I <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> ask myself the following questions: What color should I paint the bedroom? What combination of annuals and perennials should I plant near the porch? In what Spanish immersion program should I enroll? Instead, I ask: What TV crime drama is featuring a marathon this weekend? A <span>"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">CSI</span></span></span></span>"? A <span>"Law & Order</span>"? Or my personal favorite: <span>"Criminal Minds"</span>? I perch on the couch with an assortment of tacos and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">empanadas</span></span></span>, with a diet Dr. Pepper the size of a bathroom wastebasket, and--during the next twelve hours--I get up twice to pee, and once to check my email. I'm comfy in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">PJs</span></span></span>, and I'm toasty beneath a patchwork quilt. I'm perfectly content, despite unwashed dishes and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">unbrushed</span></span></span> teeth. "I wonder what the world is doing now," I remember from "<span>Walden</span>": an idle thought formed during idle times. But I don't feel the need to peek through the curtains, or turn to CNN. This weekend, my curiosity about the rest of the world is shallow, and fleeting. I'm busy wasting time.<br /><br />Sounds fun, doesn't it. And it is, as long as privacy (even secrecy) is assured. But I'm conflicted about my rights and responsibilities, and conflict--inevitably--leads to blogging, which--less inevitably--leads to resolution.<br /><br />In my twenties, I supported myself by working one full-time job and an additional summer job. In my thirties, I continued to earn a living, paying half of the shared bills and fully participating in the rearing of a child. I even enjoyed a stint as sole breadwinner while my husband was in graduate school. Since leaving the workforce at age forty, I've home-schooled a high school student; fostered dozens of puppies; completed several college classes; earned spending money by typing, editing, and bookkeeping; provided excellent care for a couple of the world's cutest toddlers; sewn hundreds of dresses for hundreds of little girls; and maintained a home. "Thanks for earning a living," I tell my husband. "Thanks for doing everything else," he graciously replies.<br /><br />But for a decade (or maybe a lifetime), I've struggled with feelings of laziness. The problem is this: I'm convinced that idle time must be earned, and I haven't worked hard enough to earn it. I'm not a longshoreman or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">coal miner</span> or an Army Ranger. I'm not sore and sweaty at the end of the day. The only decent thing to do is to <span style="font-style: italic;">keep working</span>, so I load the dishwasher, replace a broken zipper on a well-worn pair of jeans, edit a friend's neatly typed personal history. But--rather soon--I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">jonesing</span></span></span> for down-time: for the opportunity to read another review of "The Road," to curl up on an unmade bed with an affectionate cat, to compile a mental list of men who've seen me in my underpants. This inability to maintain the momentum of labor makes me uneasy, yet I'm disinclined to change. The resulting cognitive dissonance is driving me mad (or at least pissing me off).<br /><br />Once, at a Jesuit-run retreat, I was chatting with a monk. Or a priest. Or maybe just some guy. He was older, and charming, and we did the dishes together after dinner. He didn't exactly flirt, but I could tell he liked me. He'd noticed my unease earlier when the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">retreatants</span></span></span> introduced themselves and told what they did for a living. "You think that paid labor is the only worthwhile labor, don't you," he said. Yes, I said. "And yet the paid labor you perform is minimal," he said. Yes, I said. "So you think that the doctors and social workers and school teachers and hairdressers at the dinner table tonight are more important than you, and more interesting," he said. Yes, I said. "Are you going to change what you do, or are you going to change how you feel about what you do?" he asked. Then we had ice cream, and walked back to our dorm together. It was muddy, and he offered his arm.<br /><br />Self-described Frugal Zealot (and homemaker) Amy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Dacyczyn</span></span></span> solved the problem of unpaid labor by working exactly the same number of hours her husband worked. I can see how this might be effective for some. But not only does my husband work a <span style="font-style: italic;">lot</span> of hours, I can't tell by looking if he's working or not. Sure...he's gazing at the computer screen, occasionally clicking the mouse. Is he putting the finishing touches on the final report of a lucrative contract? Is he deleting the latest right-wing political rant forwarded by his mom? Or is he gazing at Angelina's breastfeeding photos, with a combination of admiration and lust, but mostly lust? How can I <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span>? And if I can't <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span>, how can I possibly decide how to spend <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> time: whether to shop around for better health insurance, to sew flannel sleep pants to donate to the women's shelter, or to read a Robert Parker novel in the bathtub? I have no idea how others navigate these treacherous shoals. Maybe this will always be a mystery to those of us with Some College.<br /><br />The issue of idle time is somewhat clearer for those with nine-to-five jobs (or even the stay-at-home spouses of those with nine-to-five jobs). At the end of a shift, they do the requisite chores, and whatever time is left between that hour and bedtime is <span style="font-style: italic;">theirs</span>. But this, too, has never been clear to me: When, exactly, are the chores done? When does idle-time commence? Granted, I usually err on the side of "too soon" rather than "not soon enough." But...how clean should the house be? How <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">decluttered</span></span></span> the closets? How much time given over to charitable causes? How many letters written to loved ones, to soldiers in the field, to congressmen? How much personal grooming? How much political activism? How many hours spent on self-improvement, whether it's a community-ed course, a step-aerobics DVD, or another chapter in a George Eliot novel? When are we officially<span style="font-style: italic;"> done</span>?<br /><br />Because the answer is hidden from me, I'm choosing to knock off <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>. But because the people I love usually choose to knock off <span style="font-style: italic;">later</span>, I'm forced to do most of my time-wasting in secret. Yes...forced. I've convinced myself that a puritanical, tyrannical, and wholly invented version of my husband is holding a gun to my head and saying, "Be productive, or lose my respect." (The imagined gun seems unnecessary, but mildly erotic.) I can't stand it, and I flee. I do much of my time-wasting in a parked car (sometimes--ironically--in an idling car). At home, I do my time-wasting behind a locked door, or after my husband is asleep. I watch "Pride and Prejudice" again, on cable at 3 a.m., and feel like I'm getting away with something. It's intoxicating...the feeling that I'm not being monitored and judged by grown-ups. (As an aside, I couldn't help but notice recently that Mr. Darcy never says the words, "So, Miss Bennet, what do you do for a living?")<br /><br />I've now been writing for hours, and I still feel unpleasantly fuzzy on this subject. So, in what my hardworking husband would probably consider a colossal waste of time, I'm going to examine the meaning of "wasting time." To that end, I've divided time-use into five tiers.<br /><br />Tier 1 includes tasks that are both necessary and productive: earning a living (adequate to meeting all of your needs and some of your wants) and caring for dependents (children, the elderly, the disabled, and pets).<br /><br />Tier 2 includes tasks that are also necessary and productive, but maybe a tad less urgent: meeting medical and dental needs; performing civic duties such as voting and jury duty; paying bills, taxes, and insurance premiums; and maintaining a home and car. I spend quite a bit of time in this tier, performing what my husband refers to as non-revenue-generating tasks.<br /><br />Tier 3 includes tasks that are productive, but not necessary. We usually call these hobbies, and they can be physical (like swimming), or creative (like cake decorating), or competitive (like chess), or all three (like ballroom dancing). Generally, these activities are perceived as purposeful and results-driven; only a curmudgeon would suggest that engaging thus is a waste of time.<br /><br />Tier 4 includes tasks that are neither productive nor necessary, but are fun. This tier includes entertainment (like Disneyland) and socializing (like sharing a banana split with a girlfriend while discussing the most flattering skirt style and Daniel Craig's performance in "Defiance").<br /><br />Tier 5 is the unpleasant, to-be-avoided tier, and the only one that rises to the occasion of "wasting time." It includes tasks that are not productive, necessary, or fun. There's no reason to visit this tier--ever!--and yet I do (for example, tonight I watched "The Cleveland Show"). This tier includes mindless channel surfing and web surfing. In fact, mindlessness is the hallmark of Tier 5. If you're visiting this tier, you probably have a look of weariness, or contempt. It includes attending a boring party, or embarking on a miserable vacation.<br /><br />The amount of cross-over boggles the mind. In which tier would I place having sex? Visiting the Lincoln Memorial? Learning PowerPoint? Shopping for the perfect blue jeans? Making key-lime pie? Reading the Century's 100 Best Novels? (And would it make a difference if I were reading the novels for college credit versus my own edification?) What about taking my five-year-old nephew to the aquarium, and then making sugar cookies together, and then discussing the concept of "crying wolf"? The answers: Any tier but the fifth tier.<br /><br />Ah-ha! I can see now that I failed to differentiate between idle time and wasted time. I was wrong about the "Criminal Minds" marathon: It wasn't wasted time, because I was happy! I was shamelessly, delightfully present! Perhaps the idle time was unearned, but I can fix that. I can take the monk's advice and either get a job (a paying job, or a minimum number of hours per week spent on Tier 1 and Tier 2 activities) or get a different attitude (a healthy and liberating apathy concerning earned-versus-unearned idle time).<br /><br />Idle time is a pleasure, a gift, a blessing, an opportunity. Those of us who have it--whether a little or a lot--are lucky beyond measure. I'm going to spend more time enjoying it, celebrating it, basking in it...and less time (maybe <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> time!) second-guessing my right to it.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-45324675766923439522009-10-22T17:16:00.019-06:002009-11-12T08:16:03.319-07:00On Embarrassment<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">My most embarrassing moment took place at Lagoon, an amusement park north of Salt Lake City. I was in my mid-thirties, and agreed to spend a Saturday thus. (What led to this baffling choice? Would I have agreed—that day—to go to a meat-packing plant? A medical-research lab? A public swimming pool? Why this moment of compliance, of familial cooperation?) A dozen family members were in attendance. The day was hot, and I was fat. Nothing good was going to happen.<br /><br />I went on a ride or two, and it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wasn</span></span>’t awful. I had a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">corndog</span></span>, a Coke, maybe a fistful of someone’s cotton candy. I reapplied sunscreen. Then, my ten-year-old niece said, “Ooh! Paddle boats!” and I chose poorly. We stood in line, we handed a teenage boy our tickets, and I gingerly stepped aboard a paddle boat.<br /><br />Immediately, the boat took on water, soaking my tennis shoe. I heard someone giggle. I felt my face turn warm and pink. I should have slowly backed away; I should have reminded myself that there’s no shame in changing one’s mind. Instead, I heaved my bulky self into the paddle boat, next to my brave and lovely niece.<br /><br />The seats were designed for someone (anyone!) with smaller hips, and I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">didn</span></span>’t fit. So, instead of sitting <span style="font-style: italic;">between</span> the metal pieces that defined the seat area, I perched <span style="font-style: italic;">atop</span> the metal pieces that defined the seat area. Despite my well-cushioned butt, it was not comfortable, and I hoped to paddle around the man-made lake (maybe 200 yards in diameter) in record time.<br /><br />It was not to be. More than fifteen years later, I still insist that our boat was faulty in some respect. Despite my weight, I <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> able to paddle, as was my able-bodied niece. Even so, when we were as far away from shore as possible, the boat slowed, stopped, and refused to budge. When we got any momentum going at all, we went in tight circles. The sun beat down on us, and I ached from head to toe. I yelled at my niece: “Steer, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">goddamnit</span></span>!” Therein lies my greatest shame.<br /><br />Five minutes passed, then ten. I saw my loved ones gathering at the dock, watching. What I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">didn</span></span>’t see (‘cause it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">wasn</span></span>’t happening) was the launch of a rescue boat.<span style=""> </span>I can’t imagine that we were the first boat to <i style="">ever</i> experience distress.<span style=""> </span>Not a single heart attack?<span style=""> </span>A hyperactive child tumbling into the drink?<span style=""> </span>A group of pot-smoking teens refusing to come ashore?<span style=""> </span>I considered the possibility of jumping ship, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">didn</span></span>’t know if the water was three feet deep, or a hundred feet deep, teeming with carp or sewage or the bloated corpses of folks like me (I’m not a strong swimmer).<p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eventually, we hit on the right combination of paddling and steering and crying, and we reached dry land.<span style=""> </span>There were snickers from the crowd.<span style=""> </span>There were even some well-placed jabs from family members.<span style=""> </span>I attempted to look sheepish, but not devastated, as I climbed out of the boat and moved to my husband’s side.<span style=""> </span>“Are you okay?” he asked quietly.<span style=""> </span>“Sure,” I said, knowing that I’d never be as comfortable in the world as I was <i style="">before</i> the paddle-boat debacle.<span style=""> </span>“I’m okay.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Later, I apologized to my niece, and she was congenial and forgiving, shrugging it off, as is her way.<span style=""> </span>It’s probably not too late to buy her a very expensive gift.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, that’s my most embarrassing moment, and it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">didn</span></span>’t kill me to share it with you.<span style=""> </span>Another time, I soiled myself at a campground near <st1:place><st1:city><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Monterey</span></span></st1:city>, <st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place>, while suffering from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">labyrinthitis</span></span>.<span style=""> </span>And once, I thought a boy invited me to an Elton John concert, when he was simply attempting to discern my level of interest (“Would you like to go?”), and he had actually invited my friend Heather (a fact that I discovered only after shopping for a new outfit, shaving my legs, and slathering on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Coty</span></span> Wild Musk).<span style=""> </span>And my favorite embarrassment<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> the verbal assumption that I was pregnant, when I was not (at least three times by adults, and oh-so-many-more times by children).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, let’s break it down.<span style=""> </span>Embarrassment seems to require a degree of public scrutiny.<span style=""> </span>I don’t recall ever being embarrassed when home alone (unless I was <i style="">imagining</i> public scrutiny).<span style=""> </span>Someone (or everyone) must know about said behavior in order to feel the sting of embarrassment.</p><p class="MsoNormal">It helps (or hurts) if there’s a degree of personal responsibility.<span style=""> </span>Sure…it’s <i style="">possible</i> to be embarrassed because of something that happens accidentally—something that is <i style="">not my fault</i>—but it won’t smart as much, or as long.</p><p class="MsoNormal">And violations of physical privacy are fertile ground for embarrassment, as is anything to do with elimination or sex.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Usually, though, embarrassment is the result of a glaring lack<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> of knowledge, accomplishment, experience, sophistication, or physical, financial, or emotional fitness. Once, at a spiritual retreat (during liturgy, no less), I sobbed noisily for the duration of “Hallelujah” as performed by Rufus Wainwright.<span style=""> </span>Only later did that seem like a silly-ass thing to do, and I was embarrassed.<span style=""> </span>(Since then, I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">ve</span></span> tried to be more emotionally robust.<span style=""> </span>I remind myself that I’m refraining, not repressing.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One can certainly be embarrassed by the actions of a loved one, but this feels a bit different (like a painful form of compassion).<span style=""> </span>When this happens, I try to move past the embarrassment by asking myself, “How can I help?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">During a recent conversation with my husband, we agreed that “avoiding possible embarrassment” is a poor reason to shrink from doing something we truly want to do, what with life being short and all.<span style=""> </span>Easier said than done, and I continue to “delay” all kinds of activities because I’m not feeling confident, or cute.<span style=""> </span>We also agreed that (a) we want to eliminate some of our embarrassing behavior; (b) we want to be <i style="">less embarrassed</i> by some of our embarrassing behavior; and (c) a certain degree of embarrassment (in response to embarrassing behavior) is a good thing, and healthy, and—in theory—serves to shape behavior in the right direction.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I knew a man who happily farted in public (small, perky, odorless farts), without becoming horrified or even saying “excuse me.”<span style=""> </span>At first, I thought it was cool (so natural! so hip!), but later I thought it was gross (so impolite, so out-of-my-life-forever).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It’s pretty to think that one reaches a certain age and no longer engages in embarrassing behavior.<span style=""> </span>That is not my experience.<span style=""> </span>In my fifties, I do embarrassing things all the time.<span style=""> </span>However, I’m less likely to castigate myself (maybe because I’m more evolved now, but maybe because castigation is a <i style="">lot</i> of work).<span style=""> </span>Here in middle age, forgiveness is my friend, and self-forgiveness is my dearest friend.<span style=""> </span>If I laugh nervously and too loud, if I mispronounce “Goethe,” if my handsome neighbor happens to pull up next to my parked car while I’m eating a Peanut Buster Parfait, if that same neighbor is next in line at the grocery store when my Visa card is declined (for no good reason), if I’m chatting with my cousin and I vehemently denounce the girls-only store Sweet & Sassy only to have my cousin's eight-year-old daughter enter the room and happily reveal that she celebrated her birthday there just days before with thirty of her closest friends…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, I’m able to forgive myself all of that, and remain relatively unembarrassed.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">That said, I haven’t been in a paddle boat since that dreadful day, and I avert my eyes when they show up unexpectedly in movies or novels.<span style=""> </span>My husband is of the opinion that one ought to pile up (similar) good experiences to ameliorate the effects of a bad experience, so maybe I’ll do that, eventually.<span style=""> </span>But, clearly, now is too soon, so I’ll curl up on the couch, reliving the horror, remembering the shame of “Steer, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">goddamnit</span></span>!”</p></span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-28083436753828432212009-10-06T13:05:00.010-06:002010-03-16T11:03:37.530-06:00A Certain Type of Girl<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">There's a certain type of girl that I observe frequently, and with increasing distress. I'll describe a recent encounter.<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago, I took my five-year-old nephew to Arctic Circle, a fast-food restaurant near my home in a suburb south of Salt Lake City. He was enjoying the indoor playground; I was sipping a diet Coke and admiring him. A mom and her kids showed up, joining another mom and her kids who were already there. They greeted each other warmly. The combined children ranged in ages from about two to thirteen.<br /><br />One girl in particular caught my eye. She was seven or eight, and very attractive. She was tall and slim. Her Northern European skin had a healthy glow, as did her waist-length blond hair. I gathered (from overheard conversations) that Mom had spent all morning crimping said hair, and it cascaded past the girl's shoulders like an expensive wedding veil. Pinned atop her head was a huge lime-green daisy.<br /><br />Her outfit reminded me of a more wholesome version of something I've seen in the Victoria's Secret summer catalog. Her denim shorts were a modest above-knee length, but were skin tight, emphasizing the curve of her backside, and her rounded thighs. Her white eyelet top had one-inch straps, a fitted bodice, and a gathered skirt that fell smock-like to just below her waist. She looked adorable.<br /><br />I didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">tell</span> her she looked adorable, but everyone else did. Friends and strangers admired her pretty hair, her pretty blouse. I think it's unlikely that a day goes by that she doesn't hear the words "You're a beautiful girl" from a grandparent, a neighbor, a piano teacher, an ice-cream man. I'd bet my eight-month emergency fund that she's adept at learning, at memorizing, at reading aloud. Perhaps not yet--but soon--she'll be joining Mom at yoga class, and perhaps they'll hold demanding poses side-by-side on the family-room floor during next season's "American Idol."<br /><br />I was enjoying my Coke and keeping an eye on my nephew, when the girl approached the play structure. She climbed the stairs, grabbed onto each side of the padded entrance, and froze. Her back was to me, but she turned her head slightly, to verify that--yes--she was preventing another child from entering.<br /><br />Her favorite prey (perhaps her only prey) is a boy, slightly smaller or younger than herself. Someone who's not going to shove her face-first into the structure, to land clumsily on the vinyl-covered padding. Someone who's not going to say, "You're blocking the entrance. Move immediately, or I'll summon an employee, and have you removed from the premises." But someone who will cower slightly, unsure how to proceed, because he wants access to the playground, but he doesn't want to be perceived as a bully.<br /><br />My nephew turned to me for guidance, a nervous smile on his face. He had one foot on the ground, and one foot on the stairs. The girl held her position, and an ugly sneer began to form on her flawless face.<br /><br />In two strides, I was there. "Move aside, sweetheart," I said in an unfriendly tone. Upon getting caught, her sneer changed quickly to a sheepish grin. She shrugged, and climbed down. It was clear that she wasn't interested in the playground equipment, but only in <span style="font-style: italic;">preventing others</span> from enjoying it. I admit to wanting to slap her.<br /><br />Her meal arrived, and she sat down to eat, immediately complaining because she wanted ketchup instead of fry sauce, and she wanted a corn dog instead of mini corn dogs. Her mother <span style="font-style: italic;">apologized</span>, and jumped up to fix the order. I watched the girl, thinking about what this might look like in adulthood.<br /><br />In the late nineties, in Dallas, I had a neighbor named Tiffany. She was in her mid-twenties, and newly (if not happily) married. She confided to me that she didn't want sex (ever again!), but that she very much wanted men to <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to have sex with her. She wanted men to crave her...keenly, desperately, endlessly, futilely. Her clothes, her makeup, her hair, her hairlessness, her augmentation, her brief foray into stripping...were all designed to make men want her. What brought Tiffany pleasure was the frequent opportunity to reject advances. "My degree of pleasure is commensurate with a man's degree of disappointment when I reject him," she once said. (She didn't really say that, but that's what she <span style="font-style: italic;">meant</span>.)<br /><br />Now--God knows--I've never been one to reject advances, but I'm sure there have been times when I've cared more about <span style="font-style: italic;">decreasing</span> the share of others, rather than <span style="font-style: italic;">increasing</span> my own share (and, to my shame, I usually direct this tendency toward women, rather than men). I wonder: If I had a friend who was a single woman, and I had the opportunity to introduce her to a man--a potential mate--and that man was superior in any (or every) way to <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> man (unlikely, but for the sake of argument)...would I do so? Would I tell her about a job opportunity, if it was better than <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> job? Would I tell her about a compliment that was paid her, if it highlighted a strength of hers, and a weakness of mine?<br /><br />I don't know if men share this unpleasant tendency. Based on my narrow experience, I think that most men are focused on getting<span style="font-style: italic;"> more</span>, rather than ensuring that others get <span style="font-style: italic;">less</span>. This is borne out to some degree by my experience (you guessed it) at the indoor playground.<br /><br />A week later, we returned to Arctic Circle. There were three girls playing when we arrived; they were a year or two older than my nephew. I watched as he approached them...as he made it clear that he was available to join their playgroup. (Other moms send text messages or read "Twilight" while their children play, but my eyes never leave him. He's absolutely compelling.) Soon, he joined me at the table. "They don't want to play with me," he reported. "That's okay," I said. But the next time he climbed to the top of the play structure, and approached the slide entrance, the prettiest of the three girls blocked his way. (Her name was Adriana. Maybe her parents have HBO, and admired the attractive junkie on Sunday nights.) I wiped the fry sauce from my fingertips, crossed the room, and looked up at them. "Let him pass," I told her. She smiled at me broadly, revealing perfect teeth, and pirouetted away.<br /><br />I do my best, but the over-sized and confrontational aunt isn't the best deterrent to this type of girl. The best deterrent is the slightly older child, either male or female, who cares more about seeking his or her own pleasure, and less about contributing to another child's pain. I silently cheer when I see a nine- or ten-year-old kid enter the playground, especially if he or she possesses a little swagger.<br /><br />On this day, my savior was a ten-year-old boy with uncombed hair and a cast on his right wrist. He had no desire to play with the clique of younger girls, and was intimidated not at all. He said "Sure!" when my nephew said "Wanna play?" They gathered additional playmates, and soon it was all about Rebel Fighters and Storm Troopers, with the ten-year-old boy as leader. They plowed past the three girls, scattering them. It wasn't long before the girls joined in (perhaps weary of sitting in a tight circle and passing judgment).<br /><br />All the kids got a little sweaty that day, and had a lot of fun. There were friendly farewells as groups of kids left with their parents. "Bye, Adriana!" my nephew hollered. I stood, and dumped my fast-food trash. "Yeah...can't wait to meet up with you again in junior high," I said quietly.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-58802776110204916962009-07-01T14:02:00.002-06:002009-07-05T14:57:45.118-06:00Ode to Bed-Head Magoo<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">He arrives for babysitting two mornings a week. He jumps out of the car and trots to my waiting arms. He usually has a sippy cup in one hand, and a bag of dry cereal in the other hand. "I have snacks!" he says, beaming. He is sturdy and strong and confident. In the wintertime, he wears jeans or slacks, layers of short-sleeved and long-sleeved T-shirts, and brown suede Velcro'd shoes in size 8W. In the summertime, he wears knee-length shorts, a T-shirt, and the same practical shoes. Until a recent buzz cut, his hair looked as if someone made a large batch of milk-chocolate frosting and then applied it to his bald head...generously, lavishly, excessively, inexpertly. Sometimes, it would be frizzy in spots, or have a bit of "snack" stuck to it. He always smells good.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This morning, he arrives clutching a bag of day-old hot-dog buns. "More bread! More ducks!" he shouts, as he climbs out of the car. Yesterday, we fed ducks at the local Wetlands, and he wants a replay. Why not? I strap him into my car, and we drive the half-dozen blocks to the Wetlands.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Upon arriving, I grab his "backpack" from his diaper bag. The backpack is small and soft-sided, with plastic fasteners across his chest, and an attached leash. The boy has a tendency to bolt (he refuses to hold hands), and the murky ponds make me nervous, so I insist on the backpack. He complies readily. (Later, he'll change his mind, rather noisily and melodramatically: "Take it off! Please! I <span style="font-style: italic;">hate</span> it!" A fisherman will notice, and give me a look.) But for now, he strolls happily along a paved path, still clutching the bread. He asks if he can hold the leash--essentially taking himself for a walk--and I agree to that, since we haven't reached the water yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He stops suddenly on the path, and bends at the waist to watch a roll-bug. A ruffle of disposable diaper peeks out between shirt and shorts. I watch him, as he watches the bug. His attention falters momentarily; he takes a step forward, and his size 8W's crush the bug. He looks around, unable to locate it. "Did it fly away?" he asks, confused. "No," I say, but stop short of a lecture on aerodynamics. "Where <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> it?" he asks. "It crawled away," I lie. He furrows his brow a bit ("How did I miss <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>?"), and we continue walking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We find a lot of adult ducks, and five babies. We stand at a railing, and toss chunks of hot-dog bun into the water. He's enthusiastic and competent. Occasionally, he takes a bite of hot-dog bun, looking up at me for approval. I grin at him. "Tasty," I say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We return to the car, and I ask if he wants to drive to the neighborhood with all the front-yard water features. "Gorgeous water features?" he asks, using a new word I taught him. Five minutes later, we're in an affluent hillside subdivision. "I like this neighborhood," he says, using another new word. I turn and smile at him. He has removed his shoes and socks, and his bare feet are pulled up onto his car-seat. He seems relaxed, and I anticipate a nap, but it doesn't happen. There's no traffic, and I drive slowly through the neighborhood, stopping whenever we spot a water feature. Between sightings, he uses a sweet falsetto voice, as if calling for a lost puppy: "Water! Water!" I linger at our favorite: a gray concrete bowl overflowing into an identical (but lower) bowl. "Like this?" he asks, forming a bowl shape with his little hands. "Exactly," I say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I suggest we swing by McDonalds for hot fudge sundaes, and he's on board. I sprinkle nuts on mine, and he requests nuts, too. He makes a huge mess, but it's okay, 'cause the glove box is full of fast-food napkins.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">His mom will meet us here in half an hour, so there's time for more fun while we wait. We're parked in the shade; "The Essential Leonard Cohen" plays quietly on the stereo. The boy sits beside me in the passenger seat. He finds a pen in the glove box, along with the Honda's owner's manual. He turns to a nearly blank page, and suggests that I trace his hand. I do so, several times. He takes the pen and makes a series of small, imperfect circles. "I made circles," he says, proudly. "Good job," I say.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He politely asks me to buckle his seat belt; then, he asks me to buckle mine. We continue to draw, and talk, while buckled in snugly. Ten minutes later, he reaches over and turns the stereo off. "That's enough Leonard Cohen," he says, giving me a slightly stern look, as if I should know better.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes, instead of the Wetlands and the water features, we stay home, doing art projects. "Let's do crafts!" he says, as he enters the guest room, where the toys are stored in a box in the corner. He opens the closet doors and selects the supplies for an art project. He prefers a project that requires a lot of glue and/or a lot of paint. I grab one of my husband's T-shirts and pull it over the boy's head. With his new haircut, he now looks like a Tibetan-monk-in-training. He squirts black acrylic paint onto a large manila envelope, and smears the paint around with a small foam roller. He makes several paintings...enough for each of his loved ones. When the paint dries, we'll glue Popsicle sticks to the envelopes, or pipe cleaners, or pompoms in assorted colors and sizes. We're in no hurry. We know that art cannot be rushed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If he's in a nurturing mood (and he often is), he hauls out the small plastic Animal Hospital, complete with a vet (and her upstairs living quarters), an exam table with X-ray apparatus, a helicopter pad and elevator for emergencies, an ATV for errands, a handful of animals, and all their expected paraphernalia (cages, food and water bowls, bandages, blankets). We sprawl on the queen-sized bed, and I watch him play. Mostly, he enjoys wrapping each animal in a blanket--carefully, sometimes clumsily--and then pulling it to his chest, his shoulders hunched, for a hug. He coos, but seems unaware that he is doing so. Eventually, I can't resist grabbing him for a snuggle. He humors me, and then gets back to playtime.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I know how lucky I am to have this boy in my life, and other boys, too. (I like hanging out with adults, but I'm more comfortable--and philosophically aligned--with children.) Babysitting (for lack of a better word) feels like a meditation; it's as close to a Zen-like state as I ever get. It's kind of like a gray concrete bowl overflowing into another gray concrete bowl. "Like this."</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-25120395545923025092009-06-25T15:06:00.024-06:002009-07-09T14:25:19.902-06:00Good Dog<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Nine years ago, my family fostered puppies in suburban <st1:city><st1:place>Dallas</st1:place></st1:city>, finding homes for about twenty-five dogs over the course of six months.<span style=""> </span>It was the policy of the rescue group to spay and neuter even the youngest puppies before adoption, and I sat in the waiting room of a vet’s office while rottweilers Blackberry and Lizzy were readied for the trip home after surgery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Drama unfolded on the other side of the waiting room.<span style=""> </span>A man and woman discussed with a vet the fate of a small white kitten they’d recently adopted, who was failing to thrive.<span style=""> </span>The vet looked grim, and said that the kitten had been too young for adoption.<span style=""> </span>A four- or five-year-old boy—thin, blond, serious—sat near the conferring adults.<span style=""> </span>When he wandered toward them, his mom harshly told him to go sit down, and he chose to sit down by me.<span style=""> </span>I gave him a bucking-up look.<span style=""> </span>I wanted to hug him.<span style=""> </span>He looked at his parents, he looked at me, and I could see that he was very close to tears.<span style=""> </span>He spoke quietly to me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“What does it mean…put him to sleep?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'd overheard the vet, and I knew that the boy wasn't talking about general anesthesia. Even so, I looked right at him and said, “I don’t know.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Clearly, he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span></span>’t believe me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Does it mean…to kill him?<span style=""> </span>That he’ll die?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I paused and answered yes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He looked justifiably horrified, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">couldn</span></span>’t speak, but just sat there with sloped shoulders.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Then what?” he asked.<span style=""> </span>“What happens to him after he dies?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I don’t know,” I said again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He looked right at me and asked, “Will he go to heaven?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I had long ago abandoned any hope of heaven, any fear of hell, but I wanted to comfort the child, so I lied.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes,” I said with certainty.<span style=""> </span>“He’ll go to heaven.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“But who will take care of him in heaven?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“My mom will take care of him,” I said promptly and confidently, surprising myself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Is she dead?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Does she like cats?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Very much.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“But…how will she <span style="font-style: italic;">find</span> him?” he asked, near-panic in his voice.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“That’s the magic of heaven,” I assured him.<span style=""> </span>“She’ll find him the <i style="">instant</i> he arrives in heaven, and she’ll take good care of him <i style="">always</i>.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Always?” he asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“Yes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I could tell he believed me, and that he felt a little better.<span style=""> </span>His impatient mom (the kind who finds children’s questions annoying) hollered at him to “leave that lady alone,” and he left my side and found another chair.<span style=""> </span>My puppies were ready by then.<span style=""> </span>I collected them, and gave him a final thumbs-up as I headed out the door.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was in that too-familiar grief state, where sadness meshes with clarity.<span style=""> </span>I felt my senses heighten; I felt self-contained and whole.<span style=""> </span>I had done my best with the little boy.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, that’s the only comfort available to us: the knowledge that we’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span></span> done our best.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The first time we saw Phil, we were in the parking lot of a pet store, preparing for an adoption event.<span style=""> </span>Phil was coming at us fast, at the business end of a long, taut leash.<span style=""> </span>He seemed to be grinning.<span style=""> </span>His eagerness brought a smile to my face, and I noticed that my husband was also smiling.<span style=""> </span>We bent for a brief snuggle.<span style=""> </span>Phil’s fluffy orange fur begged to be touched, to be tousled.<span style=""> </span>He wiggled under our hands; he licked our wrists.<span style=""> </span>He was a chow/German-shepherd mix, about six months old. He seemed part lion cub, part bear cub.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil spent that Saturday in a crate, not wowing anyone with his amiability (he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">didn</span></span>’t like the crate, and he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">didn</span></span>’t like being poked by children <i style="">through</i> the crate).<span style=""> </span>My husband and I spent the day tending to the seven puppies we’d been fostering since Christmas (it was now mid-January).<span style=""> </span>Folks love puppies, and by late afternoon we’d found homes for five of them.<span style=""> </span>We took the remaining two home (they’d find homes the following Saturday).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Soon after getting home, I got a call from Ann, the leader of the rescue group.<span style=""> </span>She asked if we’d consider fostering Phil, now that we had <i style="">so</i> much extra room, and <i style="">so</i> much extra time.<span style=""> </span>“He <i style="">really</i> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">doesn</span></span>’t want to go back to the shelter,” she said, in a tone meant to conjure up the horrors of The Shelter.<span style=""> </span>Five minutes later, I was back at the pet store, tucking Phil into the Honda <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">CRV</span></span>.<span style=""> </span>He arrived at our house all wags and smiles, all fluffiness and eagerness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He settled happily into his new and over-sized toy-filled crate, his chin resting on his front paws, his eyes following us around the room.<span style=""> </span>He was grateful for every kind word, every treat, every backyard visit.<span style=""> </span>Over and over again, he'd run around the pool, exhausting himself.<span style=""> </span>He'd lie down, panting happily, watching us for clues as to how the day was going to unfold.<span style=""> </span>A walk?<span style=""> </span>A peanut-butter Kong?<span style=""> </span>A tennis ball?<span style=""> </span>“He <i style="">really</i> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">doesn</span></span>’t want to go back to the shelter,” my husband would reiterate softly, stroking Phil’s sun-warmed fur.<span style=""> </span>My husband and I would share a meaningful smile…a smile that lasted one beat longer than our typical smiles.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Every Saturday morning, we took Phil (and assorted puppies) to the pet-store adoption.<span style=""> </span>He spent the day in a too-small crate, looking ornery, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">occasionally</span> acting ornery.<span style=""> </span>We waited for someone to choose him, but it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">wasn</span></span>’t happening.<span style=""> </span>Every Saturday evening, we brought him home.<span style=""> </span>We tried to hide our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">disappointment</span> from him.<span style=""> </span>We said encouraging things.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One Saturday morning, I took Phil to the pet store, but then returned home to care for some ailing puppies (if I could keep them alive until Monday, they could be treated by a doctor).<span style=""> </span>Mid-afternoon, I got a phone call from the adoption coordinator: Phil had been adopted!<span style=""> </span>A pair of newlyweds fell in love with him, completed the necessary paperwork, and took him home to a wooded lot on the outskirts of the north <st1:city><st1:place>Dallas</st1:place></st1:city> suburbs.<span style=""> </span>I was startled to hear the news, and not as happy as I expected to be.<span style=""> </span>But I was assured by the adoption coordinator that all was well, that “they were great.”<span style=""> </span>Even so, I felt that <i style="font-family: georgia;">I</i> should have been there…that <i style="font-family: georgia;">I</i> should have vetted Phil’s new family.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Late that afternoon, I got another phone call from the adoption coordinator.<span style=""> </span>“Phil’s back,” she said.<span style=""> </span>I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">didn</span></span>’t wait for any details. <span style=""> </span>(Later, I would find out that the newlyweds had “forgotten” that dogs <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">weren</span></span>’t allowed at the home they were renting.<span style=""> </span>Bullshit like that happened all the time.)<span style=""> </span>I grabbed my purse and ran to the car, my heart pounding.<span style=""> </span>I drove into the parking lot, and immediately saw Phil sitting in a metal grocery cart.<span style=""> </span>It was surreal: Serengeti meets Safeway.<span style=""> </span>I don’t know who put him there, or why, but I threw my arms around him, carried him to the car, and called my husband.<span style=""> </span>“I want to adopt Phil,” I said, my voice breaking.<span style=""> </span>“Okay,” he said.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I spoke at my mom’s funeral in 1982, I listed her likes (men, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">cheeseburgers</span>, etc.) and dislikes (wives, raisins, etc.).<span style=""> </span>I’ll do the same here, with Phil. <span style="">(Perhaps</span> there will be some overlap.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked sleeping with Mommy and Daddy.<span style=""> </span>After moving back to <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state> when Phil was a year old, the dogs spent less time in their crates, and more time roaming free in the house and backyard.<span style=""> </span>(The last few years, Phil was never in his crate.)<span style=""> </span>Right or wrong, we eventually invited him to sleep in our bed, and every night he positioned himself between us, warm and panting and smelling of dog (but good dog).<span style=""> </span>I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ve</span></span> never felt safer.<span style=""> </span>My lifelong fear—that someone was going to sneak up on me while I slept—vanished.<span style=""> </span>Phil was mighty, and Phil was vigilant.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked a walk.<span style=""> </span>Most evenings, at sunset, we took the dogs for a walk around the block.<span style=""> </span>After a busy (and sometimes lonely) day, it was a half hour—sometimes longer!—that I spent with my husband, free from distraction.<span style=""> </span>We talked about the day; we watched the changing sky; we held hands.<span style=""> </span>We appreciated our adorable dogs, and their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">idiosyncrasies</span>.<span style=""> </span>We met the neighbors, their children, and their dogs.<span style=""> </span>We basked in the glow of responsible dog ownership: on hot days, on cold days, when we were tired, when we were missing the first few minutes of “24.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked a ride in the car.<span style=""> </span>Once or twice a week, he went to Wendy’s with Mommy, for chicken nuggets.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, he sat upright in the front seat—next to me—and people smiled and waved.<span style=""> </span>I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">couldn</span></span>’t resist reaching over and stroking his silky ears, burying my face in his neck, cooing to him (despite John Steinbeck’s assertion that such behavior shows disrespect for the dog).<span style=""> </span>“Who’s Mommy’s baby?<span style=""> </span>Who’s Mommy’s good dog?” I asked, in seldom-used baby-talk.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, he lay down in the backseat, or the cargo area, his chin on his paws.<span style=""> </span>He was never nervous or agitated on a drive; he was always mellow.<span style=""> </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Occasionally</span>, I fantasized about driving forever, about driving cross country, or at least to the next county.<span style=""> </span>I should have.<span style=""> </span>I think he would have enjoyed it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked ham.<span style=""> </span>He was cavalier about most food, but he could get excited about ham.<span style=""> </span>To score ham, he was willing to do that most submissive of dog tricks: the sit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked peanut-butter <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Kongs</span></span>.<span style=""> </span>Every evening, he reverted to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">puppyhood</span></span> as I prepared the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Kongs</span></span> in the kitchen.<span style=""> </span>He stood in the living room…waiting, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">anticipating</span>, seeming to hop up and down on his front paws…his nose in the air, his tail wagging gracefully like a giant feather-duster.<span style=""> </span>I entered with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Kongs</span></span>, and he sat as instructed, but only briefly.<span style=""> </span>Once the Kong was on the floor, he assumed a play pose, and then slowly lowered his cute butt onto the carpet, finally relaxing with his Kong between his front paws.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked weather extremes.<span style=""> </span>Despite his long and thick coat (and despite the doggy door that allowed ready access to a comfy house), he enjoyed the baking heat of a <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state> summer.<span style=""> </span>He’d find a patch of bare dirt in the backyard (not a daunting task), stretch out, and nap.<span style=""> </span>He also enjoyed a blizzard, and would stay out until he was covered with snow…until he was a large white lump in the middle of the patio.<span style=""> </span>Then, he’d come in and shake off in the middle of the living room.<span style=""> </span>I’d towel him dry, and he’d go back out into the snow or rain, eager to experience the elements.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil liked freedom.<span style=""> </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Specifically</span>, he liked having <i style="">more</i> freedom than the Other Dog.<span style=""> </span>He enjoyed being preferred.<span style=""> </span>(He might have learned that from me.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil <i style="">did not</i> like the vet.<span style=""> </span>He did not like <i style="">any</i> of the vets.<span style=""> </span>He did not like the parking lot, the waiting room, the scale, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">receptionist</span>, the techs.<span style=""> </span>I’m surprised he tolerated the presence of my Doctors Foster and Smith catalogs, or the use of the word “vet” to refer to someone who's served in the military.<span style=""> </span>He also disliked any medication that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">didn</span></span>’t taste like ham.<span style=""> </span>I realize that I can’t <i style="">know</i> this about Phil, but it seemed to me that he strongly disliked being vulnerable, or out of control.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s been three months now since Phil’s passing.<span style=""> </span>At first, I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">couldn</span></span>’t shake the feeling that he was about to show up…that he’d emerge from behind the couch, that he’d appear at the doggy door, that the sound of the UPS truck would rouse him from a deep sleep and he’d head for the front windows, barking ferociously.<span style=""> </span>At first, my husband and I would sit at opposite ends of the couch, looking at each other with wide eyes, knowing that the grim details of this shared experience would bind us to one another, whether we wanted to be bound or not.<span style=""> </span>Mostly, we missed him. The permanence of his absence seemed to me a sickening thing, a foul thing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Phil presented his share of challenges (that’s me, being kind), and at times it seemed that there was no end to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">accommodations</span> we would make for him.<span style=""> </span>To some degree, our day-to-day lives had stopped making sense.<span style=""> </span>So, after Phil’s death, our lives immediately became easier.<span style=""> </span>What was complicated became simple, what was messy became neat, what was costly became affordable, what was dangerous became safe.<span style=""> </span>And with those <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">improvements</span> came <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">immeasurable</span> guilt.<span style=""> </span>I wonder how common that is: to lose a loved one, and then realize (a week later, maybe two weeks) that there’s an <i style="">advantage</i>…that among the heartbreak and the horror, there’s a <i style="">boon</i>.<span style=""> </span>With that realization, mourning commenced anew for me, as I began to doubt my devotion and my decency.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Eventually, those doubts faded as I embraced my altered life, and embraced the animals that remain in my care.<span style=""> </span>Today, we talk about the good times, and we make each other laugh with stories of Phil's quirky nature and his strong will.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, I reach for Phil at night, wanting to bury my hand in his fur, to find him warm, with a beating heart, but it’s not to be.<span style=""> </span>I feel broken, and I lie there, trying to keep the memories fresh, even if that keeps the pain fresh.<span style=""> </span>I imagine my arms around him, I remember my whispered “It’s okay, baby,” and I fall asleep.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-6503236260051754712009-02-15T10:29:00.028-07:002009-02-18T16:44:37.457-07:00Taking a Walk<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In Thoreau's essay on walking, he refers to a walk as "a sort of crusade." He asserts (in a charming and hyperbolic way) that the brave leave on a walk and never return. He observes that most of us lead boring lives, full of boring thoughts. We stay safe. We stay low to the ground. We live in the past. But a long walk can change all of that: We can know "self-respect and heroism” once again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My earliest memory is of being taken for a walk in a stroller. It's a vague snippet of memory, but I recall the view from the stroller as we turned a corner. How exciting to be out in front, to be the first to see around a hedge or a cinder-block fence!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was five, we lived in east Long Beach, and my six-year-old sister and I took frequent but short walks, just the two of us. We walked several blocks to school. We walked to a nearby market (accessed through an alley behind our duplex) to pick up forgotten grocery items that my mom needed for dinner. Once, we walked to a brand-new McDonalds to get milkshakes to carry home, but I tripped in the parking lot, skinning my knees and spilling the milkshakes. I cried for both reasons, but mostly I cried in anticipation of my mom's disappointment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I remember another oh-so-traumatic incident from that year, and it was also associated with a walk. My mom saved S&H Green Stamps, and there was a display case in the grocery store with empty coupon books and a glossy catalog of "prizes." I was aware that the catalog was free, because I'd seen my mom pick one up after paying for groceries. So, <span style="font-style: italic;">imitating her behavior</span>, I picked up a TV Guide from a similar display case, after paying for the grocery item she'd requested. Upon arriving home, I proudly presented her with the TV Guide, expecting appreciation for my thoughtfulness. But she was horrified, and not particularly sensitive to my feelings or my logic ("I thought it was <span style="font-style: italic;">free</span>, like the Green Stamps catalog!"). She actually made me walk back to the store and admit to "stealing" the TV Guide. Jesus Christ...I'd made an understandable mistake; I was hardly <span style="font-style: italic;">naughty</span>. I cried all the way back to the store, and cried as I pleaded guilty to the store manager, who seemed confused and irritated.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was six, we moved to a rented house in another part of Long Beach, and during my elementary school years, I walked often. I was chubby, and I sensed I needed more exercise. I also enjoyed solitude, and there wasn't much to be found at home (with two siblings and another on the way). I walked around the block over and over again, aiming for eight times. (I'd read that eight city blocks equals a mile, and I thought it meant "around the block" eight times.) It was a safe neighborhood, and I knew who lived behind most doors. There were cute boys, of course, but there were also school friends and church friends and babysitters and some of my mom's PTA buddies. I was a cheerful little knock-kneed girl with a Dutch-boy haircut and a rather significant underbite, smiling and waving and walking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A Speedy Mart opened up about six blocks from our house, and my sister and brother and I walked there almost daily, sometimes more than once a day. There was a large selection of penny candy, and full-size candy bars were only five cents (I preferred Big Hunks, because they took so long to eat) (that's what she said). Sometimes, we bought Slurpees or Popsicles. Our parents were generous with money; my mom probably figured 15 cents was a small price to pay for 45 minutes of blissful solitude. (I wonder how many times my parents had sex while the three of us kids walked to Speedy Mart. Gross.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At about eight and nine, my sister and I sometimes wandered through the neighborhood with no destination in mind, just a desire to keep moving and keep talking. We were fascinated by pioneers, whom we studied in school <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> church (I had an abiding crush on both Marcus and Narcissa Whitman). For hours--for days!--we amused ourselves by making detailed plans for our own imaginary westward-ho trek. We made mental lists of the food we'd take, the much-loved books and knick-knacks, but mostly the dresses: the brightly colored gingham and calico, the unbleached muslin...the full skirts, the puffed sleeves, the pinafores, the oversized bows tied at the small of my back, emphasizing my slender waist. I was going to be <span style="font-style: italic;">such</span> a cute pioneer. I'm fairly sure Thoreau would have approved.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What I remember most clearly about those years is the sweet freedom. The two of us (or the three of us) could go almost anywhere as long as we went together. We walked single file along a freeway overpass to get to the public library. We walked seven or eight blocks to the park, which was across the street from Helms Bakery, where we could get a half dozen (very stale) glazed donuts for a dime. It was illegal to enter the Flood Control, but my parents were pretty open-minded about such things, so we trudged through fields of ice plant, climbed up the steeply inclined side to the rim, and slid down into the bowels. My heart raced: We might face cops, bullies, or a sudden rush of water on its way to the ocean. It was risky, and <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> exciting. I miss that more-courageous version of me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As we went crashing through puberty, my sister and I began babysitting for neighbors; we worked as a team, earning a combined fifty cents an hour. We were <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> flush. We took our money and hit the pavement, shopping in downtown Long Beach, eating lunch at Woolworths, sitting through "Krakatoa, East of Java" twice at a movie theater that catered to sailors. Sometimes, we walked home from junior high together, supplementing our babysitting money with our unused bus fare, and stopping for pizza or tacos. I remember going to a track meet one Saturday afternoon (she competed, I did not) and ending up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, where we were hassled by some older boys. We hid in a gas station restroom behind a door that we couldn't lock or even latch, and we pressed our bodies against the door to keep it closed, while the boys pressed from the other side, eventually losing interest. Perhaps like all children, we frequently discussed what we should share with our parents, and what we should keep to ourselves.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It occurs to me now that my dad (who survived an unsupervised childhood) must have convinced my more-traditional mom that freedom was good for kids. Exhibit A: One Easter week, at ages ten and twelve, my sister and I found ourselves in a diner in Victorville, buying candy at midnight, while our Utah-bound Greyhound bus idled outside. Granted, we looked older because we were taller than average. Also, she was tomboyish, and I was pudgy, so perhaps one or both of those things served to keep the pervs at bay. Maybe some vigilant bus-riding mom was keeping an eye on us, but I wasn't aware of that.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We moved to Utah as I was turning thirteen, and I began looking for the perfect three-mile walk (I sought to avoid busy streets or pitiful chained-up dogs). Right away, I found a 3.2-mile square (east of my house) that I walked in fifty minutes. It was delightfully rural, and I passed horses, cows, dogs, farmers, tractors, irrigation ditches, fruit trees, wildflowers, and many three-bedroom brick ramblers built in the fifties or sixties. There were no sidewalks, and I walked on the dirt shoulder, often wearing suede moccasins. Everyone was friendly. Those in cars waved, and those in front yards chatted me up, inviting me to come see a newborn calf, or handing me a paper bag of zucchini or tomatoes from the garden. Sometimes I thought about boys and clothes, and sometimes I rehearsed a talk for church, or lines for a school play. But mostly, I just walked, feeling my muscles work, feeling welcome in this new place.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After high school, I spent four months living in BYU housing with a passel of obnoxious roommates, and I never found a good place to walk. I don't remember being alone, ever. That was probably the point: Given a modicum of privacy, I might have risked damnation by touching myself or enjoying a cup of herbal tea.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In my early twenties, I lived alone in an apartment in Provo, across the street from the hospital on US-89. My three-mile walk took me south a couple of blocks and then directly west. After 1.5 miles, I did a sudden about-face and retraced my steps home. It was all houses and driveways, and even though I walked the same route hundreds of times, I never made any friends. (The only human contact I recall was with a group of teenage girls in a convertible. They shouted something disparaging about my bright yellow tube top, which I was wearing in an attempt to even out my tan.) I don't recall finding this Provo walk relaxing or rejuvenating; it was simply a way to burn calories.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Three years later, I moved out of my apartment and spent one summer in a charmless apartment in Draper with the man who is now my husband. I was in love (still am), but I was surprised (still am) to learn that cohabiting is <span style="font-style: italic;">hard</span>. Long and solitary walks helped me stay sane. I loved walking along Fort Street, which--in 1980--was mostly fields, with an occasional Victorian mansion. The last time I took that Fort Street walk, I wore brand-new Chuck Taylor high tops. About two miles from home, the pain of quickly forming blisters was too much to bear, and I carried the offending shoes, wearing only socks while walking on surprisingly sharp gravel. I would have accepted a ride from a stranger, but no one offered. By the time I got home, I was rabid with pain and regret. Clearly, it was a sign: I belonged in Provo, alone. I listened to an Eagles album, and wept bitter tears.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My man and I spent the next nine months in downtown Salt Lake City, in a lovely (if cockroach infested) third-story apartment with a view of the mountains to the east and the State Capitol to the north. Living together was easier now, and we took a lot of walks together: to double features at the old Trolley Theater on Main (for a dollar!), to picnics at Liberty Park, to night classes at the U of U. I seldom walked alone, since I'd been given considerable grief by transients near the City-County building.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We bought our first house in a crappy little town at the west end of the valley, and stayed for almost two decades. The location was convenient, the big yard was full of trees, and we became a family there. Sometimes I walked alone, and sometimes my husband joined me; I came to enjoy the company, and no longer resented the intrusion. We walked east, making a huge figure eight. It wasn't exactly scenic, and no one waved affectionately, but we maintained a good aerobic pace. Later, we found a slightly more scenic walk that included a mile of tree-lined dirt path alongside a canal. Halfway into the three-mile walk, we stepped off the path and into the trees, to neck briefly before continuing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Surprisingly, we found a somewhat bucolic walk when we moved to a Dallas suburb in the late nineties. A planning committee wisely chose to leave some trees standing, and a paved path curled between fenced backyards, creating a quiet and private place to walk. On the rare occasion when it wasn't unbearably hot and humid, it was dangerously slick with ice, but we soldiered on. Toward the end of our time in Dallas, we adopted two big dogs, and they joined us on our walks. Adjacent to our subdivision was an empty field (temporary, I'm sure), and at the far end of the field was a stream in which the dogs happily splashed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We moved back to Utah a few years ago, to a suburb south of Salt Lake City. Once again, there are friendly neighbors who wave eagerly from cars and front yards; there are adorable children who call us by name, and politely ask to pet the dogs (no, but thanks for asking). We have our basic dog walk through the neighborhood, and an additional Equestrian Loop that we take in good weather. For early-morning exercise without the dogs, there are options in all directions, including a paved walking path in nearby Draper. It's safe, scenic, and seems to go on forever. I should be walking there now, instead of sitting on my butt writing about it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“So we saunter toward the Holy Land…” says Thoreau, and I'm reminded of walks taken at the Nestucca Sanctuary on the Oregon Coast. The sanctuary is two unpaved miles from Highway 101, and while I'm there I walk that four-mile roundtrip every day. Close to the sanctuary, the forest is lush and damp. Closer to 101, it opens up, and wide meadows fall away on each side of the winding dirt road. There's a point where I can't resist spreading my arms, turning my face to the sun, and bursting into private song, usually my favorite line from one of Leonard's best: "...and even though it all went wrong, I'll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!" My voice is less than melodic, and less than strong, but I stand and celebrate spiritual strength in the face of inevitable loss. One can become giddy, on a good walk.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-82727406817204501912009-02-12T15:29:00.010-07:002009-10-23T17:07:58.328-06:00Dear Boxholder<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In early 1979, the same week as the accident at Three Mile Island, I spent a week in Northern California with a man named Mark. I'd answered a personal ad in Mother Earth News (“Let me dazzle your nights, and improve your daze”), he'd responded with a request for photo, and a month later I'd hopped on a plane.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I got home (sadder, wiser, a little gamey), I immediately grabbed a spiral notebook and wrote it all down. What’s the fun of casual sex if the details blur thirty years later? I included all the sordid and often-embarrassing particulars, and scribbled “Gidget Goes to Hell” on the first page.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I read it now, I’m a bit ashamed of over-reacting to events. I would even go so far as to say I relished drama, and tended to create drama. And I'm certain I sent a lot of mixed signals.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">According to the spiral notebook, my parents didn’t approve of my plans. “My mom studied photographs of Mark’s remote cabin, looking for unmarked graves. She offered many and various bribes to get me to stay home where I belonged.” Aunts, cousins, co-workers, and neighbors felt the same way. “They shook their heads despairingly and hugged me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There’s a lesson to be learned here (I didn’t learn it, but here it is, should someone else choose to learn it). Romantic partners will come and go, but friends and family will always be there. <i>Always</i>. Some might be judging, criticizing, ridiculing, acting out, envying, projecting, and covering their asses...but they’ll <i>be</i> there. It’s probably safe to assume they love you, and they (almost always) want the best for you. Even so, I ignored them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Ten minutes before I left home for the airport, Western Airlines called to say that my flight had been canceled because of a union strike. I failed to take this as a sign, and several hours later I was on a standby flight to San Francisco. I was wearing my first straight-legged jeans (it had been bell-bottoms up until this point) and a gray turtleneck sweater. My shiny brown hair was cut in a trendy shag, and Mark (in a letter) had keenly observed that I looked like Jane Fonda in <i>Klute</i>. I was carrying a brand-new leather clutch “…that gave me a definite <i>Charlie’s Angels’</i> aura,” and I’d checked a red Lands’ End duffel (their largest, the one recommended for sea voyages).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Everybody lies (except Mark when he said I looked like Jane Fonda), and I had lied. I’d claimed to weigh 140 pounds, when I’d weighed 157 pounds. However, I’d had the good graces to starve myself, so upon arrival I weighed 140 pounds. Another lesson I plan to learn eventually<b>:</b> When leaving hearth and home to meet a stranger in another time zone, it’s probably a mistake to show up hungry, and in a weakened, vulnerable state.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Because I was arriving several hours late, and on a different airline, and hadn’t been in touch with Mark (because he only used pay phones), I was a bit worried. But there was no need. I was on an escalator, going up, burdened with my duffel, and I spotted a man standing at the top of the escalator, off to one side, grinning at me. My first thought: “That can’t be him.” My second thought: “Please, God, don’t let that be him.” But he opened his arms for a hug and said, </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Give me fifteen minutes before you catch the next flight back to Salt Lake City.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">”</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’d lied, but Mark had lied more egregiously. He’d said that he was 34 years old (13 years older than me) and 5’11” (an inch taller than me); that he smoked pot “…on very special occasions, with someone I care for;” and that he lived in a cabin in the woods with three dogs, two cats, and one skunk. He’d sent photos.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This little old man at the top of the escalator, stooped and unkempt, wearing a patchwork vest and too-short pants, and carrying a leather shoulder bag (a purse, really)…<i>could</i> this be the man from the photos? Maybe, if the photos had been taken ten or fifteen years earlier, or had been expertly retouched, or both. There was a certain Seven Dwarfs quality about the guy. I stood there, remembering my favorite photo of him, in which he looked healthy and robust in jeans and a black T-shirt, chopping firewood. I wanted <i>that</i> guy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This guy, though…he looked hopeful. I knew how he felt<b>:</b> I’d seen “hopeful” in the mirror plenty of times. Later, we would disappoint each other, but standing there at the top of the escalator, I couldn’t think of a good reason not to <i>try</i>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We walked to his adorable navy-blue Triumph, stowed my gear, and headed for Capitola, a seaside town about a hundred miles south. The top was down, the scenery was unlike anything I’d ever seen, and I found myself willing to make the best of a bad thing (which is my way). We stopped for Mexican food, and I shoveled it in. I no longer felt the need to wow this man with a slim-line version of me, and I was desperate for the calories. I was an Amazon next to Mark, who—over a late lunch—happily admitted to being 44 years old and 5’7”. He also admitted to being a cultivator/dealer, and handed me a stack of photos (from his purse) of hundreds of healthy marijuana plants, high as an elephant’s eye. He seemed proud; they <i>were</i> lovely. (I just hoped that by the time they caught him and sent him to prison, I’d be safely back in Utah.) And regarding the three dogs, two cats, and one skunk…well, they either ran away or died, because I never saw them at the cabin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We stopped at a grocery store, and then checked into a motel in Capitola (I still have a handful of complimentary postcards). I changed out of my jeans and turtleneck and into a white T-shirt and matching bikini underpants. The motel room had a kitchenette, and I perched on a countertop seductively, while Mark busied himself preparing his favorite iced-coffee-tea-milk-honey mixture in a gallon container. He finally noticed me, and came and stood between my knees. “You’re a leggy devil,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’d had a chance to observe him—in the car, the restaurant, the grocery store, the motel—and I didn’t <i>hate</i> him, and I didn’t find him <i>entirely</i> unappealing. He’d fought in Vietnam, and was in the habit of squatting in that Asian way, with his feet flat on the floor, and his butt an inch from the floor (I suppose many people squat that way, but I associate it with Asian men). It often seemed that his thoughts were elsewhere, and not in a happy place. He seemed isolated and lonely. I could see that he didn’t adore me, and <i>wouldn’t</i> adore me, but I could also see that it had little to do with <i>me</i>. He wasn’t going to let me in, period.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Naïve and optimistic, I thought I could make things better by seducing him from my perch on the countertop, but it only helped for a few minutes. “I feel like fuckin’ shit,” he said when we were done.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I, on the other hand, had never felt so wholesome. I felt squeaky clean next to him, with my recent hair cut, subtle makeup, perfect teeth, smooth legs, filed nails, and pumiced heels and elbows…my When It Rains It Pours necklace, with the little Morton Salt girl and her umbrella. As I recall, a huge effort wasn’t required in my early twenties: some Flex shampoo and crème rinse, some Baby Magic lotion, some Dr. Pepper LipSmacker, and I was good to go. Maybe Mark wasn't used to women who wore mascara, or shaved their underarms, or stocked their purses with tweezers and emery boards and travel-sized bottles of Wild Musk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Every day, we walked to a nearby market for food. Mark prepared meals, and served each item in its own small (communal) bowl. I remember bowls of crab chunks, red snapper chunks, Wheat Thins, Ritz crackers, almonds, mushrooms, thinly sliced cabbage, melon, strawberries, raspberries, small cookies, and black licorice. I remember loving <i>everything</i>. We used our fingers, instead of forks or spoons. And we sat on the floor to eat, or we sat cross-legged on the bed, but never at a table or counter, and never on chairs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I slept soundly, and each morning woke to the sound of a blender. Mark prepared huge smoothies for us, and always gave me a handful of nutritional supplements, which I probably needed. The smoothie was fairly gross, but it struck me as a friendly gesture, so I drank it. I didn’t think he’d try to poison me. If he wanted to kill me…well, I didn’t think he’d opt for poisoning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We spent days at the beach, and at a large flea market at a drive-in theater. He made a lot of purchases at the flea market (sweatshirts, overalls, a leather hat with a floppy brim, a rifle, boxes of nails, scrap wood, rope, a pencil sketch of Doberman pups), and I wondered how it would fit in the Triumph (I assumed my red duffel would be the first thing jettisoned). I hadn’t packed any shorts, but he found some cut-offs at the flea market, held them up to my waist, bought them, and tossed them in my direction. Later, he talked me into sunbathing topless on a somewhat-private stretch of beach, and I suffered a nasty sunburn.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He often left the motel to make phone calls (even though there was a phone in the room), and each time he was gone quite a while. I napped, or watched TV. French doors led to a small balcony overlooking the ocean, and I could hear the waves from where I lay on the couch. At night, we watched TV together. I remember “The Wonderful World of Disney,” “60 Minutes,” and “From Russia With Love.” Once, while watching TV, he casually said, “How about a little head?” I looked up at him, confused. He rolled his eyes, and explained. I’d just never heard it called that before.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We had frequent sex, but it was never tender. We didn’t seem present, or connected…not a single time. I don’t remember eye contact. We never acted like lovers, not publicly or privately. We didn’t hold hands, or gaze at each other adoringly, or flirt. Often, the sex was rough. Once, he bit my inner thigh, hard. I don’t know if it was supposed to turn me on, or if it was punishment for some perceived slight. It left a bruise. “My ex-wife said that--for women--there’s a fine line between pain and pleasure,” he told me. I suppose that’s not <i>entirely</i> false.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Occasionally, we amused each other, and made each other laugh, but that always surprised us, and we turned away, embarrassed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was raised a Mormon, and had never had a drink, but when he offered me a Tom Collins the first night, I accepted. One led to two, and two led to a joint. I wasn’t able to hold smoke in my virgin lungs, but he came up with a workaround. I pinched my nose shut, and opened my mouth; he took a drag, placed his mouth over mine, and exhaled. That worked very well (I don’t know if it’s a common technique). I got high right away, doing it like that, and we wasted less weed. When high, I felt just as I expected to: happy, easy, sexy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We fell into a routine of booze, pot, and sex. Our last night at the motel, we had another excellent dinner, and I slipped into a pink silk shirt that came to the tops of my thighs. This time, after drinking and smoking, something went wrong. My heart raced, my skin crawled, and I became confused and paranoid. I ran to the balcony railing to summon help, but, before I could scream, I felt Mark’s hand around my upper arm, pulling me away from the railing. I wasn’t afraid of him, just everything else.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m dying,” I whispered. “I can tell.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You’re not dying,” he said firmly, like a parent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He led me to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, pulled my shirt over my head, and stepped into the shower with me, still wearing his jeans and T-shirt. I couldn’t stop sobbing, and occasionally my fear bloomed into hysteria. But he put his scrawny arms around me, and kept the warm water pouring down on us, and eventually I calmed. He fetched my robe, led me to bed, and pulled the covers back for me. I got in, and he removed his wet clothes. Just as he was getting in bed, I threw up: on me, on him, on the clean sheets. He took it in stride, and led me back to the shower, and then back to bed, wrapped in a towel.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“You’re okay,” he said calmly, meeting my eyes. But I really thought it was over for me, that I’d never see my family and friends again. “I thought I’d never hold another baby,” I wrote, “or eat another orange.”</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After three days in Capitola, we checked out of the motel and drove a few miles west to Santa Cruz. We spent several heavenly hours in a restaurant that was also a used-book store. We ate pancakes; I bought <i>Ann Vickers</i> and <i>The Caine Mutiny</i>. After breakfast, we headed for Willits, up the coast a couple hundred miles in Mendocino County.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Because of the airline strike, I didn’t have a ticket for a flight home. I’d called the airline frequently from the motel, but never got through to an operator. “That was worrisome,” I wrote in my spiral notebook. As we drove north, I called from pay phones whenever I had the chance, but without luck. I called my mom once; she wasn’t home, but I chatted with my younger sister, assuring her that all was well. She reminded me that I needed to renew her subscription to <i>Seventeen</i> magazine, and said she’d tell Mom I called.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We were no longer in the Triumph. Earlier that morning, Mark had gone out to make phone calls, and had returned in an old pickup truck, no explanation offered. The gallon of iced-coffee-tea-milk-honey was between us on the bench seat, and when he wasn’t drinking from it, he was smoking (tobacco), lighting one cigarette off the last. He didn’t smoke much, except when driving. He was uncomfortable sitting in one position for long; maybe smoking helped.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We stopped often, and for extended periods. I waited in the truck, keeping an eye on the valuables. We stopped at a chiropractor’s office, Guns Unlimited, a bank to make a loan payment, Safeway for cigarettes and groceries, and half a dozen phone booths. We stopped at several houses and apartments, and he carried paper bags inside. It was probably related to the drug trade, but at the time I was fairly oblivious to that possibility (dangerously so, perhaps).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I busied myself in the parked truck. I filed my nails, tweezed my brows, reviewed my check register, and swallowed all the white placebos in my birth-control pack. I ransacked the glove box, where I discovered letters from three women who, like me, were eager to share air fare. I read a High Times magazine, and recited “Somebody Said That It Couldn’t Be Done,” which I’d memorized in third grade.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wanted to stop for lunch, but Mark didn’t, so he dropped me off at a restaurant, where I ordered corned-beef sandwiches to go, and chatted up the bartender. That was fun; I felt like a grown-up. If I’d needed help, I could have asked him for help. So…I guess I didn’t need help.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mark also dropped me off at a laundromat, with a handful of coins and a pillow-case full of his dirty clothes. There was a pay phone, so I called the airline, and then my mom, but she wasn’t home. I called my aunt, who was home with a newborn daughter. I said Testing 1-2-3 before calling, to make sure I didn’t sound like I’d been crying.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“What’s wrong?” she asked. “You sound like you’ve been crying.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I told her that he wasn’t a bad person, just not my type.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Come home,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I told her I’d come home soon, and asked her to call my mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“We love you,” she said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Back on the road, we stopped to visit a woman in a trailer park, in her own nifty Airstream, all hippie chic. I remember this fondly...maybe because I didn’t have to wait in the truck this time, and maybe because she was so enchanting. She was in her early thirties, wearing a gauzy halter dress with visible underarm curls. She offered iced tea (my first), and I watched as she gracefully and deliberately brewed loose tea and poured it over ice. She was friendly with Mark, but didn’t flirt. She was very kind to me, like a much-older sister, and she hugged me when it was time to go, and made cooing sounds. In the truck, feeling all warm and fuzzy, I said, “Wow…she was nice.” And he said, “Yeah, she’s one of my dealers.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We were heading for his two-room cabin in the mountains east of Willits. As we left paved roads, I felt myself getting nervous. (This is <i>exactly</i> the kind of situation about which I’d warn a daughter or a young niece: the no-one-can-hear-you-scream scenario.) I questioned, in my spiral notebook, why I stayed. I mean, we weren’t head-over-heels; most of the time, we weren’t even friendly. Getting home wouldn’t be easy (then, or later), but it was <i>possible</i>; staying with him didn’t seem any <i>less</i> dangerous than hitchhiking. In my notes, I explained it this way: “I was his guest. He invited me to his home, and I accepted. I felt an obligation to see it through. And there was the possibility that things would get better.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Despite that show of devotion and optimism, I see (as I read my notes) that I’m easier on him now than I was then. I suppose it’s related to age and experience. The younger version of me found lots of reasons to be disappointed, outraged, even snide. The older version of me cuts him some slack for having survived the horrors of Vietnam (I don’t think he was lying about that, since he had no reason to think that military service would impress me). I see him as a sad and solitary vet, with some undiagnosed PTSD, trying to find his way. In the words of L. Cohen, </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">He was just some Joseph looking for a manger.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">”</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was a long ride to his place, with a lot of twisting and turning. We passed cabins, trailers, and teepees. We passed hippies with ragamuffin children and dogs. We met Mark’s neighbor, Crazy Dave, and they chatted. Dave lived in his truck, and collected some kind of disability check. He came by the cabin occasionally to help with heavy lifting and to smoke dope. I didn’t think Dave would be of much help in an emergency, but I still paid attention to the location of his truck, which was up on blocks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To Mark’s credit, the cabin was recognizable as the one in the photo. It had a solar-powered generator, and a solar water heater, with a shower head on the back porch. The lack of privacy bothered me, and I only showered once, while he watched from a kitchen window. After that, I surrendered to filth. I was no longer wearing makeup or dresses, but just the same pair of blue jeans every day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It had been a long day, and I slept soundly after the booze, pot, and sex. The next morning, as Mark fired up the chainsaw, it became evident that this would be a working vacation. There were trees to fell, and firewood to haul. We worked together to cut down two trees, which he sawed into manageable chunks, which I carried down the hillside to the cabin. I fell repeatedly, and I had splinters in my hands, wrists, and forearms, but I was a good, obedient soldier, and—my God—it was a beautiful place.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mark loved guns, and was eager to impress me with his marksmanship. That afternoon, he got a pistol from the cabin, and we walked to a clearing. He fired at an old water heater on the other side of the clearing. I wasn’t prepared for how loud it was, and I nearly fell to the ground, my hands clamped to my ears. He asked if I wanted to shoot, but I said no thank you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He never threatened me, but made it quite clear that he wouldn’t think twice about firing on intruders. He said he had the right to protect what was his, and warned me that the place was mined, and told me not to wander off. He boasted: “I could shoot a trespasser, bury the body, and disguise the site so well that no goddamn expert could ever find it. No fucking witnesses, no fucking proof.” In my spiral notebook, I referred to this rant as “somewhat disquieting.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That night, Mark cooked steaks on a barbecue, while potatoes baked in the fireplace coals, and I tossed a salad. He went out of his way to make it romantic, with candles and wine and forks. Crazy Dave dropped by, and Mark invited him to eat, but he chose to sit on the floor instead and smoke hashish (we joined him after dinner). “Dave was pretty burned out, but having a third party was fun,” I wrote.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Later, when we were alone, Mark asked me to share some of my sexual fantasies. “This isn’t Utah,” he reminded me unnecessarily. But I was only twenty-one, and I’d been a virgin until twenty. My only sexual fantasy was <i>sex</i>. I sat there naked on the ratty mattress, a glass of wine in one hand and a hash pipe in the other, trying to think of something juicy, but I could not (I should have mentioned the Airstream chick). My lack of imagination infuriated him. He got up to tend the fire, and returned with a bottle of gin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Shit,” he said. “You’re a lot of fun.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I think part of the problem was this: One minute I was having a good time, and the next minute I was miserable. I was confused about whether this was working out or not, because it was different from what I’d known. He never kissed me, he never called me by name; I never felt completely safe. My moodiness confused him, and made him angry. He accused me of being ungrateful, and being “hung up” sexually.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We lay side by side on the mattress, listening to a Leonard Cohen cassette. Mark frequently interrupted with a shouted “Story time!” as the song reminded him of something. Most of the stories were about women (more accomplished than me, and <i>much</i> better in bed). As the evening progressed, the stories became less sexual and more violent. He talked about life as a U.S. soldier in Vietnam, and also as a mercenary. The accounts were gruesome and detailed, and his calm delivery was chilling. He switched back to stories about women, but the tenor changed. The women pissed him off, and he hit one, and pushed another to the floor, and threw hot coffee in another’s face. He talked about a short stint in prison. “I couldn’t tell what was bullshit and what was not,” I wrote. “He seemed unstable, though, and every time he moved his hands, I flinched.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But later that night, after all the talk and all the booze, he got bleary eyed and said, “Don’t make fun of me.” True to character, “I put my arms around him and held him close, like a frightened child, like one of my Sunbeams.” We fell asleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Hours later, a gunshot woke me. The darkness was complete, and it seemed as if the gun was being fired <i>inside</i> the cabin. I couldn’t take a deep breath. My sleep-fogged brain told me that Mark was dead, and that I would be next. I wanted it to be fast and painless.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Mark?” I cried.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Shut the fuck up!” he said harshly. (As if “Shut the fuck up!” is ever said tenderly.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There were three more quick shots, and what sounded like babies crying. I started to get up off the mattress, but he pulled me back down.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Where the fuck are you going?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“The babies…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Fuckin’ raccoons!” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wanted to cry, but I thought that if I did, he might shoot me, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I don’t remember anything until the next morning, when I woke to the sound of Mark scrubbing the wooden floor. I tried not to look.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“There’s a lot of work to do today,” he announced after breakfast. “There’s the door, and the other cabin, and the holding tank.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mark took the cabin door off its hinges, and I nailed a lot of narrow boards to it in neat rows (like horizontal stripes), sanded it, and stained it, and he rehung it. I don’t know why that made for a better door, but I enjoyed a sense of accomplishment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After lunch, we got in the truck and drove up the road. Sure enough, there was a second cabin. It was much smaller, maybe ten-by-twelve. “Hippies lived here last year,” he said. “Left a fuckin’ mess.” He drove off, with a promise to return soon.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At first, I was afraid to enter the cabin, fearing wild animals or lingering hippies. Mark had given me a shovel, and I held it in front of me, ready to protect myself. But there were no signs of life, save some spiders. I couldn’t see the floor, because there was a thick layer of rotten food, beer cans, dirty dishes, old clothes and rags, used tampons, soiled Pampers, wet magazines and newspapers, animal dung (I hope), a dead squirrel, and a rusty motorcycle. (I’m surprised Mark didn’t instruct me to restore the motorcycle to running condition.) There were trashcans outside, and I hauled them in, and began shoveling the crap into the trashcans. I <i>really</i> wanted a pair of rubber gloves. After a while, I rolled the motorcycle out, and finished cleaning the floor. I hauled the heavy trashcans back outside, and the motorcycle back inside. I wanted Mark to be delighted with the result, but he drove up in the truck, honked, and we drove farther up the road to the holding tank. (“You look like fuckin’ shit,” he said.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We worked together to shovel out several inches of mud from the bottom of the holding tank (I suppose it held water, perhaps for irrigation, but I didn’t ask). Sure, there were dead rats, and a lot of rat shit, but I’d seen worse (the second cabin). We worked until dark, and then drove home.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was a mess, and I hosed off a bit in the shower, but didn’t remove my clothes (I was beginning to like my stinky clothes). I made ham sandwiches for dinner, and really piled on the ham. There was apple cider, and I filled big glasses.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I couldn’t help but notice that we’d stopped discussing my trip home. Did I <i>live</i> here now? Would I need a new driver’s license and library card? What I needed was a plan, but something that wouldn’t piss him off. Harmony was important, because it would ensure my safety. I ate my sandwich, feeling jumpy and a little feverish.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was hard to admit defeat. We didn’t love each other; we weren’t taking care of each other. We hardly spoke. I’d spent a month dreaming about living happily ever after in this off-the-grid cabin, and healing this man, and being healed. It was such a beautiful, fecund place, and I thought I could make it work. Maybe I could make it work <i>now</i>, but not at twenty-one.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The next morning, I made more ham sandwiches, and sat down next to him at the kitchen table.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Hey…I’ve got to go home,” I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He ignored me, and ate his sandwich.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“My grandmother is very ill,” I said. That was true. “And I sense she’s taken a turn for the worse.” Granted, it was weak, but it was the best I could do.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I guess Mormons are pretty fuckin’ family oriented,” he said. Again, true.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He said he would drive me to the airport the next day, but I didn’t quite believe him. It was a long drive, and he agreed too readily.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’d like you to take me to the Greyhound bus depot in town,” I said. “Today. Please.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And he did.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That afternoon, we pulled up in front of the bus depot, hopped out, and he tossed my duffel onto the sidewalk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Don’t let anyone fuck you over,” he said, standing there on the sidewalk, facing me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Okay.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He didn’t seem eager to leave.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Well, it’s been an experience for you, anyway,” he said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was torn between hating him and…not hating him.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Humans beings are complex animals,” he said. He’d said that before, when he felt inadequate or threatened or confused.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Yes,” I said, again, and he got in the truck.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Don’t do coke!” he hollered from the open window.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Okay!” I hollered back, waving. I’m sure he wanted to be helpful—to be of use—and that piece of advice came to mind. He drove off.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Once in the depot, I bought two Snickers bars and ate them. I purchased a ticket for American Fork (wrote a check…imagine). I called my aunt again, gave her my arrival time, and asked her to pass it on to my mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An hour later, I hopped on board. I would change buses in Sacramento, Reno, Elko, and Salt Lake City.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As we crossed into Nevada, a young man in red corduroy pants offered me half of his avocado sandwich, and I accepted. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Home,” I said. It was dark, and he encouraged me to sleep with my head on his shoulder. His kindness unhinged me, and I cried some, but quietly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Late the next morning, we arrived in Salt Lake City (I’m sure my mom would have picked me up there, since it was only an hour from American Fork, but I wanted to get all the way by myself). I spent four hours in Salt Lake City, feeling kind of like a tourist, and kind of like a homeless person. I walked to Walgreen Drug, where they served food cafeteria-style, and loaded my tray with three pieces of cake and a glass of milk. I walked to ZCMI and bought a pair of underpants, using the last of my cash. (I had clean underpants in my duffel, but it was at the bus depot.) I took my purchase to the restroom, slid into the fresh underpants, and put the others in the trash. I washed my hands and face in the sink. I walked to the capitol building, and slept on the lawn.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At 4:30 that afternoon, about twenty-four hours after leaving Willits, I stepped off the bus in American Fork, in front of the Italian Place sandwich shop. Despite my efforts in the ZCMI restroom, my hair, teeth, and nails were filthy. I was wearing mud-splattered jeans, a stained T-shirt, brown leather boots that laced to my knees, and a huge canvas jacket. I smelled a little funky.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But my mom didn’t care. I saw her from half a block away, and we grinned at each other, and we threw our arms around each other. I’d never been so happy to see her, to smell her hair. She drove me to her house. Once inside, I looked around. “Has it always been this pretty?” I asked. I showered, and borrowed clean clothes. She took me to dinner, with my younger sister, and we ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. I could breathe easy. I was home.<br /><br />I never saw Mark again (although I sent him a scathing letter, which I later regretted). I hope his personal ad eventually paid off, and he found someone to love. I hope he's still dazzling her nights and improving her daze.</span><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-51908048505198146162009-01-28T20:40:00.040-07:002009-10-10T15:39:02.232-06:00Short story: "The Well-Documented Unraveling of Beth"<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">She begins each day by checking her inbox. Then, she does an online search for his obituary (she’ll forgive him for not writing if he was hit by a bus). She pees, weighs herself, and showers. She eats two ounces of raw almonds and two ounces of dried apricots, and climbs back in bed. She spends four hours imagining their next conversation, which is always a variation of this:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Michael: I think about you every day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Beth: I don’t believe you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Michael: I wanted to write, I wanted to call, but I was afraid of getting hurt, and afraid of hurting you, too.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Beth: Bullshit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Michael: I read your letters over and over again…the funny parts, the sad parts, the sexy parts…and I want you desperately, I want you in my arms, in my bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Beth: Okay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For lunch, she eats two ounces of turkey jerky, two ounces of cheese, two ounces of high fiber cereal, and two ounces of raisins. She exercises with a video for one hour, but she mutes the sound.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There’s an over-sized three-ring binder on the bedside table, and it contains printouts of the 632 emails she sent him, and the 44 he sent her. After reading one at random, she spends the next four hours in bed, remembering him. Sometimes she cries, sometimes she touches herself, sometimes she naps.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She eats two ounces of M&Ms for an afternoon snack while watching reality TV. She has no intention of cleaning and redecorating her house (it doesn’t need it) or updating her wardrobe (it doesn’t need it), but she hangs on every word, as other people achieve better houses and better wardrobes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For dinner, she has two cups of homemade beans-and-rice. She sits cross-legged on the couch after dinner, waiting for darkness.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When it’s fully dark, she slips through the barely open front door, grabbing a quilt on the way out, and leaving the front-porch light off. It’s her favorite time of day, and she spends hours sitting on a bright-red tulip chair, gazing into the darkness, listening to the crickets and an occasional barking dog. When she feels sleepy (usually before dawn), she eats a bag of microwave popcorn, and goes to bed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She wears pajamas day and night, and her cell phone is always in the pocket of her pajama top. During her daily shower, she places the phone on the bathroom counter. After her shower, she dons fresh pajamas, and tucks the phone in the pocket.<br /><br />For sixty-seven days, she hasn’t left the house or spoken to another person. For sixty-seven days, Michael hasn’t called or written.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The brilliant idea came to her on the first of August, sixty-eight days ago: She would stay home, and be available when he eventually called or wrote or dropped by. By staying home, she would also avoid the temptation to numb her pain by flirting with other men, overeating, or overspending. Other advantages: She wouldn’t have to pretend to be interested in others, and no one would see her cry.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">First, she went shopping, stockpiling enough food and nonfood items for six months. Then, she quit her job as a Head Start nurse. She’d made a decent wage (and excellent benefits, including outpatient mental health care), and she’d saved quite a bit of money.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She figures she can afford to live like this for a year, maybe two. And other than the missing-him thing, she’s quite happy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One former co-worker keeps inviting her to lunch, but Beth responds through email, putting her off. Beth frequently hears from a concerned sister (Amy), and less frequently from a concerned aunt. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Amy joked recently, and Beth sent her a friendly email, and a book from Amazon.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She began seeing Michael eighteen months ago, after contacting him through a find-a-therapist website. Her lover of eight years had left her for another woman, and Beth wasn’t able to rally. Nothing engaged her, nothing intrigued her. She felt hideous and unlovable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Michael saw clients in the front parlor of his home, and he greeted her warmly on her first visit. He grinned at her and put his hand on her shoulder, and she knew that everything would be okay. She saw him every Monday evening for a year. She was thirty-nine; he was in his late forties, and divorced.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After a year, it seemed like a good idea to have sex instead of therapy, so they did that a dozen times over the course of a couple of months. Apparently, it wasn’t the good idea it seemed, because she hasn’t heard from him in four months. The situation had her feeling dangerously untethered until sixty-eight days ago, when she embraced her new lifestyle.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Eighteen months ago, she was overjoyed to have someone willing to supervise her emotional life. Her emails from this period are cheerful and reflective.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding his congeniality, she wrote (in email #37):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I love the way you grin at me, with a lot of affection and a little indulgence. A grin can contain something negative—like smugness, ridicule, boredom, fatigue, or doubt—but not <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> grin. I'm sure you have all kinds of shortcomings and bad habits and secrets and regrets, but none of that is evident in your grin. Your grin is like the first taste of a lemon custard ice cream cone, or pulling on a pair of brand-new white cotton socks, before they've been washed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And your arms seem to be in a continual state of reaching out for others. Your body is always ready to pull another body to it. You seem glad that it’s me, and not someone else. That’s a gift...to be able to make someone feel that way.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding her post-session euphoria, she wrote (in email #68):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Every week when I leave your office, I want to dance. I imagine my arms above my head as I sway to music…my feet are bare, my torso is femininely curved. As I drive home, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror, and I'm…rosy. I look…pretty. I can’t stop touching my hair. I feel like such a <span style="font-style: italic;">girl</span>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding boundaries, she wrote (in email #114):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm resisting the urge to surrender to feelings of adoration for you…to let my face feel warm with thoughts of you, to develop a crush, to imagine getting in your pants. I find that I can admire and enjoy you while maintaining the slightest bit of professional distance (per your instructions). But be warned: My standard rush-to-crush has been replaced by a slow, sensual burn, fueled by the very boundaries you’ve erected.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding men, she wrote (in email #183):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I think lovemaking is simply fucking-when-you-like-each-other. People get stingy with the word love, as if it's a crime to call it love if you're not 100-percent sure that's what it is. I call it love if I'm 51-percent sure. And I like it when a man isn't afraid to say the word love, and when he isn’t afraid of <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>…when he’s bold, when he takes emotional and conversational risks. It’s fun to flirt with that kind of man.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One of my favorite types of flirting is unabashed approval: “I like you. You're okay. I wouldn't change you, even if I could." I think that's where long-term relationships go wrong. There's an undercurrent of: "You're great, but..." Maybe that's why I enjoy strangers. They like me, or they don't like me, but they never try to change me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Also, there's a lot of noise in a long-term relationship. It builds up over time, and never really goes away. When my boyfriend and I were in a room together, I could hear all the noise from the past, all the disagreements and disappointments. And there’s always something uninteresting to say, about car insurance or fish oil tablets or lawn fertilizer. With a new man, there's so little noise. Even when it’s lousy, at least it's not noisy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The men I remember most fondly are those who took care of me, and let me take care of them, if only for a couple of hours. I've been in relationships where the taking-care isn’t there <span style="font-style: italic;">at all</span>. That's a special kind of loneliness. Memories of those relationships make me cold all over. I want to pull my knees to my chest, to protect myself.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In the past, I've given men <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> too long to offer that kind of affection. Weeks and months go by, and I think, "We're <span style="font-style: italic;">just about</span> to take care of each other." Or, worse, a man makes one small offering, one brief moment of taking-care, and I give him dozens of chances to do it again. When he doesn't, I figure I must be doing something wrong. It's like a combination lock, and I have the first two numbers, and if I keep trying I'll get the third number. And, sadly, there were times when I thought, "I wonder if I fuck him <span style="font-style: italic;">just right</span>, he'll allow us to take care of each other.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel like I wander through life, looking for someone to love me. I'm happy as long as I feel loved, but the minute I don’t, I panic, I flounder. (Have you noticed that about me? Was that obvious within minutes of meeting me?) Sometimes, I use words—especially written words—to get people to love me, but only if I know they'll pay a high price for doing so. Oh my god...could that be true? How shameful. I'm not even sure it's true. Well. I must not be that horrible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I suppose all of us are lost, and we're trying to get found, and we have no fucking idea how to get found. So we lose ten pounds, or shop for shoes, or make out with a stranger on a train. And we wait for some kind of bliss. And it comes, and then it fades, so we start again...turning all the knobs that we think <span style="font-style: italic;">might</span> have contributed to the bliss, with confidence that next time it will last longer, maybe forever.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding her new and happier state, she wrote (in email #260):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Suddenly, I like me. My thoughts amuse me, my plans intrigue me, my memories soothe me. And I’m feeling robust emotionally. When things go wrong, I’m not laid as low. I’m not devastated; I’m not overwhelmed by grief. In the past few years, I've had a tendency to be too rattled by events, more than warranted. I've spent too much time feeling and acting as if I'm recuperating from something.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And now that I feel stronger, I want to work toward being authentic. I’m no longer content to be “nice.” I suppose authenticity is a learned skill, like typing, or bowel resection. I need to develop that being-authentic muscle.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And I want to encourage others to be authentic, too. I want to find value and joy in exactly who another person is, and not what I want them to be, or what I think they can become. I love being accepted for the me-of-the-moment, rather than being viewed as interesting building blocks that might—with enough work—be made into something acceptable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I’m sitting in your office, it feels like you truly see me. And that’s the best thing. It’s lonely to not be seen, or to be partially seen. I’ve noticed that some people let themselves be seen in only the tiniest increments, as if revealing more will cost them dearly. But I <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to reveal my emotional nakedness, and I want others to reveal theirs. Someday, I'll crawl in bed with a man, and his story will pour from him, like spilled milk.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The first day of each month offers a delightful break in Beth’s routine. Instead of spending the morning in bed, she does a thorough housecleaning. Instead of spending the afternoon in bed, she declares a Day of Grooming. She trims her hair with kitchen shears (a straightforward bob-with-bangs), and then she colors it (warm medium brown). She gives herself a manicure and a pedicure, but without polish, because that involves maintenance. She gives herself a facial, tweezes her brows, and waxes anything that requires it. She takes a long bath, full of scented oils.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And instead of watching TV, she pays bills online and responds to any snail mail. She signs and addresses greeting cards, and orders an occasional gift online. It’s a very productive day, and she enjoys it. She also enjoys returning to her less-productive regimen the next day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">December rolls around, and she celebrates 122 days of her new-and-improved life. Her supplies are holding out nicely, but she’s bored with the daily M&M’s, so she orders caramels online, and a box arrives in the mail three days later. She also orders a two-pound sampler of candy that was popular in the 1970s to be sent to her sister, Amy. Beth also sends a friendly (and fibbish) email to Amy in which she shares the details of a recent trip to the Grand Canyon with a co-worker, so Amy won’t worry that Beth’s a recluse, or depressed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She still hasn’t heard from Michael.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Twelve months ago, Beth began flirting with Michael, first in email and then in person. He resisted initially, but eventually they tumbled into bed together. Her emails from this period are cheerful and sensual.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding how she feels when she’s home, she wrote (in email #324):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I sit here at the computer, and I want to write bold, flirtatious, sexy, nasty, slippery-wet email to you. I'm in that kind of mood. I want to make you blush, and I want to make <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span> blush.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And on those rare occasions when I check my inbox and find mail from you, I let out a spontaneous little gasp. And sometimes there's a whispered "Thank God" that catches me off guard. It’s as if an Amber Alert has been issued on you, but then I find you hiding under the bed. I want to scoop you up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Monday is so far away! I feel that if I can't see you before then, I'll explode. But…people seldom explode. So, I take a deep breath and ask myself what I want from you. It’s something between kissing and living happily ever after (I know you like broad margins).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You know everything about me, but I know very little about you. I know you like European cars and garlic fries and detective fiction. I know you’re allergic to penicillin. Sometimes, it feels like I've taken all my clothes off, but you're still fully dressed. And I don't know if you’re about to say, "Okay...you can get dressed now," or if you’re about to remove your shoes and socks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding how she feels when she’s in his office, she wrote (in email #399):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I love showering before my appointment, and shaving my legs. I love wearing something new, preferably a dress, or a skirt and sweater. I arrive early, and sit in my parked car, imagining your salty skin beneath my tongue. I'm sure that all of your truly healthy clients do the same thing, and only the sicko's hold themselves at an emotional distance.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Once inside your office, I feel so prim, so well behaved, as I obediently take the client chair. But all I can think about is moving to your side, maybe sitting on your lap, maybe straddling you. And I use words like "I’m fond of you" or "I'm attracted to you," but those aren't the words I'm thinking. I breathe in and out, exquisitely aware of the cotton fabric against my bare skin, of an errant curl that’s fallen across my face, of the tip of my finger in my mouth as I ponder a question you’ve asked, of the scent of a man in the room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I bask in your appreciative gaze. Its intensity makes me dizzy, and I look for something to hold onto. It's a pleasure to wriggle in front of you, to be shy, to want to cover my face with my hands so that you can't read me so easily.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This change in our relationship feels like a surprise, but also like it was inevitable. And it’s no mystery why I'm so happy. You've given me the greatest gift anyone can give another person: You know me well, and you still like me. But—bless your heart—you put a cherry on top of the greatest gift: You want me. No wonder I can't stop grinning. No wonder I get lost in your hugs.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Regarding their slow burn toward one another, she wrote (in email #472):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Most of my romantic relationships have been very quick to start, like late-summer brush fires. Not so, with you.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, being with you feels more like torture than therapy (in a delicious way, of course) (so, really, not like torture at all). It’s as if a man says, "I'm going to start touching you, okay? Relax and enjoy it. In five years, I'll let you come."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was amused last night when you asked me what I wanted from our relationship, and I couldn’t say the words.<span style=""> </span>“There’s another computer upstairs,” you said.<span style=""> </span>“You can email me from there, if you’d like.”<span style=""> </span>I smiled, and you looked me in the eye and instructed me:<span style=""> </span>“Just take a deep breath and say it.”<span style=""> </span>That kind of bossiness is a huge turn-on for me. I’m feeling all melty remembering it.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">March arrives, and she’s aware that she hasn’t left home in 212 days.<span style=""> </span>Her supplies are dwindling.<span style=""> </span>She has lots of brown rice left, and some olive oil, spices, and raisins.<span style=""> </span>She has smaller quantities of almonds, caramels, and canned pinto beans.<span style=""> </span>The apricots, jerky, cheese, cereal, popcorn, and remaining beans-and-rice ingredients are gone.<span style=""> </span>However, there are miscellaneous canned goods in the pantry, along with a canister of oatmeal, so she uses these items to fill in the nutritional blanks (although it strikes her as a bit messy, since these items were purchased <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> she embraced her new lifestyle).<span style=""> </span>Today, she has almonds and mandarin oranges for breakfast, oatmeal and raisins for lunch, one caramel for an afternoon snack, beans-and-rice for dinner, and a small can of pineapple chunks after her night on the porch.<span style=""> </span>She has lost fourteen pounds (even though she recently stopped exercising), and her pajamas are a bit droopy at the shoulders and hips.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She continues to do her monthly housecleaning and Day of Grooming, but she no longer gets a buzz from it.<span style=""> </span>And since the TV remote stopped working, she leaves the TV on all the time, tuned to what she calls “the Anderson Cooper channel.”<span style=""> </span>It’s barely audible, and she finds it soothing.<span style=""> </span>She sleeps on the couch now, and the only time she enters the bedroom is to walk through it to the bathroom.<span style=""> </span>She’s out of Advil, but she makes do with a handful of 81-milligram aspirin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A month ago, Amy (who lives two hours away) came to the door, threatening to call the police if Beth didn’t let her in.<span style=""> </span>Beth stepped onto the porch, but Amy still wasn’t convinced that Beth wasn’t being held against her will, so Beth agreed to go out to lunch.<span style=""> </span>She drew the line, though, at shopping.<span style=""> </span>She lied, and said that she was expecting a call from a client, for whom she does medical transcription.<span style=""> </span>She let Amy in the house to peek behind the shower curtain and to open closet doors.<span style=""> </span>Beth gave Amy a little gift bag with the remaining caramels and an unopened box of note cards, walked her to the front porch, and hugged her.<span style=""> </span>“What the hell is going on?” asked Amy, but Beth smiled, went back inside, and locked the door behind her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">After Amy left, and night fell, Beth took her quilt to the porch.<span style=""> </span>It had been such an eventful day (the car ride! the chicken sandwich!) that Beth decided to do the unthinkable: She called Michael.<span style=""> </span>After six rings, she listened to his recorded message.<span style=""> </span>“Yep,” she thought, “that’s him.”<span style=""> </span>She hung up without leaving a message.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She still hasn’t heard from him.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Nine months ago, he stopped responding to her emails.<span style=""> </span>He offered no explanations or excuses.<span style=""> </span>In fact, the last email she received from him was eager and affectionate, if brief.<span style=""> </span>So she drove past his house, which appeared occupied.<span style=""> </span>She checked the find-a-therapist website, and he was still listed.<span style=""> </span>She checked the state’s Division of Occupational and Professional Licensing website, and he was listed in good standing.<span style=""> </span>She did a thorough web search, using any and all information she had, and found nothing that offered insight into the situation.<span style=""> </span>Her emails from this period are sometimes sad, and always long.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She wrote (in email #550):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Writing to you is kind of like purging. Without the stench, or the tooth decay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm convinced there's something here worth salvaging, so I'm willing to set aside the usual number of chances I give someone. I respect you and like you more than I respect and like most people. At one point, I trusted you more than I trust most people.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I’ve Googled you endlessly, of course, looking for news of carbon monoxide poisoning or a drive-by shooting.<span style=""> </span>I guess it’s easier for me to think of you in a coma or a morgue than to think of you not caring about me.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps that speaks to my last shred of confidence: I’m <i style="">certain</i> you’d write to me, if you could.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I should break into your house some night, sneak up on you, and have my way with you.<span style=""> </span>I’ll tether you to the bed (with enough chain to get to the toilet, but not the phone) and force you to listen to me talk for hours. I'll bring food, but only <i style="">my</i> favorite things. We'll listen to Leonard Cohen CDs while snuggling, and I'll threaten you with bodily harm if you refuse to discuss the songs, or fail to acknowledge that <i style="">all </i>the songs describe our relationship <i style="">exactly</i>.<span style=""> </span>I'll read aloud from one of your books...maybe "When Good Therapists Go Bad."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I desperately miss the feeling I always had on the way home from your house: of being beautiful and desirable, of being marvelously alive, of learning about myself and about life. I <i style="">know</i> that you don’t want to take that from me. If I asked you pointblank, "For any reason, is it your desire to deprive me of that feeling?" you would say no, and you would mean it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Baby, baby...you <i style="">must</i> let me in.<span style=""> </span>Please don't withdraw, Michael.<span style=""> </span>Really, I don't need much in the way of email.<span style=""> </span>"Busy.<span style=""> </span>Adore you."<span style=""> </span>That would be enough.<span style=""> </span>Even, "Busy.<span style=""> </span>Adore U."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I think this is the problem: You’re crazy (just kidding).<span style=""> </span>But I think you have issues that I’m blind to, or would not understand.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps you’re more complex than you appear to be.<span style=""> </span>Maybe you’re not quite as kind as you appear to be.<span style=""> </span>That's a possibility.<span style=""> </span>You appear exceedingly kind, and maybe you’re just...average.<br /><br />This is beginning to feel like a social experiment, and not like my own experience. Weird.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Just now, I was imagining a dominant/submissive sexual relationship, where the dominant male instructs the submissive female to write to him every day. He’ll read the letters, but he’ll never write back. Still, she must write, and it must be lengthy and heartfelt. I wonder how many women would be able to do that. I imagine the tone of her letters would become sadder and sadder with each passing day. But I bet if the guy wrote a standard ten emails (things like "I love you...and I love hearing from you" and "You write very well...each email is a delight" and "It made me sad to read about that...I wanted to hold you in my arms") and sent one back to her every third or fourth time she wrote, she'd be okay. Or if he had his personal assistant write and send the letters, or a well-trained chimpanzee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Maybe you're busy writing an article for a professional journal about "Minimizing Rewards, Maximizing Results."</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***</span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />She wrote (in email #586):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To some degree, I'm in the habit of loving you, and wanting you.<span style=""> </span>And I wonder if I project a bit.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I think I love <i style="">you</i> when I actually love <i style="">me</i>, especially the new version of me: bold, mindful, assertive.<span style=""> </span>Is that possible?<span style=""> </span>Therapy has been so good for me, and I couldn't have done this without you...my guide, my friend, my cheerleader, my crush.<span style=""> </span>So...I must be in love with you.<span style=""> </span>That's love...right?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But love that develops when one is deprived of the object of one's affection is a bogus kind of love. There are many unanswered questions, so one fills in the blanks, usually with something unrealistically positive. One imagines such bliss, such satisfaction. Of course it <i style="">feels</i> like love—the best kind of love!—magical, fulfilling, nourishing, and so conveniently unproven.<span style=""> </span>Lust follows the same pattern, when it's allowed to blossom unencumbered by actual experience.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was younger, I wanted a man—any man—to want me.<span style=""> </span>Lately, though, the man needs to be someone I respect, like you. So, the other day I made a list of things I need to do to become worthy of the men I’ve known who were clearly out of my league, and only interested in me casually, who left me as soon as permitted by common decency. I didn't question the premise; I just worked on the list.<span style=""> </span>It included getting an advanced degree, becoming more accomplished (is that vague enough?), being much more attractive and fit than I've ever been, and traveling extensively.<span style=""> </span>That's when I burst out laughing: When I realized that I was counting on hitchhiking-through-Europe or camping-in-the-Canadian-Rockies to make me more desirable. Generally, I'm more in touch with reality than that.<span style=""> </span>But I guess I shouldn't be surprised that a twelve-year-old version of myself ("What can I do to make boys like me?") wanders by occasionally.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">At the tips of my fingers and toes, I feel fragile and uncertain…”the falcon cannot hear the falconer.”<span style=""> </span>But at my core, I feel robust.<span style=""> </span>The toughness is there, like well-exercised abdominal muscles just waiting to be called upon.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The July heat is merciless, but she doesn’t notice.<span style=""> </span>After 334 days, her food situation is grim.<span style=""> </span>Of her new-lifestyle supplies, only about four pounds of rice remain.<span style=""> </span>Nine cans of miscellaneous food remain, and today she has a can of tomato soup for breakfast.<span style=""> </span>Later, she’ll have rice for lunch and dinner.<span style=""> </span>She doesn’t feel hungry, although she continues to lose weight (twenty-two more pounds).<span style=""> </span>She’s bothered by the sound of the air conditioner, so she leaves it off.<span style=""> </span>Day and night, she wears nothing but underpants and an undershirt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She showers twice a week, but no longer does the once-a-month grooming.<span style=""> </span>She makes do with the hygiene supplies she has left.<span style=""> </span>A month ago, she stopped cleaning the house.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes, she writes his name in the dusty furniture.<span style=""> </span>That’s fun.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />She wrote (in email #593):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm baffled. I'm certain something has gone wrong, but I have <i style="">no</i> idea what it is. If it was anyone other than you, I'd move on.<span style=""> </span>If it was anyone other than you, I'd figure that communicating just got too hard. But communicating is what you do! It’s your strength!<span style=""> </span>It’s your passion!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It feels like this:<span style=""> </span>The teacher has given me a math problem with insufficient information.<span style=""> </span>That’s frustrating, but I don’t need to hate the math teacher or the assignment.<span style=""> </span>The only way I can get an A is to jot the words "insufficient information" on the worksheet. But how and why does that happen in a relationship?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">If there's a reason you're rejecting me, please tell me what it is. In most cases, I wouldn't give a damn. But, in this case--considering your professional background <i style="">and</i> my positive regard for you--I think it might be useful. I mean, it might save me time in future relationships (of any sort). I think I see myself quite clearly, but all of us are blind to certain aspects of ourselves. Perhaps I'm not enough of something; perhaps I'm too much of something else.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it's something I can't change, or wouldn't want to change. But I won't know until you tell me. If it has nothing to do with me, <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> would be useful information also.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wonder if you're blocking my emails.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel like I’m traveling in a foreign country, and the citizens claim to be speaking English, but it doesn't sound like English to me.<span style=""> </span>So I stop a paperboy or a cop and say, "What language is everyone speaking?"<span style=""> </span>And they say, "English, of course!"<span style=""> </span>But, still, I’m failing to grasp what's being said, and all subtlety is lost on me, and I can't keep up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I never thought it would end like this! I imagined us on a porch swing, twenty years from now, sharing a candy bar, making each other laugh. Please put an end to this purgatory, Michael, one way or another. If that seems overwrought to you, I'm sorry. I just want to spend less time with my face buried in my open hands, trying to figure out what went wrong.</span><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />She wrote (in email #602):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes, I look at your picture online, and think, “God, I hate him.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I sit at the computer and imagine typing: "I hate everything about you! I've <i style="">never</i> been so disappointed in a man! All other disappointments <i style="">pale</i> when compared to you!”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The last time we were together, I said, “I know you like me.”<span style=""> </span>And you said, “I <i style="">love</i> you!”<span style=""> </span>But I don’t believe you anymore.<span style=""> </span>And I don't give a shit how busy you are. I mean, it takes thirty seconds to hit Reply, type "I miss you," and hit Send. It takes thirty seconds if you dawdle; I could do it in eight.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I thought of making a long list of Possible Reasons You Lost Interest in Me, and then asking you to identify the correct reason. That seemed compelling for about five minutes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes, I blame you for what feels like a huge blow to my self-esteem, and I feel <i style="">very</i> angry.<span style=""> </span>I fucking <i style="">hate</i> the person I've become. I'm bitter and confused and unsure of myself. I don't take care of myself. I don't believe in myself. For days at a time, I forget what is special about me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">How did I get so unbalanced?<span style=""> </span>How did it get so noisy in my head?</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It has now been one year since she decided to stay home, and she eats her last can of food (French-style green beans).<span style=""> </span>She has been careful with the rice, and she has enough for another couple of weeks.<span style=""> </span>She’s tired, and she finds it difficult to concentrate.<span style=""> </span>She has thousands of dollars in the bank, and there’s a Walmart less than a mile away, and occasionally she’s tempted to buy more food, and some ChapStick, and to ask the pharmacist to recommend something for the pesky rash on her neck and chest.<span style=""> </span>But, instead, she takes a nap.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Early one morning when she’s feeling energetic, she gets a large kitchen trash bag, fills it with clothes from her closet, tosses in her two sets of car keys, and puts the bag on the front porch.<span style=""> </span>With a marker, she writes the name of a thrift store on the white plastic bag.<span style=""> </span>The store sends a truck through the neighborhood once a month, to pick up donations, and she’s pretty sure this is the right day.<span style=""> </span>She worries that if she has the car key, she might give in to the temptation to drive to the store.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />She wrote (in email #616):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As I type this, I realize that my memories of you are less specific and detailed than they were. Rather than remembering how an orange tastes, I remember enjoying oranges.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The sex was probably a mistake.<span style=""> </span>Despite the physical pleasure, I don't think intimacy was actually enhanced. It seems like we turned away from the best kind of intimacy, and couldn't turn back. I would have predicted that both of us had the skills to turn back—to reclaim that best kind of intimacy—but I would have been wrong. I don't know which of us is most deficient in those skills. If I had to guess, I'd say you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Once again, I've been brought asunder by expectations.<span style=""> </span>So, if my math is correct, that's 1,334,283 times.</span><br /></span><br /><div style="text-align: center;">***<br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She wrote (in email #624):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've never been addicted to heroin, but I assume it feels <i style="">just like this</i>.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I hear Ayn Rand's voice in my head saying, "My dear...do you <i style="">really</i> want a man that doesn't want <i style="">you</i>?" And I carefully explain that perhaps you were hit by a snowplow.<span style=""> </span>Or perhaps a client—struggling with his or her sexual sadism—chained you to a radiator.<span style=""> </span>Or perhaps your internet service is unreliable.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Have you seen the movie "V for Vendetta"? I loved it. In one scene (and this will ruin it for you, if you haven't seen it, and plan to), V (anonymously) tortures a woman in an attempt to make her stronger. The torture is a success, and—though understandably pissed off—she's strong. Woo-hoo! Just now, it occurred to me that maybe you're trying to make me stronger by not writing to me.<span style=""> </span>I think that's unlikely. But maybe the possibility isn't as devastating as other possibilities. Maybe while Natalie Portman’s head is under water, she’s thinking, "Maybe it’s V that’s torturing me. I suppose that's better than being ignored.”</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">You know how it is when you don't get enough of something: In your head it gets better and better, until you're saying good-bye to perfection, to the best thing ever, to something irreplaceable and golden.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> But I need to move on, to put thoughts of you in the inactive files, the archived files.<span style=""> </span>I need to say it aloud—“Enough”—and mean it.<span style=""> </span>I don't want to love you anymore.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The rice is gone.<span style=""> </span>She’s had a headache for a week, but the 81-milligram aspirin are gone, too.<span style=""> </span>The noise from the TV became irritating, so she turned it off, and unplugged it, and then sliced through the cord, so she won’t be tempted to plug it in again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She focuses on three things every day: checking her email, verifying that her phone is charged, and drinking eight glasses of water.<span style=""> </span>Once a week, she writes to Amy, but Amy recently moved two thousand miles away to work on her doctorate, and Beth figures that soon she can cut back to twice a month.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She wrote (in email #632):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For a while, I thought it wasn't necessary to send a good-bye email. I thought I could be content with a perennially open-ended relationship. Later, it seemed like the relationship had ended whether I liked it or not, and an exit interview in the form of a love letter wasn't warranted, or advisable. But I find myself stuck in a miserable state of confusion, insecurity, disappointment, and anger. Now it's time to move on, and part of that moving-on means writing to you. I'm making an attempt not to rehash everything, turn this into something it wasn't, or ratchet up the drama to an eye-rolling degree.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel grateful that I got to know you. I'll never forget how it felt to drive to your house each week, ripe with anticipation, eager to be in that room with you, achingly aware of being a woman. I hadn't felt that in years, and it was such an unexpected treat to recapture that feeling. I sit here remembering, and I'm mildly surprised that it happened...that I shamelessly and expertly flirted with you, that I craved nothing but your eyes on me, that I actually cared about clothes and underwear and hair and makeup and perfume, that I crossed my legs and uncrossed them and crossed them again, hoping you'd notice...hoping you'd notice my shoulders and my bangs and my teeth and my shoes, that you'd notice I was a woman...a woman who wanted you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But then therapy ended (so suddenly!), and sex began. What a heady thought...that we could become even <i style="">closer</i>. I could list dozens of cherished moments (from that all-too-brief post-therapy time), some of which leave me gasping with pleasure, even now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But right on the heels of that, you disappeared, and I became consumed with self-doubt. The sudden reversal was dizzying.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Never</i> have I been as confused in a relationship. I feel stupid, as if I'm failing to grasp something that any other woman could easily understand. And while I've been involved in relationships that ended vaguely (without an official statement as to what went wrong), there were always plenty of clues, and the merciful end always came quickly.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It was probably a mistake on my part to assume that because you're a therapist, you're a competent and eager communicator. It was a mistake to assume that because you're adept at discussing the feelings of others, you're adept at discussing your own. And it was a mistake to assume that because you understand the long-term damage that can result when a romantic relationship ends poorly, you're capable of (or interested in) letting me down gently.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I read email from the last couple of months, I ache for this woman named Beth.<span style=""> </span>Her pain is palpable.<span style=""> </span>Her suffering is exquisite.<span style=""> </span>She so clearly wants to keep the faith, to hold you blameless, to keep all doors open.<span style=""> </span>Her humility takes my breath away.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There’s <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> much email, and it’s always there to review, in a notebook that I sometimes carry around with me like an oxygen tank.<span style=""> </span>The email serves to keep the memories fresh, like the unhappy convergence of a thousand lemons and a thousand paper cuts.<span style=""> </span>Perhaps I've suffered more than this, but I've never chronicled my suffering to this degree.<span style=""> </span>There it is: Exhibits A, B, and C.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I learned (from you) that attaching easily and detaching easily are worthwhile skills.<span style=""> </span>I do the first one, but I'm not so good at the second one (in case you hadn't noticed)<span style=""></span>. It's quite likely that the best time to detach has already come and gone.<span style=""> </span>A decent life coach might point out that while I <i style="">feel</i> attached at this point, I'm not really, because you’ve moved on.<span style=""> </span>I <i style="">think</i> I'm attached, but if I follow the rope far enough, I'll find a frayed end, and no note.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">So the other day I was thinking about a detachment ceremony.<span style=""> </span>My first thought<span style="font-weight: bold;">: </span>Maybe I should cut myself, or burn myself. Weird, huh.<span style=""> </span>I've never had either inclination. I suppose I wanted to do something that would be <i style="">more</i> painful than missing you.<span style=""> </span>When I considered what I might burn, I came up with “my inner thighs, with a hot iron” or “your house down.”<span style=""> </span>But in the end, I decided to have an extra ounce of M&M’s and to Netflix a movie.<span style=""> </span>It felt like touching base with myself, and recognizing myself as someone who is more than needy, more than pathetic, more than One Who Waits.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, I've spent too much time analyzing this.<span style=""> </span>I will limit the time spent thinking about you, until "none at all" is how much time I spend thinking about you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Funny, how grief is enjoyable for a while, and then it's something else. And then it's just gone...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Love, Beth.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It feels like autumn now, but she’s not sure of the date.<span style=""> </span>She knows there’s a way to find out what day it is, but she can’t recall how.<span style=""> </span>She seldom leaves the couch anymore (not even for porch time).<span style=""> </span>Every morning, she fills a small pitcher with water, and sets it on the table next to the couch.<span style=""> </span>Usually, she drinks it before the next morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She turned the computer off the other day, and then sliced through its electric cord.<span style=""> </span>She waited until her cell phone died, and then sliced through the charger’s electric cord.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Tonight, she falls asleep at sundown, but the sound of persistent scratching at the front door wakes her in the middle of the night.<span style=""> </span>At first, she thinks it’s that guy with the hook, from the scary story of her youth.<span style=""> </span>That memory makes her smile, and she gets up and goes to the door.<span style=""> </span>No serial murderer, but a scrawny orange kitten.<span style=""> </span>She brings it inside, and cradles it against her filthy undershirt. The kitten meows urgently, and Beth doesn’t know what to do. I mean, you can’t let a kitten go hungry. It’s 3 a.m., but she walks to the neighbor’s house, and knocks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Mr. Dillman answers the door, and invites Beth in.<span style=""> </span>He carefully takes the kitten from her arms, and gives it a bowl of milk and a can of tuna, while Mrs. Dillman calls an ambulance.<p></p> </span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-70333552324122461482009-01-16T14:07:00.020-07:002011-02-11T10:17:37.811-07:00The Very Best Sunbeam<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">One Sunday afternoon when I was nineteen, my LDS bishop told me that I was being “called” to coach girls’ softball.<span style=""> </span>In other words, the ward needed a girls’ softball coach, the bishop prayed for guidance in filling the position, and God named <i style="">me</i>.<span style=""> </span>That was the system, as I understood it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I sat there in the bishop’s office.<span style=""> </span>(In real life, he was a lineman-for-the-county; I went to school with his kids.<span style=""> </span>When I was twelve, he conducted my Bishop’s Interview—an annual review of all things moral.<span style=""> </span>He asked, among other things, if I masturbated.<span style=""> </span>I could tell—based on his tone and expression—that I should say no, so I said no.<span style=""> </span>I hurried home after the interview and looked it up in the dictionary.<span style=""> </span>Yes, sir, I’d been doing that for years.<span style=""> </span>Even at age twelve, I couldn’t see that it was any of <i style="">his</i> business.<span style=""> </span>I hope that things have changed since the late sixties, and that—if such interviews are still conducted—a woman is present.<span style=""> </span>And not the bishop’s wife.<span style=""> </span>That’d be creepy.<span style=""> </span>But I digress.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At nineteen, church was keeping me busy (I think that was the plan, given the idle-hands/devil’s-workshop connection).<span style=""> </span>I was the Junior Primary chorister, a Sunday School teacher for preteens, the choir secretary, and a supervisor of teens in some new version of Mutual.<span style=""> </span>In addition, I was frequently giving talks, performing humorous or dramatic “readings,” making posters, and writing and directing skits and plays.<span style=""> </span>I even learned to square dance, so that I could represent the ward through dance.<span style=""> </span>I was <i style="">always</i> at church.<span style=""> </span>When I wasn’t at church, I was walking to or from church, or sewing a cute and modest dress to wear to church.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But…softball.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t even sure what it was.<span style=""> </span>Was it the same as baseball?<span style=""> </span>I’d taken one semester of high-school gym, and then weaseled out of the other required semester.<span style=""> </span>I knew that Chuck Connors of “Rifleman” fame had been a professional baseball player before becoming an actor; I knew that I let Gary Ferguson get to second base when we were juniors.<span style=""> </span>That was the extent of my knowledge of baseball.<span style=""> </span>But, for some reason, God wanted me to <i style="">coach</i>.<span style=""> </span>Well, who was I to say no?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I showed up at our first practice.<span style=""> </span>I knew these girls; they were only a few years younger than me.<span style=""> </span>We practiced at the elementary school across the street from the church (it was the mid-seventies, and no one was minding the line that ostensibly separates church and state).<span style=""> </span>I pulled the canvas bag of balls and bats out of the back of my Pinto.<span style=""> </span>I told the girls to practice tossing the balls back and forth.<span style=""> </span>“Underhand or overhand?” someone asked.<span style=""> </span>“Either,” I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was able to fake it for about ten minutes, before a confident, sturdy girl piped up. “Have you ever <i style="">played</i> softball?”<span style=""> she asked. </span>I smiled wistfully.<span style=""> </span>“I have not,” I said.<span style=""> </span>They seemed embarrassed for me.<span style=""> </span>I dismissed them early, and drove home.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But I didn’t <i style="">feel</i> embarrassed.<span style=""> </span>I felt oddly strong and self-contained.<span style=""> </span>I felt like something important was about to happen, and I needed to pay attention.<span style=""> </span>I went for a long walk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A couple of years earlier, my only church job had been teaching the Sunbeams on Tuesday after school.<span style=""> </span>They were four years old: a half-dozen girls and one sweet little boy.<span style=""> </span>The maxi-dress was all the rage, and often all six girls would wear floor-length pink or white dresses; they looked like little parade floats as they walked.<span style=""> </span>It was an easy-going, affectionate group of kids, and I remember a lot of construction-paper cutouts, a lot of hugs.<span style=""> </span>I remember how it felt to sit next to them (during Opening Exercises) on an oak bench that rose about eight inches from the floor, and what a privilege it was to be alone with them </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">(during class) </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> in a windowless room, our chairs in a circle, talking about life.<span style=""> </span>It was a blissful time, which ended suddenly and without explanation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The one job for which I was well suited was replaced by a half dozen jobs that I disliked.<span style=""> </span>The new jobs brought me no peace or pleasure.<span style=""> </span>There was an unpleasant dreamlike quality about them, in that I always felt clumsy and unprepared, and more than a little hostile.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I got home from my walk, I called the bishop.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I don’t want to coach softball,” I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“But, Polly…”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“In fact, I don’t want to do any of it, anymore,” I said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“What do you mean?”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I want to quit everything,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“Starting right now.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And it was over.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The other day, I was sorting through some memorabilia (instead of earning a living, or training for a triathlon), and I came across a large envelope on which I’d written “Church Stuff.”<span style=""> </span>I found:</span><br /><br /></span><ul><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">My annual Primary Report from 1961 (a type of report card for my spiritual development, at age four).<span style=""> </span>It was prepared by my mom, who just happened to be my Primary teacher (and would continue to be my Primary teacher until age eight, because I was painfully, tearfully, pathologically shy).<span style=""> </span>In the comments section, she wrote: “Even though you’re my own gal, I think you’re the very best Sunbeam.<span style=""> </span>You’re always quiet and listen carefully and obey.<span style=""> </span>I love you very much!”</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">An assortment of Sunday School attendance awards from the early sixties.<span style=""> </span>On one, someone has carefully written “98%” over the original “96%.”<span style=""> </span>I remember informing my teacher that I’d only missed one Sunday that year (probably because of measles or mumps), and that the other “absence” had been while I was vacationing in Utah, where I attended church with relatives (we got credit for that).<span style=""> </span>I was only seven, but I wanted God and everyone to know that I hadn’t been derelict.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A mimeographed program from a 1964 Christmas pageant, in which my older sister and I were angels, wearing white smock-like dresses that my mom made for us the night before.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A certificate for “A Talk” from May 1965, with a shiny red star affixed.<span style=""> </span>I probably kept it to represent the hundreds of talks I gave between ages 3 and 19 (despite a rather marked speech impediment in the early years).</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A Top Pilot Flightbook from 1965, the last year that my mom was my teacher.<span style=""> </span>Jesus (as opposed to Joseph Smith) was the centerpiece of that year’s study, and each page of the Flightbook is about him.<span style=""> </span>In February, we read about Jesus driving the money-changers from the temple, and that neatly translated into nine rules for us, all of which related to being quiet and clean.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A drawing (house, trees, sun…I didn’t really break any artistic ground), which was published in the Children’s Friend in July 1965.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">The Articles of Faith, laminated, and the edges decorated with red velvet ribbon.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A cloth bag with my name on it, to hold my New Testament.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A green-felt bandlo (pronounced BAND-uh-low), perfectly complete, reflecting my desire and ability to show up every week for three years, memorize a few dozen scriptures, and learn to cross-stitch, knit, and crochet.<span style=""> </span>(Recently, my older sister asked if the Mormon church approves of tattoos.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t know, but doubted it.<span style=""> </span>We agreed that—if they did—the perfect tattoo would be the Gaynote project: I Will Bring the Light of the Gospel into My Home.<span style=""> </span>“And if you were <i style="">really</i> devoted,” she said, “you’d have it tattooed in all the little cross-stitches.”<span style=""> </span>We found that hilarious.)</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A program from a Lihoma Holiday in 1969.<span style=""> </span>(As a child I thought that Lihoma was a Hawaiian word, but a recent Google search revealed it to be code for Little Homemakers.)<span style=""> </span>This particular Lihoma Holiday must have been my last, because I’m listed on the program as a Merrihand.<span style=""> </span>I gave the opening prayer, and then I immediately gave a talk.<span style=""> </span>(An aside: The Gaynote teacher is listed as Sister Deaton.<span style=""> </span>She was very attractive, and an accomplished homemaker.<span style=""> </span>My older sister and I were at her house once, when one of her toddlers bit another of her toddlers.<span style=""> </span>Without missing a beat, she pulled up the shirt of the offending toddler and bit into the soft, smooth flesh of his shoulder.<span style=""> </span>He screamed.<span style=""> </span>My sister and I stared.<span style=""> </span>It was chilling.<span style=""> </span>We could see the deep marks that her teeth had made.<span style=""> </span>We were only nine and ten, but should we have done something?<span style=""> </span>Should we have tackled her to the ground?<span style=""> </span>She’d handed me a plate of homemade strawberry shortcake, just seconds before she attacked the little boy.)</span></span></li></ul><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I don’t think I ever really believed in the LDS church.<span style=""> </span>It’s possible (for both children and adults) to overlook doctrine and get caught up in activities, and this particular religion has a <i style="">lot</i> of activities.<span style=""> </span>I busied myself with Daddy-Daughter Dates, service projects, public-speaking competitions, homemaking training, ward and stake plays, four years of seminary, scripture-chase competitions, devotionals, firesides, girls’ camp, road shows, Gold-and-Green Balls, Education Week, Youth Conference, General Conference, baptisms for the dead, fieldtrips to Temple Square, hiking, tubing, caroling, visiting teaching, and Family Home Evening at BYU.<span style=""> </span>My crushes were seminary teachers, home teachers, and any moderately attractive member of the Young Marrieds.<span style=""> </span>I <i style="">lived</i> for face time with my true loves: Don Black and Marvin Payne.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Perhaps I should have sensed earlier that I was only “playing church.”<span style=""> </span>I liked so many things about it: the music, the opportunities to excel, the approval of adults (especially my grandparents), the camaraderie, and the structure it gave my life.<span style=""> </span>In the sixties and seventies (and maybe in any decade), there were many reasons to feel at loose ends.<span style=""> </span>Church was everything that the world was <i style="">not</i>: safe, quiet, clean, predictable, unchanging.<span style=""> </span>And I could see that an adolescence without alcohol, tobacco, drugs, or sex wasn’t necessarily a <i style="">bad</i> thing.<span style=""> </span>You dodge some bullets that way.<span style=""> </span>And, happily, all those things were patiently waiting for me, at nineteen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I spoke in Sacrament Meeting twice as an adult, and the other day I found the carefully typed, carefully memorized talks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was eighteen, a member of the bishopric gave me a pamphlet called “We Should Be a Reverent People” by Spencer Kimball.<span style=""> </span>I assume that I was told to summarize it for the congregation.<span style=""> </span>“It was very good,” I offered generously.<span style=""> </span>I quoted from it: “True reverence involves happiness, respect, and gratitude.”<span style=""> </span>Here, I addressed a pet peeve of mine: “When children are taught to be reverent, a whole lot of emphasis—perhaps <i style="">all</i> emphasis—is put on folding one’s arms.”<span style=""> </span>And a second pet peeve: “Seems that when a child is born into this ward, he or she is made to feel extremely ‘special.’<span style=""> </span>It’s a shame that some of these children get confused and start thinking that they are ‘more special’ than someone born in Lehi or <st1:state><st1:place>New Hampshire</st1:place></st1:state> or <st1:country-region><st1:place>Pakistan</st1:place></st1:country-region>."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">During a tangent that no doubt thrilled the bishopric seated behind me, I talked about hunger in Africa, apathy and complacency in Utah County, and a worrisome and pervasive “tinkling-brass existence.”<span style=""> </span>I quoted extensively from the thirteenth chapter of Corinthians, referring to it as “my favorite.”<span style=""> </span>The talk is, essentially, a dressing down.<span style=""> </span>“It profiteth you nothing!” I imagine myself shouting from the pulpit.<span style=""> </span>I quoted Jerry Lewis, John Denver, and the Broadway hit song “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At age nineteen, I was asked to do a public debriefing of a Youth Conference I’d attended (as a chaperon) at BYU.<span style=""> </span>Everything about the conference had been unpleasant, and I should have declined the invitation to speak, but I did not.<span style=""> </span>I should have opened with “A funny thing happened on the way to the celestial kingdom,” but I did not.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Inexplicably, I talked about becoming very upset while watching the documentary “Nanook of the North” at a BYU film class a year earlier.<span style=""> </span>A starving family kills and eats a baby otter, and “that upset me something fierce.”<span style=""> </span>(In fact, the scene had me considering the very existence of God, but I didn’t mention that.)<span style=""> </span>“God created both Nanook and the baby otter, and then made it impossible for them to live in harmony,” I pointed out, helpfully.<span style=""> </span>I added: “That really bugs me.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I tried to make some sense of the Nanook debacle by sharing this: “When I had my tonsils removed recently, I developed some very strong feelings for my doctor.”<span style=""> </span>(I suppose a more general but still accurate statement might have been: “Every time a man shows me kindness—even when it’s vague and fleeting, and even when he’s being paid to do so—I develop a crush on him, and I seek him out so that I can say the words aloud: I have a crush on you.”<span style=""> </span>I did, in fact, send the doctor an affectionate note, post-surgically.)<span style=""> </span>To the rapt congregation, I described the doctor as “good and smart and strong and capable.”<span style=""> </span>Then I (finally) made my point: “And he was just a <span style="font-style: italic;">man</span>!<span style=""> </span>Imagine <span style="font-style: italic;">God</span>!”<span style=""> </span>Predictably, I mentioned Luke 12:6-7, and the sparrows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I made three more points: It was shameful (in 1976) that blacks couldn’t hold the priesthood (I guess I wasn’t bothered by women not being able to hold the priesthood).<span style=""> </span>It was shameful that Mormon men and boys were such enthusiastic hunters (what with the sparrows, and all).<span style=""> </span>And it was shameful that the Book of Revelations was such a downer, and so violent.<span style=""> </span>“So, he creates us in his image, but later (the timing is a secret) intends to send ‘tongues of flame’ to destroy us?”<span style=""> </span>I’m sure they appreciated my eye-rolling tone.<span style=""> </span>Maybe I sensed that this was my last stand, and I chose to air some grievances.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Again, I quoted John Denver.<span style=""> </span>I also quoted Dan Fogelberg, and Kris Kristofferson as John Norman Howard in “A Star is Born.”<span style=""> </span>(How did I manage to leave out Neil Diamond and Richard Bach?)<span style=""> </span>Then, I implored them to “...find happiness in puppies and balloons and polka-dots, in the smell of rain, in getting mail.”<span style=""> </span>WTF? the grown-ups must have been thinking.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wound up with a charming story about an Indian girl at a carnival, who approaches a man selling brightly colored balloons, and asks him why there are no brown balloons.<span style=""> </span>He releases a handful of balloons, smiles, and says, “Child, it is not what the balloon looks like on the outside that makes it float higher and higher, but what is on the inside.”<span style=""> </span>Nice, huh.<span style=""> </span>I have no idea where I found that story.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Perhaps I didn’t know it at the time, but I was saying good-bye.<span style=""> </span>I thanked the conference-attending teens, my mom, my “far-out family,” and Robert (“for being my friend”).<span style=""> </span>Most poignantly, I thanked “everyone who says hi to me when I walk around the block.”<span style=""> </span>I ended by saying, “Thank you for letting me speak this afternoon.<span style=""> </span>I hope I said something meaningful.<span style=""> </span>I wanted so badly to say something meaningful.”<span style=""> </span>It’s not easy being nineteen.</span><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">***</span></span><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A year ago, at a spiritual retreat on the <st1:place><st1:placename>Oregon</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Coast</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I was chatting with a young man at the dinner table.<span style=""> </span>When he found out that I was from <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state>, he asked if I was a Mormon, and I said no, but that I <i style="">had</i> been until age nineteen.<span style=""> </span>“Did you leave because of the church’s poor treatment of women and minorities?” he asked.<span style=""> </span>I looked at him, confused.<span style=""> </span>Finally, I responded.<span style=""> </span>“Yes,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“That’s why I left.”<span style=""> </span>I was tired, and I didn’t want to explain the real reason<span style="font-weight: bold;">:</span> I was called to coach girls’ softball.<p></p> </span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-91416481865682189572009-01-12T23:22:00.013-07:002009-01-19T22:09:57.098-07:00A Comprehensive Inventory of the Contents of a Loved One's Purse<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">When my mom died suddenly in late 1982, she had her purse beside her. My dad gave it to me later, and I store it in a box of memorabilia on a closet shelf. At first, I felt sad when handling it (there’s some dried blood on it, and several of the items inside are broken). It became easier, though, and every couple of years I spend some quiet time with the purse, remembering her things, remembering her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m going to blog about my mom’s purse!” I hollered to my husband in the next room.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“I thought purses were private,” he said, because I’ve been telling him that for almost thirty years (because my mom told <i style="">me</i> that).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“This is an exception,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“Like when you can’t resist opening my purse to answer my cell phone, even though I’ve asked you not to open my purse <i style="">or</i> answer my cell phone.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The purse is burnt-orange leather, medium size, with short handles.<span style=""> </span>It’s designed to close with a drawstring, but the stiffness of the leather makes that problematic.<span style=""> </span>It looks expensive, and I bet she bought it at a garage sale.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Conspicuous by its absence (she liked that figure of speech) is a wallet. She always carried a wallet, and I don’t know where it is. That bugs me. There are no family photos, no driver’s license, and no money. There are two check registers, but no checks.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Here’s the inventory:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One pair of over-sized sunglasses. The plastic frames are straw colored, and the lenses are brown. There are two small yellow daisies with green stems painted on the bottom edge of the left lens. I tried them on, and the lenses are large enough so that the painted flowers lie outside one’s field of vision.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One National Semiconductor calculator (Datachecker) with a dead battery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One black plastic mechanical pencil with a gray eraser, and the words “U. S. Government” printed on the shaft.<span style=""> </span>One fine-point Bic pen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One pad of paper (eight sheets, 3.5 inches by 5 inches) with the words Billet Office centered at the top, with her name below and to the right.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One index card titled Phonetic Alphabet (alpha, bravo, charlie, etc.).<span style=""> </span>Handy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An assortment of business cards, some of which include appointment information:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Memorial <st1:placetype>Hospital</st1:placetype> in <st1:place><st1:city>Long Beach</st1:city>, <st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A radiologist in <st1:place><st1:city>Long Beach</st1:city>, <st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A dentist (Dr. Sakai) in <st1:place><st1:city>Harbor City</st1:city>, <st1:state>California</st1:state></st1:place></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Kwik Kopy Printing in San Pedro, California</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Timpanogas Community Mental Health Center in Provo, Utah</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An endodontist in <st1:city><st1:place>Salt Lake City</st1:place></st1:city></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A lawyer in American Fork, <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Allstate Insurance in American Fork, <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Big-O Tires in <st1:place><st1:city>Orem</st1:city>, <st1:state>Utah</st1:state></st1:place></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Porter’s Place in <st1:place><st1:city>Lehi</st1:city>, <st1:state>Utah</st1:state></st1:place> (“Fine Food from the Old West”)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One of my husband’s cards (dark-brown ink on light-brown paper) and one of my cards (black ink on bright-yellow paper).<span style=""> </span>We had hundreds printed just for the hell of it, which—in retrospect—seems like something my mom would do (probably at Kwik Kopy).<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">An assortment of plastic cards: Visa, Mervyn’s, a phone card for long-distance calls, and a membership card for a private club in <st1:city><st1:place>Salt Lake City</st1:place></st1:city>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One check-guarantee card (a “Supercard”), with a photo.<span style=""> </span>My god, she’s beautiful.<span style=""> </span>She’s just had her hair done, and it’s big and dark as it flatters and frames her face.<span style=""> </span>She’s wearing plenty of makeup.<span style=""> </span>Her eyes are bright; her smile is broad.<span style=""> </span>Her teeth look flawless (they aren’t flawless, but they <i style="">look</i> flawless).<span style=""> </span>She’s wearing a caramel-colored cowl-neck blouse in brushed cotton (my sisters and I borrowed it occasionally).<span style=""> </span>She looks eager and energized.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One of my dad’s longshoring check stubs</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One receipt for film developing (the envelope-flap type).<span style=""> </span>Tragically, by the time I called about it (many months later), the photos had been destroyed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One deposit slip.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Two check registers.<span style=""> </span>There are notations regarding two months of checks from a California bank, and ten months of checks from a Utah bank (she’d recently moved to <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state> to be with my dad, but still had family--and a house--in <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state>).<span style=""> </span>Her bookkeeping and handwriting are impeccable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state> register has calendars printed on the back cover, and she put X’s through each month, up to and including September 1982.<span style=""> </span>She wrote checks for rent (<st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>), mortgage (<st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state>), a truck loan, credit cards, utilities, insurance companies, union dues, dentists, doctors, and newspaper and magazine subscriptions.<span style=""> </span>She wrote checks to the LDS church (welfare fund), the Muscular Dystrophy Association (telethon donation), Ted Wilson (campaign donation), Readers’ Digest (a dictionary for my birthday), her niece Marcene (graduation gift), her oldest daughter (to purchase a baby swing), her youngest daughter (to make a layaway payment on a stereo), and several cash entries for $6 each (“weight contest”).<span style=""> </span>She withdrew $100 on September 28, and she wrote in the memo line: “Polly’s here!”<span style=""> </span>On October 15, she sent her oldest daughter a check for $100, with “Trip to <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>” in the memo line.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">On October 29, the day before her death, she wrote eight checks, which overdrew her account by $69 (just now, my husband and I giggled immaturely when I added up the checks and announced that number).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“Maybe I shouldn’t mention the overdraft,” I said.<span style=""> </span>“Maybe that violates her privacy.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">“No…you should!” he said.<span style=""> </span>“Isn’t that the <i style="">goal</i>?<span style=""> </span>To empty out your bank accounts right before you die?<span style=""> </span>Think of her as an overachiever.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In the interest of accuracy, I should mention that the 29<sup>th</sup> was a Friday, and Friday was pay day, but she hadn’t logged the deposit amount yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The final eight checks were sent to: their landlord; the telephone company; a dentist; a radiologist (for the balance owing on a mammogram); a credit union (for “shares”); someone named Nora Nelson (weird, huh) (for a clock made out of a porthole, which currently keeps excellent time in my husband’s home office); and me (reimbursement for an outfit for my infant nephew).<span style=""> </span>The final check was for $10.60, but she never listed the payee.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The <st1:state><st1:place>Utah</st1:place></st1:state> check register includes many of the same types of checks, but also has entries for groceries, prescriptions, and <i style="">frequent</i> hair care (thank you, Robert).<span style=""> </span>That year, she also wrote checks for: food for my younger sister’s wedding for $63.61, “pants and blouses” (plural!) for $12.57, “dress and bathing suit” for $9.94, “crafts” for $13.10, “fabric” for $25.38, “typing stuff” for $8.23, and “Jane Oliver record” for $6.29.<span style=""> </span>Memo lines often list “stuff,” “whatever,” and “who knows?”<span style=""> </span>She stopped using the account on October 22, with a balance of $2.51.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Continuing the inventory:<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">One small red-vinyl address book.<span style=""> </span>The inside flap shows their California address and phone number, their Utah address, my mom’s social security number, and my dad’s social security number (it was a more innocent time).<span style=""> </span>There’s a complete and predictable list of family members, friends, medical professionals, insurance companies, and banks.<span style=""> </span>She includes her hairdresser, the longshoremen’s union, a travel agency, and “Young Mothers’ School.”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One navy-blue weekly planner for 1982.<span style=""> </span>She had one for each year, and she used it for efficient journaling.<span style=""> </span>I’d quote from it, but it’s at my older sister’s house right now.<span style=""> </span>It’s full of fascinating and poignant information, and when I get it back, I’ll share.</span><br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-family:arial;">One book of matches from the Maritime Bank of <st1:state><st1:place>California</st1:place></st1:state>.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One stick of Doublemint gum.<span style=""> </span>Two C&H sugar packets.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One bottle of Caffergot (about a dozen), for migraines.<span style=""> </span>One bottle of Tylenol 3.<span style=""> </span>One plastic packet of Bayer aspirin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One small rectangular mirror that slips into a rubber sleeve printed with the words “Utah Army National Guard.”<span style=""> </span>The mirror is in shards.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One envelope of floss threaders (with instructions for use).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Three emery boards in assorted sizes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One plastic container of cold cream (the plastic is broken, but the cold cream is still contained; it smells a bit rank).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Two well-used tubes of lipstick: Max Factor’s Iced Watermelon and Max Factor’s Rose Petal Frost.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Two perfume samples: <st1:place>Avon</st1:place>’s Foxfire cologne and <st1:place>Avon</st1:place>’s Odyssey cologne.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One small, red-and-white-striped, zippered makeup bag.<span style=""> </span>Contents: mascara, four shades of blue eye shadow and one brush, tweezers, one small pocket knife with two blades, one 13-cent stamp, eight bobby pins, three safety pins in assorted sizes, one rubber band, one large paper clip, and one small weight for a fishing lure (I have no idea).<span style=""> </span>There’s also a metal clamshell container that once held perfume (in paste form), but now holds dimes (for phone calls, I presume).<span style=""> </span>It’s gold, with a round turquoise stone set in the lid.<span style=""> </span>A gift, as I recall, from a woman, but I can’t remember the details.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wish I could remember the details.</span><p></p> </span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-45855962469056623722009-01-05T19:39:00.054-07:002011-02-09T11:19:48.601-07:00Men I Didn't Sleep With<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >In 1996, I attended an animal-rights conference in <st1:city><st1:place>Baltimore</st1:place></st1:city> with my sister-in-law Pam.<span style=""> </span>We met at <st1:place><st1:placename>Midway</st1:placename> <st1:placetype>Airport</st1:placetype></st1:place> in <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city>, and when she saw me across the crowded concourse, she hollered, “Look at you! You’re <i style="">lanky</i>!”<span style=""> </span>Strangers turned to look, probably thinking, “She’s not all <i style="">that</i> lanky.”<span style=""> </span>I’d just lost over a hundred pounds, but <i style="">they</i> had no way of knowing that.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Pam and I flew together from <st1:city><st1:place>Chicago</st1:place></st1:city> to <st1:city><st1:place>Baltimore</st1:place></st1:city>, checked into our hotel, and headed out for Chinese food.<span style=""> </span>At the restaurant, we met an elderly European man (Austrian, maybe?<span style=""> </span>Belgian?) who was also a conference attendee, and he bought us spring rolls.<span style=""> </span>I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">didn</span>’t realize that I was on the prowl until I found myself flirting with this very old, slightly chubby guy with the accent and the cane.<span style=""> </span>The three of us hung out in his hotel room, and later he watched us swim at the hotel pool. (Has <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">SILF</span> been coined, with S for senior?) We were chatting poolside, when it became shockingly evident that the man was a bit of an old-world Nazi, and Pam and I simultaneously lost interest in him. She later observed: "He probably would have been more circumspect </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >if he’d known how close he was to getting in your pants</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >."</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The conference was not the target-rich zone I had hoped for.<span style=""></span> The women outnumbered the men, and most of the men were <i style="">very</i> young.<span style=""> </span>Many of the men fell into a category I call <st1:place><st1:city>Portland</st1:city> <st1:state>Man.</st1:state></st1:place><span style=""> </span>He’s socially responsible, morally and spiritually developed, artistic, and underemployed.<span style=""> </span>He’s hetero, but he respects women <i style="">so</i> much, and respects his own femininity <i style="">so</i> much, that he’s careful not to offend women by entertaining the possibility of getting laid.<span style=""> </span>Of course, he’s vegan, because he respects animals even more than he respects women.<span style=""> </span>He’s probably not getting enough protein, so he tires easily.<span style=""> </span>Even so, if you meet him when he’s in his twenties, and convince him that sex is something you actually enjoy—and not something that you simply endure because men are brutes—he’ll do what’s necessary to “facilitate your orgasm.”<span style=""> </span>But beware: He cries a <i style="">lot</i>. And once he’s past his mid-thirties, he’ll probably choose to forgo sex in favor of a cup of tea and a quick nap on the couch, all cozy in his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Teva</span>’s and ratty sweatpants from the thrift store.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Back at the hotel, I stayed in bed one morning while Pam took an early shuttle to the convention center.<span style=""> </span>For months, I’d been secretly and obsessively chatting online at home, probing the seedy underbelly of the mid-nineties <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">internet</span>, and I had the phone number of a man in Baltimore, a married-with-children house painter who resembled Jeff <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Foxworthy</span> and drank Killian’s Irish Red.<span style=""> </span>I called him.<span style=""> </span>Prepare to be shocked, Dear Reader, but the man did <i style="">not</i> fly to my side and make me his own.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sorry…<i style="">Who</i> is this?” he asked.<span style=""> </span>He cleverly hid his delight at hearing from me, and ended the short conversation by suggesting that I never call again.<span style=""> </span>“This is where I <i style="">live</i>!” he hissed.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I caught a <st1:time hour="12" minute="0">noon</st1:time> shuttle, had lunch with Pam (a bowl of pinto beans and a cob of corn), and attended a session about the horrors of rodeo.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >(I’m firmly anti-rodeo.<span style=""> </span>I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ve</span> attended only one, with my high-school buddy Heather and her family.<span style=""> </span>I left early, when a small monkey dressed as a cowboy was strapped to a saddled dog, and the two of them chased a herd of sheep.<span style=""> </span>It was unclear who was the most terrified: the monkey, the dog, or the sheep.<span style=""> </span>I was angry and tearful, and I walked the two miles home, disgusted by the laughing crowd.)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The man who led the session about rodeos was close to my age.<span style=""> </span>He was bright and articulate, with a southern accent; he readily admitted to not being vegan.<span style=""> </span>I was quite taken, of course, and delightfully surprised an hour later to spot him on my shuttle bus.<span style=""> </span>Feeling bold, I moved from my seat to his, and introduced myself.<span style=""> </span>He was even cuter up close: charming and flirtatious, with an easy grin.<span style=""> </span>We had ten minutes together on the uncrowded bus, and we never stopped talking and laughing.<span style=""> </span>As we arrived at the hotel, and as he no doubt sensed my eagerness to follow him to his room, he gently said, “You know I’m gay…right?”</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Later, I saw him at the scheduled March on <st1:state><st1:place>Washington</st1:place></st1:state> (“What do we want? Animal Rights! When do we want them? Now!”).<span style=""> </span>We’d finished marching, and I was sitting alone in a city park sipping a diet Coke, wearing bright-yellow cuffed shorts from Old Navy and a Rosie-the-Riveter T-shirt.<span style=""> </span>He plopped down next to me.<span style=""> </span>“My mama told me about girls like you,” he said, smiling, our thighs touching, his hand on my bare knee.<span style=""> </span>“She told me that if I ever found a girl like you, I should grab her, and never let her go.”<span style=""> </span>I leaned against him, my head on his shoulder.<span style=""> </span>“Are you <i style="">sure</i> you’re gay?” I asked.<span style=""> </span>“I’m sure,” he said, laughing softly, and then he said good-bye.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I wonder if he’s <i style="">still</i> gay.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">***</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ></span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >A dozen years ago, a friend mentioned a place called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nestucca</span>, a spiritual retreat west of <st1:place><st1:city>Salem</st1:city>, <st1:state>Oregon</st1:state></st1:place>, owned and operated by Jesuit priests.<span style=""> </span>Eventually, I thought to Google it, and several years ago (and twice since), I visited.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I took a Southwest flight from <st1:city><st1:place>Salt Lake City</st1:place></st1:city> to <st1:city><st1:place>Portland</st1:place></st1:city>, and was one of the first people to board.<span style=""> </span>From my window-seat toward the rear of the plane, I watched as a man made his way along the narrow aisle.<span style=""> </span>He was in his prime, with long legs and Black Irish coloring.<span style=""> </span>“He looks like the older brother of an L. L. Bean model,” I thought.<span style=""> </span>I felt free to watch him, knowing that he wasn't watching me (I was wrong).<span style=""> </span>He kept approaching.<span style=""> </span>The plane was nearly empty—he could have chosen almost any seat—and he chose the seat next to me. (Is there anything better than being <span style="font-style: italic;">chosen</span>...being <span style="font-style: italic;">preferred</span>? That question reveals a lot about my junior-high days, especially gym class and school dances.)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >As strangers sometimes do (especially strangers pressed for time), we bypassed small talk (unless you would list “flirting” as a subset of “small talk”).<span style=""> </span>A lot can be said in a short time if the trivial is eschewed, and we revealed all the best and worst about ourselves.<span style=""> </span>“I’m like <i style="">this</i>,” we said to each other.<span style=""> </span>“Does that turn you off?<span style=""> </span>‘Cause if it does, I want to know <i style="">now</i>.”<span style=""> </span>One can save a lot of time by acting like a grown-up.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >He was retired military, and an off-duty Southwest pilot (which surprised and intimidated me, because I’m rather unaccomplished).<span style=""> </span>He was married, just like me. During the final approach, he asked if I was going to rent a car.<span style=""> </span>I said that I was going to use public transportation.<span style=""> </span>Matter-of-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">factly</span>, even presumptuously, he said, “No, you’re not,” and he offered to drive me anywhere I wanted to go.<span style=""> </span>I was charmed, because it was a kind gesture, and because I like being bossed around by handsome men.<span style=""> </span>Even so--and fearing that I’d regret it forever--I said no thank you.<span style=""> </span>He gave me his phone number, just in case spiritual evolution <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">wasn</span>’t as much fun as I’d anticipated.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >We kept chatting (urgently, compulsively) until the plane was empty.<span style=""> </span>We stood.<span style=""> </span>“You’re taller than I thought,” he said, but not in a bad you’re-fatter-than-I-thought way.<span style=""> </span>We walked out together, enjoyed a prolonged hug, and said good-bye.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Upon arriving at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Nestucca</span>, I focused on opening my heart and quieting my mind (and I eventually stopped thinking about the guy on the airplane, and how his neck smelled like oranges and eucalyptus and justifiable adultery).</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >One chilly afternoon, I hiked a short distance to the yurt, a solemn communal space tucked into the forest.<span style=""> </span>I’d been there the day before, crying and meditating, but mostly crying.<span style=""> </span>(It’s an emotional place, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Nestucca</span>.<span style=""> </span>It’s easy to come undone.)<span style=""> </span>I was used to having the spot to myself, but—this should come as no surprise—Portland Man was there, in what looked like a painful yoga position.<span style=""> </span>“Oh!<span style=""> </span>Hi!” he said.<span style=""> </span>Always optimistic, I grinned, and removed my shoes.<span style=""> </span>I spread a quilt on the floor (my plan for the day was more napping and less crying).<span style=""> </span>“How’s it going?” I asked, in what I hoped was an inviting tone.<span style=""> </span>“Peace to you,” I added enthusiastically. <span style=""> </span>I’d heard other <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">retreatants</span> use those words.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Fact is, I was lonesome.<span style=""> </span>There was a lot of rain, a lot of silent meditation, and no meat at meals.<span style=""> </span>I just wanted someone to talk to.<span style=""> </span>He was finished, and he picked up his mat and walked to the door.<span style=""> </span>“I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">didn</span>’t mean to run you off,” I said, but he was gone.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The next day, I was alone (and lonely) in a common area, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Nestucca</span> Bay, warming my hands on a mug of tea, when an elderly white-haired man approached, and introduced himself.<span style=""> </span>He was intrigued that I was a non-Catholic (an ex-Mormon, even!), and we sat together and talked for an hour while waiting for liturgy to begin.<span style=""> </span>“Seems to me that growing up Mormon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">didn</span>’t hurt you at all,” he said, eyes twinkling, as we parted ways that evening. I resisted the impulse to wait until everyone was asleep, and then knock quietly at his bedroom door.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >He was sick, and he spent quite a bit of time in his room, with an oxygen tank.<span style=""> </span>The morning I was scheduled to leave, we sat side by side on a wooden bench in the bright (if not quite warm) sunshine.<span style=""> </span>I took a photo of him, the only photo I took during that visit.<span style=""> </span>Later, he reached into his pocket and gave me a rosary with an imperfect number of beads, and said that it would bring me luck.<span style=""> </span>It smelled like his cologne.<span style=""> </span>(Occasionally, I still sleep with it wrapped around my hand.)</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >His buddy (a man my age) observed the connection that was forming, and encouraged me to stay another day.<span style=""> </span>But I fled...unsure of my motives, confused about everything...hugging, weeping, shivering, smelling my rosary...certain that I’d never see my new friend again. <span style=""> </span>“Oh, God, hear our prayers."</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >A week later, I received a charming letter from him, with information on how to use the rosary. I pored over the instructional pamphlet, trying to find meaning in the prayers. I wrote back, thanking him, enclosing the photo, but he died before my letter arrived. His wife in Seattle wrote with the news, and--all these years later--she and I continue to exchange letters. I do so with a clear conscience, and no secrets. I guess the rosary </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >did</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > bring me luck.</span><br /><p></p></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-74512583788278113492009-01-05T09:36:00.044-07:002009-01-07T18:04:03.189-07:00Overeating, Overspending, and Me<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm struck--yet again--by the similarities between overeating and overspending. One is a decent substitute for the other, but it's unclear which is heroin, and which is methadone; I suppose it's dependent on mood. Both nasty habits are similar to a third: sex online with strangers. (I won't delve too deeply into that subject, because it's tawdry even by my relaxed standards.) All three trade long-term joy for short-term pleasure, self-respect for self-disgust, and sometimes-painful mindfulness for sometimes-blissful distraction.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Years ago, I quit chatting online, and I anticipate similar success as I quit overeating and overspending. I anticipate becoming a healthy, energetic, debt-free cutie-pie with a well-funded retirement account. Any. Minute. Now.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I relax into the temptations of overeating and overspending--and the clerks at Krispy Kreme and TJ Maxx greet me like an old friend--I feel (by turns) excited, outgoing, energized, busy, clever, liberated, secretive, ashamed, burdened, and uncomfortably full. When I strive to overcome the temptations of overeating and overspending--and I eat wholesome foods to satiety, and buy what enriches my life without cluttering my life--I feel (by turns) peaceful, mindful, healthy, content, disciplined, unfettered, wistful, jealous, listless, and peckish. If I choose to follow one path, I cannot successfully follow the other path.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The path of eating and spending in moderation will lead to more and better rewards, but...not today. To reap the rewards, I need to </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >stay</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> on the path...for months, for years. Early on, this path is recognizable only by what's </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >not</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> there: double cheeseburgers with fries, pecan pie with ice cream, Rachael Ray's line of brightly colored kitchenware, a cashmere cardigan with shell buttons and three-quarter-length sleeves. Early on, this path looks like the Black Rock Desert, like an abandoned factory, and I feel lonely in such a desolate place. For me, the buddy system is an illusion, and a Weight Watchers meeting or Debtors Anonymous meeting is worse than the first day at a new high school. This is a solitary journey.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In my experience, there's only one thing to do: Embrace the solitude. Embrace, even, Jung's "legitimate suffering." Empty deserts and empty factories are fierce and frightening places, but it's not necessary to flee. I can plant my flag here. I can brew a cup of tea, and ride this out. The rewards are vast, and the journey--even the third or fourth time--is compelling.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Here, I want to examine the intersections of overeating and overspending, so that I can be attentive when approaching them. (Of course, I'm only an expert on </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >me</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">, and I don't presume to know what </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >you</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> do when no one's looking.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are terrific (if temporary) stress reducers. And god bless 'em for it. Both go a long way toward </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >seeming</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> to fix: (a) cabin fever; (b) marital strife; (c) too many pets, bills, and unread classics; (d) too few long baths, marketable skills, and attentive listeners; and (e) the </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >always</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">-there, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >never</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">-quite-gone feelings of fear, frustration, regret, boredom, and worry. Worried about a new mole? Worried about failing to embrace Alan Arkin's advice in "Little Miss Sunshine"? Worried about not taking a meaningful risk since Jimmy Carter left office? Well, I'll feel </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >much</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> better if I start my binge at Taco Bell, swing by Barnes & Noble, and finish up at Dairy Queen.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: I can take a deep breath, and consider the possibility that my life--as is--can be borne, can be endured. I'm sure much of my stress would magically disappear if I had a real problem to deal with, like cancer or civil war. In fact, I make myself more vulnerable to stress (and everything else) by not being prepared for physical or financial emergencies. So, next time I feel anxious, I'll turn and face the demon. If I can't do something productive--something that directly addresses the problem--I'll </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >embrace</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> the stress, knowing that it's not likely to kill me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are crimes of opportunity, and--for me--the "bargain" presents an almost irresistible opportunity. Deals are </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >everywhere</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">: 80-percent off, 90-percent off, buy-one-get-one. Here's a coupon! Here's a </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >book</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> of coupons! Have a dollar? Here's three tacos! Have five dollars? Here's a pink cotton sweater! The most difficult challenge is anything that is free: a thick slice of buttered bread at Great Harvest, half an egg roll at Costco, an oatmeal cookie at a health fair. And those little snacks--given so generously, so innocently--flip a switch in my head, and thirty pounds later I can trace my falling-off-the-wagon moment to that goddamn health fair.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: As a minimum, I can stay away from clearance sales, bakeries, and the drive-thru window at McDonalds. I might also want to consider a less black-and-white approach to </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >everything</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">. It's not necessary to deny myself the pleasure of new socks or a coat that fits; it's not necessary to hide behind a locked door when the neighbor girls deliver a plate of cookies. I can learn to see the difference between eating and overeating, between spending and overspending. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are often preceded by disappointment: in me, in others, and sometimes in the very thing I eat or buy. I've resumed bingeing (and/or spent a fruitful afternoon at Ross-Dress-for-Less) when I received an email from a woman asking that I stop flirting with her husband, when I had to remind my sister that it was my birthday, and when my a la carte chicken enchilada had too much cilantro. It's crushing! It's more than I can bear! I've suffered enough!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: I can acknowledge that disappointment is difficult, and some of us handle it better than others. My husband once waited until I was in a cheerful mood, and suggested that I learn to manage my expectations. Since then, it occurred to me that maybe I </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >want</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> to be derailed: I'm devastated, so I'm </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >allowed</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> to overeat and overspend, right?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are--duh--encouraged by advertisers. It feels inescapable, especially late at night when I'm watching TV or surfing the 'net, when my resolve is weakened by the need for sleep. I </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >must</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> have that crab-cake sandwich, or those corduroy pants with a 36-inch inseam. Wherever I look, someone is encouraging me to eat more or spend more, and it's easy to feel ambushed, and to surrender.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: Resist already! I can see it for what it is, and I remind myself that I already have more than enough.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are encouraged (to some degree) by loved ones. "You should buy that," my sister says. "It's eight dollars, it's darling, and it's </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >so you</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">. Didn't you have an olive-drab sweater</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > just <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span> that</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> when you were dating ___?" and she speaks the name of someone I loved and lost. I cradle the sweater in my arms, harking back to a simpler time, reaching into my purse for a ten-dollar bill. Later, we're at a sandwich shop, and she offers to share her huge snickerdoodle with me. "No, thank you," I say, and she's crestfallen. I love her, and I'm responsible for the dejected look on her face. I change my mind about the snickerdoodle, and all is right in our world.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: I can find a way to love and be loved without overeating or overspending. And I can learn to enjoy both habits vicariously: my niece's Victoria's Secret catalog order, a friend's new kitchen counters, my dad's bowl of mostaccioli or cioppino...I can appreciate something without eating it or owning it. (And, as a bonus, I get to feel smug for resisting.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending are social habits, and often feel integral to celebrating, visiting, and vacationing. They're handy when saying I like you, I love you, I want to get to know you better, I want to impress you, I'm sorry, and thank you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: I can remind myself that all of these situations can be handled with moderate eating and spending, or--better yet--with something that requires more imagination.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Problem: Both overeating and overspending tend to result in choosing quantity over quality. By definition, they lead to excess, which for most people means a whole lotta crap. I'm reminded of a vacation several years ago when, one afternoon, I drove twenty miles to buy an ice cream cone at the Tillamook cheese factory in Oregon. I watched as a girl made waffles, which became waffle cones; she filled a still-warm cone with Marion Berry Cheesecake ice cream for me, and I happily paid $4 for it. I sat alone on the patio, in the warm sunshine, grinning at children and dogs, eating my treat. A week later, back in Utah, I bought a low-fat vanilla cone at McDonalds for $1 and ate it while driving home. I was struck by the difference between the two experiences. My first thought was, "I need to move--alone--to Tillamook," but even </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I </span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">knew that was unreasonable.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Solution: I can learn to slow down and ask myself if what I'm about to eat or buy is </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >exactly</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> what I want. I can reject the easy choices: those things that are merely okay, that are convenient, that are habits, that are attractive only because they are bargains. I can hold out for a Tillamook ice cream cone </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >every time</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">.</span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-1093133105626998292009-01-01T00:18:00.034-07:002009-01-29T15:47:00.314-07:00Summer Camp<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >In the early eighties--and just days before her accidental death--my mom sent me a 112-page manuscript for a romantic novella she'd written called "Summer Camp." (There are a few titles scribbled on the front cover, but that's my favorite.) Several times, I tried to read it, but the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ick</span> factor was fairly high: I simply could not handle the detailed accounts of "Jakie" (so obviously my mom) having sex. But yesterday--in a mellow, post-menopausal mood--I retrieved it from a closet shelf and read the entire thing for the first time. I don't presume to know which parts are fact, which parts are fiction, and which parts blur the line; I only know that I felt close to her while reading it. "I'm going to blog about this!" I hollered enthusiastically to my husband in the next room.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I grin when I see that the first page contains nothing but a quote, which my mom ascribes to her sister "N" (she includes N's last name, but I'll omit it here). The quote: "I am no stranger to small thinking."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The first chapter introduces us to Jakie (rhymes with flaky, and achy-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">breaky</span>...my observation, not hers). The opening dialogue is between Jakie and her husband, Ron, who is needing some space. He loves her madly, but feels smothered in their small town (a Denver suburb). "Are you content knowing nothing but narrow-minded people who hate to go more than ten miles away because something might change while they're gone?" he asks her.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Ron is an idea man, and a flirt. While reading, I thought they'd reconcile (apparently, he's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >very</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > good in bed), but they do not. He leaves a note ("Don't worry") and moves to San Diego.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >A paragraph later, Jakie is divorced. There's precious little information about twin sons Jeff and Mark (recent high school graduates), and only slightly more about grown daughter Sadie (engaged to be married, starred in a school play, </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >a bit of a spendthrift, </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >works with her mom sometimes, a "real personality"). (If no one minds, <span style="font-style: italic;">I'll</span> be her.)<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /><br /></span></div> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The second chapter explores Jakie's upbringing and philosophy, and some of her post-divorce angst. The granddaughter of Danish immigrants, the daughter of a grocer, she hasn't traveled or graduated from college or enjoyed a career. She recalls a conversation with a girlhood friend:</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"I want to be a nurse when I grow up," said Carolyn.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Not me," said Jakie. "I want to be a mother."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"You can be a nurse </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >and</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > a mother, silly," said Carolyn.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"No," said Jakie. "I only want to be a mother."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Ron's rejection "shattered Jakie's orderly existence." Ron thrives after the divorce, but Jakie feels aimless and confused. She reads a lot, and watches too much TV. Men--of course--find her enchanting, and many pursue her, but she isn't interested. She's "pretty, though slightly overweight," with dark eyes and curly brown hair. When she isn't looking sad or worried, she has a killer smile.<br /><br />True to the genre, Jakie loses the extra weight, gets a tan, and goes in search of a </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >job, reasoning that employment will lead to improved self-esteem, and improved self-esteem will lead to hooking up with a new man. (I've heard that some women prefer the new-man-will-lead-to-improved-self-esteem model.) </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"She wasn't interested in learning to be without a man at her side. Sleeping alone was not to be part of her destiny." Oh dear.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I'm a bit confused by t</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >he third chapter; it almost seems to stand alone (perhaps as an essay on paratroopers). She doesn't mention Ron or the kids. It's her first summer working at the Officers' Club at Camp Bradley, a military post near her home, frequented by National Guard and Army Reserve troops doing two-week stints.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Jakie sat on the hood of her car near the drop zone at Camp Bradley." (</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I've</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > done</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > that! I was younger than Jakie--without the recent divorce or the magnificent rack--but I, too, enjoyed the late-August sunshine and the scent of sagebrush, and the even-better scent of sweaty, dusty, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >triumphant</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > men after a successful jump.) Jakie awaits the object of her affections, Colonel Matt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chipman</span> (who isn't seen in later chapters).<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"She idly wondered if she was in love with the man she waited to see jump."<br /><br />Then, quickly: "No, she wasn't in love." Whew.<br /><br />"She didn't even like him a lot." I see.<br /><br />"Love was for kids and sadists." What?!?<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >In this chapter, it becomes clear that the author has gathered some serious <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">intel</span> about helicopters, short-take-off-and-landing vehicles, safe and unsafe jumping conditions, static lines, reserve chutes, canopies, wind speeds, forward speeds, soft versus hard landings...and she generously shares it with us.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >She also shares that Matt likes "a good jump, good PT, good scotch, and a good woman," and something about that is pissing Jakie off. "Why was she feeling so furious?" she wonders. She describes their lovemaking (her word) as "satisfying, but not tremendously exciting." Matt is kind, slim, and a lousy listener. She admits to being "embittered."<br /><br />"Matt disapproved of many things," she writes. "Often, he disapproved of her. He constantly prompted her to be this way or that way, but would also tell her to be herself." At one point, he has the audacity to suggest she lose </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >another</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > ten pounds. He makes helpful if unwelcome suggestions regarding her PT.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I don't care for Matt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chipman</span>, and I'm not sure what draws Jakie to him. </span> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"What in the hell am I doing here?" she mutters, as the weather turns windy and wet. "What is a thirty-nine-year-old woman doing here by herself, leaning against a dusty car, in such godawful weather? Her wish, at that moment, was to be any place else." One page later, she repeats the question: "What in the hell am I doing here?"</span> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >As Jakie continues to watch the jump, she lyrically describes one soldier's actions: "He gathered up his chute like a voluminous petticoat."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >(I would have followed <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> back to camp, in search of something Tremendously Exciting.)<br /><br />After the jump (cut short by the rain), she returns to the Officers' Club. She's alone. "Summer camp was over; fall was in the air. A feeling of nostalgia swept over her. She poured a cup of coffee and sat in front of the water-stained window, waiting for Matt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Chipman</span>. The beautiful shades of lush green had given way to golds and browns. That morning, in the valley below, a farmer had finished cutting his grain. He'd turned the rich brown soil, getting ready for another crop, another summer."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The fourth chapter takes place early in the summer of 1975 (days after I graduated from high school, and the summer of my first soldier, Larry France.) This <span style="font-style: italic;">also</span> seems like the beginning of her career at Camp Bradley, as if the events of Chapter 3 never took place.<br /><br />Jakie "has misgivings about being a barmaid." She prefers being outside, cleaning the pool and making burgers for military families. She enjoys being useful; she has the heart of a caretaker.<br /><br />Here, we're introduced to grounds-keeper Evan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">McShane</span>. (The true identity of Evan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">McShane</span> will not be a mystery to anyone who ever visited "Camp Bradley.") I adore the character, and I adored the real man. He was sexy and affectionate; he was ageless. I wanted him to take care of me, and--because he seemed a bit wounded--I was also eager to take care of <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> (using the rather limited arsenal of skills I possessed at age eighteen). </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I suppose he broke my mom's heart: He wasn't happily married, but he was permanently married.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Jakie describes the beauty of the Officers' Club, which was a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">WPA</span> project. </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Huge beams supported the cavernous roof," she writes. </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >She describes the </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >stone brought down from a nearby canyon</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >, the "splendor of the decadent drapes and carpets," the "</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >big brass chandeliers made of crossed swords</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >."<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Next, we're introduced to the handsome, extroverted, chivalrous Major Ryan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Pendleton</span>. His first line (spoken to Jakie, of course) is, "Ma'am, I stand chagrined!" Later: "Could we prevail on your kindness to prepare us each a cheeseburger?" It might seem overblown, but they actually talked like that...the confident, well-traveled officers from the South. </span> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"What would you like to hear on the jukebox?" he asks Jakie. "It's the only instrument I play." She chooses "For the Good Times," a Kris <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Kristofferson</span> classic performed by Ray Price.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Many more characters are introduced, all military men. I stop keeping track after a while. Other than Evan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">McShane</span>, I only notice the men she sleeps with.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > "The attention from men was important to her, and she'd be a liar if she denied that," she writes. "At this crucial point in her life, she seemed to need it. At Camp Bradley, there was no lack of men ready to make a woman happy, if only for the evening."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The only vulgar line is found on page 16. Jakie overhears someone say, "Well, I don't know about you, Captain, but I wouldn't fuck her with </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >your</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > dick." Jakie doesn't speculate as to whom they might be discussing, but I feel my brow furrow as I read it. Not me, surely. She wouldn't have included the line if she'd suspected they were talking about </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >either</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> of us, right?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One night, daughter Sadie comes out to help Jakie at</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > the club. "When there was a lull, Sadie left the grill to play the jukebox. Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Pendleton</span> gave her eight or ten quarters, and together they made some pretty good choices." (Is it strange that this makes my heart beat a little faster? </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >A</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >s I type, I feel nervous, as if <span style="font-style: italic;">right now</span> I'm standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Pendleton</span> at the jukebox, choosing "Help Me Make it Through the Night" and "Long Long Time." Did that </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >happen</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >? </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Was there a particular soldier that was Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Pendleton</span>?)<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >He returns at closing time and asks if Jakie would like to join him for dinner later that week. She's taken with his "cute personality," but doesn't commit. "He never asked if she was married, and she just imagined </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >that <span style="font-style: italic;">he</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> was." Later, Sadie is encouraging: "He's darling...he's really cool! Go out with him!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The next day, </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Jakie runs into Major <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Pendleton</span> again (who knew). She needs to go to the store to buy hamburger buns, and he offers to go along. He suggests that she call him Ryan, rather than Major. They talk about the markedly high ratio of men to women at Camp Bradley.<br /><br />"Well, any woman would get a great deal of attention out here," says Jakie. "You don't have to be anything special. As long as you realize that, you won't get hurt."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Don't you consider yourself special?" he asks.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Sure I do. But the men would pay attention if you were big or little, pretty or ugly, smart or dumb. It would be sad if a woman came out here and didn't realize that."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >(She speaks to me...from the grave...)</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Ryan admires Jakie's "depth" and "warmth," and he touches her hand, where it rests on the gearshift.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >There's a romantic scene at the beginning of the fifth chapter. After a long night, Jakie is standing in an open doorway, enjoying the light rain and the scent of sagebrush. Ryan walks up behind her. (A woman loves it when she's feeling relaxed, maybe a little wistful, and a handsome man walks up behind her.)</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Tired?" he asks.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"I'm okay," she says. "Don't you just love that smell?"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I can imagine the two of them at the door that leads outside from the kitchen. Very dark, with quickly falling temperatures. Quiet, but with the friendly sound of men's voices in the distance. They breathe in the scent of cigarettes, beer, grilled onions, grass clippings. And I know how Jakie feels: bone tired, lonely, but not unhappy. And here's this tall man behind her, just inches from her. He's far from home, and weary after a long day of leading and encouraging younger men. And what they want from each other, and what they need from each other, isn't clear to either of them. They'll get something, but they'll never get enough.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Jakie does that thing that women (even smart, evolved women) sometimes do. She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">overtalks</span> a subject. And the subject she <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">overtalks</span> could be titled "But Will You Respect Me in the Morning?" This subject makes tired men much more tired. He laughs, but he's reassuring; she's embarrassed, but reassured. The rain turns into a storm, and they remain in the doorway. I'm reminded that I'm reading fiction (and not my mom's diary) when she writes: "The heavy rain beat down on their faces and heads until they were soaked."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"Your hair is drenched," said Ryan.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >"I love it!" said Jakie. "I don't mind at all!"</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Jakie then thinks about all the times she rushed inside when it rained, to avoid ruining her "hair-do." She regrets doing so. She wishes she'd been "sporty and casual...soft and warm and fun."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >That night, she lies in bed thinking about Ryan. His face is both "innocent and ruthless." His voice "lazy and educated." His eyes "full of lights and laughter...shrewd, calculating." </span> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Ron calls in the middle of the night (?) and invites her to visit him (and the twin boys) in San Diego. She's conflicted. She doesn't want to miss work, and he says, "I bet you enjoy all that attention." That makes it easier for her to turn down his invitation.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Ryan goes on maneuvers for a couple of days, and Jakie stays busy and happy. "She didn't have time to dwell on past mistakes or future problems; she was quite content with life at the moment." Well...good for her.<br /><br />Just as I'm getting bored, Evan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">McShane</span> shows up again. Jakie is looking adorable in "...a bright-yellow-and-grey-checked pant suit with a rather low V-neck with buttons down the front...her bright yellow jacket matched perfectly." They stand at the bar, shoulders touching. "If I was twenty years younger, I'd make a pass at you," he says.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >When Ryan returns, Jakie ("always the incurable romantic") is imagining a scene from a "World War II movie." She anticipates that the returning soldiers will need hot coffee, "maybe bandages." She sees Ryan across the room: "Bogart is back. The war is over."<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >It's raining (again!), and after last call they go for a ride in Jakie's Pinto. She's very nervous, and she worries that she might hyperventilate, choke, or pee her pants. Not surprisingly, those things don't happen. They do, however, get stuck in the mud. That doesn't stop them from necking. "The heady aroma of scotch and after-shave excited her." Eventually, they make it back to camp.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Later, she's happy to be home (alone), and she describes her charming Early American furnishings. The house makes her feel "cozy, warm, and safe." She settles into the overstuffed rocking chair with its matching ottoman, remembering "sitting here when the kids were little, sick with an earache or colic." On the stereo, Neil Diamond sings "Until It's Time for You to Go." She ponders the relationship with Ryan, the "affair" she's about to launch with a married man, and she wisely decides "to go in with her eyes wide open, and her heart wide open, too."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Jakie and Ryan have plans for dinner the next night, but--as often happens--dinner becomes an unnecessary distraction to sex-in-the-barracks. She's a bit disappointed in the digs ("her room was better when she went to YWCA summer camp"), but she rallies. There's awkward talk of birth control, there's a "skimpy black bra-slip," and there's </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >even more</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" > discussion of possible morning-after regrets and resentments. She admits to being "terribly naive."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >It's erotic, and it covers all the bases (those mandatory, and those optional), and I try to get through the reading of it as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Ryan is also in a bit of a hurry. "'No, really, I'm just fine,' she lied."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The book is full of conversations with assorted men: funny, flirtatious, intimate, instructive, and newsy conversations. Some are military in nature; others are about family members or the local culture, maybe weather or farming. I'd be surprised if my mom fabricated any of these small exchanges; they read like real conversations, often without neat beginnings or endings. I wonder about all the men she chatted with--old and young, married and single, officers and enlisted men, locals and visitors--and what they remember of her.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >At one point, Jakie has a long (and probably ill-considered) discussion with Ryan about her marriage to Ron. </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Later, she asks Ryan if he will ever return, just to see her. Or--if that's asking too much--will he call her from anywhere in the mountain west, and she can hop in her Pinto and... But he shakes his head and says, "If you don't like the answer, Jakie, don't ask the question." Understandably, this disappoints her, but she doesn't let on. Instead, they go skinny dipping, before making sweet love on the carpeted floor of the Officers' Club. Once again, it's over quickly, and he rushes off to be with "his men." She feels "an overwhelming fatigue" and "an aching loneliness coming on like a summer cold."<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I'm surprised by a few paragraphs on page 92. Jakie gets a phone call from a sister informing her that the family discussed Jakie's work situation, and they agree that the job at Camp Bradley is "unsuitable." They're worried and concerned (Jakie reads this as disapproval). I wonder if her family really felt that way. If so, I never heard about it.</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Above all, I'm struck by Jakie's loneliness. It seems...crushing, bruising. As I read, I want to help her find a friend; I want to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >be</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> her friend. She's searching for connection--she's desperate for it--but the only options she considers are men. Men who will leave! I mean, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >most</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> men leave, but this group of men is actually</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > scheduled</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> to leave. A bus will pull up and haul them off; they risk Leavenworth if they stay behind. There must be a better way than </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >this</span><span style="font-family:arial;">...a better way to find love or friendship, a better way to lift the burden of loneliness.</span><br /><br /></span> <span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >Anyway. It's Ryan's last day at Camp Bradley, and Jakie hasn't seen him. At the club that night, last rounds are ordered, and good-byes are said. The place slowly empties, and Jakie is about to lock the doors. She's in the kitchen when she hears it: "For the Good Times" on the jukebox. He's here! She wants to run to him, throw her arms around him, kiss his mouth, laugh, cry...but she doesn't. "Hi!" she says, cheerfully. "Where've you been?"<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >They go back to the barracks. After the efficient sex, there are tears. She suspects she'll never see him again. "Don't think about it," he says gruffly. But i</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >n an effort to protect himself, he hurts her. </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >She yells at him for being insensitive, and then she cries some more. He tries to comfort her ("I'll never forget these past two weeks..."), but he makes it pretty clear that this is </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >it</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >. "He kissed her meaningfully, but with finality."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> And he's gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">You know, t</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >here's a fine line between what is trite and what is universal. Almost all grownup women will relate to these words: "Everything reminded her of him. How could life go on as usual? How could life go on </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >at all</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >? Nothing would ever be the same. She felt <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span> with him; now, she didn't want to feel anything ever again."</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"> She drives home, and crawls in bed. The end.</span><br /></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-23078776672071457842008-12-26T13:29:00.035-07:002009-07-06T15:45:49.812-06:00Short story: "The Day Aunt Bonnie Didn't Kidnap Me"<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>My mom and I were spending August with my Aunt Bonnie in Templeton, California, something we’d done for as long as I can remember. Bonnie was braiding my hair as I perched on the kitchen counter in her one-room-above-garage apartment. She was in a chatty mood.<br /><br />“What’s the best revenge, Suzanne?” she asked.<br /><br />“Apathy?” I guessed.<br /><br />“No. Good, but no. It’s the combination of a low BMI and a high degree of spiritual evolution. Without the whiff of religious dogma, of course,” she said.<br /><br />“You know I’m ten, right?”<br /><br />Before Bonnie had a chance to ignore my comment and expand on her fascinating thesis, my mom sighed heavily, rose from the couch, and announced that we were heading back to San Diego immediately. I was horrified. We never leave before Labor Day.<br /><br />“We have another eight days here!” I said, in a voice that was louder and more desperate than I expected. I modulated, to sound more mature, more reasonable. (Bonnie values reason. There are four traits she values, and reason is number one.)<br /><br />“</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>We made raspberry jam for the farmers’ market tomorrow</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>,” I continued. “That’s why we're braiding my hair. For the picture on the label…” I had tears in my eyes. The sentences had exhausted me. Ten years of living with my mom had exhausted me.<br /><br />“Why so soon, Claire?” asked Bonnie, moving an inch closer to me and moving her hand to my shoulder.<br /><br />“I can’t stand it here!” my mom shouted. It was painfully shrill in the small room. She began shoving clothes into a duffel bag, including a couple of Bonnie’s T-shirts. “I’m <span style="font-style: italic;">dying</span> here!” she added melodramatically.<br /><br />“Does this have anything to do with that guy at the beach last night?” Bonnie asked, leaving my side to retrieve the T-shirts. “The guy with the Dalmatian?”<br /><br />“No!” shrieked my mom. “This has nothing to do with that ____!” And then she used a word that I won’t repeat, because Bonnie doesn’t like cussing. She says it’s proof of a weak character and an even weaker vocabulary. And those rare times when I say something sarcastic, she calls me a “wiseacre.” Apparently, that used to be a word; it’s even in the dictionary.<br /><br />“Get your stuff!” my mom yelled in my direction. “Now!” I was still on the counter, my bare legs dangling. I felt dizzy. That night on the beach, after my mom left with the guy and his cute dog, Bonnie and I discussed the summer's theme, which was Assertiveness (another trait valued by Bonnie, and an improvement over the previous summer’s theme, which was 19th-Century British Novels: Do We Love Them or Hate Them?). We even did some role-playing exercises sitting side-by-side on the damp sand, testing my newfound assertiveness skills, probably in an attempt to distract me from my mom’s sudden absence.<br /><br />Remembering what I’d learned, I hopped off the counter. I stood up straight, feet apart, hands on hips, trying not to cry.<br /><br />“You go, Mom,” I said, trying to sound casual, even helpful. “I’ll stay with Aunt Bonnie.”<br /><br />She thought about it (or so I like to think), grabbed the duffel and her purse, and left. Bonnie and I listened to her feet on the stairs, the car door slamming, the tires squealing as she pulled onto the road.<br /><br />After determining that I didn’t need to talk, cry, or eat ice cream directly from the carton, Bonnie suggested that we get back to work. She took a picture of me, scanned it, and printed labels with the clunky brand-name “Country Girl I Think You’re Pretty” above the picture, and the words “Raspberry Jam” below the picture. We made twenty-four pints, “affixed” the labels (that day’s vocabulary word), and put them in a box for the farmers’ market the next morning.<br /><br />“Don’t we need to list the ingredients or something?” I asked.<br /><br />“This isn’t Walmart, sweetheart,” she said. “The rules are different.”<br /><br />“<span style="font-style: italic;">That</span> different?”<br /><br />She nodded absentmindedly.<br /><br />I went to bed early, but Bonnie stayed up making salsa and bone-shaped dog treats and listening to Neil Young on vinyl. I fell asleep in her bed, feeling safe and snug.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />Months later, when I turned eleven, Bonnie—who home schools me—announced that I was now in junior high and would be required to shower daily in front of thirty strangers. I was puzzled and distressed, but apparently it was a joke. We went to a Mexican restaurant for lunch, and Bonnie presented me with five crisp twenty-dollar bills.<br /><br />I was in awe, because another trait that Bonnie values is frugality. I half expected her to give me a coupon book for my birthday, with coupons for hugs and brownies and extra school holidays. I wouldn’t have guessed that she <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> a hundred dollars.<br /><br />Instead of having a regular job, Bonnie cares for a Labrador retriever (Thomas) while his people (the Woodards, both accountants) are at work (and even when they’re not). In exchange, they let us live above their detached two-car garage. The apartment is a twenty-by-fifteen-foot room, with a wooden staircase running along the outside to the ground. The yard is full of trees, and we get all the avocados, limes, and figs we want (free!). At the bottom of the staircase, there’s room for Bonnie’s blue Honda Civic.<br /><br />Bonnie claims to require a lot of sitting-around time, but I never see her sitting around. All week long, she makes things to sell at the year-round farmers’ market on Saturdays and Sundays. Well, <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> make things. And she reminds me frequently that it’s all part of my schooling. She also reminds me frequently that if anyone in uniform—or anyone who “puts off a teacher vibe”—asks, Bonnie is my mother, not my aunt. I asked if honesty is one of the four things she values, and she said that it <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> made the cut.<br /><br />Bonnie calls it home-ec class when we crochet scarves or make jumbo oatmeal cookies with walnuts and figs. She calls it woodworking class when we make buttons from the small branches of manzanita trees. She calls it botany when we transplant aloe vera cuttings into brightly painted terra-cotta pots. My friend Adam attends public school and informed me that: (1) botany is not an elective offered to sixth graders, (2) despite Bonnie’s dire warnings, school is not particularly “mind-numbing” or “treacherous,” and (3) the lunchroom pizza is excellent. Adam’s mom, Heidi, sells cloth diapers and tie-dyed onesies at the farmers’ market and is Bonnie’s only friend, as far as I can tell.<br /><br />I love weekends. It takes an hour to two to get our stuff to the park and arrange it attractively on card tables, but then we relax and have fun. The people and the dogs are friendly, and most of the farmers hand out free samples (I take full advantage while avoiding gluttony, per Bonnie’s instruction). As things wind down in the late afternoon, we swap our unsold items for fresh fruits and vegetables, wheat bread, and the occasional bracelet made from an old spoon.<br /><br />Bonnie doesn’t insist that I call her mom, but she prefers that I avoid calling her Bonnie or Aunt Bonnie when strangers are around. We resemble each other. We’re both tall, and take long strides. I have reddish-brown hair, and have lately noticed that Bonnie is coloring and styling her hair to look more like mine. I’m surprised she doesn’t insist that we wear matching outfits in public. She feels things deeply, and the thing she feels most deeply is love for me, and fear of losing me to my mom or to faceless “authorities.” My opinion is that she suffers needlessly.<br /><br />There’s not a lot of variety in our schedule. We took a short vacation (“an extended field trip”) right after my eleventh birthday when Bonnie made $800 by selling a magazine article called “Passing for Rich: Good Teeth, Good Grammar, Good Manners.” We drove up the California coast and into Oregon. On our way home, in Half Moon Bay, we had lunch at a diner. Bonnie applied lip gloss before entering, and seemed particularly alert the entire time we ate. I’m quite sure she expected Neil Young (who, according to liner notes, owns a ranch in the area) to wander in for coffee, chat us up, and write a song about us. He did not.<br /><br />The next morning, we went to the aquarium in Monterey, and drove through Steinbeck country. She had me read aloud from “The Moon Is Down” when we stopped for a picnic in Salinas. It was fun.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />We spend a lot of time together, and Bonnie makes it clear that no question is off-limits. As a result, I know all about my mother and her shortcomings. One afternoon, when we were both bored with my algebra lesson, I asked Bonnie how old she was when I was born.<br /><br />“I was twenty-one,” she said, “two years older than your mom. Even then, I worried that she lacked devotion.” (It probably goes without saying that Bonnie values devotion.) “When you turned two, she asked me to plan a birthday party, and she asked—as an afterthought—if I’d check with County Health to see if you needed any immunizations.” She shook her head. “You were so dear, Suzanne, so smart. And she was impatient, and easily distracted: by men, by shiny things, by novelty. I thought it would be in your best interest if I <span style="font-style: italic;">pretended</span> that she was a good mom. But now…I don’t know. Maybe I should have kidnapped you. I spoke fluent Spanish; I should have colored my hair—and yours—and pretended to be an undocumented worker. It might have been fun.”<br /><br />“It's probably not as fun as it looks.”<br /><br />She shrugged, and looked wistful.<br /><br />“Where did you learn Spanish?” I asked.<br /><br />“Some guy,” she said, dismissing further discussion. “Let’s put Spanish on the list for next semester.”<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />Another time, I asked Bonnie about my dad. I knew he was killed in a motorcycle accident when I was a few weeks old. My mom always insisted that he was a great guy (“an amazing musician!”) and very devoted to me (for a few weeks, anyway). I’ve seen a half dozen photos of him, but none in which he’s holding me. I summoned the courage to ask Bonnie if he was, indeed, “a great guy.” Bonnie took a deep breath, looked as if she were in pain, and said, “Your mom has dated worse.” I asked her to tell me his best trait, and after some thought she said he seemed healthy. I asked her to tell me his worst trait, and she said, “A tendency to exceed the speed limit on rainy nights after a few beers with his buddies.”<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />Early one summer evening—after living with Bonnie for about a year—I was on Adam’s front porch, learning to play chess. Adam and I looked up when we heard honking, and Bonnie’s Honda came screaming around the corner. She pulled up onto the curb and shouted for me to get in the car.<br /><br />“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed, reaching into the backseat to pet Thomas. “Is Thomas sick?”<br /><br />“Tell your mom not to worry!” Bonnie hollered to Adam, as we peeled out.<br /><br />“Why would Heidi worry?” I asked, fastening my seat belt. “Where are we going? Are we kidnapping Thomas? Did someone from the school district call?” Suddenly, I felt like I was going to throw up. I took a deep breath and asked the hard question: “Did an entire family die because we failed to list the ingredients on the jam?”<br /><br />“No! No!” she said, maneuvering through neighborhoods on our way to a main thoroughfare. “Just a sec...”<br /><br />A few minutes later, she explained that my grandma—my dad’s mom, whom I don’t recall ever meeting—recently died of lung cancer, and left her house (which was modest, but paid for) to me.<br /><br />“Well…good,” I said. “Are we going there now?”<br /><br />“No,” she said. “We’re not.”<br /><br />I waited.<br /><br />“Your mom came by, with a man, and the news about the house. When I suggested that the inheritance be used to pay for college, Claire said, ‘That’s one option.’ It went downhill from there.”<br /><br />“Are they okay?” I asked. “Did you…hurt them?”<br /><br />Bonnie gave me a strange look. She opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again.<br /><br />“I know you have a gun taped behind your sewing machine cabinet,” I admitted.<br /><br />“I didn’t hurt them,” she said. “Do you think I…should have?”<br /><br />“No! No! I’m glad you didn’t!”<br /><br />“I told them I’d be right back, with you,” she said. “They wanted me to leave Thomas behind, but I refused. He so enjoys a ride in the car…”<br /><br />“My mom wants me back, so she can have the money. Right?”<br /><br />“Yes.” Bonnie handed me a cookie from her purse. “But don’t worry.”<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />We drove for about twenty minutes (east, I think) before pulling into a truck stop. She parked, popped the hatchback, and retrieved the emergency kit (she refers to it as the emergency kit, but I always suspected it was full of craft items). She emptied the contents of the change caddy and the glove compartment into her large purse, and told me she’d be right back…to wait in the car, with Thomas and the emergency kit.<br /><br />She walked among the big trucks, seeming to look for someone. She finally approached an older guy (good looking, wearing a plaid shirt) and talked to him earnestly. He looked over at me, shook his head, and swung up into the truck. Bonnie struck what she probably thought was a sexy pose, with one hip jutting out, and fluffed her hair with her fingers. I don’t know what she told him, but he seemed to think about it before reluctantly getting down from the truck. Bonnie motioned for me and Thomas to join them.<br /><br />I walked across the parking lot, the heavy duffel bag in one hand and Thomas’s leash in the other.<br /><br />“This nice man is giving us a ride, Suzanne,” she said.<br /><br />“Where are we going, and what’s wrong with the Honda?” I asked.<br /><br />“I’ll explain later,” she said, taking the duffel bag from me, and attempting to give me a boost up into the truck.<br /><br />I backed away. Perhaps for the first time (or maybe the second or third time), I doubted Bonnie’s wisdom.<br /><br />“There <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> be an Amber Alert,” I said to her. “You <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> that.”<br /><br />And the guy climbed into his truck, and shut the door behind him.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />Bonnie and I stood there in the parking lot. Thomas did a sit (his only trick).<br /><br />“Bonnie...” I said. “Were you planning to hide us from my mom by pretending to be that stranger’s wife and kid?”<br /><br />“Yes,” she said wistfully, looking out over the parking lot, at where the truck had been.<br /><br />“A new life in Georgia or Ohio or someplace?” I asked.<br /><br />“Florida panhandle,” she answered.<br /><br />“Ah,” I said.<br /><br />I took her hand.<br /><br />“But that’s kidnapping,” I said. “You don’t have to sacrifice <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span>, Bonnie. You don’t have to go to <span style="font-style: italic;">prison</span>. I’ll be eighteen eventually. And we both know that <span style="font-style: italic;">long</span> before that, my mom will lose interest in me. She’ll get the money from the house, spend it, and then notice that raising a teenage daughter is a <span style="font-style: italic;">huge</span> hassle.”<br /><br />We walked back to the car.<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />By the time we got home, my mom and her boyfriend were furious.<br /><br />“I was just about to call the police!” she said.<br /><br />“I’m sorry we were gone so long,” said Bonnie, faking sincerity. “It’s Suzanne’s time-of-the-month, and we had to go to three stores before we found what we needed.” I was very confused (and embarrassed in a vague way), but my mom seemed to buy the explanation.<br /><br />“I want you to come home with me, Suzanne,” she said.<br /><br />“Why?”<br /><br />“Because I miss you,” she said.<br /><br />“I don’t believe you.”<br /><br />“I don’t give a goddamn what you believe,” she snarled. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”<br /><br />So I promised to tell any social worker or judge who would listen about the years of physical and mental abuse heaped on me by my very own mother. She turned angrily to Bonnie—probably convinced that this was her idea—but this was all me.<br /><br />“I did not hit you!” she shouted.<br /><br />“Yes, you did! Repeatedly!” I said, getting into the lie. I looked at Bonnie, exhilarated.<br /><br />“You two planned this,” said my mom. “You planned this in the car on the way over here.”<br /><br />“No, we didn’t! I’ve never told Bonnie about the beatings,” I said, surprised to hear my voice break. Bonnie took me in her arms.<br /><br />“Why didn’t you <span style="font-style: italic;">tell</span> me, sweetheart?” she whispered, but <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> knew that <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> knew it was “useful fibbing” (Bonnie’s term). “I wish you’d told me…”<br /><br />The discussion confused my mom, who stood there awkwardly as Bonnie murmured reassuringly while stroking my hair.<br /><br />“A judge will never believe you,” said my mom, but with less certainty. I think she was trying to remember if she <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> beaten me.<br /><br />“I think a judge might,” said the boyfriend. “She’s a convincing little bitch.”<br /><br />I thought Bonnie was going to hit him, or stab him with the kitchen shears.<br /><br />“Get out,” she said. “Do what you have to do, but get out of our house.”<br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>***</span></span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span><br />Bonnie and I had a long talk that night while making cloth-bound journals for the farmers’ market.<br /><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>“</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>I know there are<span style="font-style: italic;"> no limits</span> to what you would do to protect me,</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>”</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span> I told her. I took a deep breath. </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>“</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>I need there to be a couple of limits.</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>”<br /><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>“</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>Okay,</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span>”</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span> she said.<br /><br />We admired the polka-dot journals. I fetched our cocoa from the microwave, grabbed a treat for Thomas, and put “After the Gold Rush” on the record player.<br /><br />“I love you,” she said, grinning at me.<br /><br />"Well, would it <span style="font-style: italic;">kill</span> you to <span style="font-style: italic;">show</span> it every now and then?" I asked.<br /><br />"Wiseacre," she said.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-74647301044364596302008-12-16T15:38:00.039-07:002010-09-24T13:27:37.383-06:00The Man Who Taped Donuts to the Door<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A year or so ago, my younger sister Peggy and I visited our dad (Tank) and our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">stepmom</span></span> at their home on the Central Coast of California. Peggy and I stayed at a nearby motel, so we could stay up late talking and laughing and snacking, without bothering anyone. Tank was in the habit of getting up at dawn and heading for a local donut shop, and--as we left his house to head for the motel that first night--he invited us to go along the next morning. We declined, so that we could sleep in (we never claimed to be the world's best daughters). He said that he'd bring donuts to the motel. "Not <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> early," Peggy said graciously.<br /><br />We fell asleep late, and a sound at the door woke us at about eight. Tank was gone by the time Peggy got to the door. To avoid waking us, and to avoid putting food on the ground, he had used masking tape (the man is never without a roll of masking tape) to secure a paper bag to the motel-room door. Peggy pulled the bag off the door and brought it to our beds.<br /><br />It felt more like Christmas morning than was probably warranted. He'd asked how many donuts we each wanted, and he brought two for Peggy and one for me (I would later revise my order upward). The bag also contained apple juice for Peggy, hot water for my tea, a handful of Tootsie Rolls, and a newspaper. Feeling like princesses, we ate our breakfast, got ready, and reported to Tank's house. We were whisked off for a day of unbeatable scenery, food, and conversation.<br /><br />When a day is that good, one doesn't crave variety. The second morning, Peggy and I were already awake at eight when Tank arrived with breakfast. In fact, Peggy was standing at the foot of my bed in her scrubs and tank top, eye pressed to the peephole, peering into the marine layer.<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Shhhh</span></span>," she said. "He's here."<br />"We could invite him in," I suggested.<br />"No," she said. "I think he likes it this way."<br /><br />The bag was bigger this time, but he efficiently taped it to the door again. We waited...waited...waited until he drove away, and then Peggy opened the door and snatched the bag. "Woo-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hoo</span></span>!" she said. I'd made it abundantly clear the night before that I was no longer "dieting," and I requested two (or more) donuts and any other treats he chose to include. In addition to the donuts and the drinks, the bag contained gingersnaps from Trader Joe's, beef jerky, local apples, cashews, and something chocolate. I considered never going home. Sure, the room was a bit crowded for two people, but I could get used to Peggy's snoring, and we could probably find jobs on the Central Coast...<br /><br />Our vacation lasted two more days, and each was as fun as the last. Nothing quite beats being cared for, being pampered, being indulged. But with a man my age (or, really, with any man except Tank), it's necessary to pay attention, to watch for signs of dependency or imbalance. With Tank, I can let my guard down; he is, in fact, my guard. When I'm with him, I'm more daughter than woman. If we were in a car at night, and he was driving (and of course he'd be driving), I could fall asleep. I couldn't do that with any other person.<br /><br />Like all of us, Tank is flawed, but I'll write about his flaws another time (lucky him). I'll list some of my fondest memories here, and arrange them chronologically.</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span></span><ul><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">As a child, there are few sensual pleasures that beat falling asleep in a moving car, after dark, lulled by the gentle voices of one's parents. Dozens of times, probably hundreds of times--and before mandatory seat-belt laws kept us safe but far less comfortable--I awoke slowly as the station wagon came to a stop: at a red light on a freeway off-ramp, at grandma's house, at home. I pretended to be asleep, because I wanted to be carried inside. I remember the cool night air, the whispered instructions, the sound of car doors being closed quietly. Tank would carry us--one by one--into the house, into bed. My mom would be right behind him, to tuck, to fuss, to kiss goodnight.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was six or seven, there were--at certain times of year in Southern California--caterpillars <span style="font-style: italic;">everywhere</span>, and especially crawling up the walls of our stucco house (so gross). I was scared of them. Unreasonably. Hysterically. One day, I was wearing shorts, alone in the backyard, near the back porch, and I felt something on the back of my sturdy calf. I glanced around, and saw that a caterpillar was climbing up <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. I could not have been more horrified. I think I would have been less distressed if I'd stumbled upon a burglar, or a dead body. I stood there, rooted to the ground. I began to scream, and I did not stop. Tank was home (he sometimes worked nights), and he ran out of the back door, leaped off the porch, and--with one huge and mighty hand--brushed the offending beast from my little-girl flesh. I collapsed into Tank's arms, sobbing. I remember glowing with pride later, realizing that he wasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">at all</span> afraid of caterpillars.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In my Long Beach, California, elementary school, third-grade "social studies" was spent studying oceans and harbors. And since the school was a few miles from one of the world's best and busiest harbors, our studies culminated in a field trip. (I'd been surprised, at age eight, to learn that most harbors--including the Port of Los Angeles--are man-made, and I ran home gushing with new-found, if imperfect, knowledge and said to my mom, "Did you know that the <span style="font-style: italic;">ocean</span> is <span style="font-style: italic;">man-made</span>?!?") Well, who better to direct the harbor tour than my dad, a longshoreman. I remember getting on the school bus and sitting primly next to my best friend Jeff Dill, as my dad stood at the front of the bus in a trench coat (who knew he owned a trench coat?), and the teacher introduced him as Mr. Nelson (I'd never heard him called that before). He was unusually formal and non-dad-like, and I approved. The next day, all thirty kids wrote thank-you notes to him, and I still have my note, and Jeff's.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Perhaps the first time I felt attractive post-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pubescently</span></span> was when I starred as Cornelia Otis Skinner in a high-school production of "Our Hearts Were Young and Gay." The costumes were cute, and most of the funny lines were mine. My family was living in Utah by then, but Tank still worked in California. The day of the final performance, he flew back to Utah to see the play. I must have mentioned it to someone, because during the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">pre</span></span>-performance "prayer circle," the director mentioned that "Polly's dad flew all the way from California to see the play, so let's do our very best." I blushed, basking in the hint of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">exceptionality</span></span> and sophistication.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">It was summertime, and I was 20 or 21, working alongside my mom and Tank, delivering beer and burgers to peacetime soldiers on the poolside patio of an Officers' Club in Utah. I was young enough to be wearing cutoffs, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">strappy</span></span> cotton-knit top, and no bra. When I bent to hand a paper plate to a soldier stretched out on the grass, my blouse briefly fell away from my body. Tank was nearby, and he noticed, and when we were alone, he said--shyly, without eye contact--"Bending over in that blouse reveals...too much of your femininity." It struck me as such a gallant phrase. Much better, really, than, "You realize that every man here has now seen your tits, right?"</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">I was feeling sorry for myself one snowy evening during my early twenties--curled up on the couch in my apartment, listening to John Denver on the stereo--when my mom called. Fifteen minutes later, she and Tank picked me up, and we drove thirty miles north to Salt Lake City to see "A Star is Born" (they allowed me to sit between them during the movie, and I felt like a much-loved child, which is exactly what I was). After, we went to dinner at a place that served comfort food, and I ordered meatloaf, and Tank ordered turkey and stuffing (my mom probably had a burger, or a French dip). When the food arrived, Tank's meal looked better than mine, and I said, "Your meal looks better than mine." And without a word, without missing a beat, he picked up the plates, and gave me his. He began eating the meatloaf, and I stared at him, wondering if I could ever be that selfless.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In my mid-twenties, my young husband and I frequented a Trolley Square restaurant called R.J. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Wheatfield's</span></span>. We ordered big bowls of fish chowder and an occasional sandwich bursting with Swiss cheese and sprouts. For dessert, we shared a giant oatmeal cookie, about eight inches across. Once, when Tank was visiting, he joined us at R.J.'s, and the three of us shared a cookie after our meal (or before our meal...we were <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> open minded). As we left, I pointed to the huge cookies in the display case, and said, "I always want to get some to take home, but they're <span style="font-style: italic;">a dollar each</span>." (My husband was in graduate school at the time, and we'd embraced a certain level of frugality. A level that stopped just short of me cooking a meal.) Tank paid the dinner bill and asked the cashier for six (six!) oatmeal cookies to take home. They were soft and warm, and I held them on my lap in the dark car, the way I'd hold a puppy.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In my late twenties, a co-worker loaned me a book called "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Shibumi</span></span>" by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Trevanian</span></span>. It was different from other books I'd read, and I couldn't stop talking about it and recommending it. I don't think Tank ever read it, but one day I received a large and heavy box in the mail: It was fifteen or twenty copies of "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Shibumi</span></span>," which he'd amassed at used bookstores over the course of a year or so. He thought I might want to give copies to friends.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Tank surprised me in my early thirties by accompanying my small family on a trip to Disneyland. Mostly, he sat on a park bench and watched as humanity traipsed by wearing mouse ears, but he joined us on It's a Small World. I have a favorite photo of Tank with his arm around my five-year-old son, sitting side by side in a small boat, grinning. The next morning, Tank suggested that he drive back to Utah with us, and the four of us hopped in the Honda Civic wagon and drove straight through. There I was, with my dad, my husband, and my son, feeling like the luckiest woman on earth. </span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">"There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware..."</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">In my late thirties, I sent an idea for an article to more than a dozen magazines. After being rejected by all but one, the idea was accepted by Woman's Day. An editor called me with the good news and an offer of $500. I immediately called Tank. His delight, pride, and unbridled enthusiasm--his absolute confidence in my abilities--made the accomplishment all the sweeter.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Tank sends the best mail, and he sends a lot of it. Almost daily, I receive a postcard, letter, newspaper clipping, or going-out-to-lunch cash. And the packages! He frequently sends Robert Parker novels (a topnotch stress reliever when read cover-to-cover during a hot bath), postage stamps, dog and cat treats, saltwater taffy, beef jerky, and--my favorite--Symphony bars. He sends one Symphony bar for each member of my family, but please don't tell <span style="font-style: italic;">them</span> that.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">A couple of years ago, I took <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">JetBlue</span></span> from Utah to Long Beach, where Tank met my plane. After stopping for breakfast, we headed for San Pedro, where he'd spent most of his life; I hadn't visited in decades. The day was <span>crammed</span> with fun. First, we visited my always-handsome (and quite seriously ill but hiding it) Uncle Bill. As the short visit was ending, I hugged Bill, right before he said that he really wasn't much for hugging. Then, we visited my Uncle Harry and his charming wife Duffy, who seemed to adore the grown-up version of me as much as she'd adored the little-girl version of me (which was <span style="font-style: italic;">lots</span>). Then, we visited Tank's buddy Manuel (be still my heart). Tank and I had seafood for lunch, spent the afternoon walking up and down Hollywood Boulevard, and had Mexican food for dinner. The next morning, we drove up the coast to his home.<br /></span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">To a large extent, visiting Tank means long scenic drives to excellent restaurants. The drives can be long enough (Santa Barbara, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Monterey</span></span>), and the meals leisurely enough, that it takes all day. During this same trip, Tank took me to Nepenthe in Big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Sur</span></span> for my first $15 cheeseburger. We sat on a deck that juts out over the Pacific, where we were surrounded by cheerful, friendly tourists. We watched the birds and the waves, and I could tell that this was one of Tank's favorite spots.</span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">At the end of the visit, I took the Greyhound bus home, because I like a transportation adventure (even a 21-hour adventure). Tank drove me to the bus depot in San Luis <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Obispo</span></span>, and handed me a sack lunch that weighed more than my duffel bag full of clothes. "Enough to share," he said. There were bologna sandwiches, meatloaf sandwiches, dill pickles, carrot sticks, raisins, cookies, chocolate-covered peanuts, a juice assortment, and two cans of diet Dr. Pepper. I'm fairly good at chatting up (and occasionally feeling up) strangers, and the surplus of delicious food made things even more fun. </span></span></li><li><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Perhaps it's evident that a high percentage of my memories of Tank are related to food. Here's more. When I was a kid, he delighted me with plates of "Spanish" rice, prepared the way my mom liked it, with no ingredient more exotic than a bit of onion salt. If Tank and my mom were going out for dinner, he made an early and kid-friendly meal of fish sticks (with ketchup), white bread (buttered and quartered), and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Niblets</span></span> corn. When I was a teen, he made enormous chef salads and tuna salads for me, with toast points, but without dressing or mayo (per my request). Nowadays when I visit, and we eat dinner at his house, the womenfolk settle into easy chairs while watching <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Britcoms</span></span> or a M*A*S*H rerun, and Tank brings dinner on trays: small amounts of about ten different items...maybe bite-size pieces of melon, a scoop of Waldorf salad, sliced salami, cubes of provolone, a macaroon. I feel like The Very Hungry Caterpillar in the Eric <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Carle</span></span> storybook. But perhaps my favorite food memory is of a recent October night, when we stayed outside longer than usual, chatting with neighbors in the front yard. There was a cold breeze off the ocean, and I was wrapped in a borrowed coat, and Tank suddenly--magically!--appeared with over-sized, colorful mugs of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">chai</span></span> tea, all sweet and milky and hot. Sipping it felt like a hug, like a proud or amused grin. Like Tank.</span></span></li></ul>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1024292548886538896.post-94810302572635472008-12-14T14:54:00.016-07:002009-07-06T18:06:13.729-06:00Does This Green Beret Make Me Look Fat?<span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >I was at Fort Bragg, shacked up with a Special Forces soldier. He'd left for work at dawn, with a promise to be home by noon, and I was alone in his studio apartment for the first time since my arrival three days earlier.<br /><br />After showering, I donned a kelly-green sundress and began the arduous task of applying makeup in an un-air-conditioned room in late August in North Carolina. I curled my hair and then curled it again. I sat primly on the black leather couch, trying to preserve my freshly ironed dress and my auburn shag haircut. I was twenty-two.<br /><br />I stared across the room at a small TV atop a small refrigerator. I lacked the courage to approach either. If he caught me watching TV, he'd judge me slothful; if he caught me eating, he'd judge me gluttonous. I sat there, willing myself not to sweat.<br /><br />Noon passed, and two, and four. I left the couch once to pee and twice to brush my teeth. I no longer looked dewy fresh, and I was lightheaded from not having eaten since lunch the previous day.<br /><br />At five, he walked in, unspeakably gorgeous in olive drab: tall, lean, blond, blue eyed. He kissed me passionately and called me magnolia blossom. His voice was like caramel syrup, like buttered grits, like flannel pajamas on a winter night. He tasted like apples. Without exactly apologizing for being late, he made reference to the incompetence of assorted captains and majors. He'd just eaten...was I hungry? Oh, no! Never! Thank you!<br /><br />"What did you do all day?" he asked, his tone friendly. "Anything fun?"<br /><br />"I read Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John," I lied.<br /><br />"Good for you!" he said.<br /><br />We had sex on the couch and then in the shower. He was loving and thorough and better every time. I had the clear impression he'd made a list of "Places to Make Love to Polly." My green dress was in a crumpled heap on the floor; my mascara was smeared beneath my eyes. Maybe it'll make me look gaunt, I thought. Is gaunt the same as thin?<br /><br />We lay side by side on the twin bed, knees drawn up. My long legs suddenly seemed a bit doughy and untoned, although I was underweight at the time.<br /><br />"I worry about getting fat," I said (preemptively).<br /><br />"Me, too," he said.<br /><br />"But you're so thin!" I said.<br /><br />"No, I worry about <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> getting fat," he said.<br /><br />I lay there, eyes wide, resisting the urge to "act out emotionally." (I'd read--in the journal I'd found in his sock drawer--that he didn't care for women who did that.) I began to wonder when he would dump me and how many years I would spend trying to forget him.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Two days later, he dropped me off at the airport at dawn to wait for my mid-afternoon flight. I sat alone, reading "Autopsy." When the book failed to cheer me, and it seemed unlikely that the man I loved was going to return to the small Fayetteville airport, rush through the terminal entrance, grab me by the shoulders, and say, "Please don't go...I'll die if you go," I bought and ate four Almond Joys.<br /><br />(I hadn't eaten much in five days. At a cafeteria, he'd heaped his tray with fried chicken, grits, black-eyed peas, watermelon, two glasses of milk, and a thick slice of chocolate cake. I'd sprinkled a small baked potato with pepper, searching his face for signs of disapproval.)<br /><br />The Almond Joys kicked in, proving too much for my empty stomach, and I hurried to the restroom. I couldn't get into a stall without a dime, and, once in, I didn't want to leave. A bathroom stall is a manageable size. It was clean; it looked easy to maintain. I had my book, my purse, my memories of love...<br /><br />My tears were interrupted by a cleaning woman methodically checking for feet and then unlocking stall doors. Apparently, I looked as invisible as I felt, and I was too tired or too sad to insist on privacy. She opened my door. Black, bored, perhaps sympathetic...I thought about inviting her in.<br /><br />After changing planes in Washington and Chicago, I arrived in Salt Lake City. An hour later, I finally located my Ford Pinto in long-term parking and drove home.<br /><br />I curled up in a quilt and reviewed the situation. It was clear to both of us that I wasn't good enough to marry. The question remained: Was I good enough to fuck? He seemed to enjoy having sex with me. Of course, he also enjoyed hating me for allowing sex. Fortunately, he was bright enough to see that this made him an ass. Unfortunately, he could also hate me for making him feel like an ass.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >***</span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />We'd met early that summer at the Officers' Club at a military post in Utah. I was a barmaid; he was a first lieutenant. He looked so wholesome, so down-home, that I assumed he was a local boy (and, thus, a Mormon), but I was wrong. He hung around until my shift ended, and we sat at a small table and got to know each other. He talked about farming; he talked about how the Civil War had little to do with slavery. I found out that he was a college graduate and a land owner, and that he valued rigorous savings programs and rigorous exercise programs. I smiled, knowing that I couldn't offer much more than my warm and eager body stretched out next to him in my cozy apartment.<br /><br />The next night, he went home with me, and two more nights after that. I don't recall seducing him, although I've never played hard-to-get. (I had considerably more sexual experience than he did, but cannot recall getting any points for that.) I remember standing in the parking lot next to my idling car, wearing corduroy bell-bottoms and a gauzy peasant blouse, grinning ear to ear and probably ovulating...he really can't be blamed for hopping in. I'm sure he knew that I wanted to wrap my legs around him, to make him laugh, to know more about his version of the Civil War.<br /><br />After those three nights together (and minutes before returning to Fort Bragg), he revealed that he was a born-again Christian. I was stunned, furious. I knew that this would eventually doom us; I knew that--try as I might--I wouldn't be able to fake accepting-Jesus-Christ-as-my-lord-and-savior. And later I would accept the harsher truth: He wouldn't find it necessary to reject me based on my religious inadequacies, because my other inadequacies were so many, and so glaring.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Shortly after our three days in Utah, I flew to Virginia Beach to spend the weekend with him.<br /><br />"You don't have to do this," my mom said on the way to the airport.<br /><br />"You think I have <span style="font-style: italic;">doubts</span>?" I asked.<br /><br />"Yes," she said.<br /><br />I was disappointed by a lukewarm greeting when he met me at the airport. I was so far from home (my first time east of the Mississippi), and I wanted to draw my knees up to my chin, protectively, sitting beside him in his pickup truck. He sensed something and--bless his heart--pulled to the side of the road and put his arms around me. He held me like that until I felt cherished, and, when we arrived at the motel, he continued to make me feel cherished. (There's a photo from that weekend--his favorite photo, he said--that shows me standing in front of a famous lighthouse. I'm wearing a floral skirt and a red blouse--very modest, very becoming--and my smile is content, even serene.)<br /><br />I knew he liked me. I knew he didn't <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> me, because one night after sex he said, "I don't love you." I knew I'd never meet his mama, or his commanding officer, but he liked the way I flirted with him, and teased him, and wasn't afraid to adore him. He knew I wasn't stupid, although once he found it necessary to correct my spelling in a chatty and passionate letter I'd sent.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />After the Virginia Beach visit--playing house in the motel room, gazing out at the ocean, talking endlessly, learning to be tender with each other--I was sure I wanted him. Nights and weekends, we talked on the phone for hours, revealing ourselves. It was both earnest and erotic, and I never got bored. Weekdays, I'd leave work at lunch time, drive home, and check the mailbox. I didn't have time to enter the apartment or eat anything, but that was okay: My only desire was a letter from him. He didn't write as frequently as I did (daily), but he wrote often, and well. We were connected during that brief time, and adoration and admiration flowed easily, and in both directions.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />When I flew to Fort Bragg later that summer, I anticipated bliss. We were practically buddies, and I thought I'd enjoy a new sense of ease and belonging. There was some of that, but there was also the feeling that I was being hidden away. I, of course, assumed that he was ashamed of me, and that I must not be cute enough (I was) or thin enough (I was). Decades later, it occurred to me that his failure to introduce me to his friends might have had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his well-tended reputation as God's warrior.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >***</span><br /></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />That autumn, I tried to pretend everything was okay. We were planning a third trip (to Washington, D.C.), and he'd even sent me a Fayetteville newspaper with job and apartment listings. But at this point (and I considered not including this tawdry detail in my little memoir), perhaps I tried to sabotage the relationship.<br /><br />For years, I'd been answering personal ads in Mother Earth News, but I'd stopped (well, I'd taken a break) when I met him. But one tardy letter arrived at my house from a man in southeastern Utah, inviting me to spend the weekend. I was considering doing so (in a platonic way, of course). I should have gone, or not gone, but in a rare and misguided moment of honesty, I mentioned the possible weekend trip. I mentioned, too, the platonic nature of the trip. He accused me of being disingenuous. Imagine! I was offended by his lack of trust, and charmed by his insight and his vocabulary. I didn't go to southeastern Utah (I'd only been half interested in going in the first place), but I allowed a new chink to form in our somewhat-vulnerable relationship. Where my sluttiness (for lack of a better word) had been friendly and inviting, it was now worrisome.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Funny, really, how you think you're expecting something, but then--when it happens--you feel blindsided. That's how it felt in late October of that year, when he called and said it was over. All those carefully hand-written letters, all those phone calls that lasted long enough to require bathroom breaks, the cross-country flights, the tender and enthusiastic sex...how could it be <span style="font-style: italic;">over</span>?<br /><br />Once again, I curled up in a quilt. But this time, there was more crying and less reviewing. All night long I cried, until dawn, until exhaustion. Then, I moved on to reviewing. Was it my fault? Sure. I'd reached too high. Before him, <span style="font-style: italic;">I'd</span> been the wholesome one, the disciplined one, the smart one, and I'd found men who were more than willing to cede me those titles. But with him, I'd never been enough. Or I'd been too much. I'd never been <span style="font-style: italic;">just right</span>. I cried some more, but stopped short of going crazy.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Seven years later, he called again. Minor changes had taken place in my life (I was married, the mother of a two-year-old boy, working at a grownup job I loved), but the really important things had stayed the same: I became dizzy at the sound of his Opie Taylor voice; I stopped eating when gripped with the realization that if he could get my phone number, he could quite possibly get my address; and a week after he called, I dreamed about him. (In the dream, he'd asked me to marry him. When I arrived at the church, white lace from head to toe, I realized that I'd been invited merely as a guest. He was marrying another woman--lovelier, more virtuous, not given to caustic humor or going without a bra.)<br /><br />I was home alone when he called, and while I was no longer in love with <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>, I would always be in love with the sound of his voice. I sat cross-legged on the floor, allowing myself additional similes: His voice was like warm sand between bare toes...like one more praline when you thought they were all gone...like when it's too chilly to stay outside, but you don't want to go in yet, and someone hands you a hooded sweatshirt. The room darkened, and our voices were warm, husky, affectionate, intimate...bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the conversations of people who have seen each other apply deodorant or give birth. He had married (and later divorced). I asked, "Why her? Why not me?" He answered, "Because she was here." He was being kind.<br /><br />I'm not sure why he called. He was never careless; he was always measured, focused. Everything was carefully planned and executed. My sister suggested that it was a "booty call," but--not only do I detest that term--I think she was wrong. I think he called to make sure I wasn't still curled up in a quilt, missing him, blaming myself, memorizing Wordsworth poems so I could wow him later with my ability to recite Wordsworth poems...<br /><br />This second act of our relationship lasted two or three months, and included several phone calls and letters. I saved the letters in a large envelope with the letters from earlier, but not in a special place--not tucked deep into the pocket of a seldom-worn coat or protected forever in a cedar-lined box. During one of our last phone calls, I said with a lump in my throat, "I hope you remember me as more Melanie Wilkes than Scarlett O'Hara," and he said yes. I could tell he was smiling.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:130%;">***<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />This next part is what I want to happen: He calls; he's in Utah for the weekend (a military outing). The opportunity to see him in uniform is difficult to resist, so I don't. (He hated that about me: my tendency to fall happily into the arms of temptation. Or maybe he loved that about me.) I don a cotton sweater and old jeans and hop into the Honda. At lunch, I order a club sandwich, fries, and a Dr. Pepper. I look at him challengingly, and he smiles and says, "Oh stop it." We linger over coffee, tell jokes, and make sketches on napkins. I surprise him by quoting Clausewitz, and he surprises me by noticing. I kiss his clean-shaven cheek and drive home to the warm embrace of my family.<br /><br />And this final part is what is likely to happen: I never hear from him again.</span>Pollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04912515482390092873noreply@blogger.com0