The Other Shoe

I am a great believer in cosmic equilibrium.  If something bad happens, there is something good around the corner to balance the badness.  Of course the reverse is true, as well.  I don’t know if I bring this on myself or if there really is some sort of force out there with a very demented sense of irony.  At the moment, I don’t really care; I’m currently stuck in an emotional vortex and I must ride it out until the end result.

In May, my grandfather generously decided to purchase a new flute for me.  I was totally blown away by this, but in the midst of my joy there was a nagging voice in the back of my head, “What will be the counterbalance? What big bad is out there waiting?”

Yesterday it reared its head.  The ultimate irony.  My grandfather’s health is fading; he has grown suddenly weak, relying on a wheelchair.  This morning my uncle found him on his knees where he had fallen, unable to rise.

And the flute? It is still at the Boston manufacturer.  It is finished; it is shipping today or tomorrow.  It should arrive in Arizona within the next couple of weeks.  The question that surrounds my waking day is, “Will it arrive in time?” I desperately want to play it for him, to show him how much his gift means to me, to prove that I am worthy of it.   I want him to know that his gift is not superfluous.  But I must continue to wait, to worry, to wonder, to weep.  And mostly, to scream at the complete and utter feeling of helplessness that has enveloped me.

Blown Expectations

In the continuation of my search for a definitive answer as to why my menstrual cycles aren’t, I am scheduled for an ultrasound of my ovaries on Monday.   I was not overly worried about this until my friend Yolanda (who has been through pregnancy and therefore her share of ultrasounds) suggested that the portable scanner-like device skating it’s way over my lower abdomen that I had envisioned was probably not what was going to happen.  I should, perhaps, prepare myself for an internal.

An internal? Does that mean what I think it does?

Apparantly it does.  Instead of a cold gel and perhaps a tickling sensation, I am now preparing myself for a condom-covered plastic rod.

Happy happy joy joy.

Letting Go of Dreams, Part II

I was totally lost.  I also felt totally alone: I no longer had the company of parents or roommates.  I had a one bedroom apartment and was 100 miles away from my closest parental unit.

I had my degree.  By a lot of hard work and two summer’s worth of summer sessions, I had finished a BS and a music minor in four years.  Now what? For sixteen years, I had identified myself as “student”.  That term no longer applied.  I had accepted a temp position as a customer service rep, figuring that my next step would be soon revealed.  Applications for graduate schools would be due in a few short months.  In the meantime, I was a working stiff; I was treading water waiting for the next wave.

The fall came and went.  The number of applications I submitted: zero.  I was offered a permanent position when my 90 days expired, and accepted it.  But this wasn’t my career…right? I needed to get a graduate degree, if only to live up to my parent’s expectations, didn’t I? My stepmother told me about a master’s program she was helping to develop.  It was a complete 180 from my degree (in Liberal Arts), but it would be a Master’s Degree.  I submitted my application.  Upon hearing this news, my friend Peggy asked “Do you want to teach elementary school?” No, I didn’t.  I wanted to quiet that voice in my head that was screaming for me to find a direction.  I knew I didn’t want to be a customer service rep forever (or for much longer).  I just didn’t know what else to do.  In the spring, I started my first set of courses.   I had quietly discarded my dream of being a vet.  Or, maybe I outgrew it.  In any case, I took it off the table.  But I was left with a hole.  I had been so sure for so many years.  How could I look anyone from my past in the eye again? How could I explain to my friends from high school what happened? How could I face this failure to fulfill my destiny? This would paralyze me for years – it was a main reason for  not attending my 10-year high school reunion.

This sense of failure, really, was utterly ridiculous.  Within a couple years from accepting the permanent position, I was moved out of the service department and promoted; I became the youngest manager in the company.  Shortly after this happened, I was chatting with my friend Yoli and bemoaning how much of a failure I was.  “You’re one of the most successful people I know,” she exclaimed.  I should have taken that cue then, rather than running in circles trying to finish a Master’s degree I wasn’t all that interested in at a school that was a two hour drive (each way) away.  Halfway through, I burned out and quit the program (which, I think, irritated my parents more than if I had never tried for a graduate degree).  And was promptly faced with another sense of failure, and another crisis of self.  How do I identify myself if I’m not in school?

It’s taken some years, but I have made my peace with these demons.  I’m very proud of the job that I do, and I now revel in the fact that I opened my mind to making a career from something that is so far removed from where I imagined myself when I was 18.  It’s taken years, but I now feel successful.  That is not to say that there aren’t demons, but those tend to be more in my personal life instead of my professional life.  As to that, perhaps I need to borrow a chapter from my career and open my mind to a different path.  Or open my mind in general.  But that’s a different post. 

Letting Go of Dreams, Part I

10 years ago this month I was officially at a loss.  I had submitted the paperwork to participate in graduation in three months; I was waiting for results from the vet schools I had applied to; my roommate, Cathy, was graduating as well, and was in a relationship that was quickly becoming serious, sounding the death knell of our three year happy home.  I had no idea what I was going to do with myself after graduation.  I was starting to panic.

I was being plagued with “what ifs”.  I knew the probability of me actually being accepted to vet school were really slim (it’s harder to get into vet school than med school) – I forget now what the percentages were (suffice it to say they were high) of the applicants who got rejected their first go-round.  Plus, I knew that my GPA and GRE scores were, at best, border-line for acceptance.  I fully expected to get five rejection notices in very short order.  And, yes, I could apply again for the following year, but I was also starting to lose my confidence that this was REALLY what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.  And that made me panic even more. 

I had been telling people since junior high that this is what I wanted to do.  I made my college choice and major based on this dream.  As I got closer and closer to making that plunge, I started feeling like maybe this wasn’t the career for me.  I wasn’t sure I could make it through the curriculum; I wasn’t sure I could deal with some of the labs (how could I euthanize an animal I’d just “practiced” spaying?); I wasn’t sure I wanted to work the long hours for a pittance; I wasn’t sure I wanted to be snapped at, bitten, and pissed on for the rest of my life by my patients; I wasn’t sure I had the people skills to deal with the owners.  But what else was I going to do with a degree in Animal Science and Management?

I began to flounder.  I was struggling in a biochem class anyway, and began to blow off lectures, overwhelmed with a sense of futility.  Would it even matter if I passed?  For the first time in my school career, I failed an exam.

I’m not going to say this served as a wake-up call.  I would love to say that I picked myself up, pulled my grade out of the toilet, and everything was fine.  Faced with the possibility of telling my parents (both of whom have graduate degrees) that yes I would be walking in June but – oops – I would have to retake a course in order to finish my degree, I studied my ass off and managed to at least pull my grade to the toilet rim (I finished with a C-, which was a pass, though it caused me to miss graduating with honors by a fraction).  I was rejected by every vet school I’d applied to, which I took as a further indication that this was not what I was meant to do.   In desperation I stopped by the nutrition department, thinking I could perhaps apply to get a degree in nutrition – at least it was graduate school, but I had missed the application deadline for the fall.  I walked into a career counselor’s office.  “What am I going to do with this degree?”

“I’d like to make a suggestion,” she said, calmly.   ”Look at it not so much as `doing something with your degree’ – many people actually don’t have careers in their degree field.  Let’s think about what you’re good at, what you enjoy, and look at those as potential opportunities.”

We brainstormed for a bit, and came up with a game plan: I would research graduate schools so that I could apply for the following year (we’d discussed everything from teaching to vet school)- maybe vet school would be one of them, maybe not.  In the meantime, I could just find a job to pay the bills – I didn’t need a career right out of college.  If nothing else, it would start a professional resume.

And so, I graduated and promptly began looking for work (I ended up applying to a lot of temp agencies).  I attended an orientation meeting for applying for a teacher’s credential (and realized it would be impossible to support myself while I was enrolled in the classes).  I found an apartment to move to when our lease ended.  And I felt totally lost. 

The Fight Against Frump, Part II

This afternoon on my way home from work I decided to bite the bullet at do a bit of clothes shopping.  There was a method to my madness: with the ball a week away, I needed to find some jewelry to compliment my dress, and I wanted to find some underwear that was properly sized so that my dress would fit as well as it could.  And I loathed the idea of trying to look  and feel elegant with ratty underwear.  Since I was trying things on anyway, I perused the clearance racks in search of something I might consider wearing.

Yuck.  Now I remember why I’m always convincing myself that I should make my clothes.  All the slacks were cut to sit on my hips, which (to me) just emphasizes their wideness (of course, I could be channelling my mother again).  I think they would have looked okay if they were looser.  I have a pair of capris that sit on my hips, but they’re cargo pants, and therefore cut very loose.  I love them.  I found some skirts that I thought were cute, but nothing is really cut as a circle skirt – the only skirt I think I can pull off because of the 10 inch difference between my waist and hip measurments.  At best, they’re a loose A-line, again emphasizing my hips.  This is where I start getting lost again.  The fitting book I’ve been reading says that you should decide what shape you are (triangle, hourglass, circle) and wear clothes that have a similar shape.  I am hourglass shaped, which should mean that if I’m looking at skirts, I want ones that are triangle shaped.  Shouldn’t an A-line qualify?

I did find one gem: a jacket that actually fits! Princess seamed to show off curves, falls just above my hips, 3/4 sleeves.  The sleeves have a wide, loose ruffle, and the pockets have coordinating ribbons (a little frou frou, but I can cope).  The only thing I’m not wild about is that it’s a white and black stripe, which I see as limiting to a potential color palette.  On the other hand, the vast majority of my wardrobe is black and white, so at least it’s an intelligent purchase, I guess.

On a similar note, just for kicks, I took all the fashion quizzes on the “What Not to Wear” website, and scored quite highly on all.  So, I obviously know the rules, I just can’t seem to apply them.

But that’s a different post.

The Fight Against Frump

With my new exposure to cable television (and four days of stomach flu in which to bask in it), I’ve become completely addicted to three shows: Good Eats, Project Runway, and What Not to Wear.  I already knew I liked Good Eats; I upgraded my cable package so that I could get the Food Network.  The two latter addictions, though,  have surprised the hell out of me: I normally hate reality television shows.  I hate the snarkiness of the other contestants, I hate the over the top dramatics, and I really have a hard time believing any of it is “real”.

And yet I find myself setting the reminder function so that I can be sure to catch every episode.  Why do I find these so appealing?

The answer I have come up with is frump.

I have started feeling incredibly frumpy.  It’s not that I think I’m unattractive; I can, at times, look cute, even pretty (I have long since given up the idea of being beautiful).  I think my wardrobe does little to complement me and I have no idea how to fix this.  So, my theory is that I’ve started watching these shows to see how interesting designs can emerge from some unlikely materials and to get some ideas of what can be done to “pop” my appearance.

In order to really benefit from these ideas, though, I have to learn to quiet the voices in my head, and acquire a patience with some activities (like shopping).  I’m going to start from the top.

Hair: Over the years my hair length has gone from long to medium and back again.  When I was a kid, my mom refused to allow me to have long hair (she was reliving her childhood traumas of sitting for hours for corkscrew curls).  So, as a sullen preteen, I naturally rebelled.  I still like longish hair; the problem is that I have no skills with it: I can put it in a pony tail or a braid.  If I’m having a good day, I can pin it into a bun.  French braids, French twists, and curls are all absolute mysteries to me (the last time I tried to curl my hair, I had to cut the curler out).  It has a natural wave to it which can sometimes be a good thing and sometimes be a nightmare.  This inconsistency has caused me to opt for low maintenance hair styles: at most I will blow dry it.  Plus, anytime I go towards any styling products, I hear my mom’s disgusted voice in my head.  This has not stopped me from having a cupboard full of the items; they get used maybe once a year.

My face: almost always make-up less.  When I was a kid (eight, nine?) my mom’s partner sat down with me and explained that pretty women do not need makeup, and I should not desire to wear it.  On the other side is my dad’s wife, who always wears makeup, and even told me once that she put it on “to feel better” when she was sick.  So, two conflicting views, and I’m blessed with my father’s skin, which tends towards oiliness (and acne breakouts).  I do have make-up (cruelty free, of course).  I have absolutely no idea how to apply it, or what looks good on me.  The experiments I’ve conducted have resulted in mediocre results and an acne break out.  Consequently, I usually cannot be bothered.  And yes, every time I reach for the foundation, I hear both of my stepmothers arguing in my head.

My clothes: First, I have never learned how to properly fit myself for a bra.  My sessions in the lingerie departments have been at best “guess and grab” (which I’ve been doing since I watched my mom select my first bras).  Finally, one of my sewing books explained the measurments to take and how to calculate cup and band size.  Armed with this knowledge, I took a look at my underwear drawer.  Half of my bras are the wrong sizes.  All of them are at least a year old; half are missing their underwires.  Everything I’ve read and watched says I need to start here; if the underwear doesn’t fit well, nothing else will.  I’m not even going to go into the state of my underwear – some of them are beyond embarrassing (“rags” come to mind).  Most of my outer wear are utility wear.  Elastic waistband, slightly shaped, p0lyester pants (which apparently are too short, though the “right” length seems waay to long to me), single (primary) color knit tee shirts, a couple stretch button down collard shirts (when I really need to look professional).  I have a few skirts, mostly either circle skirts, or the long flowy “hippy skirts”.  A few sundresses, a couple ball dresses (including the one I just finished – which is the only one that actually fits), the dress I made for my grandmother’s funeral (which is the newest non-formal article of clothing).  For casual wear, a couple pairs of black stretch jeans, a pair of straight leg  black (now gray) jeans and one pair of blue jeans.  Add to this two drawerfuls of printed tees.  The newest jeans are two years old.

Feet: I love socks.  I have a drawer full of just socks: plain, striped, printed.  I use them as my bit of creativity when I dress, or to add a bit of color when I’m in gray/black mode.  I wear Dansko shoes almost exclusively since my injury: I have a pair of strappy sandles and a Mary Jane style.

The problem: I don’t really know how to pull the frump from my clothes.  I certainly don’t have the $5000 the people on WNTW get.  And the sew-er in me has a hard time paying some prices for things that I feel that I should be able to make (though that conclusion has not caught up with the reality of my lack of time to do so).  But the biggest hang up is that I really have no idea what cut of of clothes I should look for and I loathe shopping.  Well, I loathe trying on clothes.  I have to find at least four things that I think have a chance before I will even consider finding a fitting room.  And then, I once again hear my mom’s voice.   “Don’t button that jackt.”  Except, the first thing I gleaned is that the first place to fit a jacket is around the bust and it MUST button.  “That’s too tight.”  Really? Or is that just her perception.  I don’t have the confidence to argue with the voice, so I shy away from anything with little or negative ease (although, perhaps, it’s less the ease and more the shape of the garment?). 

Sooo lost.    

Pink Cheek Diaries

I’m going to preface this by an obvious statement.  I am a klutz.  A big one.  And that’s on a normal day.  If I get short on sleep and/or over caffienated, or if I’m trying to make a good impression and am even slightly nervous it’s even worse (I am, typically, a walking disaster on first dates).  Whoever said that dance taught grace and carriage never saw us dancers off the dance floor.

I have been going through a spate of uber klutziness, due, I’m sure, to a two-week long boute of insomnia from which I seem to be suffering.  The last few days have been the worst, though.  Yesterday I caught my jacket on the railing as I was walking down to my car en route to the show, nearly sending me plummeting down the stairs.  I konked my head on my car door frame while grabbing my instrument and music at the theater.  Then I rammed my hand against the stairwell as I was descending into the pit.  On my way back from intermission, I tripped over the carriage lamp that has been by that door for the last three weeks.  As I was leaving after the performance, I reached back to turn off the lights, overbalanced, and almost fell down the stairs, nearly taking the pianist/director with me (I don’t want to think what would happen if there hadn’t been a railing).

Today, I cut a corner too close and ran into the wall, then over compensated and ran into the door frame to my office.  And, to top it off, I lost my car in the grocery store parking lot (technically, this is not a klutzism, but it seemed to work thematically).

I am able to laugh at myself; I view it as a way to keep me humble.  In a way I’m almost proud of my perpetual bruises.  So, I share my disas-er-experiences with you, so that you may join in.

On my love affair with fog…

I am often asked why I settled in Sacramento (particularly because I came from the supposedly ideal city of San Diego).  This morning provided the perfect rationale for my decision.

It was foggy.  Not pea soup foggy, where you can’t see two inches in front of your nose, but the kind of fog that drops a piece of grey gauze over the world.  Lines are blurred and softened.

I love walking in fog.  There’s a special kind of quiet, even on my busy street.  The world is told to “hush” and for once obeys.  As I stroll around the park across the street, I marvel at how alone I feel.  I am enveloped in a moist, grey embrace that obliterates my sense of sight.  I am a solitary traveller in this single color world.  The harshness of the poly-chromatic world doesn’t exist here.

A fellow walker emerges from the mist, and I am shaken from my reverie.  I return home, the small pearls of moisture in my hair the only evidence of my journey. 

Waiting

Every inch of me is tense.  Uncontrollably, I hold my breath.  I am waiting for this year’s catastrophe.

January 6th is my own Pearl Harbor Day.  It is my day that will live in infamy.  It is the day that for the past three years has heralded a month of tears and grief.

It is 3:30 in the morning on January 6, 2005.  Mark shakes me awake, “Something’s wrong with Spunky.”  
I look up at him, blearily.  “What?” Before he can answer a long ,mournful meow cuts into my heart.  It was Spunky, but it was not his voice.  I throw off the covers and hurry to the hallway.  He is pressing his forehead into a corner, straining against a wall that will not let him pass.  He stops a moment and stands there, panting, blindly weaving his head back and forth.  My heart sinks.
We settle him as best we can on the bed, keeping physical contact with him as much as possible.  This seems to have a calming affect.  The minute one of us stops touching him he starts thrashing and crying.
The hours creep by.  The vet office doesn’t open until nine; I have an early morning orientation meeting that I have to be at.  We agree that I will take care of the meeting and Mark will call the vet to get an appointment.
Mechanically, I get through the meeting.  Mark calls me to tell me that we can bring him in as soon as we can.  I return home and we silently drive to the vet’s office, Spunky lying prone in the bottom half of the carrier that we lined with blankets.
We walk up to reception, where I am preparing to fill out the paperwork they always require.  The receptionist takes one look at the three of us and ushers us into an exam room and takes Spunky back to see the doctor.  I feel my face crumpling.  After years of being the usher, the giver of sympathetic looks, I am the usheree, the grieving owner.  The tears I had been holding back for hours come and I weep uncontrollably.  The doctor comes into the room.  Spunky’s new, strange meow follows her.  “There’s nothing we can do for him.  He’s disoriented, he can’t see.  He’s probably had a stroke.”  Our eyes meet.  I know what I must do.  “We’ll put a catheter in his leg and then I’ll bring him in.  You can stay here as long as you like.  When you’re ready, just let the receptionist know, and we’ll take care of him.  Go ahead and check out now while we’re placing the catheter.”
I knew what to expect.  I knew the dizzying array of options available for pet remains.  I couldn’t afford any of them but the basic disposal.  “Please don’t send him to a rendering plant,” I plead.  “I don’t want him turned into soap.”
“No, he’ll just be cremated with other animals.”
I sign the slip, and go back into the room.  Spunky had returned and Mark was weeping over him.  “You were such a good cat.”
When the serum had been injected and we could finally stop crying long enough to leave, we walked out to the car and returned home.  I crawled into bed.  I had joined the ranks of pet owners who had had to make the difficult decision to let their companion die with dignity.  As I wept inconsolably over the loss of my beautiful friend, I was thankful that he had made it so easy for me.  He was not the cat of the day before, he was obviously uncomfortable.  He allowed me the only logical choice.

It is 11:30, January 6, 2006.  I am working at my desk wishing the twinge of headache I’d been experiencing all day would go away.  Mark walks into my office, pulls up a chair, and sits down.
“Mark found me a job offer down in LA and I’ve decided to take it.  I’ll be moving out by the end of the month.”
I look at him, and then, suddenly, I can’t.  I return to the data entry I had been working on.  “Don’t you love me anymore?” I ask.  I start hiccuping as tears start to fall and I clench down to keep the sob that wants to escape imprisoned.
“I’m moving out.”  He gets up and leaves.
I stand up and run to the bathroom, where I throw up and then collapse onto the floor, trying to keep the sobs as quiet as possible.  When I feel like I can control myself again, I splash water on my face and walk into the vice-president’s office.  “I don’t feel well.  May I go home?”
He looks up.  “Since you look like you’re going to puke on my desk right now, yes.”
Tears well up in my eyes again, and I flee.  I drop bus fare on Mark’s desk, and leave.  I make it to my car, barely, before the tears fall again.  I cry the entire way home.  When I get home, I crawl into bed.
When he gets home, I am eating dinner.  “I want you out by my birthday.”
He looks at me.  “I’ll try, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

It is 5:30, January 6th, 2006.  I am on my way home, and call my dad to schedule my next visit to Arizona.  “I’m thinking the second weekend in Feburary,” I tell him.
There’s a silence on the other end.  “Is that okay?” I ask.
“Well, you know Grandma’s not been feeling well.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she finally went to the doctor to get some new medications, and he found a tumor.  It’s an end-of-life-situation.”
I go numb.  I concentrate very hard on not crashing into the car in front of me.  “How long?” I finally ask.
“Well, it’s hard to say.  But, I’m not sure what you’ll find by the middle of February.”
“Okay, I’ll relook at a calendar when I get home.”
“Sooner would be better than later, I think.”

So, yes, I’m a bit paranoid about this day.  I count down the hours until we’ve silently slipped into January 7th.  4 1/2 hours to go and counting….

Unexpected

The show has, once again, been cancelled due to a lack of power.  I have an entire evening unexpectedly free.  I could go to Peggy and John’s 11th night party, but it would almost nine by the time I got there.  So I sit here with the hours stretching luxuriously before me.

The rain has abated for now, though I’m sure we’re due for another deluge.  As I drove to class this morning in the crisp, clean air, the storm damage was amazing.  Bits of trees littered the road; the glorious old oaks lining the park entrance across the street are all suffering from the forced amputation of limbs as wide as I am.

And in the wake of all this apparent destruction, there is a sense of anticipation.  Grass shoots up from the sodden earth.  Broken limbs are removed from trees and their wounds begin to heal.  In the blink of an eye, regrowth begins.