Like a Rolling Stone

Today I am hoping our blog will go interactive.

Earlier this week, my best friend, Girl Wednesday, made a brief comment about rethinking the city in which she lives. In other words, she is considering whether she should consider moving. I couldn't help but think, "Move here! Live next door to me! We'll do yoga and attend PTA and see the newest Reese Witherspoon movies and commiserate about the weather and life will be soooo wonderful!"

Now, I would plead my case to GW in earnest if it weren't for the fact that my husband and I are planning on moving ourselves. We don't yet know where we will be moving to. We are from different, distant states (we now live in a third, entirely different state), and we are considering both of those places as potential destinations. We are also considering moving to the place where we met, in yet another state. Though we are open to where the opportunities take us, there is a particular region we’d prefer to end up in. But no matter where we do end up, we will certainly be hundreds of miles away from many loved ones— close friends and close family members.

I have accepted that I am living the kind of life that does not keep me in one place. It would be really nice to have stayed in my hometown, and to have continued the same friendships through the years. Even staying in the city where I went to college would have provided a sturdy, consistent social base. Yet I have moved around a lot since high school, always to the benefit of my academic and/or professional life (or my husband’s).

I have truly enjoyed living in many different cities and states. What I find most fascinating about different parts of this country is not how different they are, but how similar. However, I am hoping that my days of bouncing about are coming to an end. I want to have a home, to put down roots. But where? I can’t be everywhere. It makes me extremely sad to think that my children won’t see all of their grandparents on a weekly basis. And that I won’t be there to see all of my nieces and nephews (literal and honorary) grow up. Major and minor events will go by, and I’ll be wishing that certain people could be there. It’s easy to enough to think, “Well, that’s just the way it is.” But lately I’ve been thinking, “Is it?” There are people out there who don’t feel the need to always be leaving, who have no strong sense of wanderlust. They may want to better themselves, but they don’t think it’s necessary to go to a distant, unknown place to do so. They don’t feel the need to leave to pursue the very best opportunities. They will be successful right where they are, thank us very much. They know others, of course, in different cities who they enjoying seeing when they can. But for the most part, the people they care about are all around them.

Personally, I couldn’t have not left home. I chose to go to the best schools I could get into, do the work that interested me, and compromise to be with the person I love. And I couldn’t have come back. To be honest, most of the people I would have stayed close with from high school also left. I know there is a group from childhood that’s still around, but I really can’t picture myself within it now. I’m glad I left. I just think it stinks that through those travels, I have met awesome people who have become great friends, and I don’t see them that much. We will always be far from immediate family, but we’ve come to accept it. We hope that some of us will eventually move closer together; as for the others, we are willing to budget a lot of time and money to maintain our relationships through the years. At least “everything is so easy now—with the internet”. But it’s not the same. And in my heart of hearts, I still imagine one day GW and I, pushing our strollers side-by-side.

So what do you think, blogosphere? Did you leave the place where you came from? Do you regret it? Is this something you struggle with? Is your significant other from far away? Has that caused problems for you? How did you or will you decide where to put down roots?

Kitten Conscience

I am going to keep this blog pretty short today.

Today I am taking my two kittens into the cat clinic to get spayed. Rationally speaking, obviously, I know it is the right thing to do. But, for some reason I feel terrible doing it! I feel so guilty knowing that I am taking my kittens in to have their reproductive organs taken out! I had to take their food and water away last night around 6pm so the anesthesia doesn’t affect them during their surgery.

I had gotten these two cute kittens about 7 months ago. My husband (then fiancé) was always at his school studying and I was getting lonely. I thought the perfect solution was to get a cat to keep me company. Once I decided to get one, I realized I should probably get two so they can keep each other company during the day while I am at work and he is at school.

I found these two kittens from a true “cat lady”. I went to her home in March to pick these cats up and she told me she had 35 cats at her home! She had me sign a contract saying I would get the cats the proper shots, get them spayed, and never get them de-clawed. Two weeks later they got their next set of shots, I have no problem keeping their claws in, but I have been putting off getting them spayed.

The last two to three months I have been getting a new voicemail every other day from this cat lady. She was trying to scare me by explaining how cats go into heat and run out the front door when you walk in, they get pregnant, and then you will have to put their kittens to sleep because there are already too many cats. I have to say that I agree with her. I don’t want more unwanted animals on this planet. But, I still feel guilty doing this to them. I definitely know I wouldn’t want my reproductive organs torn out!!

I am a pretty rational person. I make rational decisions, don’t get too emotional, and try to use reason during my decision-making processes. So, I really don’t understand why I have gotten so torn about doing this for my kittens. But I have.

Regardless, I am dropping them off at 7am so I can get to work by 7:30. I will pick them up around 6:30 after I get off work and fight traffic. I know it will probably kill me to see their little tummies shaved, but I realize that it is necessary.

I apologize if this post was boring for people to read…but it has been a huge struggle for me the last few weeks and the day is finally here to have the procedure done! I am sure I have not been the only pet-owner who has ever had to deal with these worries. Maybe I will google search it and see if other people have written about it. Isn’t it weird how you can read about someone else’s struggles and it can provide a little more comfort to your worries? Writing about it has helped me feel a little better, but not much.

Zoom Zoom

Lately my life has been feeling like a car commercial.  Not like the hard-rock, Grand Canyon kind or the goofy, family-van kind.  But rather, the kind where the sedan is cruising smoothly at night, along a cityscape.  At first the music sounds like synthesized angels choiring and then the car blasts forward into the horizon and the music explodes into a strong, cascading  symphony.  

I find great comfort in these commercials.  I don't really know why.  I like the way the nighttime feels around the car.  Like the overnight train I rode from Paris to Nice- speeding in cushioned darkness.  I find comfort in the little lights of the car's console.  I like wondering what city we're driving near, and what's happening there, what's the air like there?  Sort of similar to the way I take evening city strolls- especially in the fall and winter- catching glimpses inside apartments.  It's warm inside, and people are going on with their well-lit lives- eating at the dinner table, watching late-night TV.  I feel comfortable for them.  

And then the music shoots the car along the C.G. superhighway.  And I feel like if I close my eyes, my life will drop altitude, suddenly propelling me into slow motion.  My hair whipping around my face, the night wind blowing my belongings around me as if none of it matters, as if I'm standing at some important intersection, some central moment, the deal-breaker scene in the movie about my life.  

Maybe I'm making too much of a car commercial.  I am facing some important decisions now.  I'm looking for a job, which causes me to rethink the city in which I live, the apartment for which I pay rent, everything I do.  So maybe I am making too much of everything, looking for signs, mistaking the little events for the broader ones that I couldn't possibly visualize accurately right now.  I keep thinking about daily events and decisions as if they were being retold in an "E! True Hollywood Story."  

But it's just a 30-second commercial.  And when the 30 seconds are up, I realize I'm not behind the wheel, but more like I'm hitchhiking on the side of that C.G. superhighway.  And that sleek vehicle, shooting out into the starry horizon, leaves me in the dust. 

Yesterday I saw a posting for a Sears portrait photographer and it reminded me of a now retired department store that was right near our old apartment in Queens.  We used to take the escalator up and right at the top was the stand where you could get your portraits taken before an array of paper backdrops with pastel and neon designs.  What if I walked away from city pressures and the pressures of my industry and walked into suburban Sears and filled out an application?  When I walk past the "help wanted" sign in the window of my neighborhood Urban Outfitters, I have the same thought.  Folding flannels seems like such a simpler fork in the road.

My boss admitted having these urges- when she was a producer on the road and she was checking out her rental car in a foreign city.  She said she fantasized about working at Hertz for a living.  Just type in the customer's name and hand them the keys.  You could disappear in that thought for hours.  As if working at a minimum wage job (on your feet all day, thanklessly, mindlessly, fantasizing about someone else's lifestyle) is an afternoon on the hammock.  I get it. 

It's just that sometimes it feels like all I've done for myself-- by going to grad school and fighting the late hours and low pay to stay relevant in my celebrity-studded, who-you-know industry-- is complicated things.  And by the time I get to this thought I feel very, very tired.  

So I'm going to go back to my life where my former career services advisor tells me there are "absolutely no jobs right now" and where I seriously pause to read a job listing for a department store photographer for which, I sadly realize, I am wholly under-qualified.  

My British friend once told me he is baffled by American car commercials.  He said in England, car commercials are slow-paced, and set to classical music.  How refined.

    

    

Abandoned

I’m not a very girly-girl. I wear makeup purchased from the drug store. I only wear lip-gloss on special occasions, and I actually think I own enough shoes. And I have a phobia of hairdressers. It started when my mom cut my hair super short when I was in elementary school. Boy short. So short that she had to let me pierce my ears at seven so that the women in the grocery store line would stop calling my brother and I twins. So then I decided to try and grow it out in fifth grade. It looked awful. Combined with the awkward stage and some giant glasses, I was convinced that the unruly mop on my head was the root of my unpopularity. In sixth and seventh grade, I wouldn’t let anyone touch my hair. I was trying to grow it out. Mostly, I just grew a ratty, curly, nasty, mess. Finally, I came home and had my mom cut it off and started blowdrying it straight. So then I let my mom cut my hair all through high-school. I finally found a hairdresser I liked when I was in college, but she was back home, and although I tried to coordinate my appointments while I was home, I had a few really bad haircuts in the rural Midwest town where I went to school. And then my hairdresser at home quit, and I had to start fresh, all over again. I got one really, really good haircut while I was in DC for a summer during graduate school. I tried to go back when I was home the next summer, but that stylist had left. I ended up going to a new guy who actually left my hair different lengths on the two sides. I had to go back and get him to fix it two days later.

I finally found a hairdresser when I was in my second to last year of grad school. It was the first time I’d found someone who actually remembered my name, asked how my life was going, and who seemed to enjoy catching up with me every six to eight weeks. Sure, it’s all part of the business, but it was comfortable. And it was hard to leave behind when I moved to the city.

So, imagine my surprise when I actually found a hairdresser I liked last year. I went in with very low expectations, and was incredibly impressed. I was sold after one haircut, and didn’t have to spend any great amount of time getting referrals or reading reviews on yelp.com. She was actually helping me grow my hair out. She had taught me about products. My hair is finally past my shoulders. It actually looks like the pictures I’d take with me when I got it cut. I finally felt settled. I’d moved to a new city, started my first real job, and was living in my own downtown apartment. Doctor- check. Dentist- check. Tailor- check. Hairdresser- check.

I started a new job last month and was too busy to make it in at six weeks for my normal trim. And even though I’d been putting it off, I was excited to go tell her all about the new job. And filling her in on my wedding plans. And just catching up. Sure, it was going to be inconvenient to have to go three metro stops just for a haircut, but I was willing to do it. I was willing to figure out how to fit it in during my busy work weeks, because, after all, she was my hairdresser.

But today, when I finally got around to booking an appointment, I couldn’t find her name on the drop down menu for the online scheduling system. I called the salon directly, and confirmed that she no longer worked there. I suppose it’s too much to ask for a mid-range salon to contact you and let you know that you’re leaving. I can’t blame her for not bothering. I mean, after all, it was a big city salon over the metro stop that specializes in walk-ins. But I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. You see, for some reason, all having all of these things, hairdressers, doctors, a drycleaner who actually creases your pants the way you like them, and a grocery store where the clerks are friendly and ask you how your day has been—these are the little things that make living in the city tolerable. These are the things that make me feel special, wanted, as though I belong here. But perhaps the relationship has always been a little more one-sided than I had realized.

Festivus for the Rest-of-Us

I was talking to a friend this afternoon about the blog we are all a part of (ps, just noticed that Word doesn’t even recognize the word “blog” it just put a red line under it and suggested that I might mean bog, blob, or blow. While blow may be what my entries have done the past few weeks, I actually mean blog. I’m sure a Mac would have recognized the word). Anyway, I digress……

I was explaining to my 55 year-old friend that this was an opportunity to talk about what I was thinking, feeling, etc. Anything I wanted to get off of my chest, all the while pretending that others care. Immediately she said, “you know what you can blog about? What I don’t like – the pharmacy techs at work who wear their thongs sticking out of the top of their pants. It’s nasty and unprofessional.” Obviously, the woman’s on to something. Don’t we all feel that way? Especially if your size XXL thong is topping out of your size 6 pants. Ack.

So that gave me the idea to have a week of helping others. Why not give back to the community in this time of crisis by letting them have an all-out bitch fest? So welcome to the Airing of Grievances. I gave some friends and co-workers the opportunity to go to town on what really gets under their skin. And boy did they.

I hope it made them feel better, and I hope some of it resonates with you all.

• People who drive for miles with their blinker on. Are you seriously going to turn right from the right lane on the interstate. I doubt it. Oh, and if you do, good luck.
• Co-workers, or even bosses (ahem.) who think they know it all. They have a better story for every one story you tell. Your cat’s sick? Well their cat once had polio. AND SURVIVED. Don’t tell me you really know it all. 47,983 divided by 56. The square root of 3,983. Diagram one of Palin’s sentence then, Bitch.

"It's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where-where do they go?"

• Ex-girlfriends (or more like someone you’ve only been out with three times, *snap*) who don’t understand what it means when we don’t call you back. For days at a time. Get a copy of He’s Just Not that into You. And a clue.
• People who clip their nails in public. What else is there to say? Don’t do it at your desk, three doors down so I can hear the little metal thingies go clink clink clink, don’t do it on the Metro (right GT?!), and, God forbid, don’t do it on an airplane and put the clippings into the seat back. Yuck. This goes for toes and fingers Airplane Man.
• People who waste everyone’s time with a question or a choice they don’t have ready. Don’t call my office and go, “uhh, so I uhhh, do you uhhh?” Get your shit together before you call. And to the people in front of me at the counter who get up there and look like they’ve never seen the menu before, ever. Even after standing in line for ten minutes, I’m guessing you’re not a McDonald’s virgin, so get off your phone and order already.
• Men with man boobs. (Okay so this would go more into the physical attributes that people can’t necessarily control category, but I hate them. So, whatever).
• Sickies who don’t cover their sneezes. That’s what your sleeve, shirt, kleenex combination of the above, is for. Use it. These are the same people who also don’t wash their hands after they pee (or worse, poop). One of everyone’s favorite GM stories is the time I chased a woman out of a pottie because she’d gone out without washing her hands. Mind you I was sick for the fourth time that year and obviously cranky, but I said to her “it’s people like you who make people like me sick.” Yikes. Not my finest moment, but message conveyed – check.
• Rolling suitcases and the people who don’t know how to use them. If you wouldn’t run over my feet with your car, don’t do it with your rolling suitcase. And if you can’t lift it over your head and into the bin, you can’t have it. Check it under the damn plane. I’ll pay the $25 just so I don’t have to watch you struggle.
• Public displays of phlegm. The substance and the noises. Enough said.
• Smokers who think they have the right to smoke anywhere, even in non-smoking places. Even when there’s a sign. Especially when there’s a sign. They seem pretty sure, like the rest of us, that as long as it’s not the airplane lavatory no one’s going to haul them off to jail for it. But the shared bathroom at work? Really? You can’t walk another 50 feet outside? My favorite line is when asked about it the smoker said that the sign was “for crack and stuff. Not for cigarettes.” Heh. Well, now I know.
• And last but not least, people who say irregardless. Dude, totally not a word. Oh, and DC-people, you have not been “tasked” with anything. Because task is not a verb.
I was almost done with the list when I got a message from my friend Jeremy, the last one to respond, who answered with “People who complain too much.”
So ignore everything I just said.

Watch What Happens.

An analysis of the entertainment found only on Bravo.

I have often heard people complain about “reality shows”. However, I think they are brilliant. Well— let me qualify that. I am not that interested in watching skanky girls resolve their differences by spitting at each other on “Flavor of Love”, or people testing stun guns on themselves a la “Jackass”. I think the success of reality shows can be attributed to viewers seeking humanity in their entertainment. Determination, talent and compassion can be seen, in truly real moments, on all of these shows, from monster hits like “The Amazing Race” to silly melodramas like “The Hills”. And in my opinion, no network does reality better than Bravo TV.

Project Runway
My favorite show on Bravo is “Project Runway”. I got on board with this show at the start of the second season and I haven’t looked back. The show has one of the best models (and I don’t mean Heidi Klum) in reality TV- it’s about the clothes, people. As enjoyable as it is to see the squabbles between the designers, the arguments between the judges and the designers on the runway, and the oh-so-cool celebrity guests make their appearances, the best part of this show is the creative concepts the designers put into their garments. All of the contestants are passionate about fashion and want desperately to “make it”. But they don’t get there by making fools out of themselves. Seeing them turn their visions into breathtaking, or ghastly, gowns in a matter of days and hours is pretty remarkable. There is something very, very fun about seeing a person pick out seemingly innocuous and unrelated fabrics and adornments, and turning them into something beautiful, or hideous. “Project Runway” very intelligently picks people with all kinds of “wackadoodle” (to quote eliminated contestant Suede) points of view. That is where the entertainment comes from. Following the competition each week, you really want the best person to win. (The finale was this week, and my fave, Leanne was the victor—it felt great.) Sure, it’s fun to have favorites or to hate someone for being a total bitch, but in the end, the prize is great and there is satisfaction in watching the winner earn it all (or disagreeing vehemently with the judges’ choice). And the prize isn’t earned by acting outrageous. It’s by being damn good. Network executives, take note.

The Rachel Zoe Project
I was so glad to see this show hit the airwaves. As a ravenous consumer of gossip, I have heard that Rachel Zoe (pronounced Zoh) is the mastermind behind all beautiful women in Hollywood. Celebrities are pretty, for sure, but we all know it takes a lot of make-up, lighting, personal trainers, chefs and numerous other minions to get them looking good. And no assist is greater than that from the celebrity stylist. And no stylist is more famous than Rachel Zoe.

The first season of the show concluded this week. I was excited because we finally got to see some short interviews with Rachel’s biggest client, Jennifer Garner, who is every bit as adorable as I imagine her being. I was also glad to see some sort of resolution regarding the Brad—Taylor affair. So Brad and Taylor are basically a demented Will and Grace. Taylor has a pretty face and messy blonde hair and has this punk rock vibe going. Rachel constantly praises Brad’s style, bowtie preppy and clean on the canvas of a cute, gay guy. Taylor has been Rachel’s assistant for two and a half years, and Brad just got hired to take the grunt work off of her, so she can do more important things. Brad was formerly at Vogue. Taylor is a complete bitch who feels the need to rant and rave, very harshly, at Brad for all for all of the things he does wrong. The thing is, she never tells him what to do. (Pointed out brilliantly in the finale episode by Rachel’s very sweet makeup guy, Joey.) Not that Brad is perfect. He does have a frivolity about him and there is a kernel of truth to Taylor’s complaints that he loves the glamorous side of the job, i.e. being Rachel’s BFF, a little too much. But overall, you root for him. You want to shake Taylor and inform her that this is not rocket science, and she is no Rhodes Scholar. Nevertheless, the Day of the Oscars in the most important of the year for Rachel’s camp. Brad makes a huge boo-boo when he gets to Kate Beckinsale’s house. As he pulls up, he gets a call that he is needed at Cameron Diaz’s. So he calls ‘Rache’ to find out what to do. She says, go on to Cameron, I’ll be at Kate’s in a minute. So then Brad’s like, I feel really bad leaving Rachel to deal with this on her own, but oh well. In the end, the major problem is that Brad did not leave Rachel a “kit” at Kate’s house. A “kit” in the Zoe camp, I guess, has the double-stick tape, shoe pads, and all of the other little tools used to get a celeb red-carpet ready. So Rachel gets really pissed at Brad, Brad weeps uncontrollably, Rachel tries to console Brad but as she does, Taylor loses her shit on Brad even though he’s crying hysterically—and Brad quits. In the end, Rachel convinces Taylor to call Brad and get him back, which she does. Now, I don’t know why every member of the Zoe camp doesn’t just have a kit in their own car on Oscar day. Or why Rachel didn’t say to Brad, make sure you leave a kit for me at Kate’s. It seems like a lot of their problems could be solved if they were all a little more organized, and I think it’s fairly clear the fault lies with Taylor.

Rachel Zoe herself is pretty entertaining. I think I like her overall, though she does some pretty inane things. The craziest to me is her penchant for oversized sunglasses. I can see sunglasses that are a little larger than usual, but hers are insane. She looks like an alien. And here’s what REALLY kills me—she and her pal Joey even had them on when they were watching the Oscar red carpet on TV, in her house. It’s bad enough to wear sunglasses indoors, but here you are, watching the looks you picked out traipse their way across the screen, and you can’t take off your cool sunglasses. Rachel knows that color and fabric choices don’t always translate the same on TV--she mentions this--so wouldn’t she want to observe them accurately? The other crazy Rachel-ism is her vocabulary. Here’s a primer—bananas, meaning awesome/great. Shut it down, as in, you look so great the world has stopped functioning. The most irritating phrase: I die. Or just, die. Or D-I-E, reserved for when Rachel sees something so fabulous it’s like her heart literally stops.

Rachel’s long-suffering husband is Rodger. He is the down-to-earth presence, the ying to her yang. This poor guy is really supportive of his wife who he hardly ever seems to see, especially during fashion week. But I do credit them big time for their teamwork. He understands her vision and seems to help her achieve it, however she needs him. He is encouraging her to start her own brand, which given her sense of style and her reputation is a no-brainer. But a few times I have heard her say, “but when am I going to have a baby?!” and then she laughs. Rachel is around 36 years old. Nothing drives me crazier than an aging woman who does not realize it might not be as easy to have a baby as she thinks. Rachel’s personal life takes a tragic backseat. When her uncle dies, she is extremely sad (hysterical, really) and feels she must make it back east for the funeral. That is why I love Rachel Zoe. But she doesn’t end up making it to the funeral because of an important fashion shoot. That is why I hate Rachel Zoe. I’ll tell you one thing, though— that theme song is bananas. I die.

And The Rest
But Bravo’s brilliant programming does not end there. I loved the first few seasons of “The Real Housewives of Orange County”. Sure, most of these women are spoiled rotten and their values are flawed, but I found myself rooting for them and connecting with them. It was delicious fun to see them interact and deal with their issues. I didn’t think I could fall in love with a new class, but the New York cast is just as fun. Atlanta premiered this week, focusing on the city’s African-American elite. I really, really, really applaud Bravo for showing us another kind of rich. They knocked it out of the park with this one. Those peaches entertain.

I also like “Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style”. I usually get bored with these kinds of makeover shows, but I love his Top 10 list of garments every woman should own, and his tips are helpful and easy to follow. I haven’t seen “Top Chef” though I know the second I do, I’ll be addicted. It’s cable’s number one food show, beating out even the Food Network. I also haven’t yet seen that many episodes of “Top Design”. But the one thing I have learned from that show is that Todd Oldham is a freakin’ genius. He acts as a ‘Design Mentor’ and his advice and ideas for the contestants are so brilliant and ingenious it’ll make you want to smack your momma. I remember him from the MTV of my youth, but I had no idea the scope of his talent.

Talent is a common theme with Bravo. They pick a topic- fashion, food, glamour- and they get the best. They get the Michael Kors, the Rachel Zoe. No show more brilliantly showcased talent than the one that started it all, “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy”. The Fab Five weren’t just funny gay guys. It was a necessary component, yes, but the essential ingredient was that all of these men were at the very top of their fields. Minus Jai Rodriguez, who I thought was completely worthless. But Carson Kressley more than made up for him. I have a theory that Carson and I are the same person. But that is for another post.

One Lace at a Time

I am a runner. I love the feeling of pride and satisfaction after finishing an 18-mile long run, pushing through 800-meter repeats, or enjoying a relaxing run on the greenbelt. I love crossing paths with another runner on a trail, making eye contact, and giving one another a slight head nod of acknowledgement. It is a brief signal that says to each other, “I know what you are going through right now. I know the pain you are pushing through. Keep up the great work”. There is no greater pride than knowing you have pushed every physical limit in your body to achieve a set goal.

As much as I love to run, I find myself in a daily battle with myself to lace up my shoes, and walk out the door to start my training. Every day I go through the same process. You would think an activity that I find so much satisfaction in would be easy to stay motivated. But it is a daily struggle. And the funny thing is that once I take the first few strides of the run I instantly am reminded why I love to run. I begin to feel proud of my training, and excited for the next milestone I will hit in my progress. Even if my legs are dead sore from the day before, I know that the recovery run I am doing will further my development and increase my stamina. The hardest part of the run is getting my shoes on and heading out the door.

I tell myself that if I wake up early it would make everything so much easier. I could get my run done for the day, and have the luxury of my evenings after work to do as I please. But, most days when the alarm goes off at 4:45, the snooze button gets hit. I still have the evenings to run, and I do run as I had planned about 90% of the time. It is the other 10% of the time that the struggle comes into play. I know that if I don’t run as soon as I get home from work, it is not going to happen. If I get home, change clothes and put on sweats instead of running shorts, it becomes too easy to take the day off, and the run doesn’t occur. If I turn on the TV when I get home instead of lacing up my shoes, the likelihood that I will stay on the couch instead of hitting the asphalt significantly increases.

I have to believe that there are thousands of other people who deal with this same problem. I think about this often when I am running. For some people the struggle may not involve running. Perhaps for some, their passion involves playing an instrument but they struggle with the dedication to practice each day. Maybe another person desperately wants to educate themselves further, but can’t resist the urge to turn on the television rather than picking up a book. I know there are many who want to lose that last ten pounds, but can’t ever stick to their diet plan. I ponder these things as I run on neighborhood sidewalks or hop over fallen tree branches on a muddy park trail. Every time I always end up at the same conclusion. The true champions are those who are willing to fight off the urge, who have in internal drive to be the best, and who have the mental toughness to realize it’s the second-by-second, minute-by-minute, day-by-day grind that must be taken to achieve the final results that one so desires.

Everyone wants to participate in the culminating activity, whether it is the Friday Night football game, the Marathon Race, the Opening Production of the Play, or the Academic Achievement Award. But only those individuals who have shown true dedication and a desire for excellence can excel in these moments. In the one instance when they have the opportunity to shine, these individuals have the strength of preparation to depend upon.

There are many others who have dreamt about that moment in the spotlight, but who have not put in the time and dedication, who do not have the commitment, and who often discover that they failed to meet their expectations. Everyone wants to live in those rare moments of success. But those rare moments really only occur for the individuals who have prepared themselves for those occasions - physically, mentally and emotionally.

It is this realization that forces me to continuing tying up my laces. When I train solo, I have to remind myself how gratifying it is to set a Personal Record in a road race, and that each workout will help me achieve that end result. I also need to occasionally remind myself of the pain, torment and agony that is tied to losing and that the lack of preparation will bring back those emotions. Undeniably there are going to be days where I question why I am putting in 65+ miles per week. There are going to be occasional days that am invited to a work Happy Hour and skip my daily run. For others, there are going to be days that they might miss their piano practice, don’t get a chance to read the next chapter of a book they started, or had a “cheat day” on their diet. But, the true test of a champion is one who can bounce back and prove him/herself the next day and on a daily basis.

So, for now, I will continue with my daily struggle of getting my shoes on and heading out the door. It is the struggle that makes the success so much greater.

A Comprehensive Failure

I work at a major media company.  When I started two years ago, I was recruited into what was billed as an "exciting," "revolutionary," even "historic" project.  In retrospect, it was an experiment.  But it was destined for revenue, they told me.  I was skeptical, but I jumped on board.

I soon discovered, that my new coworkers were earnest, hardworking.  And I jumped right in, with a similar sense of duty.  I'm not sure if it was out of fear of our experiment failing?  Or our commitment to the cause?  Or if it's just our collective nature?  We never discussed why, but we plugged away despite the strange office (the space had the smell and feel of a damp, nuclear fallout shelter, and we sat so close our knees touched, and worked in ear-popping silence), and despite the fact that we knew very little about the big picture.  We worked in short-deadline increments that got us through one week, then the next.  

And it was incredibly tedious work.  A kind of long-term mindless drudgery that most of us hadn't expected to encounter or endure in the media world.  The other departments in our big parent company did not appear weighed down by the same kind of tedium that kept us under the scorching fluorescent lights and turned our skin a greenish pale, for hours at a time.  We rarely had a need to leave our desks.  I invented "anti-clotting walks," which were hourly, round-the-block strolls to keep the blood flowing.     

Over time, we watched some coworkers leave-- off to new jobs.  Whenever we'd send someone off into the outside world, we'd wonder what they'd encounter.  When you left our project you were leaving the Truman Show.  We all sort of quietly ached to know what was beyond the sky-painted dome, though grateful for this vague, womb-like sense of job security.  

Job security, somehow despite tumult.  Our project started out with 50-something employees and as of last week there were 30.  Management changed hands while we were there.  Our platform also changed.  We received new deadlines, restructured, refocused.  And dove back into our work like little bees in a honeycomb.  

I mean, every once in a while we'd pop our heads up, raise an eyebrow and question the changes, but they were never explained to us, so we just went back to our work.

I went through several emotional cycles over the two years.  I absolutely hated everyone I worked with.  Or I hated only the people whose knees rubbed against mine, and everyone else in the room was tolerable.  Or I loved everyone-- on days when the camraderie was palpable.  There were days when I didn't care about any of them, and I came and went along my merry way.  There were days when I was deeply involved in their private human dramas, shared over coffee in the ladies room.  

After about a year, things appeared to pick up.  They moved us into a new office space, they sent some of us on trips to conventions and forums.  Other departments in the building began to learn that our project existed.   Our confidence boosted.  

Fewer raised eyebrows, but still we quietly wondered for how long would an experiment be funded?  We were never met with any really great news ("Our project just made millions in revenue!").  Never.  Not even close.  But there was never any devastating news either...

And then last week, almost two years to the day since I'd been hired, our Boss Man called us into a meeting to discuss the "long-term plan."  At long last, we would have that big picture discussion.  For two years we'd gone on doing as we were told, meeting deadlines, checking items off our to-do lists, in at 9 and out at 5, obedient, efficient.  

We marched into that meeting pretty much without a clue of what to expect.  Though the news of that week did not bode well.  We had just watched people leaving Lehman Brothers with their cardboard boxes, and had just watched the stock market crash.    

Thirty of us filed into the board room with our notepads and pens.  The jolly, talkative woman who'd worked at the company her whole life-- was wearing one of her famous floral outfits and matching acrylic nails... the young father-of-two who lives in Brooklyn, who taught me how to filter an excel spreadsheet... the 20-something, brash and but soft-hearted former frat boy who appears to have been plucked out of both the movie Wall Street and the show The Office- walked in looking down at his feet....  I watched them all walk in almost in slow motion.  A parade of exhausted employees-- nervous, weary, but- I think- ready for some news of their fate.  What would finally happen to the Truman Burbank and his cast of characters?

The meeting had a soupy and dreamlike feel.  Boss Man uttered the first, and only, words I remember:  "Our efforts...have comprehensively failed..."  I didn't hear much of the rest, until the boss concluded, "in two weeks, half of you will be gone.  We don't know yet, which ones we'll be letting go.  But please use this time to find a new job."

      

    

Just a Day

Like thousands of other women in their late twenties, am planning my wedding. Yes, I am actually engaged. I’m not simply obsessing about getting married and reading magazines on the off chance that he actually pops the question. My fiancé and I dated for seven and a half years, off and on, before we got engaged. We took a long, torturous path from the crisp fall evening we first started dating to get to where we are today.

I say tortuous because when you fall in love at nineteen, you have a lot of growing to do as a couple before you can really feel as though the foundation is strong enough to build a future on. And when I say our path was tortuous, I also mean that I pretty much tortured him—going away to graduate school for four years and living long-distance, breaking up with him twice, insisting that he get himself together, figure out his career, his ambitions, if we were going to work out. I dated other guys, I told him it was over. I was a B****. I was harsh, I was stubborn, and I was cold. And the one thing that saved us was that while he might not have known what he wanted to be when he grew up or how to even land a job, he knew that he wasn’t going to let me walk away that easily. And he succeeded. And I am grateful beyond words for that fact.

Perhaps it’s that the two of us dated as long as we did, or perhaps it’s that I am just not a girlie-girl, but I have found myself, in the six months since we got engaged, resenting the wedding planning industry. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way. And I know I’m not the first one to write a blog entry about it. There are entire sites dedicated to the anti-wedding, the DIY wedding, the princess wedding, etc. You name it, there is a wedding site dedicated to it.

I find it fascinating that there is so much dedicated to a single day. Perhaps it’s because I had the benefit of two very loving parents and a very grounded home. Perhaps it’s that I admire my parents love and devotion to one another. Or perhaps it is that I grew up watching my father’s parents and my mother’s parents exemplify the same characteristics as a couple. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but very early in the process, while stressing over table linens and flower choices, I shrugged my shoulders, turned to my father and observed—it’s just a day—it’s the marriage that matters.

That has become my mantra—it’s just a day. When the stacks of wedding magazines grow too heavy to carry and the knot.com checklist seems insurmountable, or when I start to worry that someone will screw something up (which they inevitably will), I simply tell myself that it is only a day. Sure, the vows we will exchange are sacred and undying, but everything beyond that—the menu selection, the flower arrangements, the guest list, the bridesmaids dresses, the perfectly matched bows for the pews—they aren’t what marriage is about.

I’m not saying that my fiancé and I don’t have a list of the things that we’ve liked at other weddings that we attended that we are hoping to duplicate at ours. I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy the decadence of the day—I’d be lying if I did. But what I’m saying is that at the end of the day, if there is a blizzard on my March wedding day, if the cake collapses, or if the shade of tulips isn’t exactly as I’d hoped, I will survive. Because while I’m looking forward to our first dance as Mr. and Mrs, and while I’m looking forward to having all of our friends and loved ones in the same place to celebrate with us, I am MOST excited about beginning this next chapter of our lives together. I am MOST excited about working together, every day, to make our marriage just as strong, just as loving, and just as enduring as the marriages our grandparents were fortunate enough to have. I am excited to try to be just as good a parent to our children as my parents were to me. I am excited to learn and grow together for the rest of our lives, and I feel truly blessed to be embarking on this journey with my true soul mate. I am MOST excited about just about everything that comes after the wedding. Because the wedding is just a day, but the marriage, with faith, hope, and a lot of work, will last a lifetime.

Sheep: Black, Felonious Ones.

I have Black Sheep in my family. Not just one, but four at last count. That’s a lot for a family that’s pretty small to begin with. But, this is just one of those realizations we have at some point when we become adults, right? The awareness that our family is completely dysfunctional and should be hidden away in a closet and replaced with some Pleasantville-type family (I would totally love Reese Witherspoon as a sister, but that’s for another day….). One of those families where mom makes all visitors feel like they’ve been a part of the family for years, dad shares all the same interests as every boyfriend, gramma makes warm chocolate chip cookies all day every day, and cousins hang out and talk about whose grad. program was tougher. The MondayFamily is nothing like that at all. NOTHING, I tell you. I love them all, more than anyone who’s met them could possible imagine, so it makes me feel terrible to be so ashamed of some of them. But for some reason, I can’t help it.

I think I’ve known we weren’t normal for years, but I was reminded again on Friday when CousinMonday (CM) was arrested for Medicaid fraud and forging prescriptions. She was on TV. ON TV, people. With her picture. And her name scrolling across the bottom. Egads. GrammaMonday turned on the 6 o’clock news and there she was. (It pains me to think everyone in my high school saw this and pains me even more to think I actually still care what people in high school think. But then again, don’t we all…..secretly?). Given that mine and CM’s lives are so dissimilar, we, surprisingly(!), lost touch a long time ago. I hate both that fact and my general embarrassment at the situation, because she’s obviously fallen on touch times. To try to forge two prescriptions for 130 oxycotin (don’t pharmacists write prescriptions in amounts of 5s, 10s, and 30s, not 130s?) and then pay for it with your Medicaid card has got to be a cry for help. Her four class E felonies and 2 charges of fraud have her looking at 10 years in jail.

CM is not immune to causing the family grief. Besides weighing in around 350 pounds, this is the same cousin that dropped out of high school at 14 and had a baby at 17 (with the most redneck, airbrushed t-shirt wearin’, five teeth sportin’, beater pickup truck drivin’, basic grammar slaughterin’ 16 year-old EVER). In an almost K-Fed type situation, he is now looking like the better parent. Not to be outdone by the felony charges, she apparently posted bail, went to work, decided to close up the convenience store by inviting all of her friends to come in and party, and then got fired. I guess if you’re going to go out, do it with a bang. Just one of these days, I’d like to leave a job like that.

But let’s not forget the other sheep, each of which I could devote an essay to. UncleMonday, for example, has been known to sit in his front yard in one of those cheap metal lawn chairs in the middle of summer in his whitie-tighties with the sprinkler running. And a can of Busch in each hand. He’s the king of get-rich schemes and once thought he could make it rich renting out his old garage to banks so they could store their processed checks. His sister, AuntMonday has had six husbands, totaled three cars, filed for bankruptcy twice, and smokes cigarettes while IN the tanning bed. And we can’t forget GrandparentsMonday who vote Libertarian (that alone is sheep-worthy in my book), think that the government really IS building a toll-road from Canada to Mexico with Spain collecting the tolls, wouldn’t let me watch the Cosby show as a child because of the “colored-people,” and still toot around the yard in a Model T like it’s 1937.

But for some reason I positively adore every single one of these people. I could live without the grief CM causes everyone, but she was always the sweetest girl growing up. I think somewhere she’s still got it in her, and I hope she can get the help she needs. Perhaps I’ve been fooling myself all of these years with the idea that mine is the only dysfunctional family, but it makes me feel better to know that if we are, we’ve got enough dysfunction to go around.


GMon’y

Holy Matrimony

I am recently married. I love being married. I always wanted to be married. Everything about being a wife, as I saw it--- domestic life, having a partner, being a mother-- appealed to me at a base level since I was a teenager.

But I couldn't jump right into marriage- for a few reasons. First, I had expectations placed upon me (by my family as well as myself) to accomplish some level of success professionally. To that end, I gained prestigious work experience and attained an advanced degree. I had a good job and very decent earning power. Check.

More importantly, I didn't have anyone to marry. I wasn't a girl who dated a lot. For the most part, when looking for potential mates, I never got past the attraction/flirtation phase. It seemed that whenever I "liked" someone, the feelings were not reciprocated, or vice versa. I also found it nearly impossible to meet people beyond one random encounter-- especially someone I would like; especially someone I could love. And if I did find someone that I could love forever, I knew that wasn't enough. It had to be more than love- compatible goals and outlooks, similar ideals about family, and that special connection you feel with someone you know is the person you want to be with, every day for the rest of your life. It seemed so unlikely to find that perfect storm. Even having a husband now and knowing plenty of happily married couples, it still amazes me that such connections are ever made. I don't know how it happens.

But it does happen. It happened to me. I did meet him. We had our ups and downs, we fell in love, we worked out the kinks, we got engaged and we got married. What I am realizing now is that a major part of why I wanted to be married is because I thought I would be my best self in marriage. And now that I am married, I am grappling with exactly who that best self is. As much as I reflect on marital status and say to myself "phew, that's over!” I also ask myself, "what now?"

My mother was an accomplished physician who gave up her career to focus on her family. She was a super mom and she seemed very happy in that role. If she had even a modicum of resentment about leaving her profession behind, she never showed it. She was, and still is, an amazing homemaker. She kept the house clean and safe, cooked all of our delicious meals, helped us with our homework and carted us around to our numerous activities. So it's not too surprising that that is exactly who I want to be.

But it isn't that simple. I love the concept of being a housewife and under the right circumstances, would happily devote myself to the operations of the household without even having children. However, we live in a time in which that is not so easy. With kids or without, very few couples can afford to live comfortably on one salary. And being that I do have a solid resume and that I don't yet have children, it seems to make perfect sense to "DINK" (Dual Income No Kids) it for while-- save up for a time when we do have children and might want one parent to leave the workforce.

Lately, when I have bad days, I find myself daydreaming wistfully for a time when I will have kids because at least then, my days would be filled with caring for them, not doing this stupid job. I hate feeling that way. Usually, I love my job. And I certainly don't want to push up my childbearing schedule to justify leaving my career behind. Plus, even though I would proudly deem my profession to be "full time mother", there is a part of me that will mourn my professional self. I can see myself a few years from now at a dinner party-- someone will say, "What do you do?" And I'll say, "I'm a mom. I have two kids." And they will stare at me blankly. I'll want to shake them and scream, "Don't you look down on me! I graduated college at twenty! I worked for Merrill Lynch and Lehman Brothers!" (The collapse wasn't my fault. . . I don't think.) "I have a Master's degree, goddammit it!" I'm usually a confident girl. I know I'm smart and accomplished, so who cares if others don't? Turns out, I do.

But I do genuinely want to be a mom, and ideally I wouldn't wait very long to start having kids. It's annoying enough that people are constantly asking you when you want to have children even before the wedding, but I find that when I am able to block out that noise and really think about what we want, there are no clear answers. Even if we are financially and emotionally prepared to be parents, we can't be prepared for all of the ways our life will change. For example, I have always imagined traveling with my husband- am I prepared to postpone several desired trips for at least eighteen years? (Interestingly, several recently married people I know, including myself, have been booking all kinds of tropical and historic travel.) I have the sense that when we do have a baby, it will be such a happy blessing that the fact that I never made it to Tokyo won't really seem important. But are we ready to devote ourselves fully to another person? And how will we know when we are?

Another marriage paradox I have been grappling with involves how we spend our free time. Although I would be very embarrassed if you walked into our apartment right now, I do spend a decent amount of time on cleaning and upkeep. So when my husband wants me to join him in watching his favorite football team or playing poker with his friends (which is indeed very sweet), I'm happy to join him, mostly because I love spending time with him, and I like that he includes me. But I have realized that between working, cooking, cleaning, and that husband-time, the things I used to love to do have sort of taken a backseat. Which brings me to my original point. When I was younger, say, in college, I would fantasize about who my fully adult self would be- not only a loving wife and productive member of the workforce, but a person who volunteers, is involved at her place of worship, is active and healthy, and is a lot of other things. But I'm not that person, not to the extent that I envisioned. So when will I be that person? I'm not the single, meandering girl I used to be. I’m no longer primarily wondering when and how I will find my soul mate. My personal life is wonderfully secure. I am out of excuses.

I can get pretty down about that at times. But I figure, the fact that the kind of wife, mother and woman I’ll be is so consuming my thoughts says something about where I am today. I wanted to get married relatively young; did I really think I'd have it all together in my twenties? Or did I think being a mother would magically turn me into an all-knowing entity? That doesn't make much sense. For me, the best thing about marriage isn't feeling certain about who I am. It's that I now feel free to discover who I want to be. I am getting there-- one work deliverable, one cooked meal, one vacuumed room, and one poker hand at a time.

On The Road Again

As I was driving home from work today I happened to catch the tail-end of the old Willie Nelson song, “On the Road Again”, and it got me to thinking that my husband will be graduating from the Carnegie Mellon University MBA program in about seven months. At that time there is a good chance that we will be moving to a new city depending upon when and where he obtains employment. While the possibility of being “on the road again” and moving to a new city will most likely be an exciting adventure, I can only hope that this moving experience will be better than my last.

FLASHBACK

We had found such a great bargain! $550 to rent an 18-foot U-Haul truck for eight days. It was wide enough to fit my standup piano that we would be bringing with us on the 3,000 mile trek across the United States. We sold both of our cars and had fit all of our possessions (which did not consist of much) into the moving truck. Our journey from Boise, Idaho to Pittsburgh, PA was going to be a four-day adventure. I knew very little about Pittsburgh beyond the fact that the city was known for being the “Steel Capital” and that the Steelers NFL football team had a reputation for being exceptional and tough. So off I went on my journey leaving my family and friends temporarily behind in hopes of a better and brighter future.

The first day of the trip was a beautiful drive through Wyoming. The landscape was gorgeous, and at one point we saw two moose standing on the side of the interstate! If only I had known what lied ahead.

As day turned to night we began to grow weary from the long hours of driving (we had driven nearly 1,000 miles the first day) and decided to find a place to stop for the night. Now it was 2:00AM and we quickly discovered that every hotel for the next 75 miles was booked. Tired, grumpy, and exhausted we decided to drive around in hopes of somehow stumbling upon some resting location. After driving through some random small town so small it did not even have a gas station we saw it! A huge red blinking sign – “MOTEL”. It was the glimmer of hope that we needed. As we pulled-up we suddenly realized we were staring straight into the quintessential scary movie scene! As we got closer we couldn’t believe what we were seeing - the motel’s name was “The Generic Motel.”

We were lucky; we had gotten the very last room available – for only $30! After receiving a Skeleton Key that looked like it was pulled straight from the 1800’s we gathered our traveling bags and headed to our room. As we opened the door, we quickly found why it was the last room available. A gust of heat smacked our faces as we realized the air conditioning was broken. We set down our bags, turned around to lock the door and realized the lock had been ripped off the inside of the door! It was 2:30am, in the middle of who knows where, with no locks. Exhaustion must have got the best of us because we decided to stay, but we pushed a table and chair in front of the door to stop the possibility of anyone entering.

To ensure that we did not encounter the same situation the next night we decided to call ahead and reserve a room. We tried to pinpoint where we would be stopping that night, but ultimately were not able to agree. He wanted to stop and see the football stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska. I wanted to get in as many miles as possible. I somehow let my fiancé talk me out of calling ahead to reserve a hotel. I decided to listen to his advice that “we will surely be able to find somewhere to stay tonight – the same bad experience could not happen to us twice.” After traveling another 800 miles (we compromised as saw the stadium but did not stay too long) we were again, cranky, tired and looking for a good night’s sleep. The next’s night disaster was just beginning. Again, it was near 1:00AM when we started looking for a hotel room. We were near Chicago, and unfortunately, there must have been a huge convention going on, because we went from exit to exit could not find a single hotel that had a vacant room! I couldn’t believe it. There was no way we could have had such bad luck. There was a small convoy of four other families who were looking for a room too. We would all stop at each exit, find there were no hotel rooms, and head for the next. Finally! We found a La Quinta hotel that had a vacant room! The only catch was that they wanted $380 for the rooms they had available. Sheridan being the math guru that he is decided that $40/hour for the nine hours we would have been there was ridiculous. It was 3AM; we were grouchy, tired, and frustrated. Somehow I let him convince me that we would sleep in the back of the rented Uhaul truck with alongside of our belongings.

Reluctantly, we opened the liftgate and crawled got into the back of the box truck next to all of our belongings. We made a crawlspace area that we would sleep in near the door because our belonging took up all of the other room. We pulled some towels from one of the boxes to use as our make-shift mattress. We kept the back door partially open so we could get some fresh air throughout the night. I think my fiancé began to regret his decision to sleep in the truck about 2 hours later when it started pouring. And, I don’t mean a few drops here and there, I mean really pouring. It was raining so hard it hurt your hand when you stuck it out the window. He was sleeping closest to the rear gate that was slightly cracked open for air. As the night continued he described it as “Chinese Torture” because the rain would hit the floor of the truck and bounce onto his face.

We made it through the night, and after a lot of laughs, decided that we were going to stay in a hotel the next night regardless of price! We realized our problem was that we were waiting too late to find a room. The next day we called it a night around 7pm and were able to find a room for a reasonable price. Over the 4-day trip, we traveled over many miles of cornfields, drove through 2 huge windstorms, and spent over 40 hours driving and discussing what was ahead for our future. We eventually made it to Pittsburgh, signed the lease on our $500/month Craigslist apartment, and braced ourselves for the challenges that were ahead.

Willie Nelson’s famous lyrics made me smile when I started to remember the details of that crazy trip nearly two years ago. I realized that regardless of how horrible a moving experience or a life experience can be, if you are with the people you love most somehow or someway everything will work itself out. I have found that life’s greatest pleasure consists of spending quality time with the people you love. I don’t remember what restaurants we ate at on the trip, or how much money we spent. But, I do remember the conversations of where our future was heading and what goals we wanted to achieve over the next two years. “The life I love is making music with my friends”.

My dog is dying.

My dog is dying.  My dog is dying.  My dog is dying. 

I practiced saying it yesterday morning as I lay in bed, shortly after turning off my alarm.  A few hours later I was to meet my friend for lunch- a grad-school friend who'd visited me while I was dog-sitting for my parents about two years ago.  It was autumn when he visited and we took my dog to the beach.  No lifeguards, no umbrellas, no crowds.  Just the three of us.  My dog was so excited, he ran ahead on a long leash, looking back at us as we tried to keep up with him.  The wet, salty air pushed back, what I call his "doggie eyebrows" that usually hang in front of his eyes.  He sniffed eagerly the slippery pebbles that lined the reaches of the frothy tide, and the recently-inhabited crab shells that were decorated with strands of seaweed.  "I love taking him here," I told my friend that day.

I knew I'd have to tell this friend at lunch, "My dog is dying."  I didn't want my voice to crack when I said it, so I practiced it.  I whispered it from my bed, out the open window and into the chilly, damp courtyard outside my apartment.

I call him "my" dog, but really he was a gift bought by my grandparents for my little brother.  I remember the fall sun that was shining in 2000 when my mother, grandfather and eight-year-old brother pulled up in front of my college dorm in New York City, on their way back from the breeder.  A cardboard box in the back of the station wagon held a tiny, whimpering, black and tan, furry-faced puppy.  I had come out to greet them in my dorm uniform (sweats) and reached into the box and pulled out the boy pup.  He trembled in my palms.  I held him closer, but still he was unsteady, trying to perch on my arms.  I turned him over, gently in my hands, as if looking for the wind-up key.  I mean, he couldn't be real... could he?  My grandfather shuffled into a nearby Chinese restaurant without explanation and emerged with a takeout tin full of water and he laid it sweetly in front of the baby, who stuck his tiny pink tongue into the water.  My mother and I looked at each other- I mean, I doubt we'd seen a cuter sight.

My mother explained that this type of dog (Wheaten Terrier) doesn't stay tiny forever.  They grow fast, into medium-sized dogs.  She recommended I come home frequently to make the most of his puppy years.  And I did.  I couldn't get enough of his miniature square ears, his black button nose- really, the size of a button- and the padding underneath his paws that looked like leather pillows.

He yelped the first few weeks.  He didn't like sleeping alone in his crate, but my parents were bent on disciplining him.  My sister and I agonized over those tinny cries, that we had strict instructions to ignore.  We also had to teach him to go to the bathroom outside, so we'd put him on the back deck, say "outside, hurry up!" and quickly close the sliding glass door.  He was enrolled in doggie day school, so he knew what this instruction meant, but still he stared at us from the other side of the glass, motionless.  My entire family stared back at him.  He cocked his head, quizzically.

"Nobody... open... the door," my mom said in monotone without parting her lips.  Not one of us moved a muscle.  We stared back at him, waiting.  Each of our days brought to a grinding halt so that the dog would finally pee on his own.  Nothing about this seemed strange to us- five human beings standing silently in the kitchen, so that this animal wouldn't interpret even a flinch as a glimmer of hope that we might surrender.

But we always lost that face-off.

Then my father built a tarp tent right outside that same glass door so that the dog could go to the bathroom while it rained.  He was terrified of the rain, even more terrified of thunder.  When we pushed him out onto the soggy deck (he locked his joints and his tiny claws scraped the tiles as we did this) the scene was the same.  Only this time there was a blue tarp over his head.  The rain pounded around him as he looked in at us.

While he appeared to have something against the rain, the snow was an entirely different story.  Everything you might imagine of children playing in the snow- euphorically, uninhibited- is true for my dog.  He dives into fresh snow, armpit deep, he leaps out of snowy trenches, rolls on his back in packed snow, slides down icy slopes, collects snowflakes on his tongue.

One snowed-in New Year's Eve my mother and I decided not to dig out the car, but instead to walk to the liquor store for champagne.  And we decided to take the dog.  Our quaint street glowed faintly with the mild light of a snowstorm dusk and the Cold-War era street lights that line the avenue.  No one was out.  We started our trek-- each step involved pushing our feet into the snow and then pulling them out.  At first it seemed manageable, but by the time we got up the block to the liquor store, our dog was up to his neck in snow and we couldn't get him to move.  He stared at us.  We stared at him.  By this time he was that medium-sized dog my mother promised he would become and so digging and lifting him out of the snow turned out to be pretty challenging.  It took us a long time to carry him to more firm ground and by the time we got home everyone was milling around, worried and wondering about where we'd gone.

   I've been crying for a week straight-- from the moment I found out, seven days ago, that he'd ben given the dire diagnosis (of certain death within an uncertain amount of time) until right now.  For seven days I've felt like a different girl going through the motions of my life and feeling strange about it.  As if for years I'd carved for myself a routine that no longer suits me.  Sleep seems less necessary.  Food, even less so.  My fall TV lineup... finding the perfect jeans... office drama... finding a better job.  None of this is as important and I'd rather not analyze any of it.  

I've been crying for a week straight, and since I don't like shedding tears in front of people, I've been crying in solace- wrapped in my blanket, in the shower, at the stove while stirring an uninspired pot of sauce.  I know he's "just a dog," but we always cared for him as if he were a child.  I suppose it takes some inhuman discipline not to do this-- to save oneself the devastation of losing a pet, so that it doesn't feel as though you were losing a person.

Years ago my father lined my dog's crate with carpet because he said the plastic wasn't comfortable for him.  We had no proof of this, but we went along with it anyway.  On lazy Sundays when my father watches TV and dozes off, my dog sits at his feet near the couch and also dozes off.  And when my father gets up, he picks up my dog and holds him like a baby and my dog puts his paws and rests his chin on my father's shoulder and my father pats his back as if burping him.

After work my mother pulls the dog into her bed for a nap.  She cooks him fresh chicken to spruce up his dry food and peels carrots for his treats.  She comes home from wherever she is, everyday at three o'clock to walk him, letting him sniff every mailbox, every fence post, every tree trunk he pulls towards.

In the mornings my sister cracks open her bedroom door and calls for him from her bed until she hears the jingle of the I.D. plates around his neck.  He pushes the door all the way open with his nose and studies her for a moment before hopping onto her comforter where he curls into a perfect ball.  She strokes his fur and falls back to sleep for a little while longer.

My brother, now a driving, high-schooling teenager, sits at his computer with one hand on his guitar and the other on one end of a stuffed squirrel doll, while my dog pulls the other end.  My dog thrashes his head around, never letting go of that squirrel baring a row of what I call "baby teeth."  But I bet he thinks those teeth are really intimidating, so I act scared when he does this and let him feel like a man of the house.

When I come home on weekends- out to the beach town from my city life- I am really coming home because I miss my dog.  I don't tell my family this.  But it's my dog, whose apparent appreciation for everything- all things small and mundane- that spark my senses; and his sense of security and comfort that makes me feel the same.

A noise amongst the pine trees in the backyard (that I rarely even hear) is the possibility of an adventure- an intruder, a friendly puppy that's wandered beyond the fence, a wayward turtle.  He rushes to the back door, jumps up, leaving a slimy signature of paw prints on the glass.  When I extend his usual walk all the way across the main road and down a new street, he's frantically jubilant.  Even just pulling into the driveway when I first arrive he rushes out, wagging his nubby tail looking as though it could propel him into flight.  And there's the way he jumps up, pushes the curtain out of the way, and with his front paws on the window sill, watches me pull out of the driveway when I leave.  I wave to him until he's out of my sight.

But it's those trips to the beach with my dog that bring me the most peace, and sharpness.  The way our two tiny beings fill the landscape- endless in both directions.  Just us and the sound of the wind and the water.  And then the millions of details:  the grainy red and black sand, the layer of soft, white sand, the receding dune grass, the shell fragments by the water's edge, and the creatures that wade in the shallow ocean before the sandbar...the Twinkies wrapper that my dog dwells upon with sleuth-like sniffing.

I suppose if it gets to a point where we must put him down to end his pain I hope this is where he believes he is going.  I know that everyone says that dogs don't have memory, they only have routine.  But I hope when he is drifting off that last time that he begins to feel the pull of the salty September air, and the cold pebbles under his paws, and the icy water that reaches for him and then disappears into the horizon.  And I will be telling him I love him until his very last breath.

My dog is dying.  My dog is dying.  My dog is dying.

An Introduction

I judge people on the metro. I mean I really judge them. My favorite are the middle-aged women who insist upon shoving their way up in front of the door so that they are RIGHT in front of the door when the train stops, because heaven forbid they have to be the SECOND person off the train. I also laugh at 50-year-old men who carry insulated lunch bags; and I can’t help but wonder if they actually picked it out themselves at the Costco, or if they shirk out the door each morning hoping that their loving wife won’t notice that they left the ugly looking thing on the counter on purpose. I can’t stand the guy sitting next to me with his iPod turned up so loudly that I can hear every word of the song that he is mouthing to himself while he taps his toe to the beat. Sure—there is an unspoken rule in public transportation that you’re supposed to stare into space in such a way that no one really notices where your blank gaze is focused. I try to read the paper in the morning to avoid the eye contact, but on the days when the train is too crowded to get a seat, I can’t help but scanning my fellow passengers and chuckling to myself as I start the day.

I also eavesdrop. Sometimes you can’t help it—like frat-tastic boys who talk about last night’s conquests as though no one can hear them; the pretentious the law student boasting to her friends that she has the best outline for her evidence course; the tourist staring at the map on the wall and asking everyone who passes by if we’ve reached their stop yet; or the annoying woman trying to answer her phone over and over again despite the fact that signal has cut out every time we’ve gone into the tunnel between the last three stations. But then there are the conversations you cock your head ever so slightly to be sure you hear them right—like the colleagues who brought their water cooler stories about their boss’s affair on to the train with them; the awkward conversation between squabbling couple; the young congressional staffer talking about what their boss did instead of going to the floor to vote; or one friend helping the other fill in the blanks to the prior night’s black-out-drunken evening. The thing about eavesdropping is that you can do it even while you’re reading the paper—the trick is simply to hold in your laughter/disgust/shock until you exit the train.

And I know I should feel bad about it. But I just don’t. Maybe it’s that I miss the sunlight of driving my own car downtown, rather than burrowing underground in the depths of the public transportation system. Maybe it’s that when I get off the train in the morning, I walk like a lemming down the street, surrounded by others in suits. Maybe it’s that I’m bitter that I’m getting in to work early only to have to wait for two hours before my supervisor gets back to me with my next assignment. Maybe it’s that I’m frustrated at how much longer I’m going to have to be in the office than the bureaucrat sitting next to me with his ID tags hanging around his next on his agency lanyard. Or maybe I don’t feel bad about it because I actually enjoy it. And I know I’m not the only one.

They Pick Me Up When I’m Feeling Blue

I had my heart broken again on Saturday. I couldn’t have imagined that it would happen on such a peaceful, warm fall day, but it did. Have you ever had your heart broken? I’m not talking about by a man, I’m talking about something deeper, something more meaningful, something more stop-you-in-your-tracks, take your breath-away, heart-breaking. I’m talking about that friend you made all those years ago, who you thought was really your soul mate. You were her Thelma, she was your Louise. But it ended and however conscious or subconscious it was, it still hurts like hell.

It all starts out wonderfully. You meet, in college perhaps, at a party. Or in the dining hall. Or in a classroom somewhere. Who remembers exactly? She starts to talk about how she once broke that SAME arm when she was in high school and if you need her to take notes for you, she’d totally do it. So before you know it, you’re planning weekly dinners where you spend too much on margaritas and not enough on cheap Mexican. You hang out in her room, she hangs out in yours. You call all the time. She calls. Not just every day, but when she needs someone to talk her out of learning how to knit, or when there’s a new episode of Felicity on, or when she thinks she has mono and needs someone to come over and help her remember who she’s made out with in the last two weeks. And so time passes this way. She comes to spend Thanksgiving with your family because going home is too expensive, you spend New Year’s with her friends in the city because where else would you rather be?! She’s there by your side for every break up, every make up, and you’re there for her when she goes through her blue-hair phase.

You graduate, you even move to the same city, into a tiny apartment where you drink beer and sit on cinderblocks bailing water every time it rains. You stay out late, you go to the Bahamas. Then in Cancun. You don’t let anyone tell either of you that you’re too old to go on Spring Break. You don’t make fun of her when she pees into her laundry basket one drunken Tuesday night (but you do tell everyone you know). You teach her the words to Sweet Home Alabama, she teaches you how to ride the subway. She’s by your side when you ‘round the corner and see someone breaking into your car, and she’s the one who talks to the cops when you’re crying too hard to speak.

And then she meets someone. Or you move away. Or she moves away. And it ends. Just like that – as quickly as it started. It’s now that you begin to realize the distinction between equal and unequal, people who are good at keeping in touch and people who aren’t. People who live in the past and people who live in the moment. You are the former. She is the latter. You still needed her, but she doesn’t seem to need you anymore. She was the outgoing one, the one who could make friends anytime, any place. You struggle. You try to resist the urge to call to catch up, see what’s going on, but you can’t – she’s your best friend. But it’s one thing after another: she’s in Japan, at happy hour, working late, skiing, on her way to yoga. Has her life always been that exciting, you ask yourself as you turn on the TV and snuggle down at 6 on Saturday night?

You call when you’re in town, she doesn’t answer. She finally calls you, but it’s 1 AM. Hey, it’s ME! I miss you sooo much, please pick up. Call me, kay?! Finally you get her. She says she’ll come to visit, but that Saturday morning, she calls to say something’s come up. Can we do it another time? She asks. Of course, you say, you miss her so much, you don’t know what else you *can* say. You can never seem to catch up with each other until one day she moves to the Left Coast. You tell yourself, we’ll be email friends, it’s fine.

Years pass. You exchange a few emails, she sends you pictures of all the bridesmaid dresses and weddings for friends of yours from college, you tell her about graduating from grad school and your new job. It’s just fluff and you both know it. Then one October morning (or rather very late the night before), she texts. “I’m in a bar in Charleston and they’re playing Sweet Home Alabama, I miss you so much!” Charleston, you think. That’s only a couple of hours away - I could get there, I could see her. You text back. And you wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing. And your heart breaks again.