On Time and Life and Stuff

So here I am again. No, not dead. A lot older, but thankfully not dead. This is a weird feeling...I've not written in so long, but today for the first time in so long, I felt the need to. It's an odd sort of blessing that feeling again. The need to run my fingers across the keys. I was re-reading some of my old stuff and in so doing 'goosing my stats'. I'll feel really good again until I realize that I AM, in fact, my biggest fan and then well...you know. Nothing like a little delusion. So these days, I'm NOT a lot of things anymore. I'm not a 'Cat Mom' anymore or at least, at present. I'm not single anymore. Make of that what you will. I will say though, that I'm not married either. I was thinking how life is often a matter of opposites, back when I was a Cat Mom and nursing Jamie through his diabetes, some days back then, I wished so much that I wasn't a 'Cat Mom', the days of endless shots, worry, no life, and no free time. Now I have my free time and less worries and I'd give just about anything to have my Jamie back. And my Gordy back, my crazy neurotic kidney issue cat. I miss my boys and the sense of feeling useful and needed and loved...there is that. No one makes you feel as loved as a cat who depends on you for everything. I miss being single. Not having to worry about what to do on the weekends. Who wants to do what? Who is going to be offended? Who's parents are going to be bent out of shape about the holidays? All of the myriad 'stuff' that comes with being coupled. I fell apart a little this weekend. After hosting Thanksgiving and cooking, serving and cleaning everything up, I woke up the next day with the kind of pain, stiffness and sore throat that generally accompanies the flu. Although I didn't have the flu, I felt just as wretched. I gave up, cancelled plans and spent the weekend binge-watching Poirot and wishing I was more...more everything. More brave, more competent, more creative, more content, maybe more heroic. Less tired. Less 50. Less overwhelmed. Sometimes I want to be the 11 year-old I was, manically dancing to Prince in my room, dreaming of a life where everything seemed possible and nothing impossible. Believing that I was strong, brave, capable and that I could in fact DO anything I dreamed. Yep. Nothing like a little delusion.

Foundering

It's taken me a while to return to this. In that time period, there's been a last version of Star Wars, Kobe Bryant passed away, I cut my hair a few times, I discovered the Kit Kat Mint Duo, the other day the US returned to space via the Falcon 9 Space X Dragon Rocket..oh and there's a pandemic going on.

I've had a hard time trying to write. Generally, it's easier to write my brand of life-based reality essays when 'life' is actually going on. My life though, effectively stopped on March 18th, 2020. After that I turned into this, a middle aged woman working in her dining room and wandering through her small home in yoga/pajama bottoms and grubby t-shirts. A woman who no longer gets butterflies in her stomach when about to ascend the stage to perform musical based improv. Who no longer sits atop a high table laughing carelessly with friends and colleagues, a glass of red wine or Lemon Drop martini at her side talking out the vagaries of life.

Sometimes I go back in time and it's like watching a movie that I starred in but much like the Thanos 'Snap in Avengers Infinity War, all of my supporting cast has turned to dust and blown away leaving me the sole survivor of my own life. Relationships I thought I was forging have foundered for reasons I don't totally understand.

Lately, I have vacillated between exaggerated optimism and a distinct feeling of dread which no amount of indulgence in 'junk food' or 'junk television' has been able to exonerate. I'm fragile, I cry easily and often. I'm aware that much of what I am experiencing is no different than most other Americans. In fact, I'm luckier. At the moment, I still have my job.

What I've lost though, seemingly is my independence, my structure, my hallowed and rigidly adhered to schedule. I keep trying to 'lean into it', to try and embrace and accept that this is 'just the way life is now', but some part of me won't accept it. I'm irrationally angry a great deal of the time.  I sleep a lot. Then I feel horrible shame and overcompensate by trying to rev myself up and be the best at everything, cook, cleaner, laundress, employee, daughter. I had hoped to be able to include the term 'girlfriend', but alas it seems that is not to be either, again for reasons I don't understand.

In short, like others I guess...I'm grieving. I want my life back, the old one, where I didn't have to wear a mask to the grocery store, where I laughed and cut up with my improv colleagues, where I wasn't so worried about my aging parents, where it didn't feel like the whole damn world was falling apart on a daily basis. The one where I didn't dread switching the TV on to watch the news.  I want to just hug somebody tight and stay there for a bit, germs be damned.

I'm sorry this is a bit gloomy, but for me it's cathartic. It's hard living with so many feelings inside and not being able to give them voice.

I don't want a 'new normal'. I want the 'old familiar'. Crappy days and good ones. Maybe now though, I'll cherish the good ones more...

Infestation

My blog of late has been taken over by bot traffic and so with that in mind, I've taken down most of the content to try and mitigate some of the damage.
Social media can be a scary and confusing animal.
To any of my family or friends who might have been regular readers I apologize.

Que Sera Sera

I miss Doris Day...

Maybe it's just the fact that I can no longer say my favorite actress is still living.  I always found it comforting thinking of her on her California ranch taking care of all her beloved dogs and cats.

Someone once paid me the compliment of saying I reminded them of her. I never asked, but always wondered why? Okay, we were both blondes, both born in Ohio, both cared for the company of animals better than people, and it has to be admitted, both always fell a little short in the love category. Yet Doris was so much the Hollywood star, she was glamorous and pretty and I only wish I possessed the vocal chops and acting prowess she did. She was always my cultural touchstone, many times I found myself thinking, 'what would Doris do?' when faced with a situation that I imagined she might have faced.

One thing we definitely seem to have in common is that we've both known the pain of unrequited love. Doris would ultimately have four (4) husbands but in interviews frequently lamented the one that for reasons she never specified, she really loved but couldn't be with. In each of her marriages, it seemed, she married the one who pursued her the most, but stopped short of being the 'one'. Her third husband famously spent all of her earnings on failed investments (never telling Doris) and his final act before dying was to commit her (without her knowledge) to a television series. Ever the trouper, Doris made good, but after that left Hollywood and the business permanently. She did try at love one last time with a man who won her over by giving her the meat scraps for her dogs from the restaurant he worked at but in the end he too left her, giving snide interviews to the media stating that she loved her dogs more than him. Justifiable. 

I often think that if Doris came of age in the digital era, she and I would have the same love life only through online dating and like me, meet some duds like husband 3 or  maybe some decent guys but never the one she (we) really wanted. 

My friends talked me into a disastrous stint on one of the popular online dating services, I am not going to tell you which one, but rest assured my profile is no longer there. That one landed me a real winner who claimed to be Swedish and work for a international group that sent him on humanitarian missions all around the world. He didn't and I learned firsthand about internet fraud and trickery.  Another guy yelled at me for the sin of liking cats and complained bitterly about the dating site for daring to match him with someone who liked 'poetry from the 16th century' saying, "I mean who cares about poetry from dead guys!" ( I do) One memorable match had a photo of what I can only describe as a room filled with copious amounts of stuffed animals. Just...no.

After this, I began wondering if 'taking the habit' was an option for me, despite not being Catholic. Wounded, I retreated for a bit to lick my wounds. Then recently, I met, through mutual friends, a very nice man who has some of the same interests and we had tentatively been forging a friendship but I hesitated. Too long...and he found someone else that didn't have the same introverted fears.

Yet, like Doris, I am tortured by the fact that it feels like all of this, all my efforts to try to put myself out there are to cover up the fact that I doubt of the 'one's' existence quite frankly. To me though, to stop believing, is simply what I can't seem to do no matter how I try.

So...as Doris once famously sang "Que Sera Sera...whatever will be will be. The future's not ours you see. Que Sera Sera".

I miss you Doris.

I feel like you were the one person who'd understand. Thanks for all that you left behind of yourself, for being the epitome of class and work ethic and for that ear-splitting grin that warmed up the whole world.

The Art of Note Folding

A guy I know, recently had eighty-four (84) people post on his Facebook timeline for his birthday. Incredulous, I mentioned to a co-worker that I wasn't certain that many people would attend my funeral or wedding, whichever comes first. To put it in perspective, I think I had a mere sixteen (16), post on my timeline for my birthday, many of which I hadn't seen in this calendar year.

It kind of became a thing with me, a yardstick to measure my supposed failure. Finally another co-worker, probably exasperated with hearing about it again for the 3rd or 4th time, said, "Jill, c'mon Facebook friends aren't real friends anyway, I mean who has personal contact with 84 people continuously!"

I thought about it still further sitting around a high top table with my work colleagues the other night, having drinks for the first time in so many months. It felt good sitting with my tribe, looking around at their faces, these people who probably know me as well as my own family. They see me at my best and they see me at my worst and as the saying goes, "know where all the bodies are buried."
They who know that behind the kind façade is the Jill that isn't so sweet, who is shrill when someone jams the copier again or swears revenge on the unfortunate soul who dropped the call she was waiting for, they've heard my angry voice reverberate down the hall when a rep dropped the ball on an case I'm working on. They know that while I'm usually the mild mannered Bruce Banner, I can quickly turn into the Hulk when provoked.

It occurred to me that none of these people are Facebook Friends. The people who know me best, who know what I'm like when I've had a few drinks, or how awful I look when I'm sick are not my social media friends.

I pondered...friends and communication.

Communication in this wired age is so different than the world in which I grew up. Friends were real people who you went to school with, who lived in your neighborhood, who knew your siblings. They weren't this nebulous group of people who meet you at a watering hole or a class and three (3) hours later, you get a invite to 'friend' them.

In the world I grew up in, your friends were the gatekeepers, your pre-work colleagues. They knew you because you spent time with them, countless hours talking on the phone, shopping at the mall on the weekends, roller skating, you lived in and out of each others' houses and lives. If you wanted to initiate contact with the opposite sex, for instance, you wouldn't think of doing it without your friends' direct involvement. As in, "you know that guy I like, Jeff M, y'know the one who has hair like Andre Agassi (a mullet) "... to which your friend, if they were any kind of friend would reply, "oh yeah his sister is in my 5th period Bio class, I'll slip her a note and see if he likes you..." which was the perfect opening to communication the way I grew up with it.

The note.

The all-important, intricately folded, heart-dotted i's, doodled on, stickered, SWAK'ed note. Any self-respecting Gen X'er knows all about the crucial importance of the note. We didn't have cell phones, social media or texting, heck, most of didn't even have pagers at that point. The note was critical. It served as your entrée into whatever social clique you inhabited, it functioned as invitation (to the all important sleepover or party), an IOU (hey I'll hit you back for the .50 you loaned me for that Coke Classic), promissory note (you still have my purple sweater that I wanted to wear to the 7th grade dance on Friday), and was the matchmaker of its time. You couldn't function in society without it.

Yet, the note was not without it peculiar rituals. For instance, there was an art to the folding of the note. Unless you were some kind of philistine, you never merely folded it into a square package. No indeed, there were intricate geometrical patterns to fashion and then there was the all important tuck, so that the receiver would need to use a little ingenuity to unwrap the note and glean its contents. 

In the same manner the passing of the note was not without its particular shibboleths and rules. There was 'the palm' where the note was folded tiny enough to fit in one's palms and was surreptitiously passed from hand to hand under the cover of desk until finally it was slapped home into the waiting palm of the receiver. There was the "yawn and throw", this one required some acting ability, good aim and the blessing of providence. In this one, the note passer feigned a huge yawn stretching his or her arms above their head with the note 'palmed' and with arms outstretched over his head, he dropped (threw) the note at the feet of the intended receiver. Probably the easiest, safest and least likely to get you disciplinary action was the "locker insert". It's just like it sounds, the note passer happened by the locker of the recipient and after a cursory look to the right and to the left to ensure he/she wasn't being observed, took the note and slipped it into the locker via the air vents on the locker door. The one caveat with this one, was the compulsory check with the receiver, as in, "did you get the note I slipped in your locker?" You prayed for the nodding head and dreaded the vacant stare where the receiver in his/her haste to grab his lab manual, doesn't see said note and it drops unnoticed to the ground to become the general property and gossip of whomever happened to spy it laying there and picks it up.

I always half expect someday to happen upon a TV documentary about Gen X, where some Richard Attenborough type stares into a camera and holds up a folded piece of loose-leaf notepaper, so old that the blue lines and writing are hard to make out, folded into a rectangle with a triangular shape flap, saying,

"Note how some of the letters are bubble-shaped and have polka-dot serifs at the ends, clearly this was some sort of tribal ritual meant to enhance one's social status. This missive appears to be some kind of census-like instrument. Three lines that say, "Do you like Jeff M?  with a box for yes and a box for no.  If, yes, will you go with Jeff to the dance in the gym on Friday? Note again the boxes for yes or no. Finally, we come to, Can I borrow your Guess sweater? There again two boxes with yes or no responses. Clearly these questions had great social import for the receiver!"

"More curious still is that all the I's are dotted with little hearts, clearly some sort of 20th century cuneiform indicating the level of affection from the writer to the receiver... Our researchers have yet to puzzle out the meaning of a few words that are utilized quite frequently. For instance, the abundant use of the word  'killer' when we could not discern any clear nefarious intent. The writer also frequently uses the injunction 'totally'. We wondered if this was a political reference but discovered that her government was still very democratic at this point. Clearly in this age, one's brand of legwear and sweater were a very important indication of their social standing..."

Sitting here in my mid 40's it all seems somewhat unreal, our mode of communication. Although, to me, nothing matched the excitement of receiving that folded piece of paper, wondering what it might contain. Unlike text messages, it was tangible, you could run your hands across it and yes, if Jeff M did confess his undying love (or as much love as a 15 year old was capable of) for you, slip it under your pillow, empirical proof that someone cared, that you were desired.

Yep, I miss the note. I miss the heart dotted i's, the stickers, the SWAK on the outside. I miss the innocence, the fact that we wrote in sentences with punctuation (albeit a little heavy on the exclamation point) that you could express yourself without typing and that we really did write.

One thing stays true though, despite the mode of communication, your friends are important, whether they are work friends or someone you've known since the 10th grade. Cherish them, and hey maybe for old times sake, grab a piece of notebook paper from your kids (I guess they still use it?) and drop them a note...

It'd be totally killer...

No Man Is An Island

 "No man is an island..." the poet John Donne said in those now-immortal words in 1624.

I love his poems. I'm drawn to him because he asked the big questions, he pondered things, he wasn't afraid to be overwhelmed by doubts on occasion. Mr. Donne struggled with the government of his day, the Catholic church and endured more than his share of personal tragedy. I know his poetry wasn't written with a 40-something single woman living at the dawn of the 21st century in mind, yet somehow I relate with him. Lately, I've been in sort of a Donne phase. I just can't seem to get enough of his words, I love the archaic language, the sense that he has all of the time in the world to spin out his thoughts, the melancholy and the rapture when some idea bursts through his subconscious and he writes as one enthralled, possessed with the need to commit it to verse.

This happens in my life quite frequently. I go through these phases of time when some particular artist captures or calls out to me based on some circumstance of my life. Several years ago, I went through a painful breakup and I remember it was the composer, Franz Schubert that was my security blanket. I had at the time, an impressive collection of classical music CD's and for some reason, maybe liking the look of his picture on the jewel case, heaven knows why, from amongst all of the Romantic composers, I selected the Schubert and he stayed on repeat as I cathartically cried, shouted, huddled cocoon-like in a blanket and generally spent myself over a period of some weeks, I don't know, feeling my feelings, I guess. To this day, when I hear Schubert, it's as if some balm has been liberally poured over my soul. I'll always be grateful for the comfort his compositions afforded me when I really needed it.

A few years before that, after a particularly hideous disagreement with my mother and sister and the resulting year or so of non-speaking terms, it was Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" that occupied the repeat on my CD player. The song made sense to me. I realize that the lyrics suggest casual drug-use more than anything and that is the antithesis of my personality but it was the sense that I at the time was in fact, comfortably numb. I wanted to be numb. I was so tired of caring, trying to make things work, being an eternal 'fixer', it was at this stage of my life that I decided to quit fixing and just be numb, no more pain, no more trying. Nothing...numb.

Which brings me back to the Donne. I'm going through some stuff. Call it a delayed adolescence or maybe the true realization that no man really is an island. I've always been such a solitary creature. So when you do get social and put yourself out there more, for me there is the resultant sense of wariness, uneasiness. Then sometimes there are little heartbreaks when you feel you've been marginalized or overlooked. Sometimes I think that perhaps I'm too awkward or anachronistic to ever really 'fit in' to a society and while I'm quite content with my own company sometimes I long for that of others, but I don't know exactly how to relate to them. Unlovable, outcast and I guess maybe flat undesirable is what I've felt.

Donne's poems have been that balm my soul needs. He knew about heartbreak and loneliness, and questioning. I've never been agonized by non-belief. I know that the God in whom I place my trust and belief is for me, however the organized church has been a constant source of disappointment and distrust. I don't even want to get started on government and social issues, yet that is another source of heartbreak and breaking of trust.

Life was easier when I was numb, when I was that island unto myself, listening to Schubert and not caring about the greater world beyond that of my own reach. So what now...

"No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;
if a clod be washed away by the sea Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as
well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind."

In the wee small hours

When I get asked what kind of person I am, day or night, it always half amuses and half annoys me. The good people of the world, I rationalize are the morning people. The ones that throw back the covers and leap out of bed eager to take on the world. When I wake up in the morning, I check the clock by squinting really hard (glasses off) to see what kind of bargaining leeway I have. As in, 'oh it's only quarter to 5, I can still get another 1/2 an hour to potentially 45 minutes if I dry shampoo my hair and skip contouring around my eyes, yeah and if I eat breakfast in the car I might be able to carve out another 15 minutes...' Then and only then when I can no longer bargain and the time on the clock makes it imperative that I get up, or my cat Gordon senses that I am not fully asleep and begins crying in the vernacular of his people do I shade my eyes and switch on the light. Gordon and I blink at each other, I slip on my glasses and I say the first words of the day, the same words I almost always say, " Yeah G, I know, that's brutal, okay let's go get you and Jamie some breakfast..." And then I say nothing (except for off key singing in the car) until I am at work and the first person spies me and says 'Good Morning'.

Yep, I'm not a morning person and I generally feel bad about it. Heaven knows I've tried. I read books, tried morning Zumba, yoga, positive affirmations, and some concoction of apple cider vinegar honey and cinnamon that my uncle swore by. I've taken echinacea, vitamin b, c, d, e, and k. I shocked myself with really loud music and explored existential conversations with Alexa. Nothing.

I get through mornings by adhering to an airtight schedule. In fact, I have everything timed in such a way that if anything is off by more than 2-3 minutes, I panic because I am so dependent on doing everything in such a way that guarantees me nearly the same leaving time.

I think very little in mornings, I do everything on sort of an auto-pilot, leaving very little time to have deep thoughts or hear dialog in my head.

By contrast, I'm the opposite at night. I'm almost a different person. I ruminate, I consider, I rationalize, I romanticize, I conceptualize. I ponder, expound and illustrate. I read, I write, I listen to music and dance. Sometimes I just simply watch great old movies and laugh or cry. I recite poetry out loud, mostly the Romantic poets but sometimes a little John Donne or my favorite Sonnets from the Portuguese. I always feel somehow that poetry read silently is just wrong.

I always wish there was someone here to talk to, to dance with, to recite poetry. Most of my best conversation is probably at around midnight to 3 a.m, if I was awake that is. Sometimes I am, it's as if my brain had such a great thought or there is something in my soul that will not allow slumber until I acknowledge it. The best or most inspired writing I've done has always been in the late evening or early morning hours.

Maybe it's time to make peace with this. To finally allow myself to quit feeling guilty for loving the night more than the day. It actually makes sense. I'm a closure kind of person. I'm always happiest when I lay down the completed file and cap my pen. To me beginnings (mornings) are kind of scary; I have no idea what the day will bring. The night brings the enchantments like my favorite time of day 'twilight' when the stars begin to come out and the moon peeks out from behind the dark curtain of sky. It brings completion, the relaxation of knowing you did all you could to make the day a success. At night, you can reflect on all the vagaries of life and shrug off the disappointments and rejoice in the victories.

At night, Sinatra makes more sense, dreams can become reality and the new day can be put off for just a little longer.

"It must have been moonglow way up in the blue. It must have been moonglow
that led me straight to you..."

Portrait of the Artist

Writers are supposed to write, so that's what I find myself doing this Thursday evening. Despite the fact that it was a really long day. One of those days where at 8:00 this morning, I already wanted to go home and the market wasn't even going to open for another hour and a half!

This was the kind of day I knew I'd just have to grind out and keep going by any means necessary. Some people survive on black coffee and bitterness. I drink peppermint tea and reward myself for work with cute cat videos.

This post has been gestating with me for some time. I am not really sure how it's going to go, but I've been feeling the need to say these things. The more out on the limb I get though, the less need I seem to have for writing prompts and Google searches.

Of late, I've been compelled to be more truthful in my writing, in everything I guess. For so long I have to admit, I didn't like myself all that much. It made it much more easy for people to take advantage of me because I was so needy. I wrote about much more mundane things, I was judgmental as hell and I sort of used this blog as a way to vent my colossal spleen at the way life was. In truth, it was more about what I was, how I allowed things to be, choosing to be a victim and cherishing and nurturing all my hurts and scars.

I don't want that anymore. I don't do that anymore.  It seems though, the stronger and more independent I get, the more it seems that I alienate the very people that I want to be closest to. I don't know how to do small talk; I am a disaster at flattery and flirting and all of the social niceties that one is meant to so glibly toss around. I am starting to wonder if this condition is permanent. If I am incapable of changing and maybe most importantly, do I really want to? 

When I  starting taking improv lessons...acting lessons if you will, I was hoping that maybe that would lessen my torment and maybe through acting, I could become the kind of person one wants to have around. So imagine my profound surprise when after all of the work faded, the dust settled and I was the same person, albeit under better control. My friend at work, Diane said it most succinctly, "You really have no game do you?" when I came to her to ask why it seemed that I was so out of my depth with most people and in particular the opposite sex. Diane is famous for her extroverted personality and many of our clients don't consider leaving until they've seen her. She is the expert in all things relational, having before settling down, the distinction of dating several men all at the same time with none the wiser.

At my age, by my 40's, I was certain I would really have a handle on love, in both abstract and reality and that I would have finally sussed out relationships. In truth, the closest I am to understanding love is the framed Marc Chagall print (Sun and Mimosa) that hangs on my wall. In it, the lovers are encased in a bubble framed by an outsize flower arrangement out of which a blue bird tipsily tumbles from the top. It has always felt right to me. "Yep, that's the way love should feel", one encased with love in a bubble shut away from the world with an explosion of flowers conveying the deep romance felt between the subjects and a bluebird signifying happiness and fidelity.

In fact, seeing that print for the first time at a charity auction several years ago was akin to the heady feeling of attraction you first feel for an attractive person. Seeing the colors brought a rush of emotion that I hadn't hitherto experienced from a mere painting, surprising and delighting me and from that moment on, I simply craved it, needing to possess it, wanting to have it on my wall and be able to conjure up that feeling whenever I desired. I placed my bid and waited. The night passed without any announcement and I assumed I had been outbid. I can scarcely articulate the feeling I had when the phone rang the next morning and a voice apologized for not letting me know that I had been the winning bidder the night before.

I often think to myself, 'if I can have that sort of emotion within me regarding a mere painting, why should it be so hard to translate that to a human being'?  I am still uncertain of the answer, uncertain as to why it works with such ease for some, more than once in many cases, and I am still searching for my one "Chagall Moment".

Or even a "Picasso Moment" which would probably require even more soul searching than I find myself capable of.

I would probably even settle for someone just saying, "You are somewhat weird and quirky but I find that fascinating so let's talk some more..."

For now, I'll content myself with the vibrant beauty and breathtaking emotion that calls to me from the Chagall print, assuring me that surely love is alive and well in some corner of the world.

Last Days of 44

I've been kind of feeling around trying to decide what to write about for my next post. Looking at recent posts and feeling like there have been too many lately about people who died. I don't want this to become one big obituary or online memorial. There are sites for that.

Some part of me is appalled at my candor on occasion and some part comprehends that only through true vulnerability is creativity unlocked.

Going on in my life right now, Yacht Rock has returned to Sirius XM and up until this past week I'd been doing a lot of improv. On a more practical, but no less emotional note, I'm struggling to get my cat Jamie's insulin regulated and sometimes I feel guilty that somehow his diabetes are my fault. Did I feed him too much carbohydrate laden dry food? Sometimes I feel bad for being angry that the shots I have to give him tie me down. No matter how difficult it is to get up in the morning or how late I've been out the night before, at 6 a.m., he has to eat and I have to give him that shot. The same applies for 6 p.m. My co-workers don't even bother asking me out for happy hour anymore, they know I have a 6 o'clock date that I can't cancel. If on occasion, I move the time up or back to accommodate an event, the next day he's always a little 'off' and the guilt is worse.

The Stanley Cup was a little disappointing this year. Not one of my teams made it through the playoffs. The good thing is, there is always next year.

And then, there is the fact that I am coming up on another birthday...maybe that is the whole point of this.

Lately to quote Steely Dan, I've been reeling in the years. I am about to really hit middle age. No longer in my early 40's. Somehow I am full of dread. It's like...'Hmm...maybe Mom was right to worry that I'd never find the right guy...' Then there is my own reoccurring fear that I'll die alone and the only way someone will know is when there is an overwhelming smell of decomposition coming from my home, unless of course whatever cats I have at the time (I can't imagine NOT having a cat) eat my decaying corpse because there is no other sustenance available being that I am no longer able to feed them.

I try to focus on the positive, the things I do like about myself. I actually started to make a list and then quit becoming depressed when all I could come up with was, I have good hair, I am smart and I had never deliberately pulled the wings off a butterfly or used a magnifying glass to burn ants. Then, me being me, I started to obsess about all of the stuff that isn't so good. I suck at intimacy, my slight addiction to peanut M & M's and Twix, that I never really discovered what I want to be when I grow up.

Almost worst of all happened the other day, finding my senior picture and realizing except for the color (covering up the grey) and the length, I have almost the same damn hairstyle I did when I was 18!

The worst of all are the two perceived failures. You see, it doesn't really matter how many articles you read about the joy of being single, embracing your feminism, being assertive or any of that &*(#! On Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Day, New Years Day, Valentines Day, Mother's Day and your birthday, it is borne home to you that you are unmarried and have no children.

Actually, the children part I've made peace with. I realize perhaps, that particular perceived failure is a good thing, I've always been way more into animals than kids. Even when I was younger, I didn't really like babysitting, but if you asked me to walk your dog or feed your cat, I'm like,' I'd do that for free'.

I keep hoping that there is that right person out there for me. An animal lover, who'd understand my quirkiness, who'd be comfortable with my need for music at all times, my love of art and old movies and yes, understood my deep personal relationship with M & M's and Twix.

So Happy Birthday to me.  I am going to embrace my late forties like I did my early ones, and maybe the next 5 years will bring me peace and the discovery that I what I am is what I want to be when I grow up.

Living my Truth

Sitting around the table with a bunch of improv colleagues the other night;  we were swapping stories about life and failed relationships and our 'worst dates ever'.

I knew exactly the story to tell. It starts with me arrogantly talking up all of my love of the outdoors (I don't) and ends up with me in the water under an upside down canoe, swimming to the point of exhaustion and at one point clinging to a tree in the middle of an (I wish I was kidding) alligator infested lake. All because I didn't have the guts to be honest with the guy I was with at the time and say that I'd never been canoeing and didn't really enjoy the thought of it. I wanted his approval even at the sake of my own safety, so I lied. After I 'fessed up' and said that it had been a turning point in my life and since then, I never lie about my personality and likes and dislikes, one of my colleagues overhearing, looked at me and said, "You gotta live your truth!"

I've thought about little else since he made that seemingly innocuous remark.

What is living your truth?  Do I 'live my truth'?  What is my truth?

These thoughts have chased themselves round and round my brain like some sort of demented carousel ride.

I'm rarely completely candid with people. I often utilize writer's privilege using it to embellish my own life to make it seem more exciting and hedonistic than it really was, rationalizing that I am hurting no one. Except, it seems...myself.

Why do I try so hard to conceal the person who is really inside?
I guess the answer is rooted somewhere in the truth. Which is that I've lived such a comparatively sheltered and quiet life. When my parents divorce was final some 30 years ago, I walled myself off like a sort of box turtle. I swore that if love and relationships made people this miserable, I wanted no part of it. I sought solace in books and work. I studied hard, I read everything I could get my hands onto. Reading became sort of an obsession with me, how many classics could I complete, how much knowledge could I cram in my brain?  I began competing with myself in class, on tests, how close could I get to a perfect score?

The other kids, just seemed like competition, a distraction, so I ignored them. The only relationships I experienced in those years lie mainly in the romance novels I read surreptitiously because I was ashamed of my craving for them. I thought myself above such 'baser' feelings. Gothic romances were especially favored because so many of the relationships in them started from a place of conflict. Conflict, that I understood, thanks to family dynamics.

So I entered my early adulthood with absolutely no social skills, no real dating life. I lived mostly inside myself. When I entered the world of work, I concentrated my efforts on learning administration, writing the best business letters, paying attention to computers, how they processed, how programs worked. Basically it boils down to the fact that I never gave much thought to relationships. My work colleagues never really knew me well and if they did ask me to join them for drinks, etc., my role usually was that of the designated driver. Living the life that I did, a latchkey kid, I grew up with hyper-responsibility. I slid into the role of the responsible co-worker/friend quite easily.

When I actually went into the dating world, I had no idea what to expect other than the fact that I wanted to experience the love and companionship that I had heretofore only experienced in novels. Men don't behave in real life the way the do in novels. I had no idea what they really wanted, so I became accommodating, needy. I just wanted to be loved and cared about, but I had no inkling how to articulate that.

All this is how I ended up under that canoe that September Sunday afternoon. I just wanted to feel connected to him, to somehow get him to love and appreciate me.

That's my real truth. I rarely did hedonistic things because I knew no one, I was always on my own,  I've always been somehow accountable only to myself or to God I imagine.

It makes you less welcome in crowds, etc. I don't have as many stories to share. People tend to think of you as sanctimonious, a prig, a goody-goody. Truly though, I had no thought other than self-preservation. I wasn't trying to live this life. This is the life that I ended up with.

That's my truth and I guess the only thing that remains now is to live it and with it.

Blue

Sitting here trying to pick out a word that fits my state of mind...and there it was, blue. Ordinarily, to me, blue is a good thing. It's my favorite color so often I'm dressed in blue, I go near water to make myself feel better and when I think of blue, it's usually healing.

Right now though, I am in a blue funk, period of time, or feeling. It's been a rough couple of weeks, I've been fighting through a protracted illness, mostly bronchitis, but it has really hung on. One of my family members has been hospitalized multiple times due to a heart condition, and another family member is in hospice about to give up his fight.

Finally, tomorrow will be the day on which my friend Eric, should have celebrated his 45th birthday. Eric loved blue too...On the first day of my junior year in high school, I had to suddenly change schools. We moved that summer and I was distraught about losing my teachers and friends. I've never been a person who makes friends easily so I always cherish the people that I do connect with.

Eric was one of those people. I encountered him the first time in Madame Tavera's 2nd period French II class. Yes, I know I live in Florida so why did I take French? It's an easy answer, they moved me because they shut down the German class that was my first choice. I rarely do the conventional thing, like take Spanish because you live in Florida. Eric would totally understand that. He never did anything conventional either which explains why he ignored all of the prettier, well-turned out girls in class to talk to the nearsighted blond with tear streaks still on her glasses. He asked me how I was doing even though it was pretty apparent that I wasn't happy, and I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but I recall he kept telling me jokes until I laughed and cheered up.

He was the first of many artistic types of people I would meet in school, yet Eric is the person that stands out in my mind the most because he never lost his inordinate kindness, his passion for his art and he never compromised to 'fit in'.

I think of Eric a great deal when I am doing improv, knowing how much he would love it, how he and I were actually improvising long before I ever knew what it was. He would love the irreverence, the lack of rules and the unbridled creativity it engenders.

I should point out that Eric was never my boyfriend, we simply weren't 'that way' together, but we just seemed to get each other. I wasn't even one of his closest friends, but it seems that whenever he was down, he'd find his way over to my computer in the newspaper office or my desk in classes and I would return the favor, telling him jokes until he smiled. I always tried to see his art shows and I was always awed at what he'd created.

About a month before he died at the age of 21, I ran into him at a local Subway and we made tentative plans to meet again to 'catch up' but I didn't follow up. I cannot even articulate how much regret and how many times I've thought of that, wishing it had been different. The circumstances of his death are grisly and I simply don't think this is the place to recant them.

Eric's influences are many. For instance, I always name my cars because he called his car Sharona and I thought that was the greatest. If I see people who seem distressed or unhappy, I talk to them first, always remembering what Eric did for me. Whenever I hear, well, just about anything on 1st Wave on Sirius XM, I think of him, but in particular, "What Have I Done to Deserve This" by Pet Shop Boys/Dusty Springfield, and Morrissey songs.

I wish so much that I could know what he would have been like in his 40's. I mourn the art he should have created, and every time I write this blog or challenge myself at improv or spend time in a gallery, I try in my own way to honor what he taught me.

So today, I'm blue. And I am going to ride it out. Maybe there are just times when you need to mourn to appreciate life for what it is and cherish the people who are here and the ones who are never really gone as long as you remember them.

The 101st

Without realizing it, my last post brought me to a milestone, my 100th. Somebody out there is like, “Wait a minute, “I only count 89!” If that’s you, I’m torn between being flattered and worried. Flattered that you actually read this and worried that you counted blog posts. I only have 89 posts because the others were either, considered by me, to be too personal, borderline offensive, or just plain awful to release. Some were released and much like Disney movies, returned ‘to the vault’ because something changed or I felt they no longer represented my true feelings.

Life is messy, relationships are weird, unpredictable and much like water when it spills from a glass, flow where they will flow.

I decided for my 101st to make this a sort of time capsule for me to come back to. I completed a Things About Me quiz, the kind that people tag you to do on Facebook. Here it is:

1. Are you named after anyone?

    A. Actually no, when I asked my parents who I was named after, they shrugged their
shoulders and said “we just liked the name”. Recently I learned that it was my
Dad who ultimately picked it.

2. Where did you grow up?

   A. In the suburbs of Orlando, Fl.

3. What inspires you?

   A. Reinvention. People who no matter how old they are, or the circumstances of their life,
continue to reinvent themselves, who have fears but do it anyway. Also, creativity, being
with creative people tends to inspire me to be more creative myself.

4. What has required the most courage of you in your life so far?

   A. There have actually been a couple things. The first time I went on stage to do improv. I was really nervous the first time I performed a ballroom routine in front of an adjudicator.
The time I needed the most courage though, was giving the eulogy at my Auntie G’s funeral.

5. What is your favorite childhood memory?

   A. Being with my grandparents on my birthday. They always made it a point to delay going
back north until after my birthday in early July. It must have been a sacrifice, not getting
back to their friends and other family, but it meant the world to me that they were with me
on that day. We went to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor and had special birthday sundaes. Every
birthday in spite of the fact that they passed away several years ago, I still miss them.

6. Are you a good cook?

   A. Actually I am. My dad graduated from culinary school and created two (2) restaurants, owning and operating an italian restaurant when I was born and he passed a lot of his knowledge
and techniques to me. I am told he built a nursery in the back of the restaurant so that I
could be with my parents when they were working. To this day, I love to cook, particularly
italian food.

7. Do you sing in the shower?

   A. Absolutely. I sing in the shower, in the car, in the kitchen, at my desk while working, when I
am working out, basically all the time. I’m pretty annoying about it. What do I sing…where do I start? Broadway show tunes, 80’s top forty, country songs, Motown, Disney songs (a lot), and people are usually shocked to hear how much ABBA I sing.

8. If you could eliminate one weakness or limitation in your life, what would it be?

   A. Self Doubt. I wish I trusted myself and my instincts more. It would help my improv, writing and  a lot of other things as well.

9. Who was your first celebrity crush?

  A. Probably everyone, including my Mom and Dad assumed my first celebrity crush was Ricky
Schroeder. I thought he was the one everyone wanted me to like, so I was like, ‘okay, I think
Ricky Schroeder is cute’. I didn’t. My first celebrity crush was really Julian Lennon, and I still find him attractive. For the record, I never usually like who I am ‘supposed to’, i.e., I never found Leonardo Di Caprio, Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise particularly attractive. However, I’ve been
in love with Robert Downey Jr., for years. I’ve always loved him 3000.

10. What is something that amazes you?

   A. I read that sea otters hold hands (flippers) while they sleep so they don’t drift apart or lose
contact with each other. I don’t know if I am more amazed or touched by that.

11. Are you a morning person or a night owl?

  A. Night Owl. I have to get up early most mornings for work, so I’ve learned to ‘do mornings’, but my mind and my sociability, etc. are most active at night.

12. What is the last movie you saw at the cinema?

  A. Avengers- Endgame. Actually I believe I’ve seen all 22 in the MCU (Marvel
Cinematic Universe) and heretical as it may be, my heart still belongs to Thor: Ragnarok. I’ve
never laughed as hard or left a movie feeling as great as I did after Ragnarok.

13. Are you 'high maintenance'?

  A. It depends on who you ask. I've been called many things, intimidating, complicated, and my co-worker used to call me a princess until I finally broke down and said how much it bothered me. The intimidating moniker baffles me, to this day I can't listen to Don McClean's 'Vincent' without tearing up and I'm actually very soft-hearted, but I don't often show it. Maybe all of this boils down to being a little, 'high maintenance'.

14. Do you believe in love at first sight?

   A. I used to. Now I am more inclined to think that often attraction is mistaken for love. I've been attracted to people at first sight. I think that's a chemical reaction in our brain where we are hard-wired to value some features more than others. To me, love is something that develops over a period of time, and it isn't always a person that we are going to date or be with intimately. It's a person who has your best interests at heart and for some reason, you share kinship, common goals or just when you see them, your heart is full of affection for them. You cherish their dreams and their goals and want the best for them. It doesn't mean they are the right partner for you. I think finding the right partner takes time and work to develop.

15. How old were you when you found out Santa isn't real?

  A. Santa isn't real!  Actually I don't know that I was ever really encouraged to believe in Santa, per se. It wasn't really emphasized in my home. I do though to this day, believe in the spirit of Santa. I love those stories of people who perform random acts of kindness or make a little kids' day with a new bike. In fact, that's what I love best about Christmas, how it (hopefully) brings out the best in us, brings out joy, where we laugh a little more with each other and remember all of the good and the bad that happened in the year.

Thanks for reading the last 89. Now you know a little bit more about me, ( I do too) and my values.
See you next time.

You Are Special (Phil and Me)

I've put this one off for quite a while. I've been writing though, since the moment, Rick put a hand on my shoulder and said simply, "Phil passed away last night..."

Phil went to heaven on Oct 31, 2018.

Who was he?

In the simplest terms, he was a financial advisor. What we both couldn't have known when I started out as a wet behind the ears sales assistant was that I would be the last sales assistant he ever worked with and he would be so much more than just another financial advisor to me. He would become a friend, a confidant, a second grandfather.

Sometimes I think about Phil being in heaven and I always see him seated at some sort of celestial desk, mahogany with brass fixtures and he's dressed in a white double-breasted suit with gold pinstripes. Sort of a heavenly stock trader if you will.  As ever, he's watching a ticker, maybe trading shares of commodities like gold, myrrh, frankincense, rubies, etc.

That's how I best remember him, sitting there, a  be-spectacled diminutive grey-haired man behind a massive desk, his eyes fixed on the television waiting for the pundits to do their thing, then the light coming into his eyes when he fixed on his prize, usually a bio-tech of some sort and then he'd start working the phones calling all his top-tier clients, making the trades. He'd come out of his office, walk to my desk and drop a screed of stock reports on my desk saying jubilantly, "this is it Jill, Leopold Pharmaceuticals!"Make sure these are mailed out to Rupert Wallace!" Then he'd come a little closer and say, "Now, tomorrow I think we'll bottom out, but by Thursday, we're talking at least a 1-2 point spread!" 

In the stock market, there are few hard and fast rules, compliance not withstanding, someone is  always either in the money, at the money or out of the money. Phil was generally all three at different times, but his enthusiasm never waned. He loved the cut and thrust of the market. Truthfully, I think he would have worked for free.

After the excitement of the new hot tip died down, usually at about 10:30, Phil would leave the office and walk several laps around the parking lot getting in his exercise, he lunched around 11:00, generally Panera soup or his favorite thing, a Chik Fil-A sandwich, coming back to the office at around 12:00 whereupon he allowed himself one snack size Kit-Kat that he kept in the freezer door of the office refrigerator. Then it was back to his office to check up on the markets, snooze for a bit in his chair, and leave the office promptly at 2:00 p.m. to go home for his nap.

After all, when I started work as his assistant, he was 84 years young.

Despite the difference in our ages, Phil and I shared a lot in common, we were both stubborn Germanic types, both bull-dog in our tenacity and our work ethic, we loved cats and we loved movies. Many mornings as I came in to the office, Phil would already be in the office kitchen making the generally agreed upon worst coffee in the world, and he and I would always talk movies. Phil was unique in that, despite being born in 1930, he wasn't stuck in that time. In fact, while I enthused about movies from his childhood, Phil would scoff, full of his enthusiasm for the latest blockbuster installment in the Marvel franchise or Disney. He liked to relate in some detail all of the plot, so if I didn't want to know or hadn't seen a movie, I would have to quickly change the subject.

When the day finally came when Phil acquiesced to retire at age 86, I organized most of his retirement party, and as per usual, I worked hard on it, rushing around, checking details, working furiously to dull the ache inside about the coming days when he'd no longer be around every day to chat about movies, cats, Indy racing and life.

When the last moment came, the last piece of cake eaten, the last glass of sparkling wine drunk, before taking that last walk to his car as a full fledged broker, Phil sought me out. I was cleaning the conference room, carrying out bags of trash full of all the detritus of any good party and he stopped me, hugged me, and then, something I will never forget,  he took hold of my shoulders looked me square in the eyes and said, "You. Are. Special... you're special!"

I am not humble-bragging. To this moment, I would have given anything to truly understand what he meant by that. So many times to me, I'm so ordinary, so unremarkable. When I look in the mirror, I mostly wish the other image was cuter, thinner, prettier. What Phil saw, I'll never know, but I'll never forget it.

After that, in the next year or so, he came around to visit every so often, stubbornly refusing to use the cane he'd been prescribed, so my co-workers and I took it in turn, to watch him surreptitiously, hiding behind walls and plants to avoid injuring his pride but so that we could have the piece of mind that he'd not fallen as he made his rickety way to his car. He always managed to somehow make me feel that he still thought of me as special, important.

When the moment came last autumn, that he'd had a fall that required surgery but he couldn't seem recover from, Rick, another of the brokers advised,

"Jill, if you want to see him again, I wouldn't wait."

I took the injunction for what it was, made my way to the hospital, dreading the moment where I'd have to see him, not full of life and hugs and kind words, but hooked to machines with tubes and wires everywhere, and up in that small hospital room, Phil and I had our final conversation.

The nurse insisted he could still understand despite being heavily sedated.  This time it was a one-sided conversation, I did all of the talking and sometimes begging, wishing that he'd sit up and just... anything, argue, get stubborn, spoil the plot of another movie for me...I talked, telling him all about the office, the markets.  I explained improv and the triangle of the scene, telling him about all the people I met doing scenes and how much I loved it. Then I just sat in the chair next his bed unable to contain my tears any longer, knowing that I was going to have to finish the conversation and not knowing how. And then I said, "Phil, you are special, you mean more to me than I have words to tell you!" And with a last look at him, I walked away.

I'm different since Phil died; I found myself wanting to share with others what he taught me. People need to be told they are special, that they mean something to you.

I was stingy with myself before Phil, now I write the email or leave the message, no matter how awkward or emotionally naked I may feel afterward. Sometimes there are replies and sometimes there is silence and that's okay too. For me, it's knowing that I've taken the time and told you how special you are and how important your presence in my life is to me. Sometimes life is just showing up, being there for, and somehow letting each other know that you are special.

In this way, for me, Phil lives on.

Pursuit of Ham

So it's Easter 2019 and all apologies to any of my Jewish brethren, in our family, Easter means just one thing, ham.

Fresh ham.

To the uninitiated, and everyone who though that ham was merely…ham. You couldn’t be more wrong.

Traditional hams are pinkish-hued from the curing process and oblong in shape. Many are spiral-sliced, glazed, pineapple and cherry-topped, square and pink and studded with cloves. They are in their different ways, sweet and salty, smoked, tangy and foil-wrapped.

Ours is not...because my culinary-trained father will brook none other than the elusive, un-popular, un-cured, hard to source fresh ham.

It all starts out so easy… Remembering, last years’ ham quest that saw me in full panic-mode feverishly propositioning a meat manager at Publix on Good Friday, as in, “If your 4:30 customer doesn’t come in for the ham, where’s the harm in selling it to me!” “Okay, what about half, can you sell me just half the ham?!” this year I ordered ahead. Three weeks ahead to be exact.

This year there would be no back alley deals where I, clothed in trench coat and sunglasses, a fedora with my blonde hair peeking out the sides perched on my head, and a $50 dollar bill ‘palmed’ in my right hand, spy a burly guy with 9:00 p.m. stubble, a white butcher’s coat, hairnet, steel-toed shoes and Ray-bans and nod twice giving the ‘sign’.

“You got the stuff?” I say…

“You got the cash?” burly butcher says…

I slide the $50 into his mesh-gloved palm, anxiously looking from side to side, while he kicks a lumpy white paper parcel at my feet, saying, “Nobody but nobody hears about this, right?”

“Last thing I need is those goons over at Winn Dixie, or Walmart finding out about this!”

“Last year I was nearly blackballed when some newb over at The Fresh Market began peddling un-cured bacon and sausage out behind Whole Foods!”

I nod nervously, grab my contraband pork and disappear into the night.

Surely this year would be different...

The first warning came when I realized it was the Sunday before Easter and I had received no reassuring call from Publix assuring me that my fresh plastic wrapped blade end ham was sitting waiting for me in the walk-in. This year I would leave nothing to chance. I took evasive action and drove to my neighborhood Publix made my way to the meat counter, where I encounter, Ileana who is rapidly filling in pre-packaged chicken nuggets. I approach her,

"Can I ask you a quick question?"

 "Si...ummm Yes?"

"Are the fresh hams in yet?"

"Si...ummm yes", Ileana indicates the case where row upon row of spiral-sliced hams in their glittery, gold packages sit waiting for purchase.

"No, those are cured hams, I ordered a fresh ham" I comment making my tone as even-tempered and rational as I didn't feel.

"You order ham?" Ileana looks at me quizzically.

"Yes, I ordered a ham two (2) weeks ago."I say fighting for calm, panic rising in me.

"Okay, they call you."

"They'll call me, so they haven't come in yet?" I say, feeling reassured, okay, they just weren't in yet.

"Okay, si...ummm yes they call!" Ileana says.

"Look, do you just want to take my name down again?...."

"Okay, si...ummm yes they call you!"

Ileana moves further away from the nutty blonde who is looking bewilderingly at her...and as I finally turn and walk away, she's still saying,

"Si, okay...they call you!"

They're not going to call me; I know that as surely as I know that the dinosaur shaped nuggets she's stacking in the case have rarely made contact with a chicken.

Me, being me, I maintain my optimism. Over the next few days, I keep my cell phone at arms' length at my desk, and every time it lights up, I just know it's going to be the Publix meat department with news of my porcine parcel.

By Wednesday evening, I am in despair..no ham, forget that...no hope of ham. I call my Dad,

"Dad, I don't know if I can get the ham in time for Easter"

"What...no ham?"

"I ordered from Publix like three (3) weeks ago and they never called!" (I actually know this feeling well, it's like waiting for a guy to call after a date you are sure went great and you never get the call)
I relate the story to him of Ileana and the fact that she was certain they'd call, and my Dad explodes like Vesuvius,

"Stupid Publix, I will never, ever, ever buy a piece of meat from them again!" "They can rot before I step foot in their stores again!"

"Okay, I'm on this!" he says and with that hangs up.

Which is exactly what I knew would happen, newly semi-retired and ever spoiling for a fight, my Dad begins his own ham-quest. There is nothing my dad loves more then stepping into the fray culinarily. When he used to cater, bakers, meat managers and produce stand owners alike, stood up a little straighter and made way when my father stopped in sourcing his goods.

A little while later, I get a phone call from my Dad,

"Okay, I called every grocery store in two counties ( I refrain from asking if Publix was in that number) but I think I got a couple of leads, guy at Whole Foods says they just got a shipment of fresh hams, not only that but blade end!,"  he says jubilantly. "They'll have one for you tomorrow afternoon!", making it the Thursday before Easter. Tricky, very tricky.

So, on Thursday afternoon, I confidentially stride up to the meat counter at the Whole Foods where I meet up with Reuben and say,

"My dad called ahead and was told you guys would have fresh hams today!"

Reuben says, "Yes ma'am, we surely do!" and takes me to a case filled with golden glittery wrapped spiral smoked hams. Argghhh!

"I'm sorry but these aren't fresh hams" I say, a tear welling up in my left eye.

"We just got them in today!" Reuben asserts.

"Yes, but I wanted an un-cured, fresh ham, blade end if possible" I sniffle.

"You mean you want a raw ham?" Reuben stares at me as if I had just asked for a bald eagle to be shot and dressed on a silver platter.

"Yes, exactly a RAW ham, un-cooked in any way, un-cured, un-smoked. RAW!" I shout, flailing my hands for emphasis. Several customers turn around and look over at me with naked curiosity. Who's the crazy-eyed blonde losing it in the meat department?

"Listen, I gotta check with Chuck the meat manager about this", Reuben says sotto voce, as if I was trying to buy black market arms. "Maybe we have something in the back..."

We approach Chuck who, in the attempt to sell two little old ladies some steaks, is giving them an entire anatomy lesson on how the steaks came to be, how they were cut and from which part of the animal, and they are listening with rapt attention, because Chuck basically is classically handsome and has just the kind of face little old ladies love. I hate him on sight, because he stands between me and the ham. When we get to Chuck, he has just got to the part where 'when the male steer and the female steer really love one another...' and Reuben whispers in his ear, 'umm this lady is looking for a fresh ham'... Chuck cocks an eyebrow and aims a look of distaste at me because I have the gall to interrupt his meat lecture and says condescendingly, "When I'm finished with these customers, I'll have a look in the back". The little old ladies look at me bitchily as if to say, "beat it blondie, he's ours", and something in me just snaps.

I'm sick of Reuben, Chuck, the little old ladies, the patchouli laden, hippy, compounding pharmacy smell of Whole Foods and the weird screamy music playing on the Muzak in the store.

"Never mind!" I say airily as I march back through the over-priced produce section and out the front door. I sit in my car for a few moments trying to put things in perspective. I tell myself this is a 1st World problem, remembering how my actor teacher Lauren always reminds us how so many people in the world have it worse. It doesn't help though, I think, "I know I'm past the age where I expect the Easter Bunny to leave a candy-laden basket with a chocolate bunny on top, all I wanted was to make a nice fresh ham dinner!"

I call my Dad and relay my failure to source a ham at Whole Foods, and he responds typically,

"I've always hated Whole Foods, damned over-priced produce, I like the wraps at Fresh Market much better!"

"Okay, I've got one more source, there's a guy over at "Marshall's Meats" and they say they've got 'em, fresh hams , butt-end AND blade-end, cut to order", okay it's Good Friday and it's cutting it close, but if you get there early..."

So on Good Friday, I rise early, I dress quickly, I'm at the store ten minutes before it opens and though there are elegant foodstuffs, there is foie gras, there is caviar, there are standing roasts and crown roasts and delicate fileted Cornish Game hens, I only have eyes for the fresh ham which sits tantalizingly in the case, there isn't a gold sparkly package in sight!  The butcher spies me, it's easy to do, I'm the only one staring at the meat case with tears in my eyes.

"Can I help you?" he says, perhaps a fresh ham?" I nod, the search over and the quest complete, I leave the store with the ham tucked neatly under my arm. I think I'm in love with that butcher, although I'm not entirely sure what he looked like...

Surely next year will be easier...

So maybe titles are overrated...

Especially when you can't think of one...

Here we are again...Gen X Life...I can't seem to quit you.

So...happening in my life right now...playoff  hockey, waiting for Yacht Rock to come back to Sirius (hey I don't judge you), and haunting Target & Publix for Reese's Peanut Butter Eggs. I can't seem to quit them either. I rationalize this, by saying things like, 'they only come around once a year' and 'it's tradition' and 'it's Easter, I am pretty sure God would want it this way, after all He made chocolate and peanut butter...right?'

I've been giving a lot of thought to my former post and pondering my life. The things that are working and the things that need 'tweaking', or 'editing'. I haven't reached the conclusions that I thought I would. That's hardly surprising though. So much of my time is spent in the service of others, it's basically my whole job. New guy in the office observed recently, "I've never seen anyone multi-task so many things at once." And I thought, "It's no wonder I can never seem to think about what's really important, what's next in my own life. I am too busy thinking of what's next in terms of keeping all the clients happy, keeping everything afloat." Juggling. 

Frankly, I am a tired and apparently crappy juggler. Up until now, I was so full of my own importance, being essential to my job, to my family, to even my classmates at improv, it never occurred to me to wonder if I was actually accomplishing any of the 'big picture' things such as personal fulfillment, joy, meeting personal goals, maybe actually finding my 'someone' or traveling, etc.

I dig still deeper...do I do that, fixate on my work performance, family, etc. because of my ever present fear of failure, my own personal boogie man that doesn't merely live under my bed like he used to when I was 6, but now rides shotgun in the car, lives under my desk at work and in the corners of my subconscious mind? Making it that much easier to succumb to the pull of inertia and just kick the can down the road a little longer.

Another conclusion I come to, is a bit surprising. I always seem to be on some epic quest for my 'soulmate', or call it 'true love', 'finding the one', etc. There are lots of ways to express it, but the other day it occurred to me, that there are soulmates everywhere in my life, that there is love.  I mean, in a mind-blowing, 'wow, I didn't see this coming' kind of way. There are these wonderful people I am in classes with, some of whom I've come to know through drinks after shows, etc. Actors who pour their whole lives into their careers and who inspire me through their passion and sometimes, through their struggles. I've met gifted engineer types who also just happen to be incredibly funny, programmers, veterinarians, administrative and finance types like me,  people from all walks of life who in this surprisingly weird way, I love. For their courage, their humanity, their willingness to be vulnerable, and for the fact that we share some sort of unique kinship the minute we are on stage together.

So, yeah...titles are a bit overrated. Think I am going to give up mine..."Perfectionistic Administrator" "Best Daughter/Sister/Aunt in World", "World-Class Improviser"...and just assume one "Imperfect Human Being"...

The Hard Edit of Life

In Improv, for me, one of the hardest things to master is the edit. Simply put, editing is where you ‘wipe’ the scene and start something new. Think back to every time, Michael Palin, John Cleese, Terry Gilliam or Eric Idle (Monty Python) gleefully shouted, “And now for something completely different” and you have the general idea of an edit.

There are ‘tag edits’, meaning you tap someone on the shoulder and take their place in the scene and in so doing, bring a fresh approach or idea to that scene and then there is the so-called, ‘hard edit’ where you walk across the stage, ending all scenes and wiping everyone from the stage. It’s the equivalent of bringing down the curtain in dramatic theatre. There is generally very little or no curtain in improv and it makes sense, a curtain would just get in the way of all that scene building.

One of my instructors, wisely said recently that in life, just like improv “mastering it means knowing when to edit”. And just like in improv, where the real beauty of it, is its impermanence, so life can be also.

I think the most difficult thing for me personally is that I have always lived my life so safely. There have been many times where I’ve almost quit on Improv, because it was forcing me to change so frequently and disquietingly. I’m a much more conventional type of person than many of my scene partners and often I wonder if I ‘stick out too much’. ‘Am I suited for this?’ is a question that I often ponder when standing outside of myself and observing the other me in class and shows.

Being Gen X is often problematic as well, so many of my classmates and scene partners are so much younger than I, with Millennials often the elder-statesmen where it used to be my fellow Gen X’ers. One time, we were called to do an exercise where we pretended to take  objects out of an imaginary gym bag, making statements about them and pantomiming their use, acting on whatever impulse you had, but all of the objects had to follow a ‘trend’ and then you were to ‘hand them’ to your scene partner who in turn would respond as to how he or she felt about these objects. I found myself pulling out a Slinky, an old Duran Duran tape, a beat up old Cabbage Patch kid, and other assorted Gen X paraphernalia out of the bag, thoroughly enjoying myself and eagerly acting out all my nostalgia and enthusiasm for these missed objects. When the scene finished and the instructor came around to ask the question every improviser hears 1,000 times by the end of their first year, “how did that feel?” my scene partner said, “I dunno, she was pulling out all of these old 80’s toys and stuff!” And bam! once again it hits me over the head, we are a generation apart, while he might know of the objects, he doesn’t really get how I felt about them, because he probably never played with any of them. It was the same in an earlier class where I attempted to explain the concept of sticker albums and trading of the same, to nothing but blank looks and a couple of people who just looked up for a second before diving back into the conversation they were having with a colleague on social media on their I-phone.

An even stickier situation is when you are Gen X and single and find yourself, unsettlingly attracted to someone who could also potentially be your son, or was too young to remember Challenger.

That’s when the editing comes in again, what am I doing in this life? Do I belong in this group? What could I do differently to change my situation? Should I move? 

Most of the time however, inertia takes over and you allow yourself the luxury of doing nothing…which any improviser worth their salt knows is the best way to ruin a scene.

So do I succumb to inertia or do I hard edit my life…

Stay tuned.

Famous Last Words

"These are the last words I have to say, that's why this took so long to write. There will be other words some other day, but that's the story of my life..."

Damn, I wish I'd written this, but I didn't, Billy Joel did.

 I love a few things in this material life (not spiritual), Billy Joel songs, pizza, cats and words. I care about other things, but just not as passionately.
In any case, I can't think of any more fitting words to end this blog series.

Yep, you heard right. I've decided to end Gen X Life (aka Strikes Back). For reasons of both practicality and creativity. Google plus is going away and it's time for me to take a new approach to my writing. Maybe even gain a following. All apologies to those who do read this. Although, I am not really sure who any of you are, because most of you have never commented. 

I am still proudly Gen X and I'm certain it will be mentioned in my next incarnation. I'll put a link up here soon.

This feels bittersweet. Over the last few days, I've been going over old posts and alternately thinking, "Wow, I really love this!" and "Man, I really phoned that in" and "What was I thinking?"
Sometimes I feel like I've been too candid in some of my posts. Or embarrassingly wordy. Other times it seemed like I just couldn't fit the words to my hypothesis. There are many posts that still remain as drafts because they were just too personal to share.

My mom (one of my main fans) once said that often the posts sounded angry, which is a fair assessment; I figured if you can't be angry in your own blog, where can you be? She also mentioned that they'd be intimidating to people who weren't as in love with words as I am. For years, I've constantly walked the line between not wanting to stifle my own voice and stop being me and wanting to develop more of a following.

Two recent examples of this come to mind. Both happened in Improv class. Once, one of my instructors asked me to 'give him a word' and as God as my witness, the first word that came to mind was "antidisestablishmentarianism'. I'll never forget the look on his face as long as I live when the word came flying out of my mouth. I know the common reaction here would be that I was 'showing off' but actually, when he asked for a word, I was so flattered that I thought, 'let me give him the best one I can!' People don't always take it that way though...

The second recent example was the other week, when I was in a scene and threw out the word 'ordnance' (like your type of explosive, i.e., what's your ordnance, ordinary dynamite or C4). I figured in a world where there is a new action movie released every week, it would be a no-brainer. But in notes, my instructor noted, "You know Jill, 90% of our audience is not going to know what ordnance means".  I understood but I was crushed inside.

All of my life, the words have just been there. I figure it's my superpower. The gift I'd been bequeathed. To not use them, for me, is to not breathe, not be. I'm fair at a lot of things, I'm pretty terrible at sports or anything that requires any level of hand eye coordination. In 'shop class', I caught my hand in a vice, had my birdhouse fly back at me from the band saw and hit me in the head and repeatedly glued myself to things. Let's just say that the Property Brothers don't keep me on speed dial for finish carpentry. Although strangely, I am actually a bronze level Ballroom dancer, so I can move my feet just not my hands?  Being socially awkward is only twice as painful when in addition to the awkward, people don't understand you or worse feel that you are snobby or somehow 'making fun' of them. Even so, I decided a long time ago, that I'd rather deal with it, than give up the words.

I hope that you at least enjoyed some of them.

Thanks for reading.
Catch you later.

On Relationships..and Other Things I Don't Understand

  
The other day, someone close to me accused me of being unromantic. Actually they went as far as to say that I somehow 'quenched' romance. It really got me thinking. I had a couple of longer car trips this weekend, usually the place that I do my best thinking and I was feeling...well...I can only describe it as 'raw' or perhaps fragile, like some part of me was left exposed. Picture a busy morning where you alarm didn't go off and you threw your clothes on at top speed, improperly fastening the buttons in wrong holes causing your shirt to gape open. I felt like that exposed skin where the button wasn't plugged in the right hole.

What was wrong with me?

It started off with a perfectly innocent remark.  I said that I've always loved that song, "I'd Really Love To See You Again" by England Dan and John Ford Coley because there is clear intent in the words, the man tells the woman in the song that he just wants to see her again that night, he's not trying to plan the future, "he won't ask for promises, so you don't have to lie". It's the clarity that I love in the words. The woman in question won't torture herself waiting for a phone call or a text (if the song was written today) that will never come. He's just talking the present, "I want to see you now" They can take a walk or watch TV...whatever. The receiver of this remark thought it was horrible, how I'd seemingly condensed romance into what they presumed was a one-night stand. For the record, I've never thought that was the intent of the song at all. And this person said I'd managed to completely destroy romance. To say I was wounded was an understatement.

Over the years, days after a date, or a job interview, or even just a meet up with friends were an obstacle course of me going over just about everything I'd said or done. I'd analyze the silences, fret about nuance or hidden meanings.' Had I chosen the right clothes?' 'PLEASE GOD, tell me I didn't have anything in my teeth!' It got so miserable that I gave up. I was weary of wondering if I was likeable, desirable or....that most serious of all things...lovable.

That song, always gave me hope that maybe one day, a rare sort of man would come along, with clear intent, no games, a guy who saw romance in the "warm wind blowing the stars around".

What are personal relationships anyway....what's the deal?

Damned if I know.

A big part of Improv is the emphasis on personal relationships and recently I took a workshop on realizing the 'who' of situational comedies. It dawns on me that this isn't just something I need to master in improv, this is something that I frequently miss in my personal life. I'm often so busy concentrating on the 'what', I just leave the 'who' to its own devices.

I think of it as 'life triage'. I must stop the bleeding, i.e., literally when I worked for the veterinary clinic, or metaphorically now, do the distribution, scrub the app, finish the report, update the spreadsheet. The 'what' has taken over my life, to the extent where my scenes were clunky and awkward because I would take the scene so literally, caring more about the thing we were doing then the relationship between us. And it carries over to my life, I'm better at the 'what', more self-assured, more in control, so I concentrate on that. Mastery of spreadsheets, insurance law, pet care, Star Wars trivia, anything that will keep me from the realization that I actually need people and more than that desire them in my life.

But that means the agony of vulnerability, having to be willing to put myself out there, to explore the double edged sword of the fears of rejection and failure.

Lately I've been trying it, with mixed results, I'm still awkward, but maybe improv has made me a little more willing to fail, more willing to even experiment, to flirt, to try...

Black Box

It's 8:30 p.m. on a Tuesday night and I am quite literally standing in the center of a black box. It's a stage actually...a small stage...not quite 6 feet from one end to the other and the walls on all sides are painted black, the curtain (which is rarely ever closed) is black and the rugs on the tiled floor beneath us are black. My mind is racing, as is my pulse...there's no script, I'm completely dependent on the guy standing next to me who looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to utter just one phrase., the phrase that will set our scene and tell us where to go..."You're so....

I freeze...words are firing off in my brain, weird words like incandescent, obstruse, popcorn...cotton ball...none of them words I can really use...some I am not sure are actually words. None of them emotions.. I stand blankly staring at my scene partner who is clearly beginning to hate me...sweat is pooling in my bra, my mouth is dry and finally I say, "You're so intuitive"...Scene partner stares back at me as if to say, "Really, that long...and that's what you come up with!"

Seeing that stage for the first time 4 months ago, my first impression was to... maybe back away slowly...perhaps I could still get a refund... the words "what have I done?" beating a constant tattoo in my brain.

Fast forward approximately 4 months and there are few places I've loved more.

To speed this up a little and make it still more clearer. These days, I'm (as I'm told by my supportive classmates when I doubt myself) a performer of IMPROV...or to be more grammatically correct and wordy, "Improvisational Acting". It probably should be written Improv, but when I think about it, to me it's always IMPROV. It seems to call for capitalization, for import, for fanfare.

How I got here is a story best reserved for another time and place, but the point is...I got here.
Every week, I go to class, perform and I challenge myself a little more, every week I get a little closer to being the person that I always knew was in here, someplace deep down. The kind of person who knows how to play, to have fun, to be funny, to say all of the things that are in my head and never let out.

Sometimes I have to metaphorically shut the old Jill in her cage and remind her that I'll call if I need her. Because there's no room for negativity in IMPROV, we call it blocking...there's no time for the mind-numbing analysis that my brain tends to employ itself with, if your stage-partner says you are an overly optimistic coke-dealer then damn it.. y'are. Earlier on, my fantastic instructors would have to literally say to me, "Jill, you ARE an overly flirty engineer...just go with it!" Then something amazing happened and I began to actually go with it, to let the 'crazy' out, to say the things that are generally in my head, assume the part and it felt good.

And the more I did it, I learned some things, that when you get amongst really creative-minded people, it inspires you to do more, to be more. I learned that when you get past race, when you get past politics or all of the outward trappings of looks and gender, people are just...people. That they have the same fears, the same desire for love and acceptance that we all do.

If you spend enough time reading and analyzing all of the news in the world today, you probably wind up throwing up your hands in despair and thinking that there is no hope for humanity, no common ground achievable . Yet every week I see people come together of all different backgrounds, income levels, and personalities to just have fun together.  We work together to achieve success in this field that we love. You learn to see past yourself and that by making someone else look like a rock star....you often end up feeling like a rock star when they return the favor.

While I, in no way, mean this to imply IMPROV can save the world, it has certainly broadened mine. I would not be so bold as to say we all love each other and sit around singing 'Kumbaya' together. However, it's taught me that when you come together for a common purpose and you start from a position of positivity and acceptance, there's very little that you can't achieve.

Or at the very least, I know that the next time I'm called upon to be a germaphobic hooker, I'll kill it.

Magic

Colleague of mine at work comes to me the other day and says that "It's time I got out there again and started dating." She goes on to extol the virtues of Match.com, E-Harmony, etc. She'll even help me create a profile. At first, I demure politely, not wanting to shake the image that she has of me. An image in which as she puts it, I'm way too smart and pretty to be uncoupled. I'm flattered, who wouldn't be? But finally, I say "No thanks, I've been down that road."

She persists and finally, the mean old spinster that lives deep down in me, snaps, "No, I just don't want to. I mean it!" And she slinks away, probably not thinking me that smart, or pretty anymore, for that matter.

I sit there and mostly feel bad (in case you wondering, of course I apologized) about my attitude and for snapping at a woman who so obviously means well. A woman who can't understand why I am so anti-dating. After all, she loved dating. And at the age of 46, even older than I am, she reminds me, and one disastrous first marriage, she met her soul mate.

If I'm honest, the first thing I ponder is the mental capacity of a woman who purports to 'love dating'. I put dating in the category of things like a visit to my gynecologist, filing my taxes, or having dental surgery, i.e., things that I dread but that I'm supposed to do for my own good, or so that I don't break the law.

Dating always felt like the ultimate job interview. And just like in 3rd grade kickball team choosing or a real interview (seriously have you never read this blog!!!), I usually wasn't chosen until last or once they'd exhausted all the much prettier and popular candidates. And in my often-times foolish, but highly romantic heart, that just isn't the way love is supposed to be. I don't want to be the candidate you pick because I'm what's left over and for that matter, who would?

Maybe I've seen too many Rom-Coms, or read too many sappy poems. But, I still, persist in believing in 'it'.   Love...magic...fate...or at the very least...kinship.

Yes, I'm a believer. In so many things. I believe in God, and my salvation, dreams, wishes. I believe in true love, romance and being with a person who is truly meant for you. I just don't see that being a product of an online profile.. Which is not to say that I haven't tried it in the past, with absolutely horrific and soul-destroying results. And I'm not being in the least dramatic when I say that. Parts of me were damaged in some of these manufactured on-line romances that I know now, contribute to my wariness, my trust issues, and so many times I wish I could turn the clock back and tell my younger self that you don't really need a relationship that badly to settle for what you are about to.

There is a line in the service of marriage that I have always been particularly drawn to, "those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder". So that must mean that God puts people together, God joins them together. I've always taken that to believe that I can rest, that this is out of my hands, my destiny is in safe-keeping, God's timing, His hands.

It's a little un-religious, but to me that's the ultimate magic. The sense that one day when I least expect it, a man will show up in my life, and he'll be the one. That I'll know him when I see him, because there will be recognition, kinship, a feeling like I've always known him, and maybe, hopefully a tall man, with handsome features and a wicked sense of humor.

I'd much rather wait on God's timing, then wait for a profile.

But above all, I know it will be...magic.