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.

I am the id to your superego

I've been taking photos of flowers.

Pardon my hyperbole, but I have the best dang friends. Rulebreakers, the lot of you. And thank you for that. Thank you for the emails and Facebook comments when I wouldn't let you comment on that last post. Today I'm still as dull as ever, but feeling better even if the house is shrouded against the predicted heat. Man, I hate having the house closed up and worse - hate shutting blinds and putting up curtains (or makeshift curtains) - but with predicted highs near 90 degrees, it's either that or be a whining puddle of perspiration by 2p.m. because that thermostat is set at 80 and it's staying there even if I have to break every bone in Sophie's fingers. (She's the thermostat fiddler around here.)

Such is my cross. There are people without enough food to eat, Lisa, you goon.

But back to my friends. They offer understanding, care, their stories of similar feelings. There really is something to that old adage Misery loves company. It really is nice to know you're not alone while you're in full wallow mode. Unless, of course, thinking you're alone is part of the fun.

I also received a gentle ass-kicking from a friend who's been in and out of my life for longer than I care to mention. If you've read the Ethan stories under the Little Love Stories tab, you already know him. His real name is Craig and, aside from MathMan, he's probably my best friend. While this might seem odd and dangerously dangerous due to my proclivities toward bad behavior, it's turned out surprising well. Plus and bonus, he lives an ocean away so safe gets even safer. Add to that the fact that I've sworn off cybersex because typing all those mmmmms and oh yeah, babies, right there gets so bloody boring. If I'm going to type out a blow job, I may as well - - - oh nevermind.

Anyway, Craig read yesterday's post and got in touch with me via Skype. Shortly into the conversation, he made an important point: If MathMan had gone quiet, couldn't I offer him some understanding? Wasn't there a better way to handle things?

"Let's see, he's working three jobs, money is tight, his wife can't find a job, he can't finance his daughter's trip to England or even pay the rest of her tuition and, you said it yourself, it's that time of year with the end of school stuff. That shit is hard on a man."

Who asked him anyway?

Of course he's right. He then went on to note that we're doomed as a species because of our horrible communications skills. "Someone wants to talk when the other person doesn't want to listen. Women want to vent while men want to jump in and fix things. We're a mess."

When the man is right, he's right.

Thinking about what Craig had said, I did the simple thing. I asked MathMan how things were going. And he told me. I swear this relationship stuff can be so easy if we're not stupid about it.

Which brings me to Mother's Day. I'm just going to say this - I motherfucking hate that day. And MathMan summed up why. "I can never get it right," he growled at me after I fussed that it was just another day around here. No gift, two hand written cards, which were lovely, but I opened them in between running the restaurant and doing another load of laundry. I couldn't go on Facebook because of all the dumbass Mother's Day posts. I pretty much stayed off the blogs, too, because I was busy being angry and giving my family the silent treatment.

We went to a matinee showing of Water for Elephants and on the way there, I read a book because I didn't want to be myself - I'm a terrible backseat driver to MathMan. With added snark for giggles. I thought I did really well, but when I related this bit of family trivia to Craig as an example of how I'm trying to do things differently, Chloe, who was in the room at the time, reported that I couldn't help myself.  As MathMan barreled down on the stopped traffic ahead of us, I repeated the word "brakes" without ever looking up from my book. Fuck.

But I really hate that day. Who am I kidding? I a total curmuddgeon. I'm not fond of any holiday and partly because of the highflying expectations for magic and, oh god, I am my father's daughter.

The highlight of Mother's Day may have been dinner on the deck with Sophie and Chloe. Sophie is having trouble finding reading material that suits her and holds her attention. At twelve going on fifty-three, she's a tough nut. Chloe rummaged through the box of books she'd lugged home from school and came up with Jane Eyre, Chronicle of a Death Foretold and Eve Ensler's I Am An Emotional Creature. Really.

Sophie opened Jane Eyre, cocked an eyebrow and closed the book. Chloe clucked her tongue in disgust. "You have to get through the first part. And just ignore the marginalia."

"What's marginalia?"

"The stuff I've written in the margins."

As an aside to Chloe, I said, "I want to make a joke about the marginalia I added to Stephen Elliot's book."

"Mother, you're forgetting that you're the mom, not the friend," she replied with a hint of a smile.

"Is Stephen Elliot the guy who's into S&M?" Sophie laid the book on the table. Jane Eyre couldn't hold a precious candle to Stephen.

Chloe turned and gave me a look.

"Point taken," I said.

Chloe read to us from Jane Eyre. I really like being read to. Sophie declared the book beyond her grasp and asked if we had any Agatha Christie. What a kidder she is. I also gave her A.A. Milne's The Red House Mystery so here's hoping. Too bad I don't have any adult Judy Blume or Sidney Sheldon she can find and read on the sly like I did at her age. I wonder if my old copy of Flowers in the Attic is in one of those boxes in the garage?

We're watching too much political television around here again. Could that be it? Anyway, Chloe noticed yesterday that Howard Dean appears to have lost weight. MathMan mentioned that Newt Gingrich has gained weight or, porked up, as he put it so eloquently. I keep track of Howard Fineman's haircuts. Frankly, I liked it when his hair curled at his collar. It was middle-aged Jewish guy sexy and I'm into that obviously.

A text exchange with another friend also reminded me of how social media has changed the way peer pressure continues into adulthood. Before Facebook, twitter, and blogging, I suppose, lots of us went to work or did our thing around the house, and at the end of the day, did whatever we did, but most of us weren't interacting with a handful or more of people unless one was lucky enough to be a regular at a bar or gym or a joiner of clubs. Okay, well, I wasn't. I went home, did the housework, lavished my kids with fifteen minutes of attention, watched television, read or dicked around in the garden. Aside from not wanting to assault the world with my face without make up or the stray pube at the public swimming facility, I didn't much care what other people thought about me. Sure I followed the social norms to get by at work, but I didn't much follow the crowd. Hell, I didn't even know which crowds there were. I was in the phase of life where you just don't care. You don't even care that you don't care, you're so busy. Peer pressure was mostly a curse of the teen years.

Now peer pressure is served up in the form of Facebook, Twitter, and the other social media that create the brackets around our lives. Were you a shit heel who didn't offer all your fb friends a happy mother's day? I was. The hell with that peer pressure that can render things pretty meaningless after a while. I called my mother and left her a voicemail. Want to know where I got my attitude about holidays? You don't have to look far. Growing up, we just didn't make a big deal out of things in our household, if you know what I mean.

And while I'm at it - um, listen, it's Facebook - noting the fb is redundant. See, there I go. It's like repeating the word brakes except someone should be saying that to me and my mouth.

And what about this #FF bullshit on Twitter? We sure can take something fun and easy and load it with all kinds of obligations in no time flat, can't we? I mean, I get it. It's a way of giving, but criminy, can't anything just be fun without being weighed down with all this Have to stuff? I quote Steve Martin in the movie Parenthood "My whole life is have to" which was more true when I had a paying job, but you should see the frowny face texts I get if someone's favorite pair of socks aren't clean so I stick by that quote.

Why can't we just leave well enough alone? 140 characters, light, fun, maybe profound, if you're into that, a link to something you found interesting, but do we have to create structure and rules? Yes, yes, we do. It's how we know what to do next and with which hand to do it. And how not to wear white shoes while doing it, too. Unless it's between May and September. Wheat and chaff and all that. I'm chaff, nice to meet you.

I think my inner anarchist needs some Funions and red pop to make her quiet down.

I never should have turned on the television this morning. The things you see. Our elected dumbasses (possibly my new favorite word) running around repeating their new favorite catchphrase "An adult moment." I'm sure someone or three hundred and sixty-seven someones have already made this joke on Facebook and Twitter, but An Adult Moment for me would probably include the typed out blow job (referenced above). And I sure as hell don't want to pay taxes on that. Unless I'm making over $250k and then go right ahead and tax dollars 250,001 and above because I'm reasonable even if foulmouthed and vulgar.

Your turn. Unleash your inner (fill in the blank) because I think I've said more than enough.

Say Cheese

The Backstory
Before I met MathMan, I was in love with a tall, handsome and driven guy. We met, quickly fell in love, and lived together briefly until he left to go to another school. Eventually, our immaturity and the physical distance rubbed the luster away from the relationship and we were left with something not so nice. He chose to pursue his dreams and I was no longer a part of them.

He was far more driven than I was. He believed in himself and his talents while I was still just treading water, unsure about my future and quite convinced that there was nothing special about me. He'd know for much of his life what he wanted to be and he did, eventually become that. No, that's not right. He always was that. His gift is part of who he is.

I'd forgotten until recently, that he'd also encouraged me to pursue my dreams. I didn't believe that I had any talent so the notion that I could actually follow a career into writing seemed like so much fluff. It was pie, sky, not something this girl could do.

When he left to go to art school, he gave me a journal covered in red fabric. It's one of my life's treasures like the kid's newborn hospital bracelets and the shattered remains of the glass MathMan stomped to the joyous cries of Mazel Tov at the end of our wedding. On the first page, he wrote me a message that ended with this postscript: Remember - all good writers keep journals, too! Even as he moved on to follow his destiny, he was nudging me toward mine.

It only took me twenty-four years to figure out what he was telling me. Write - you want to be a writer - so write.

So that's my friend. I still love him. It's not the desperate, clutching, crazy love of a twenty year old, but it's the love you have for old friends who shared special times with you. He was key in my discovery of that world outside my little Midwestern existence. Over time, we lost touch. Life got busy and his first ex-wife didn't like me and who knows what else makes friendships fade into the background. Last year, we reconnected and have developed a zany kinship that provides us with the chance to enjoy each others company without all the sexual tension and angst of youth.

And Now....
As life would have it, things did not turn out so well for him in his marriages and he is now is a state of flux. While he waits out his particular situation, he's discovered that he had some unfulfilled needs. I'm not sure why - having been burned twice or because I'm off the market - he doesn't seem to desire a long term relationship, but he'd like some help polishing his apple. When he first shared with me the length of his sexual drought, I refrained from teasing him too much and instead dove head first into a discussion about procuring some professional help for his needs.

What began as a joke eventually became a reality. I think he was afraid to tell me at first. He wrote me to tell me that his drought was over and I responded with the appropriate level of hells yeah!!!! Was it good? because I'm pretty much a guy when it comes to things like this. I stopped short of asking for details. We do have some barriers, no matter how weak they are.

After he got over the fact that I wasn't going to mock him for having used the services of a professional, he suggested that I help him seek out his next carnal encounter. Because neither of us know when to stop the joke, this led to me looking at escort sites last night as my children slept and MathMan watched the beginning of Orson Welle's The Third Man. Can I just tell you that is quite the experience to go shopping for a date? Sure, sure, I know some of you are wondering how I could take part in the selling of the flesh, but let's not debate that here. I could tell you that not one of those presumably educated women appeared to be under any duress to do what they do for a living.

Before I went to work on my search for just the right woman to make my friend's weekend a little less, um, lonely, I did have a phone conversation with him to learn how things went with his first date. No, I didn't ask for or receive details about sex acts performed, but I did inquire about the process. What I learned was rather sweet with just the hint of piquant commercialism. The outcome was, after all, a given. As my friend noted "None of what I did really mattered, I was going to get laid anyway."

True enough, but at least both adults involved went to the trouble of behaving as if this were a date instead of a financial transaction. First he described how he directed his "date" to his location, where he lives alone. The rest of the conversation went like this:

Him: I even vacuumed the apartment and changed the sheets.
Me: Well, that's saying something!
Him: I know, right? It's more than I do for myself.
Me: Okay, then what?
Him: Well, I went out and bought three different kinds of champagne.
Me: Very nice!
Him: Thanks.
Me: Anything else?
Him: Yes. I put out a cheese plate.
Me: A cheese plate?
Him: Yes, I offered her a variety of cheeses.

A variety of cheeses? Dear lord, he prepped for his "date" just like my mother prepares to host a Home Ec Club meeting.

I finally stopped laughing long enough to take notes. You never know when you're going to need story material, you know?