On safari in his own country

Cedar waxwings hold a briefing.

You have a flair for adding a fanciful dimension to any story. - My fortune cookie fortune this weekend.

Talk about pressure!

The cats are hovering around me and my beef stew. Please don't mistake their hovering for affection, you silly geese. They're simply making a display of their disdain for having been reduced from their civilized three meals a day - a full brekkie, luncheon and tea - to the dreadful abuse of two meals with a light snack at bedtime. I'm waiting for the day I arrive home to find them chewing on Sophie who has a habit of taking a nap after school. Perhaps she senses the potential danger because tonight she'd locked herself in her room before crashing.

I drove like a maniac all the way home alternately dialing the home phone and Sophie's mobile, imagining the worst. She'd choked on a piece of stew meat and lay gasping for air, turning a disturbing shade of blue and writing me one last love/hate note with a shaky hand.

I love you so much, Mother. Why did you have to go back to work? Wasn't being my mother enough.....

Obviously, she's fine, only sleeping. I mean, I wouldn't be so callous as to blog immediately after - -  well, I can't even type the words.

Is this time change making you loopy, too? Leap forward, my darlings, right into this vat of confusion.

This morning, five of us - Nate's friend Al spent the night so we were plus one - got showered, dressed, fed and out the door on time. Somehow we managed the feat without any shed tears, broken bones or cross words.

The rest of the week will probably be full of tiny catastrophes and moments resembling the scene in The Poseidon Adventure when the boat is hit by a tidal wave and flips over. I wonder who'll be the poor sap falling face first through the plate glass window.

It's not lost on me that no matter how much night-before prep you do, no matter how organized and planned and stringently practiced your routine, when the tidal wave comes, you're gonna get wet.

By the way, you want to know who really misses me now that I'm not haunting the house all day? Well, I believe I heard the vacuum cleaner weeping quietly in his corner. I haven't tugged his hose in many days. And boy howdy does it show.

It may be part of my sinister plot to demonstrate to the other Goldens just how untidy and rank things can get around here when I stop cleaning. Then again, it could be that I just plain ran out of time this weekend and, yeah, those assholes I live with aren't about to pitch in until I throw a big hissy fit. Which I've decided I'm not going to do because that puts me back in the martyr box in which I've stifled many a time, stewing in my own angry juices and taking swigs from a flask filled with Windex.

Bottom line?  We need an Alice, damn it.

So work is interesting. Very. And damn it, again! I can't say much about it. I'm waiting for my official legal briefing so I know for sure what I can and can't say, but for now I have to ixnay on the oliticspay. See, I work for a labor union and we're preparing for contract negotiations and so I'm not allowed to say much. Which means I really shouldn't say anything because then I won't screw up. Well, I'll try not to screw up. I know I won't give up any confidential info, but not doing anything political? Gulp.

Because you know I'm dying to crack wise about grits, right?

Just know work is going well. Today I was trained on how to work the front desk, answering phones and routing them properly and logging them, greeting visitors, buzzing them in and not laughing too much at them when they pull instead of push the glass door. Sounds easy, no? Well, I was no Shelley Winters swimming toward safety, but it wasn't all bad. I got the hang of it. Nevermind the time I tried to route a call to the woman who was training me only to find that when she went to lunch, she left her call forwarding on and the call I couldn't answer was actually me trying to call --- me. At the front desk.

Thankfully, the caller was a patient man who only wanted to ask a question about something that's called deadheading which sounds groovy like psychedelic travels following a band around the country or, at the very least, lopping off the drooping heads of fading flower maidens. But no. It's about seats.

I've had moments when I had to stop and pinch myself to make sure I wasn't dreaming. I'm actually working for a paycheck again. It's something I'd nearly despaired of. There were other moments when I had to take a step back and remind myself that I really should have gotten out more while I was in layoff limbo because it was a bit overwhelming to be around all those people for such long, uninterrupted periods of time.

Thankfully, I handled it without resorting to huffing into a paper bag or consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Come to think of it, I didn't have a drop. I remained clear of head, steady of hand and fully clothed.  I love a good meeting without a hangover. I ate my fill of fresh fruit and hotel pastries and lost a pound. I tried to be indispensible without being too much muchness. I just want to do a good job and be the kind of employee everyone wants to have around.

It's a fine balance. It's like the difference between cheese grits and cheesy grits.

From somewhere in downtown Atlanta

Dear you,

I hope this reaches you in good health and spirits. Even though I've been busy with Days 1 and 2 of my new job, you've been on my mind. How do I make you feel appreciated while I dive head first into this paying gig? Do we need to set aside some alone time? Should I send flowers? Give you a massage at the end of your tough day?

Let's sleep on it and you let me know.

I've been smiling from the time I leave my hotel room until the moment I return, kick off my pumps and wrestle out of my nylons. I've consumed more calories in two days than I ate all of last week. I haven't stepped in a single surprise from a cat. The people I work for think I'm a cheerful chick who doesn't drink or hold strong opinions.

Let's not disabuse them of these notions. Yet.

Meanwhile, they're all very warm and welcoming which makes giving up my free-wheeling days alone a little easier. I've only texted Sophie a couple of times telling her how my tummy hurts or how I might die from a headache if she doesn't come pick me up and take me home. She's learned well from her mother. "You have to stay at work. Now stop bothering me while I'm in band."

Three more days of meetings. I think I'll survive. My feet, still wondering what happened to the smelly slippers, are in open revolt. My foundation garment may have infused some of its elastic into my DNA. I've broken my fingernail I always break when I'm staffing a meeting and, naturally, I snagged my pantyhose on the jagged nail.

I haven't worn any of my food yet, but I did forget to pack floss. I am a obsessive flosser so this is nearly tragic, but I shall soldier on. I think there's a CVS down the street if I can slip out for a few minutes...

And now it's late, so I better go because my alarm will be going off in no time.

Don't let the bed bugs bite,

Lisa

P.S. I really shouldn't have mentioned bed bugs.

Not quite as planned

Sunday night. When the specter of the coming week floats through the wall and buggers you with images of traffic jams, printer jams, pointless meetings, laddered pantyhose, the impossible expectation of being in two places at once and a coffee stain on your right boob?

Last Sunday wasn't like that at all. Instead, I was giddily naming the things I would do with my last week of not working. I had plans.Writing. Reading. Finishing an editing job that I lost when I washed my jump drive. Lolling around, sleeping in, long afternoon naps in between watching Netflix and AcornTV until my eyeballs dried out.

And since my first week on the job means a week of member meetings where I'll be cloistered at a hotel and not be at the beck and call of the America aristocracy who've become all too accustomed to having an entire Downtown downstairs staff rolled into one woman, I'd planned to get things arranged so that MathMan, the kids and cats won't be reduced to making meals out of the remains at the bottom of a jar of olives and some three-year-old cookie mix*.

Then everything went all Robert Burns. Or Steinbeck, if you will. And no one even got laid.

I won't bore you with the details, but holy servants' bells, how did it get to be Friday Saturday already?

I decided there was no point in fighting it. It was best to keep calm and ...... bake challah?

Ingrediments. If you know Jack Benny, you get this joke.

Chloe doing the necessary kneading.

Sophie with her finished braid.

Chloe learning how to braid.

Egg washed, ready to go in the oven.

Fresh from the oven.

Enjoying the fruits of her labor.

What's new with you? What have you in the oven? Favorite bread recipes? Bets on how next week goes?


*Mostly a lie. They'd just eat fast food all week.

The one where the cats win

It's funny the thoughts that pass through your mind while you're awaiting rescue.

I don't know how I got under the pile of boxes in the basement, but I do know this: we do not need to save another box. For anything.

The last thing I remember was dialing the phone and leaving MathMan a voicemail that I was having second thoughts about everything in life. That I'd decided that the best way to find my purpose was to become a Rick Santorum groupie.

That may have happened as a result of the cat food eating contest I got into with the monstrous ginger tabby. Oh, I won, but who knows what those cats spiked my food with. You know how cats are. Especially in groups.

I'm getting ahead of myself. The contest happened after I banged my head. When I'm in pain, I don't think straight. I'm all reaction, filterless. The monstrous talking ginger tabby challenged me. You know how I got detention in seventh grade because I couldn't pass up the dare to go into the boys' bathroom before track practice? Well, then how do you expect me to let a challenge from a cat slide right on by?

Wait - more clarification. I banged my head when I fell off the dining room table. See, earlier in the day, I was unloading the dishwasher and noticed how grimy the dining room light fixture's glass globes were. Listen, my job starts in a week and a half. I can't leave a dirty house behind. That's what I was thinking.

Anyway, I stood on the table putting the sparkling clean globes back in place, being extra careful not to drop a screw when the phone rang. As I juggled the glass in my hand the phone shrilled again. Maybe it was someone who wanted to send me on a free cruise if I'd answer three questions about how much I hate government. I stepped back to climb down from the table and tripped over the two gray cats supervising me.

The space between the tabletop and the floor was interminable. I am terrified of heights. We went to the top of the Sears Tower when Nate and Chloe were little and I was pregnant with Sophie. It was actually the day we got our gateway cat Daisy at the Chicago Humane Society. The fact that I even agreed to go to the top of the Tower amazes me still. While my adventurous children leaned over the railing to put their foreheads on the glass, I held on to the backs of their shirts until my palm sweat left marks. I felt faint. My heart palpitated. All I wanted to do was run into the elevator and press myself against the back wall.

So then my head connected with the dining room wall. The glass globe remained intact and in my hand. I knew this because the ginger tabby opened his mouth and announced that my fall was spectacular. I didn't realize he knew that word. I started to tell  him how impressed I was with his vocabulary when it occurred to me that this cat was talking.

"But you're a cat!"

He rolled his golden eyes and yawned, his disinterest palpable. "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry."

This cat wants to read Living Arrangements by Laura Walter.

I don't remember what happened to trigger the cat food eating contest, but I'm pretty sure the youngest cat, the one who can break your heart with just a look, was involved. An apparent set up, in hindsight. Three of the five cats contested my win. Accusations purred forth.

This was personal for the ginger tabby. He wanted me to know he was still angry about the last time I gave him a haircut and all the other cats laughed at him. As if their bad behavior is my fault.

I was having none of it. My head throbbed and the cat food aftertaste made me feel queasy. "Just wait, buddy, your next haircut is going to be a doozy."

Never have I heard a voice so cold as his when he said, "We'll see about that." His good ear twitched menacingly.

I woke up under a multitude of boxes. My hands were bound together with something that looked like silver twine. As best I could, I searched my pockets. The cats had evidently relieved me of my phone. There was a smell - was that incense? New shoes? No, that was one of the shoeboxes next to my head. Vicks Vap-o-Rub?

I touched my mouth. Tape. I braced myself and pulled the tape away from my lips. Damn. Those hairs would grow back in darker and thicker. I picked one of those silicon packets out of my hair and cried for help, the corners of my mouth still smarting from yanking off the tape. I struggled to get out from under the boxes, but something didn't work right. I shifted around to see what the problem was. My shoes were on the wrong feet and worse, my ankles were duct taped together.

What day was it? How long had I been under this mess? Where was I? The day I fell off the table was maybe Wednesday. Or was it Thursday?

I cried again for help, but no one answered. Where was everyone? My cellphone rang and there was a muffled sound of voices punctuated by meows and growls, but I couldn't identify where my phone was.

I must have fallen asleep again from exhaustion. I was awakened by the sound of a door opening and closing. "I don't know where she is. She said she was going to be a Rick Santorum groupie, but I thought she was joking. But when I got home, she was nowhere to be found. She's been gone for three days and no word. She's not answering her phone either."

"MathMan! Honey! I'm here!" I tried to shout, but my voice came out strangled and weak.

"Hang on a second."

I thrashed around, desperate to get his attention. I tried again to shout.

"There's something under those boxes, Nate. Probably a cat. Go see while I finish this call."

"Dad, all the cats are here. Look, count them. Five."

"Then what's under those boxes?"

"How would I know?"

"Take that broom and poke around. Maybe give it a whack."

"Okay."

You've heard of how adrenaline can give a person in distress superhuman strength? Yeah, well, not this chick apparently. My whole body felt limp. I stayed still hoping that Nate would have the good sense to move the boxes instead of giving them a whack. Or six.

When he got about three layers of boxes into the pile, Nate finally pulled an Ebay box back and stared at me.

"Dad?"

"Hang on. What?"

"I found Mom, but...."

I gulped in the fresh air.

MathMan stood next to Nate and peered at me. "Lisa? Are you okay?"

Did I look okay?

Nate leaned in closer. "Mom, where's your hair?"

Your turn. Tell us a story, y'all.

Is this an instrument of communication or torture?

Source

Before I became interested in watching IU basketball, I had the good sense to stay out of the room or at least occupy myself with other activities while MathMan sat glued to the television during sporting events. I cannot tell you the number of White Sox baseball games I've ironed through.

In fact, if you were to do a little window peeping while I do domestic duties while MathMan watched sports, you'd think you were looking at Ward and June Cleaver. If Ward and June got handsy with each other in front of Wally and the Beaver and seasoned their conversation with the occasional utterance of the word fuck.

Anyway, MathMan forgot that it's best to make oneself scarce while one's spouse is indulging in a bit of televised pleasure. And thus, that is how I ended up taking notes during the last episode of Season 2 of Downton Abbey. I'm hooked. MathMan was lukewarm, tepid, sorry he'd agreed to let me watch the program in the bedroom where he normally cloisters himself to watch whatever he wants on Sunday nights.

Disclaimer #1 Possible spoilers for the Christmas special aired on Sunday, February 19, 2012 so please don't read unless you want to risk it.


Disclaimer #2 Despite his use of the pejorative puss, MathMan is a relatively evolved man. I mean, it took me only two days to get him to understand the value of putting down the toilet seat. Besides that, I do believe he was sending me subliminal signals. Either he wanted to get some or he thought I should feed the cats. 

MM: I like her, too.
Me: Daisy, the maid? She's cute, isn't she?
MM: Yeah. She cleans, too.

MM: Who gets the ruby in the Christmas pudding? (Remark based on Hercule Poirot's The Theft of the Royal Ruby)

MM:  He's a douchebag. A huge douchebag. And the other guy's a puss.

MM: So what? Does Maggie Smith have a contract so that she's in everything made in England?

MM:  I think someone is going to punch him before it's over. (re: Sir Richard)

MM:  What are you doing?
Me: Taking notes of your commentary.
MM:  Oh, I see how it is.
Me: I don't think you do.

MM:  What's the point of watching this if it's going to be so predictable?

MM:  Which Sybil is pregnant? One, two, three, four, five or seven?

MM:  Is the stuffy guy (Sir Richard)  her fiance?
Me:  Yes.
MM: That's a dumbass move.

MM: Someone's going to get shot for sure.

MM:  She's not going to marry that clown.

MM:  Wasn't he part of some Monty Python skit?

MM:  I feel like this is an episode of Poirot without the murder. You know which one I'm talking about.
Me: The Mystery of Hunter's Lodge
MM:  I guess. Yeah, that's the one.

MM:  The only drama is if the pretty woman marries the dumbass.

MM:  Wasn't that on the Young Ones? Sir Something Old Fart? What was that? That's who Sir Richard is.
Me: Sir Boring Old Fart
MM:  That's it!

MM: He shouldn't have given her that dumb pussy speech in the graveyard because now he's feeling bad because now she's going to marry that dumbass.

MM:  (regarding Matthew) Now he's going to get in trouble with his mom.
Me:  For letting Mary go?
MM:  No. For being a puss.

Lady Mary:  It shall be hard.
MM:  It's not hard. It's easy. Just say,"Shut up and piss off."

MM:  Here's where he gets punched in the face.

MM:  (Re: Matthew) 'Cause he's going to get a punch in the face if he acts like a pussy again.

There's definitely a theme here. Let's unpack it, shall we? No, nevermind. I'm not qualified to delve that deeply into anyone's mind. The funny thing is, he's not a violent man so I don't know why he's so hellbent on predicting violence. It's obvious that he has little patience for melodrama and emotional games. I'm not surprised, of course, because he lives with me. Watching it on TV is a busman's holiday.

When I mentioned I thought there was time for them to declare Mr. Bates innocent, MathMan rolled his eyes. "They're going to leave you hanging on that one."

When the show ended without wrapping the Bates storyline, I whined. "Wah! I've got to wait months to know what happens to Mr. Bates. They have to tell us how Mrs. Bates really died. Was it murder or suicide?"

MathMan simply shook his head.

"But don't you want to know what happens?"

"I want to know if that guy's going to stop being a puss."

Oh, he's hooked.

What do you watch on TV as a compromise? What about Mrs. Bates? Murder or suicide? Who did it? What's going to get in the way of Mary and Matthew's wedding? Have we seen the last of the guy who claimed to be Patrick who allegedly drowned in the sinking of the Titanic? Will the Dowager Countess embrace the Jazz Age? Will Thomas and O'Brien ever stop scheming?

This is the day when things fall into place

A brief story about the power of social media. Or maybe the value of connecting, reconnecting. Who you know. The ending of one chapter, the beginning of another. A shift of gears. A new day. A move from a red square to a black one. Is it the Phoenix or the egg?

I'm stalling.

See, the thing is, I reconnected with a friend, a former colleague on Facebook. This friend knew that I was out of work and suggested I apply for a position with his employer. And so I did. And. And....

I got the job. I mean - I got the job!!! (Throws confetti into the air, runs around in circles making incoherent noises. Halts, realizes that she's going to have to clean up the confetti, shrugs and resumes pandemonium.)

And it's not just a job. It is a position I really, really wanted.

I start in a couple of weeks.

After being out of work for two years and two months (you bet I've kept count), I'd pretty much given up. My friend's timing was perfect. Having him as an internal reference surely helped. Without his connection, I may have been overlooked for this position because of my old job titles, but during the interview process it became clear that my best skills were well-suited for this position.

In other words, I'm beside myself with joy and gratitude for my friend who knows from experience what a toll long-term unemployment takes on a person.

Thanks to all of you for the support, kind words and patience as I've struggled to hold on to the belief that things would turn around. There were many days when this blog felt like the only thing I'd accomplished, if you could call it an accomplishment.

When it comes down to it, I'm here because you're here.

Thank you, all of you, for being here.

The tiger dreams only of death

In a newish house far from Paris
Partially covered with vines
Lived five related people
Completely out of line.

Completely out of line
They broke their double fiber whole wheat bread
Brushed their teeth (with free toothpaste yay coupons!)
And went to bed. (Mom and Dad wrestling over the comforter, son with his phone, daughter with Netflix, other daughter away at college, alone. We hope.)

Oh screw that. You'll like this better anyway.

I'm asking pointed questions about contraception over at PoliTits. Pointed like a knitting needle. Come join the fun.

P.S. Something for the Downton Abbey fans among us.

P.S.S. What you want is an Adult Education.  Or dreams. Dreams are good.