Once in awhile, I take a look at my horoscope.
I call up the website and seek out the daily prognostication for those of the Cancer persuasion. I always have a furtive, guilty feeling as I'm reading it.
It's a reflexive action based on years of attendance at an Assembly of God church that viewed astrology on about the same level as the Church of God sect that handled snakes.
Most of the time, it's an exercise in futility, in many cases what I find is downright funny. The one reliable thing is that it is almost never accurate. Which in some cases, when the stars divine all sorts of wonderful things makes me mad. But on the other hand, when my fate is toward some sort of downfall, I can more easily dismiss it.
Just hokum...why do I even read this stuff? And then, the other day came this semi-ominous warning about Mercury being in retrograde. I'll admit, my first thought was, does Ford still even make Mercury(ies)? And if so, how would it affect my life if they had to recall one?
A little Google search later and I learned that in the world of astrology, the planet Mercury going into retrograde is a pretty big deal. In Seinfeld-lingo, it would be akin to New-mania...Apparently, 3-4 times a year when this phenomena occurs 'ol Mercury (once again, the planet) slows down, and appears to stop (station) and move backward (retrograde). It's an optical illusion, since there is forward movement, like speeding by a slow-moving train -- as it recedes, it appears to go backward.
No biggie right? Well apparently when this happens, those who live their lives per the planets say that it causes all manner of weird things happening. Computers go on the fritz, traffic lights act up, phone lines go down, dogs start having kittens, cousins start marrying...ok, I made the last two up. Some diehards refuse to do anything when Mercury is in retrograde, sign contracts, get married, make plans, etc. And there is one sect out in the dark web, that suggests that for your own safety, you lay pretty low, and they mean it, going so far as to refuse even leaving their homes.
Reading this, I scoffed and snickered,
Pfft..."My horoscope is never right anyway!"
That was the night before my computer went down the first time. I say first because I am on the approximately 76th system restore of the week. My computer has chuntered and squeezed out more heat sink fan gibberish than Jar Jar Binks in the first 30 minutes of "The Phantom Menace".
Still don't believe me, take the colander incident. Now I have washed and polished the same spaghetti strainer for approximately 20 years. I thought it indestructible, an aluminum piece of art. I have poured boiling noodles that could have been lava from Mt. St Helens into this receptacle. It's taken more rides in the dishwasher than Michael Jackson at Neverland. Hell, it's outlived three of the last four dishwashers I've had. It's never had so much as a ding from the time I used it to clean a couple of rocks that I thought might be dinosaur fossils (they weren't). Or the time that I thought I might have found a rare penny and cooked up a little potion that the internet guaranteed would have the pennies shining like the day they left the mint and I used the strainer to sift and sieve the treated coins. Then Tuesday came and I was unloading the dishwasher as usual, outside the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and as I turned to stack glasses back in the upper cabinet, my hip grazed the colander from the hook on the wall where it lives and it fell to the floor. I replaced it, it fell again, and again I replaced it and again it fell and again and again.
By this time, I was getting mad, my blood boiled and about the 5th time it fell, I did the unthinkable. In a fit of rage, I took that colander and bounced it halfway across the kitchen floor, thinking, 'it deserves this and nothing will ever happen, it's indestructible'. But then as it boomeranged back to land at my feet, I saw that my hitherto indestructible colander's side was bent! Scarred, wounded and I was in no doubt where the fault lay....Mercury.
Mercury had done this.
And there were other things, oh yes, other things. Due to Mercury, I forgot to watch the Indy 500, the Kentucky Derby, The Preakness, and I'm sure Mercury was to blame for Rory McIlroy dropping 80 at his own tournament! I know it was Mercury that caused the entire right side rod of my closet to collapse, raining down garments like a Filene's basement sale.
And though a skeptic still, Mercury has certainly given me pause....and June 11th can't come soon enough, you know so I can leave my room again.
There is some good news though, last night my fortune cookie said, "You will find your solution where you least expect it."
Although, I don't really believe in fortune cookies...
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Sunday, May 24, 2015
Let's Hear It For the Boys (and Girls)
It's Memorial Day tomorrow...
Used to be that I viewed it as the summer kick-off, a sort of warm up to the traditional seasonal high water mark that is the Fourth of July. Call it summer's Christmas if you will....
BBQ's, the start of the summer blockbuster movie season, beach time, pool time, lazy crazy days of summer...
And I'm sorry to have to admit, I was in my late 20's before I really understood it for what it was.
It took Flags of Our Fathers, Saving Private Ryan, Taking Chance and lots of personal study before I really...got it.
Memorial Day used to be Decoration Day.
History states that in 1868, The Grand Army of the Republic (read that Union Army) established the last Monday in May as a national day to decorate the graves of the war dead. The graves of the turn-coat 'suthenahs' Confederate dead were similarly adorned but on a separate day. It took until the early 20th century for the two factions to finally unify and allow what we now recognize and celebrate as Memorial Day as a day to honor all who died in the service of their country. It's important to note that Memorial Day isn't Veterans' Day.
You see Veterans' Day honors the living who served.
Memorial Day commemorates the dead who died in service to their country.
And it is this fact that changed me.
Watching TV over the last few days, something kept sticking in my craw...
No it wasn't the fact that NCIS may or may not have killed off Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and by God CBS, if you take Gibbs from me, I can promise you it will be a cold day in H E, double hockey sticks that I watch one more program on your network. I'll even boycott any offerings you run on Netflix on principle. You can have McGee, you can take Palmer, and I probably could even handle losing Bishop, Vance and maybe even Abby but if you touch one hair on the head of Gibbs, or DiNozzo, I won't even watch the re-runs...
It wasn't the fact that NBC is ending American Idol, now if only E would follow suit and axe the whole Kardashian-Jenner freak show that is corrupting the moral fiber of this country.
And it wasn't the fact that Bill Murray appeared odd and possibly intoxicated on the last Letterman show (but Jerry Seinfeld, you were a total mensch and rocked the tux you so flatteringly wore, good on you showing the others -looking at you Jim Carrey- what really class is)
All kidding aside, what's been sticking in my craw, are the commercials...
You know the ones,
"Head on over to World of Mattresses for our Annual Memorial Day Blowout!"
"Old clunker dying, check out our Memorial Day Bonanza at Kalamazoo Rio Kia!"
Driving by the Gold Platinum Gym today, I see they are offering a special Memorial Day $10 a month for 3 months Membership.
And that's when I snapped.
I'm a person of images, it's how I view everything. I take pictures in my mind and I remember things.
A few came to mind...
I saw the scared freckled faces of boys knee deep in water as they waded to the slaughter waiting for them on the beaches of Normandy.
I saw the trembling hands of a soldier taking one last drag on a cigarette ankle deep in a water-logged foxhole before preparing to go 'over the top' in the Ardennes.
The medics carrying bloody bodies one over each arm evacuating Saigon as it descended into chaos and burning.
Pictures of men missing limbs from the IED's planted by insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The images just kept coming, I can't even tell you all of them...some too horrific to 'un-see'.
Snatches of what I'd read, movies I'd seen....
One Memorial Day weekend back in 1988, I remember being angry with my Dad. I wanted to go to the beach with friends. It sounded so great, hotdogs and coca-colas, fruit roll ups, sand in my flip flops, and my walk-man in my ears. He sat me down and said that I was old enough to understand that Memorial Day wasn't a vacation, it wasn't a day for a picnic, it was a day of mourning. All I understood it to mean was that there wasn't going to be a party that day for Jill. He made me sit and watch movies like Bridge on the River Kwai, The Green Berets, and Platoon...I sat with my arms folded and my mind closed...angry and pouting.
Some time after that my Dad asked me what I was learning in school, I told him we were doing a unit on Vietnam. He asked what I knew. I spouted off things like the Tet Offensive, Fall of Saigon dates, times, parroting what the teacher thought was the minimum we ought to know. Then he asked for my textbook, and fool that I am, I smugly handed it over. My Dad took it and read silently for few minutes. After about 8 minutes had elapsed of me sitting in silence as he read, he sat up and with a shouted exclamation threw the textbook halfway across the living room where it crashed into the dining room wall. I sat stock still, frozen in place wondering what I had done. Then Dad said, "This, this is what they are teaching you?!!".
That day, for the first time in my life, my Dad sat me down and he told me the truth. About the government, about the torture inflicted on some men, the POW's who still hadn't come home, about coming back home himself to a fractured country that never welcomed him. Even his own family never would really talk to him about the war. It was as if, he'd gone on some overseas foreign exchange program. No thank yous, no joy at their safe return, just a bunch of guys who'd given their all to their country, fought a war that wasn't 'popular' and were left to suck it up and go back to their lives like nothing ever happened.
Just the other day, I read that as late as 2004, the State of Maryland finally issued a proclamation welcoming back Vietnam Veterans.
So I hope that you'll forgive me for thinking that Memorial Day isn't the time to go buy a new car, a new mattress, or appliance.
It isn't the start of the summer movie blockbusters.
It isn't a day for you to see if you can drink your weight in Bud...
Tomorrow is a day of mourning.
I urge you to think about those boys and girls...the ones that never came back.
Think about their wives, husbands, parents, brothers, sisters, kids...the families who will never be the same.
If you are religiously inclined, maybe take a moment to say a prayer for the families, for the country, for peace.
Take a moment of silence.
Take a moment to remember them and the fact that they made the ultimate sacrifice for this country.
Used to be that I viewed it as the summer kick-off, a sort of warm up to the traditional seasonal high water mark that is the Fourth of July. Call it summer's Christmas if you will....
BBQ's, the start of the summer blockbuster movie season, beach time, pool time, lazy crazy days of summer...
And I'm sorry to have to admit, I was in my late 20's before I really understood it for what it was.
It took Flags of Our Fathers, Saving Private Ryan, Taking Chance and lots of personal study before I really...got it.
Memorial Day used to be Decoration Day.
History states that in 1868, The Grand Army of the Republic (read that Union Army) established the last Monday in May as a national day to decorate the graves of the war dead. The graves of the turn-coat 'suthenahs' Confederate dead were similarly adorned but on a separate day. It took until the early 20th century for the two factions to finally unify and allow what we now recognize and celebrate as Memorial Day as a day to honor all who died in the service of their country. It's important to note that Memorial Day isn't Veterans' Day.
You see Veterans' Day honors the living who served.
Memorial Day commemorates the dead who died in service to their country.
And it is this fact that changed me.
Watching TV over the last few days, something kept sticking in my craw...
No it wasn't the fact that NCIS may or may not have killed off Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and by God CBS, if you take Gibbs from me, I can promise you it will be a cold day in H E, double hockey sticks that I watch one more program on your network. I'll even boycott any offerings you run on Netflix on principle. You can have McGee, you can take Palmer, and I probably could even handle losing Bishop, Vance and maybe even Abby but if you touch one hair on the head of Gibbs, or DiNozzo, I won't even watch the re-runs...
It wasn't the fact that NBC is ending American Idol, now if only E would follow suit and axe the whole Kardashian-Jenner freak show that is corrupting the moral fiber of this country.
And it wasn't the fact that Bill Murray appeared odd and possibly intoxicated on the last Letterman show (but Jerry Seinfeld, you were a total mensch and rocked the tux you so flatteringly wore, good on you showing the others -looking at you Jim Carrey- what really class is)
All kidding aside, what's been sticking in my craw, are the commercials...
You know the ones,
"Head on over to World of Mattresses for our Annual Memorial Day Blowout!"
"Old clunker dying, check out our Memorial Day Bonanza at Kalamazoo Rio Kia!"
Driving by the Gold Platinum Gym today, I see they are offering a special Memorial Day $10 a month for 3 months Membership.
And that's when I snapped.
I'm a person of images, it's how I view everything. I take pictures in my mind and I remember things.
A few came to mind...
I saw the scared freckled faces of boys knee deep in water as they waded to the slaughter waiting for them on the beaches of Normandy.
I saw the trembling hands of a soldier taking one last drag on a cigarette ankle deep in a water-logged foxhole before preparing to go 'over the top' in the Ardennes.
The medics carrying bloody bodies one over each arm evacuating Saigon as it descended into chaos and burning.
Pictures of men missing limbs from the IED's planted by insurgents in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The images just kept coming, I can't even tell you all of them...some too horrific to 'un-see'.
Snatches of what I'd read, movies I'd seen....
One Memorial Day weekend back in 1988, I remember being angry with my Dad. I wanted to go to the beach with friends. It sounded so great, hotdogs and coca-colas, fruit roll ups, sand in my flip flops, and my walk-man in my ears. He sat me down and said that I was old enough to understand that Memorial Day wasn't a vacation, it wasn't a day for a picnic, it was a day of mourning. All I understood it to mean was that there wasn't going to be a party that day for Jill. He made me sit and watch movies like Bridge on the River Kwai, The Green Berets, and Platoon...I sat with my arms folded and my mind closed...angry and pouting.
Some time after that my Dad asked me what I was learning in school, I told him we were doing a unit on Vietnam. He asked what I knew. I spouted off things like the Tet Offensive, Fall of Saigon dates, times, parroting what the teacher thought was the minimum we ought to know. Then he asked for my textbook, and fool that I am, I smugly handed it over. My Dad took it and read silently for few minutes. After about 8 minutes had elapsed of me sitting in silence as he read, he sat up and with a shouted exclamation threw the textbook halfway across the living room where it crashed into the dining room wall. I sat stock still, frozen in place wondering what I had done. Then Dad said, "This, this is what they are teaching you?!!".
That day, for the first time in my life, my Dad sat me down and he told me the truth. About the government, about the torture inflicted on some men, the POW's who still hadn't come home, about coming back home himself to a fractured country that never welcomed him. Even his own family never would really talk to him about the war. It was as if, he'd gone on some overseas foreign exchange program. No thank yous, no joy at their safe return, just a bunch of guys who'd given their all to their country, fought a war that wasn't 'popular' and were left to suck it up and go back to their lives like nothing ever happened.
Just the other day, I read that as late as 2004, the State of Maryland finally issued a proclamation welcoming back Vietnam Veterans.
So I hope that you'll forgive me for thinking that Memorial Day isn't the time to go buy a new car, a new mattress, or appliance.
It isn't the start of the summer movie blockbusters.
It isn't a day for you to see if you can drink your weight in Bud...
Tomorrow is a day of mourning.
I urge you to think about those boys and girls...the ones that never came back.
Think about their wives, husbands, parents, brothers, sisters, kids...the families who will never be the same.
If you are religiously inclined, maybe take a moment to say a prayer for the families, for the country, for peace.
Take a moment of silence.
Take a moment to remember them and the fact that they made the ultimate sacrifice for this country.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Renovation Alienation
So I've become mildly obsessed of late over DIY & HGTV offerings. I am not sure what it is about renovations, but I guess given the circumstances of my own life lately, I've become consumed with the concept of restoration.
Instead of Netflix, I've been binging on Love or List It, Flip or Flop, and of course Property Brothers, Ah...the Scott twins... Such pulchritude, such manly excellence...such height. I freely admit I'm a sucker for a tall dude. I'm probably more like Drew in personality, but ah...Jonathan. There is just something about Jonathan. Even his name is cool, Jonathan "Silver" Scott. I vowed right then and there, if ever I got the chance to wed Mr. Scott, I would affect a similar name change. Why be Jill A Last Name (ha...fat chance I'm going to give you my surname) when I could be Jill Topaz Scott, or maybe and this is a stretch...Jill London Blue Topaz Scott! Jill Sapphire Scott? How cool a name is that?
It was around this time of pursuing alternate identities, I realized I was entering the scary world of complete fan obsession absorption. It culminated in my subconscious late one night. I dreamt that Jonathan and I were restoring a home together and engaging in knock-down drag-out screaming match over the merits of subway tile which Jonathan favored and the retro 50's style black and white mosaic tiles I wanted for our dream bathroom.
I realized I had a problem. Then X'ers, it deepened when I realized that like most things in my life, once again I find myself out of step with current modernity. Everything today is all about modern, open floor plans, ambient lighting, glass tiles, squared off sofas, lots of color, modern, modern, modern...
I'm not. You may revile me after reading the following, snap shut your laptop or tablet in protest and vow never to read anything I write again, but I'm...ahem, (cough)...traditional. Ugh, I said it. I really like pale pastel yellow walls, wing back armchairs, chintzes, walnut secretaries and cherry sleigh beds. It gets worse... I like blue and white Chinese vases, Waverly prints, grandfather clocks, antique sewing cabinets, hurricane lamps and worst of all I don't even mind striped wallpaper.
Then we come to the thing that every self-respecting Millennial hipster must have, the open floor plan. I...like...well...I like walls. In the 1980's, my best friend's family moved to a new home. I remember visiting, alternately swooning over and envying the fact that they had a separate formal dining room, replete with ponderous cherry wood Chippendale-esque dining table and matching china cabinet hutch. In my home, we had an open plan, where the kitchen flowed into a nook that we ate in. The luxury of a walled-off room just for eating has never quite lost its magic for me.
In my teens, I devoured gothic romance novels by the hundreds and there are no open floor plans in any of the old abbeys, stately manors, or chalets that these stories played out in. Where would the heroine hide from the lecherous Squire, libelous housekeeper, or murderous but seemingly kind nanny in an open floor plan? Where would Mr. Rochester have stashed his insane first wife and wifeys' seemingly malevolent but actually heart of gold companion/keeper in an open floor plan? You need corner turrets, secret passages, priest holes, libraries, and conservatories for such actions.
In short, you need walls....
If Frost is right and "Good fences make good neighbours, I would paraphrase that and say the "Good walls make better friends and families".
So there you have it, the unvarnished, un-staged truth. I'm not a modern...and as such Jonathan and I probably have no future together. But we'll always have Seasons 1-7...
Instead of Netflix, I've been binging on Love or List It, Flip or Flop, and of course Property Brothers, Ah...the Scott twins... Such pulchritude, such manly excellence...such height. I freely admit I'm a sucker for a tall dude. I'm probably more like Drew in personality, but ah...Jonathan. There is just something about Jonathan. Even his name is cool, Jonathan "Silver" Scott. I vowed right then and there, if ever I got the chance to wed Mr. Scott, I would affect a similar name change. Why be Jill A Last Name (ha...fat chance I'm going to give you my surname) when I could be Jill Topaz Scott, or maybe and this is a stretch...Jill London Blue Topaz Scott! Jill Sapphire Scott? How cool a name is that?
It was around this time of pursuing alternate identities, I realized I was entering the scary world of complete fan obsession absorption. It culminated in my subconscious late one night. I dreamt that Jonathan and I were restoring a home together and engaging in knock-down drag-out screaming match over the merits of subway tile which Jonathan favored and the retro 50's style black and white mosaic tiles I wanted for our dream bathroom.
I realized I had a problem. Then X'ers, it deepened when I realized that like most things in my life, once again I find myself out of step with current modernity. Everything today is all about modern, open floor plans, ambient lighting, glass tiles, squared off sofas, lots of color, modern, modern, modern...
I'm not. You may revile me after reading the following, snap shut your laptop or tablet in protest and vow never to read anything I write again, but I'm...ahem, (cough)...traditional. Ugh, I said it. I really like pale pastel yellow walls, wing back armchairs, chintzes, walnut secretaries and cherry sleigh beds. It gets worse... I like blue and white Chinese vases, Waverly prints, grandfather clocks, antique sewing cabinets, hurricane lamps and worst of all I don't even mind striped wallpaper.
Then we come to the thing that every self-respecting Millennial hipster must have, the open floor plan. I...like...well...I like walls. In the 1980's, my best friend's family moved to a new home. I remember visiting, alternately swooning over and envying the fact that they had a separate formal dining room, replete with ponderous cherry wood Chippendale-esque dining table and matching china cabinet hutch. In my home, we had an open plan, where the kitchen flowed into a nook that we ate in. The luxury of a walled-off room just for eating has never quite lost its magic for me.
In my teens, I devoured gothic romance novels by the hundreds and there are no open floor plans in any of the old abbeys, stately manors, or chalets that these stories played out in. Where would the heroine hide from the lecherous Squire, libelous housekeeper, or murderous but seemingly kind nanny in an open floor plan? Where would Mr. Rochester have stashed his insane first wife and wifeys' seemingly malevolent but actually heart of gold companion/keeper in an open floor plan? You need corner turrets, secret passages, priest holes, libraries, and conservatories for such actions.
In short, you need walls....
If Frost is right and "Good fences make good neighbours, I would paraphrase that and say the "Good walls make better friends and families".
So there you have it, the unvarnished, un-staged truth. I'm not a modern...and as such Jonathan and I probably have no future together. But we'll always have Seasons 1-7...
Friday, May 1, 2015
The 1st of May- A Homecoming
Sometimes there is a sense that some of these posts seem to come from a manic depressive.
It's really just me and there are good days and bad...
I guess I thought that I could bluff my way through life so much more easily. When I was in High School, I thought, "okay, first graduate, somehow get through college, you'll meet someone probably around your 3rd year, date, get engaged in your twenties while making headway at the perfect job, get married and then have children in your mid to late twenties."
It all seemed so do-able and normal. I had no doubts....
Then life really began to happen...it never goes the way that you plan. If you are reading this and really love your children, you'll tell them that. Take their face in your hands, look them in the eye and make sure that they 'get it'.
I had a really watershed day today. It was such a beautiful and perfect day. The ones where the azure sky seems to go on forever in limitless splendor. It was warm with cool breezes and zero humidity, which means a lot in a place like Florida.
I couldn't have stayed inside if my life depended on it. So I grabbed a sandwich and a drink and I made my way to my special spot at a nearby lake. I lunched with egret and heron, mallard and Muscovy ducks for companions. I watched in wonder as an osprey flew low over the tree island in the center of the pond, laughed at the quacking mallards all swimming in formation behind one that appeared to be the line leader, shuddered a bit at the Muscovy who don't quack but hiss instead to announce their presence. One seemed particularly put out that I didn't share my sandwich and stalked away hissing epithets that probably didn't put me in all that good a light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the swamp as I edged closer trying to see if I could spot the crabby old alligator who inhabits this small pond. It always amuses me that the HOA in their wisdom have erected a red painted sign that reads 'WARNING- ALLIGATOR IN POND'. I think they do it for the Northerners that move here and then wonder why their dogs that they let off the leashes suddenly disappear. Any Floridian knows that if you have a body of water, be it a swimming pool, retention pond, or full-fledged spring fed lake, at some time or other an alligator is probably going to take up residence as its God-given right.
Grasping the nettle still further, I moved out onto a concrete slab that juts out onto the edge of land that leads to the marshy beach in front of the lake. It's set in just such a way that you can sit on one part that's higher up and then spread your legs out comfortably over the end. Picture a pool side lounge made of concrete and you'd just about have it.
You see, this really is my favorite place in the world; I cannot even recount all of the times that I have gone to this lakeside retreat to plan, celebrate, ruminate, mourn, cry and marvel. There have been times when I wandered down in the early hours of morning to watch the sunrise and times when I have gone there to try and catch the sight of shooting stars, moonlight eclipses...it's the wonder and romance of the place that captures me.
I've shared this spot with only one other person and seven years ago he and I sat on that concrete slab and planned the rest of our lives together. We sat curled up, one leaning against the other, arms entwined, desperate for the touch, the scent, the feel of the other. I remember being so happy that my heart ached. I was so certain that this was the way it would always be.
After the break-up, when my dreams were shattered, I would occasionally go back to the lake but never in the same way. I shunned the concrete slab, choosing to sit on a bench or a picnic table.
Then today, the allure of the lake called, the perfection of the day...I realized that I didn't want to hide in the shade on the bench, I wanted to be out on that slab, basking in the sun, reveling in the wildness of the wind. So I took tentative steps, then faster and faster and I reached it stretching out in the sun. For the first time in so many years. I felt whole again, restored, renewed.
Even the clothes I wore seemed part of it, not dressing to please anyone but myself, my favorite faded blue jeans, blue and white striped tee, black leather sandals, my Seiko watch with the blue dial that my father gave me for Christmas, the aquamarine and silver ring my mother and I found in a junk shop, restored and gleaming on my finger, all of this, all of it will live in my memory as the day that I came back home.
I sit here now with a slightly sunburned nose and face, but I can still feel the warmth on my skin and the wind in my hair as I rejoiced in my homecoming on the most perfect of days.
It's really just me and there are good days and bad...
I guess I thought that I could bluff my way through life so much more easily. When I was in High School, I thought, "okay, first graduate, somehow get through college, you'll meet someone probably around your 3rd year, date, get engaged in your twenties while making headway at the perfect job, get married and then have children in your mid to late twenties."
It all seemed so do-able and normal. I had no doubts....
Then life really began to happen...it never goes the way that you plan. If you are reading this and really love your children, you'll tell them that. Take their face in your hands, look them in the eye and make sure that they 'get it'.
I had a really watershed day today. It was such a beautiful and perfect day. The ones where the azure sky seems to go on forever in limitless splendor. It was warm with cool breezes and zero humidity, which means a lot in a place like Florida.
I couldn't have stayed inside if my life depended on it. So I grabbed a sandwich and a drink and I made my way to my special spot at a nearby lake. I lunched with egret and heron, mallard and Muscovy ducks for companions. I watched in wonder as an osprey flew low over the tree island in the center of the pond, laughed at the quacking mallards all swimming in formation behind one that appeared to be the line leader, shuddered a bit at the Muscovy who don't quack but hiss instead to announce their presence. One seemed particularly put out that I didn't share my sandwich and stalked away hissing epithets that probably didn't put me in all that good a light. Dragonflies skimmed the surface of the swamp as I edged closer trying to see if I could spot the crabby old alligator who inhabits this small pond. It always amuses me that the HOA in their wisdom have erected a red painted sign that reads 'WARNING- ALLIGATOR IN POND'. I think they do it for the Northerners that move here and then wonder why their dogs that they let off the leashes suddenly disappear. Any Floridian knows that if you have a body of water, be it a swimming pool, retention pond, or full-fledged spring fed lake, at some time or other an alligator is probably going to take up residence as its God-given right.
Grasping the nettle still further, I moved out onto a concrete slab that juts out onto the edge of land that leads to the marshy beach in front of the lake. It's set in just such a way that you can sit on one part that's higher up and then spread your legs out comfortably over the end. Picture a pool side lounge made of concrete and you'd just about have it.
You see, this really is my favorite place in the world; I cannot even recount all of the times that I have gone to this lakeside retreat to plan, celebrate, ruminate, mourn, cry and marvel. There have been times when I wandered down in the early hours of morning to watch the sunrise and times when I have gone there to try and catch the sight of shooting stars, moonlight eclipses...it's the wonder and romance of the place that captures me.
I've shared this spot with only one other person and seven years ago he and I sat on that concrete slab and planned the rest of our lives together. We sat curled up, one leaning against the other, arms entwined, desperate for the touch, the scent, the feel of the other. I remember being so happy that my heart ached. I was so certain that this was the way it would always be.
After the break-up, when my dreams were shattered, I would occasionally go back to the lake but never in the same way. I shunned the concrete slab, choosing to sit on a bench or a picnic table.
Then today, the allure of the lake called, the perfection of the day...I realized that I didn't want to hide in the shade on the bench, I wanted to be out on that slab, basking in the sun, reveling in the wildness of the wind. So I took tentative steps, then faster and faster and I reached it stretching out in the sun. For the first time in so many years. I felt whole again, restored, renewed.
Even the clothes I wore seemed part of it, not dressing to please anyone but myself, my favorite faded blue jeans, blue and white striped tee, black leather sandals, my Seiko watch with the blue dial that my father gave me for Christmas, the aquamarine and silver ring my mother and I found in a junk shop, restored and gleaming on my finger, all of this, all of it will live in my memory as the day that I came back home.
I sit here now with a slightly sunburned nose and face, but I can still feel the warmth on my skin and the wind in my hair as I rejoiced in my homecoming on the most perfect of days.
Friday, March 13, 2015
On Unemployment, Bathrobes and the Genius of Mr. Mom
Took a shower today...
Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.
I used to be that way, until unemployment...
Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.
Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.
It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.
After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers' decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.
It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...
It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.
I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.
I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.
I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.
I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?
I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."
Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...
Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.
I used to be that way, until unemployment...
Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.
Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.
It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.
After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers' decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.
It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...
It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.
I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.
I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.
I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.
I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?
I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."
Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...
Monday, February 9, 2015
Non-Company that I Worked For But Was Never Really One Of Them...Or What I Learned and How I Learned It
So fast forward...hello 2015.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Dancing with Tears In My Eyes
I haven't been here in quite awhile and actually this time it's been a deliberate thing.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
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