The Happiness Chronicles: Should I Stay Or Should I Go?

Just arrived in Rhode Island after a day bearing no resemblance to the Pan Am show, just happy there are no weigh ins anymore.  But enough with the shop talk....

I have been considering the tactics I’ve employed in the past to make improvements to my life and how effective they were.  One idea I really went for as a young adult was that of REINVENTION.  Looking up to Bowie and Madonna and anyone else who could create a new persona at the drop of a hat, I decided early that if I didn't like it, I should change it.  New hair, new dude, new job, new apartment, new city, all equaled new attitude.  I mean, I didn't  know if I'd like it unless I tried it, right?  Also a selling point of reinvention is running away from the old me.  With every new relationship/living situation, there was an opportunity to start completely clean, to distance myself from all the mistakes I had made, to recreate myself from what I learned from all the flubs.  I chalked this all up as part of being young and adventurous and carefree and all that.

As I grew older, the reinvention principle became exhausting.  I picked a guy and a job for the long haul.  And having both for over a decade showed me the amazing benefits of applying patience and time to your endeavors.   Long term commitment can provide trust and security and solace and predictability and ease.  I was no longer running away from my mistakes; I learned from them without divorcing myself from the person capable of screwing up.  I let my guard down knowing that I had a secure foundation and took comfort in not worrying about the perils of finding new employment and suitors and friends and housing and all the stress and mental negotiating that such situations can bring.

Fast forward to moving to Chicago recently.   My skills at going it alone were pretty rusty and were being managed by the brain of an anxious middle aged broad.   I once again became enthralled with the idea of reinvention and the high that it can provide.  The last few years have been a fantastic learning experience and I’ve really stretched my notions about what’s possible when you put your mind to it.  But I’ve also noticed a marked increase in some not so winning aspects of my personality that are seriously exacerbated by being a solo act... I am impatient, impulsive, irrational and make the snappiest of snap judgments. My iPhone isn't fast enough, I want to punch aimless people on the moving walkway in the head, I want everyone and everything  to react yesterday, I take every quiet moment as an opportunity to write my own version of what’s going on instead of just waiting for time to unfold the details... everything that's not to my liking is a waste of time and a SURE sign I should be on a different path.   It leads my BFF to make comments  ranging from, “There’s really no harm in waiting before you do anything" to “Jack McCoy would not approve of your conjecture” to “Holy crap, I’m glad you don’t have access to the nuclear codes”, depending on the situation. (no shit, she has made all these brillliant/hilarious observations, that’s why she remains on staff)  I fantasize about new relationships and jobs and apartments and cities to live…..all the while losing sight of what’s great about what’s currently going on.  I guess it’s same escapism employed by dudes ignoring their significant others to look at porn….the great unknown allows you to think that unchartered person/job/apartment/city won’t be rife with the current bullshit you’re dealing with….you could start over in a bigger, better production of your life, starring the new and improved you.  But I've taken to reminding myself that every aspect of life has inevitable ups and downs, just as if our porn loving friends REALLY got with Amber Lynn, she would have days she'd lose her come hither face and tell them to take out the trash already.

This bigger picture became clear to me while I was rewriting a story I wrote last year, lamenting to myself and anyone else who would listen, "But I'm not that person anymore!"...the person in question had projected all of her fears into her body image.  I was annoyed that evidence of "that person" existed, when I should have been celebrating who I've become instead....a slightly more confident, slightly less anxious
gal, ever clawing her way up Maslow's pyramid.

Is this is to say that I’m sticking on the horse I’m currently riding forever?  No.  I can’t really see growing old on the El train living by an airport.  But I guess the point of this reflection is to say that perhaps nothing is a waste of time….everything takes exactly as long as it should, even if it seems to end abruptly without my permission or drag on endlessly.  And it's completely fine to not have a plan, opting to let the universe and the test of time and careful consideration dictate what should be changed  instead of constantly acting on every whim and always trying to get the world to bend to my will.

Thanks for the blog support....let's all get incrementally happier together, shall we?

The Call of Happiness....Is It Coming From Inside The House?

Things are decidely chilly today at Nonsense HQ.  Landlord still working on hooking up the heat.  But I’m certainly not here to discuss the weather inside or outside my office, as that would be officially boring.  I’m here to talk about the weather inside my head, which is partly cloudy with a chance of sunshine.  Enjoy!

My last blog post was a consideration of the fact that although I have all the elements of a fabulous life (love interest, quality friends, good job, creative outlets, decent living situation, today’s heat debacle not withstanding), I still feel cranky and dissatisfied sometimes.  As my most treasured pastime is overthinking, I’ve been ruminating on that quite a bit lately.  Although it’s not expected to feel great every day in every way, I have been analyzing what components bring joy to a life, mostly in terms of my own.

First let’s start with the necessary evil that is WORK.  My sweetie has a “normal” job in corporate America…while comparing days, he more often than not has had multiple meetings.  Meetings about past meetings, about future meetings, meetings about the efficiency of past and future meetings.  It all got to be so ridiculous sounding to me that I asked him, “In the twenty minutes a day you’re not in a meeting, what EXACTLY do you DO?  Do you have a job description?”  He thought it over and replied succinctly, “I opine in regards to credit potential”.  I was then bemused as I hadn’t heard anyone use the word “opine” as their job related action word….mostly I hear things like “serve”, or “supervise”, or “create content”, or “delegate”, or "look busy" or whatever.  Which got me thinking about the importance of one’s opinion.  We all have them, obviously, but how much of life’s satisfaction is derived from having our point of view validated and respected?  In the workplace and beyond?  Hmm.  Let’s start with my job.  As I do not have anyone who directly oversees my work in the sky, I don’t feel that my opinion is actively of interest to my employer.  Don’t get me wrong, I know there are Ideas and Suggestions websites and avenues to submit all of my fabulous work related ideas, should I ever have any.  And there is something to be said for being an anonymous cog in something turning.  I am replaceable when I’m sick, I don’t take work home with me, I am often pleased with my decision to be a number.  I have relied on getting job satisfaction from the living, breathing people I provide service for, the passengers and my co-workers.  Flying has become a more arduous chore for all of us, by the time the passengers get onboard they have been searched and poked and prodded and herded and are sometimes are at their breaking point for any number of reasons.  When you put a group of people in such an environment, inevitably there are a small number of people with big needs who get all the attention.  After putting out their fires, you then divide up the time and energy you have left to tend to the folks who just are getting from point A to point B without commotion and try to provide them with a pleasant experience.  The last few years I've sensed more strain in the attitude of the general public….as the Man puts the smack down on all of us, expecting more and more and offering less and less, the trickle down effect can be an overall sense of melancholy and defeat…..combined with personal burn out makes the whole experience not as fun as they made it sound in brochure.

But I know job related angst is more the norm than the exception and there are certainly worse fates than telling people to have a Coke and smile and ending up in San Diego.  Which leads to the happiness derived from the life outside the tube.  I recently read a story with the folks at 2^nd Story at In Fine Spirits…it was, as always, an amazing experience.  In the car after the show, I mostly made comments about what others had said to me about the show.  This was countered with, “Maybe the important thing isn't what others thought about it, it’s what YOU thought about it”.   Cue overanalyzing machine.  I came up with the hypothesis that since I didn’t feel my work was providing me with positive feedback lately, that I was hungry for evidence that my ideas were important or meaningful or at the very least entertaining.  Perhaps I’ve grown addicted to the Facebook “like” button concept of life, that you’re only as good as the strokes you’re getting AT THIS MOMENT, who knows.  It was brought to my attention that I have a life filled with people who appreciate my opinions and that they make that clear to me all the time.  Yep, true.  So this satisfaction I’m endlessly seeking…perhaps it is indeed a Do It Yourself project.  I'm starting to come to grips with the idea that although I'm convinced to some degree that life’s highs are centered around our connections with others, I must admit that not giving a rip about what anyone else thinks about me is a pretty liberating concept and may be the key to getting to the next level in the video game I call E Life.

Next possible project…..NaNoWriMo.  Writing a novel in November…..50,000 words in 30 days.  For real?  Can it be done?  Stay tuned.

If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands! ***crickets***

Greetings from Nonsense Headquarters on a sweltering Chicago day. It's 94 degrees at 5 in the afternoon but I won't bitch because before we know it, I'll be putting on long underwear and cursing the day I made Chicago my home. This summer has been the usual overwhelming parade of excess, lots of food, friends, music, laughter, drinking, carousing, and rear ending of police cars. I've had more fun in the last few months than I have had in a long, long time. I'm surrounded by great friends, I've discovered my artistic side, I've found someone who makes me laugh that I want to spend all my time around. I have a job that pays all my bills with enough left over to fund my silly whims, a job that affords me the ability to travel and a lot of time off. I have my health, which eluded me for awhile; in fact I'm in pretty good shape for someone who is often powered on wine and salty snacks and ice cream. So WHY do I wake up in the morning feeling like Courtney Love after she consumed a mojito made with minty fresh bleach?

A few hypotheses:

Hormones! You boys might want to sit this paragraph out, although if you're straight, it might help you understand your loved one, if you're gay, you've probably heard all of this before, even if you spent girls night with your fingers jammed in your ears. I was never a big PMS sufferer, but in case your mama didn't tell you, menopause is much like the asteroid in Armageddon: a vicious life sucking bitch from which there is no escape. You definitely feel like your emotions are on one of those mechanical bull rides and you're just holding on for dear life, trying not to hurt yourself or anyone else until the ride stops. I don't have any answers or miracle cures besides the tried and true: just eat the Reeses or take a nap or watch ten episodes of Arrested Development or do whatever makes you feel better, whether it seems logical or not.

Years of Denial! I spent a good part of my life living in situations that ranged from just okay to completely untenable, all the while telling myself everything was fine, perhaps because I didn't think I deserved for things to be better. Telling yourself it will be fine is an effective temporary method of self preservation, but as time marches on, your bad feelings have nowhere to go. Once you're filled with toxic energy, it's hard to get yourself cleaned up again….you're pretty much soaking in it, Madge. All the antidepressants pills in the world will just make you not feel anything anymore and will make a lot of intolerable situations "fine". I'm not against psychotropic drugs… I think they are very effective if prescribed properly for people who really need them. But I often feel if I'd just allowed myself to be pissed off instead medicated, I would have seen things more clearly sooner. I was recently asked to rewrite a story I read earlier this year, a piece that started as a funny story of meeting someone for casual sex. As I edited it and was forced to make cuts to all the superfluous material, I found that the jokes were all on the cutting room floor and I was forced to face the fact that often comedy is a shield. I enjoy making people laugh and I intend never to lose my snarky edge, but I've recognized that humor and pain go hand and hand and it's completely acceptable to own up to your fears and insecurities without always having to make yourself the butt of a joke.

But the simple answer as to why I'm crabby for no apparent reason: It's a bad habit. One I'm seriously trying to break. So what's the plan to shed the cranky pants? Surround myself with smart, kind people who love me and treat them the way they deserve to be treated. Take good care of myself and my circle, absorbing all the wonderful things life has to offer and recognize that some days and some people just suck ass, but they aren't part of the permanent landscape. And cutting myself a break when I am cranky, because to be cranky every so often is to be alive. And those Reeses aren't going to eat themselves, dammit.

Lowered Expectations!

Long time, no nonsense. I've been enjoying a beautiful Chicago summer, although my top floor apartment with only one air conditioner is a bit sticky. A fine excuse to be out and about testing the limits of my deodorant on a regular basis. I'm pleased to report that life is treating me well, full of ups and downs as any life fully lived should be. Wednesday night of this last week I read at Reading Under The Influence at Sheffield's here in Chicago, which was my first foray into fiction writing. Telling a five minute story is a challenge, for me at least, but the fiction part was really entertaining as I didn't rely on my memory to put the story together. While I was out and about I fielded a lot of questions on what I plan to do with my writing. Interesting question, too bad I don't have an amazing answer. The truth is I never really believed I'd do anything with it, really. I do plan to write more autobiographical stories, hopefully performing them with 2^nd Story or other organizations like them; the performing aspect allows for instant feedback that sitting at a desk typing does not. I can't really see writing for a living as I fear it would take all the fun out of it, although I certainly fantasize about it after my millionth eye roll in response to my request to put your damn tray table up, already. I guess I entered the world of writing with no expectations….so every great thing that's happened has been gravy, every disappointment a learning experience.

Which leads me to relationships…..a staple here at the blog. The crashpad family had a fire pit meeting a few months back where we did what we do best, talked ad nauseum about the world's problems, all solvable thanks to those who make and distribute wine. We were deep in discussion about what to expect from other people, both in romantic and friendship arenas, when I said, "What if you don't expect anything? What if you just concentrated on your end of the love equation?" My BFF laughed and said something to the effect of "Well that's probably impossible and certainly insane." Quite possible. But it got me thinking…..what if you just offered your heart without prejudice, using common sense and good judgment of course, and just gave up on worrying about demands, requirements, wishes, desires, wants, assumptions, presumptions, suppositions, etc. (Thanks, thesaurus!) What if you just let it all go and just went with an overall feeling of HOPE…..every great thing that happens interpersonally is gravy, every disappointment a learning experience. I'm not saying such a thing is easy, but difficult things often reap the most reward. Plus think of all the extra time you'd have on your hands if you didn't have to worry about what everyone else in your life was going to do and how it was going to affect you? Shit, with that kind of time I could finally watch Friday Night Lights….clear eyes, full hearts CAN'T LOSE, people! Not to mention cute boys half my age. MEOW.

Below is the story from RUI…..special thanks to Cynthia, Ouida, Scott, and Professor Don for being my outside eye on this one. And many thanks to those who came to the show…I know Chicago has a million things to do in the summer, or you could be working. I'm honored by your support…I offer it in return, optimally without expectation.

Sail Away

"The sign says the TV is for SPORTS ONLY!" Frank roars. "Can't we watch the M's game?"

"I suppose, Frank," I say, reaching for the remote control. "But you know the rules. No sound."

 "That's fine. I just want to watch the game," he mutters while trying to light another generic cigarette. His ashtray is filled with butts as I've given up on trying to keep it empty.

 It's another day shift at the dive bar. A cloud of smoke blankets us in filthy air and obscures our ability to see much of anything clearly. I survey the street outside through the haze. Why do dive bars have windows? You're there to escape reality, any reminders of it seem cruel, or at least unnecessary. And you certainly don't want reality seeing YOU there. I turn my attentions back to the patrons, whose glasses are all half empty according my current level of optimism.

 "Another Dickel, Frank?" I look at him with a questioning face, as if there was any other answer besides the affirmative. He stubs out his cigarette and nods, his yellow fingers circle the glass as I pour, his hands shake as he takes the first sip. I try not to think about what Frank does when he's not sitting at my bar. He drives an airport shuttle. If only his fear-of –flying riddled passengers knew that their ride to the dreaded airplane was in the quivering hands of someone who can't get through the day without a steady stream of cheap whiskey. I try not to let this truth about him make my head explode. Since I haven't let my bartending job define me, I decide to extend Frank the same courtesy. There are a bunch of other regulars at the bar, not staying a full shift like Frank, but coming and going, getting a buzz on and staring at the television. They all prefer Lana, the other day bartender, to me, as Lana brings a certain magic to the joint with her brown lipstick and tight jeans, and she wraps everyone around her finger with the fine art of giggling. Her fake smile is more genuine than mine; her small talk is bigger. During my shifts, the bar is mostly quiet; I sense that the lack of chatter makes us all a bit uneasy. But in the end, everyone still appears to be getting what they need.

I don't care about the baseball game, but I stare at it as well, mentally adrift. I wonder why these people don't drink at home. Booze is cheaper there, right? I know when I get off work, I intend to shower off the smell of smoke and fryer grease and enjoy a drink in peace and quiet at a fraction of the price of what they're paying to sit here and sip themselves into a stupor.

Pete, one of the regulars, interrupts my judgmental meditation to ask for change for the jukebox.

"You know the rules, Pete," I say, handing him the singles. " NO ROY ORBISON. Things are gloomy enough around here." He nods, and laughs, and punches in B21. Stevie Wonder's "Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing". Pete may have telepathy.

I wash some glasses in preparation for the night shift. I wonder how much longer I'll work here. I have no other plan, but I'm not sure how much more time I can spend staring at people drinking themselves senseless. My brain starts running on the same redundant treadmill…. If Frank kills someone tomorrow morning on the way to the airport, am I legally responsible……? Or worse yet, ethically responsible? I grab the reins before this line of thinking tramples me. I silence my discordant brain chatter with a vow to look in the want ads tomorrow to see who's hiring. It might still be bartending, but surely there's a nicer place than this that needs help, perhaps with more white wine and appetizers and less reminding old drunk men about rules.

I see the night bartender, John, walk in. Ah, sweet relief. I start doing my closing duties, making sure everyone has a fresh drink and clean ashtray. I count the till, I bank face my tips in a small attempt to control what's positive about this gig. John has a strange expression as he ties on his apron and comes behind the bar. I wave my hand through his million mile stare.

"What's up, dude?"

"You know, Amanda, from next door?"

"Yeah."

 I'd just seen her on the street the day before, pushing her toddler in a stroller on her way to make the bank deposit for the dry cleaners she and her husband Matt owned. She had only the sunniest expressions to offer the world and her clothes smelled of dryer sheets, in staunch opposition to my smoky, sulky stink.

 "She died in her sleep last night," John says. "Some kind of brain embolism. I just saw Matt's brother outside the cleaners. Matt woke up this morning and she was just laying there next to him, dead."

"You're kidding. How old was she?"

"Twenty nine."

"Holy shit."

"That about sums it up. She always seemed so happy. Now Matt's got the kid to take of, all by himself."

"Fuck."

"I know."

 Amanda looked like she never worried about a thing. Amanda had nothing to worry about, assumedly. She just smiled at her perfect life; she didn't waste her time judging people. And I bet not once in her short but perfect life did she ever drink alone.

I put my carefully arranged cash in my pocket. I untie my apron, placing it in the laundry bin. I put a dollar in the jukebox and punch in A29, Neil Young's "Sail Away". I walk back to the bar and for the first time, I pull out a chair. The chair next to Frank.

 As Neil croons "See the losers in the best bars…Meet the winners in the dives…where the people are the real stars….all the rest of their lives", I sit down and say,

"Get Frank another Dickel, John. And pour me a Makers Mark on the rocks. Actually, make it double. I'm going to be here for awhile."

Pick Your Own Adventure! Or At Least Don't Be A Prick.

I am in the home stretch of an eight week course in storytelling.  We had a dress rehearsal last night and I really felt an unprecedented sense of pride in what the group, six storytellers and two teachers, had collectively and individually produced.  I’ve done a few drugs in my life, but I’m telling you there’s no better high than working with a group of people who are equally talented and supportive and passionate about their art.

I did my income producing job over the last weekend as well.  At some point on the plane, I mentioned to one of the pilots that I had homework.  Upon arrival in Tampa, I decided to go to the hotel bar, which is something I usually skip as I prefer to drink in my free time in the company of people I enjoy.  I guess I like to keep my work and my fun separate, with some limited exceptions.  I made an exception the other night as it was early, I wanted a glass of wine, and my crew seemed nice enough.  The other two flight attendants and our two pilots and I sat outside enjoying some balmy Florida air, some cheap wine, some classic rock.  Pleasant enough.  One of my co-workers inquired about my homework, I told him I was in storytelling school.  The table asked what the story was about and I filled them in on the details of the tale that I’m working on involving a young soldier I met on the plane on his way home from Iraq.  I bought him a drink, he wanted to talk, it was revealed that he was released from the Army due to a pretty severe case of PTSD.  We shared a connection that was meaningful, even though I’ve never seen him since and our relationship lasted four hours four years ago.  When I was done with this brief synopsis, our other pilot said “Is that it?  That’s the whole story?”  I said “Yes.  Why?  Not enough for you?”  He replied, “Not really.  Nothing really happens.”  “Well, it’s a slice of life thing, that small things can be meaningful.”  He replied that I should add some things that didn’t happen as NO ONE was going to make a movie of THAT.  I’m not making a movie, I replied, it’s a ten minute story.  He countered with a lot more hot air including, if I was going to tell a story, it should be interesting, as then it will be MARKETABLE, and that’s the only thing that’s important in this world.

Okay.  Which leads me to the blog post.  I have dealt with people like this my whole life, and possibly so have you.  It used to be “Why do you talk so loud?  And so much?  Why can’t you be like other girls?  You’re going out WITHOUT makeup?  You’re going wear THAT?  Who told you to do that to your hair?” Etc, etc, etc.  About six years into the flygirl gig I stopped flying A position (up front with the most pilot interaction) as I grew so tired of discussing why I wasn’t married, why I didn’t have children, why I’d be with an academic (Is he gay?), basically WHY AREN’T YOU EXACTLY WHAT WE EXPECT.   The comments about what I look like I took with a grain of salt, the ones about my life choices grew old but I didn’t really take them personally.  But when this jagweed the other night wanted to question something that’s really important to me, no.  Sorry, not having it.  I explained to him that the most important work in this world more often than not doesn’t generate income.  He gave me an expression that was the human equivalent of a double blank domino.  I asked him if he had children.  Yes, he did.  Could he grasp that being a parent was the most important job he had in making the world a better place?  That he couldn’t be buried with all his stock options and mutual funds, that the work he had put into his children was his legacy.  He relented, begrudgingly, mostly because I think he wanted me to stop talking.  I told him (because I wasn’t done talking!) that I would never be a parent, but my writing is my most important contribution to making the world better….even if it’s just my world and the handful of people who read or listen to it and enjoy it.  I see that it connects people, it makes people talk, it makes people think and feel, it brings something that this current technology obsessed, greed driven, third world hating mess could use a lot more of: HUMANITY.  Who needs another drink?

I guess what I’m getting at is the world has a lot of people who just have no heart.  It’s discouraging to me that they want to put other people down without thinking, that they feel threatened by every person who they don’t see a carbon copy of their life decisions written on.  Being a thinking, feeling individual with your own opinions is often not encouraged or rewarded.

Before you give me the Debbie Downer award, please know that I know that this is not everyone.  I am surrounded by truly wonderful friends and I see evidence of people who realize that having love in your life is more important than material wealth.  I constantly take chances on people, and more often than not, I am rewarded for my leap of faith.  But here’s some advice that I intend to live by: let’s live our lives like someone is writing a book about us.  As I now see the world in such terms, when people really do something shitty, I think “You want the story to go THAT way?  Alright.”  Think of your favorite fictional characters; I’m guessing they’re not perfect, they make mistakes, but they are passionate and caring and driven.  They certainly don’t sit around picking on other people for sport and talking about their 401K.  Yawn.  They certainly don’t yammer on about their 20.5 carat diamond.  Yawn.  They have something to fucking SAY.

Go forth and live your autobiography.  Be interesting, passionate, and accountable.  And by all means, don’t let the assholes of this world pull you down.  Let us thank them for making our skin thicker, our game sharper, our convictions stronger.  Plus every good story needs a villain.

Towards the end of the evening in Tampa, my crew was discussing how they met their signficant others.  A mixed bag of funny and sweet.  When the pilot who questioned my story was done telling his tale about how he and wife met at a bar in college when she was stood up by another date, I told him that perhaps he should add some things that didn't happen, because if he was going to tell a story, he should make it interesting.

Desiree Grosse

A brief update about me:  I have not been writing the blog lately as I have been in storytelling school, developing the story that appeared in the blog in February entitled Story Time.  I am fortunate to have two amazing instructors (Julie Ganey and Amanda Delheimer) and five other talented, lovely, supportive fellow students to work alongside.  Crafting stories is a time consuming and strangely emotional process…there are joys and frustrations that hit you upside the head without warning and no story ends up being about what you thought it would be about when you started it.  Between that and doing cognitive behavioral work as well as sky hostess work, I’ve been inundated with projects of late.  But I wanted to take a few minutes to share some thoughts about a very important person.

I started flying a little over ten years ago.  When I was new and bright eyed, I got a trip on reserve (for non-airline folks, that means I was on call and got assigned a trip that needed coverage at the last minute)  It was a coveted trip that another senior stew had called in sick for, with decent pay and nice overnights (Orlando and Portland), and senior co-workers.  Big league action!  I had the honor of flying with Desiree Fayne and Karla Kozak and had the time of my life.  Desiree had a reputation for being bigger than life at the airline and after knowing her one day, she lived up to it.  She commuted to work in Oakland from Paris (France, not Texas), a place she moved to without knowing how to speak French.  She brought fancy food for everyone on the crew and served it on REAL plates that she kept in her tote bag.  She also carried a French press coffee machine and made the pilots coffee that she served to them in china coffee cups.  She commanded and demanded respect, all the while keeping a great sense of humor and putting people at ease.  Our Orlando overnight was straight from the “THIS Is How We Do It” manual, a book I hadn’t yet read.  We reported to the Radisson bar and proceeded to drink champagne and shots of Tuaca, having first rate hilarious conversations where they showed me that smart, funny ladies who take NO SHIT had this pink collar job and this made my heart SING.  The night ended with Karla and I smoking Dunhills and the three of us attempting to speak Italian to a magician Karla had found while buying the cigarettes who bared a striking resemblance to Rasputin.  I barely remember what I had for breakfast a few hours ago, but this night will stick with me forever.

I saw Desiree off and on while I was based in Oakland, mostly in the crew lounge where we would chat about work and our mutual love of Eddie Izzard.  I subsequently heard she left the biz and had gotten married and moved to British Columbia.  I found her on Facebook and was thrilled to catch up with her and hear about her latest developments.

Recently Des was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of cancer.  Her husband Sven has been keeping us informed of her condition;  not only the news but his candid thoughts about his love for her, his feelings of helplessness and pain, and his insistence that we all should take time to recognize and value what is going on in our lives RIGHT NOW.  I have never met Sven, but I find solace in knowing that Desiree married someone so worthy and appreciative of her incredible spirit.

The next time I’m annoyed that someone in front of me in line doesn’t understand how to use the U-scan self check out machine and it’s taking away from my personal time that I spend looking at 80’s music videos on youtube, I intend to remember that the world is filled with people who want only more time to live and people who want only more time to love them.

Thanks for reading.  More soon.

Metropolitan Girl Seeks Vampire, Finds Enlightenment

They meet cute online, where loneliness is all you have in common. Sometimes that's enough. It's mid December and 'tis the season to feel badly about being alone. She sets up a profile to find a man, inadvertently adding an extra digit to her minimum age for a desired mate, leaving her cruising cyberspace for a man four hundred and one years or older. He suggests that perhaps she is being a bit too ageist and should just settle for someone who enjoys Renaissance Fairs. Witty banter ensues. They talk on the phone, mostly about his work and his family. She finds his attitudes to be vastly unspoiled, often in staunch opposition to her cynical sensibilities. He is attractive and kind and leads a clean life, a consummate catch on paper. But it is not meant to be, she is a city girl, he lives in the woods. Sure, opposites attract, but this isn't practical. Did I mention she is lonely? They agree to meet in the city closest to him, about eighty miles from his wooded retreat. They eat lunch and make small talk. After, the kind of scene transpires that happens when people haven't been touched by another in awhile and they may never see each other again. He invites her to the woods for a visit. She agrees. She'd like to see how the other half lives. She comes to find out they live a tranquil existence filled with birds warbling, smells of homemade pie, and unconditional canine adoration. She could get used to this. She returns to the city, but continues to visit the woodsman. She meets his family at his birthday gathering. Pictures are taken and funny stories and pleasantries are exchanged. Although their conversations remain light and insubstantial, there is a certain intimacy derived from cooking and eating together. That combined with quixotic fantasies of her youth and a nesting instinct derived from the comfortable surroundings make her feel like she should be in love with him. She exudes that "I'm ready to take that next step" aura, even though she's not. He walks two feet ahead of her in public. It's not meant to be, she tells him officially. He is too far away, we are too different, we are old dogs, there are no new tricks. She turns her sights back to the city.

They continue to email on occasion, mostly small talk regarding life's ins and outs and what's for dinner. The kind of chat that you cherish when you are dating. She presses on with looking for love in the city. She makes rapturous speeches about how the woodsman is not her soul mate as he is too staid for an urban wildflower like herself. Her mother remarks after seeing his picture, "I don't know, honey. He looks good and you're not getting any younger." After a period of quiescence, he returns to her email box, asking a routine favor, which she obliges. He thanks her with tickets to a show in his town. She figures, why not? Did I mention she is lonely? She shows up with a new attitude, this time she's just here to get out of the city. He tackles her for a kiss in the grocery store on the way home from the airport. Indifference proves to be an intoxicating cologne. She enjoys spring colors, meat killed with a bow and arrow, petting furry friends, and small town musical theater.

And for awhile, it's all quiet on the communication front yet again. He reappears in the email inbox fortuitously while she is in the midst of self doubt and anxiety about her first half marathon that she is scheduled to run the next day. She doubts herself; she's not sure she can do it. He assumes she has diligently trained, which she has. He tells her she should stop being concerned and start giving herself credit for the hard work she's done. The outcome of the race is immaterial. She runs it in record time.

She gets caught up in the sultry splendor of summer in the city and turns another year older. In discussing the celebrations a few days after, he remarks, "I didn't know it was your birthday". Of course he didn't. She's not his girlfriend. She keeps looking in the city.

Christmas comes yet again with all its pageantry and caroling and gatherings and loneliness. She suggests they meet when she comes to his closest big city on a shopping trip, as she needs to deck the halls and purchase gay apparel. 'Tis the season for merriment and food and festivities and family. Or whatever you can throw together to fill the void. They share a fancy French dinner at an upscale hotel and make small talk about his work and his family and even though they're not dating, it's pleasant enough. Sometimes it's nice to pretend to be something that you're not around the holidays. Afterwards, there's the kind of encounter you have at Christmastime in an upscale hotel when it's been awhile and you've stopped believing in Santa Claus. The season of giving casts a spell that causes them to make plans for her to visit the woods once again.

The New Year's tarriance is quiet and restorative. There are sing-alongs at the piano and soups from scratch and the sounds of the creek outside the window. It's all deliciously conventional and she thinks perhaps someday there could be more than small talk. At the airport before returning to the city, she assures him she will let him know when she makes it home safely. He replies, "Just tell me when you're coming back". A hint of romance from the usually stoic woodsman.

She is back in the city and thinks not of the woodsman. She thinks only of her city life, a life that is rich and fulfilling and does not require the love of a man. She comes to realize that being romantic is a characteristic, a personality trait, like being agreeable or thoughtful or neurotic. It's not a product of the right two people together. Eureka! She realizes she's not being rejected by the world; she's just not finding those who are romantic in their nature. She makes grand declarations about how powerful it is to be a woman. About how important it is to be on your own, to realize your own strengths, to make your own decisions, to forge your own path. She receives amazing feedback from friends and strangers alike, thanking her for her courage and inspiration. Her college boyfriend tells her he hopes his daughters grow up to be like her, independent and smart and thoughtful and witty. On the outside, she is fearless and empowered. On the inside, she is still an empty shell. She feels like a fraud. She yearns for peace and quiet, both inside her mind and outside her window.

The woodsman is insistent that she come to visit again. It will be good for her to relax and take a break from city life. She concurs. He emails and calls, bringing his best and most interested self yet to the equation. But the numbers haven't changed. Again she wonders if perhaps there is a bridge to be built over such a large gap. She envisions them making a fire, making dinner, making love.

She is to call him to finalize the arrangements for her impending visit, but the call must be postponed. She must call her brother back, a minor family emergency has occurred. She lets the woodsman know that they will talk when she gets it sorted out. Later on the phone, he remarks, "You never talk about your family. I forgot you had a brother". She decides to make other plans in the city.

It ends, just as it began, with an email. Let's not do this, it can't work, the scheduling is too difficult, we're too different, it's just not possible. Let's keep in touch and stay friends. It was fun while it lasted, best of luck to you. A small talk conclusion hides the bigger feelings that never came to the surface on either side.

She continues to look in the city. Not for love, not for romance, but for connection. She surveys the faces of passersby, wondering what their lives are like, wondering what is to become of the rest of her life. She goes to work and enjoys the company of friends. She runs errands and goes to social events. She wonders if this is all there is. She envisions a quiet place of her own, perhaps with the unfaltering love of an animal companion. She puts her dance card back on the table and smooths out its tattered edges. The woodsman may not have told her he loved her, but he did. And she loved him in return. And she learned to stop being concerned, to give herself credit for all she's done and that the outcome of the race is immaterial. She makes no plans for the rest of the race, except to finish strong.