COVID-19 Diary - Wall

I woke up angry this morning.

I received some bad news yesterday. As I wrote a couple of days ago, I'm one of the lucky ones - I still have a job.

But.

I'm taking a pay cut. It's a pay cut that creates a frustrating and, frankly, insulting situation.

But.

I learned today that the largest employer in our little town laid off most of its workforce. As the Rising Star Casino wrote in the letter to its unlucky employees, should the casino reopen, the employees will be able to reapply for a position.

Ah, perspective.

I lost a good job in the economic crash of 2009. I was without work until March of 2012. It was a hard time for our family.  We lost a house, a car and eventually, a marriage.

I have never regained the salary level I lost in 2009.

My heart goes out to the people who have lost their jobs as a result of this crisis. Unlike 2009 when it felt like I was watching one friend after another slide over the edge from employment to unemployment, this crisis showed us what it would feel like to slam into a wall.

Hard.

This kind of thing is traumatizing. Trust me on this. These people, like so many others, have lost their jobs through no fault of their own. None. We didn't see this coming.

I fear that harder times are coming. Please be kind to each other. Watch what you say and what you post on social media about jobs, the social safety net, people in need (they don't need you to broadcast your generosity if you help them out), healthcare, unemployment benefits (no one wants to be on unemployment), who works hard and who doesn't, who is deserving and who isn't.

You might think you're being funny, insightful, or clever, but take it from me - that stuff hurts. It's pointless pain. Keep your opinions to yourself because no one needs your shame right now.

When I was out of work, the economy was so bad that the Administration had to keep begging Congress to extend unemployment benefits. Every quarter was a nightmare while I fretted that my benefits would end and there was no job in sight.

One day I was scrolling through Facebook, having taken a break from trolling all the job posting websites, and I saw someone I'd grown up with posting about how all the lazy people who wanted more unemployment money should "just get a job."

I'd spent hours every day looking for a job. I'd applied for hundreds of jobs sometimes having to complete applications requiring so much detail that it took over an hour to complete.  In all that time, after all those applications, I had two interviews. One place didn't hire me, but the other did.

At half my 2009 salary and a much longer commute.

And I felt lucky to have a job.

I'm telling you this so you don't hurt someone with your words.

Sermon over.

Stay home if you can. Tell someone you love them. Make a plan for hard times. Wash your hands. Remember the Golden Rule.

Winged

I've alighted again. For how long? It's anyone's guess.

I'm back in my hometown and happy to be here. Even so, most items remain boxed. The trunk of my car has become a weird closet holding bits of an old life. Root around in there and you'll unearth boxed shoes, pocketbooks in protective sheaths, a can of WD40, books, a ziplock bag of utensils.

I have no idea what I'm doing.  I could be on the lam without much effort, but don't have any firm plans to break the law. It's not exactly chaos though. Work is stable. Beer is stable. Exercise is consistent. (Pauses to consider the irony, shrugs, examines sore foot.)

Physically I'm recognizable. The hair is long and silver. The breasts too large. The hazel eyes are more feathered at the corners, but that's to be expected. It's been a long year.

In other ways, the cocoon has been shed. I spend enough time at the American Legion that the bartenders know my drink. I can tell you on what night you can shoot pool for free at the bar on Main Street (Wednesdays). I'm relearning Euchre. To great concern and the open consternation of MathMan and the children, I've taken to listening to country music. I hear whispers of intervention.

Life is exploding with characters. I want to collect them all, write them down, get their stories just right. I think of my own story and wonder when will it be not so damn raw? I poke and poke and come up with too much feeling, too little sense.

I spend most Wednesdays convinced that it's Thursday. I don't think it has anything to do with playing pool for free. It's because I'm twisting myself into knots wishing for the weekend so I don't have to answer the phones. Answering the phones means there's a damn good chance I'm about to invite someone's despair into my ear.

"Law office, may I help you?"

And then the words come. Sometimes faltering. Sometimes tear-stained. Angry. Afraid. The callers who want to know right off the bat how much this is going to cost are the easy ones.

Working in an office that deals mostly with divorce wasn't the brightest idea coming on the heels of busting up my own family. I have a genius for putting myself in ridiculous and painful situations.

So I'm listening to the audio version of Naomi Wood's Mrs. Hemingway and there's this line that goes something like this.....

Hadley, his first wife, to Hemingway:  You create these messes for material.

I listen, rewind, listen again.  This is Chuck to remind Bill to shut up.

I hear you, Universe. But I'm still looking for that compass.

Some people don't dance if they don't know who's singing

Source

When I used to work from home, was unemployed, lived in my little enclosed world, I was skeptical of the way the workplace was portrayed on television sitcoms.

Maybe I'd been working in tiny offices for too long. I mean, my last paying gig had its moments. Like the time I did a little breaking and entering for my boss. Or the time we had the tutorial on using Urban Dictionary to look up phrases to describe questionable sex acts. Yes, I'm judging.

Now that I'm working in a larger office with a cast of characters (several who will require pseudonyms at some point), I'm less skeptical.

Some of the pseudonyms are easy. For example, there's The Bossfriend and Monique. I work most closely with them. The Prankster shows up occasionally with his airhorn and duct tape. We have The Kid, Maxine, and Mr. Wholesome. We have the Former Mayor of Portland.

One of the characters, however, needs a name desperately and he seems to defy categorization. Recently, he had each of us sign a sheet of paper

I asked why.

"Can't I just get a little blind faith. Just this once?"

I signed. I hate to see a grown man cry.

Turns out he wanted to analyze our personalities using our penmanship. According to him, I'm creative, start strong, but have trouble finishing what I've started.

I swear, I haven't talked about my writing or lack thereof at the office at all, so maybe there's something to this signature analysis business.

Of course, according to him, we also have several staff with anger issues, short attention spans, too much work, too little work, trouble with the drink and one who would, in another life, be your sixth grade teacher. Such beautiful penmanship. A lost art really.

I couldn't deny how hurried and sloppy my signature is so I spent my lunch hour practicing new techniques like a girl in love doodling her boyfriend's name on her notebook. Well, that was a waste of a lunch hour. I didn't even come close to developing a signature signature. It still looks like

Lisa Gol(Ican'tbebotheredtowritetherestoftheletters).

********

People on Twitter and Facebook were oohing and ahhing over Shirley Bassey's performance during The Oscars on Sunday night. I had no idea who she was until someone tweeted that she was singing Goldfinger and then I remembered that voice. That voice.

So this got my attention this morning. It's rough and delicious and so very relevant. Micro and macro.

 

Is history repeating itself?

What does your signature say about you?

Bound

And so it has come to this.

Dear Colleagues,

It is with great sadness that I inform you about the loss of one of our faithful work fellows.

In my rush to do a job quickly instead of safely and efficiently, I jammed the binding machine. Joe tried his best to revive it, but the patient  never recovered. Dr. C. says we have no choice but to pull the plug on the Combbinder 6000.

The machine, which has provided years of dutiful binding service, leaves behind several orphaned spines and covers. Reports are that Combbinder went out with a burst of confetti that won’t be easily forgotten by the IT staff. Or their vacuum.

A private service is being planned. In lieu of flowers, please make donations to the Retired Binding and Folding Machines Foundation.

Murder and/or technocide by willful negligence charges against yours truly are pending.

P.S. Monique – can you order a new machine? Thank you.

Best regards,
Lisa

The bossfriend contacted the Purchasing Department to ask them to order a new Combbinder 6000 and was inundated with photos of possibilities, none of them an exact match to the Combbinder 6000.

Is that the right model number? We were having lunch in the staff kitchen.

I looked at her wide-eyed. Oh no.

Good thing she has a great sense of humor. 

Roberts Rules of Order: An instrument of torture

We reported for work at 7:30 a.m. It is now 6:20 p.m. and this meeting is still going on.

And on.

And ON.

Thank bob for overtime.

Taking Minutes

This week I'll be in meetings which means I'll be doing a lot of this...

And if experience is a guide, there will be some of this...

Only for some of us, it will be more like ---

It's not all fun and games, of course. We're here to get work done. We're very --

We work smart, taking plenty of breaks to stretch our legs, check our messages and use the facilities.

Careful not to be standing outside the doors when a break is called because ---

Watch your fingers, too, because ---SNACKS!

Round about 4:30 p.m., you can sense a whole lot of this --

Which is why we end up with some of this ---



and




Eventually, it's time to retire. Unfortunately, I never sleep well the first night in a hotel so I'll be  ---

But that's okay because

Growth

My husband stopped sugarcoating his thoughts as they transformed into words. The problem is, he forget to tell me.

Last week, I drove along performing a soliloquy about how I didn't feel like writing because I don't write the way I once did. The honesty for which I was once praised, has gone from my writing. It's a common problem among people who draw material from their lives.

I hold back, worried about my job, our family. My relatives on Facebook. The cats. If I wrote the way I once did, who or what could be hurt? I'm hesitant to write about the kids because now that they're getting older, telling their stories seems like more of a violation of their privacy.

MathMan messed with his phone while I erected my tower of excuses and then, with a single sentence,  brought that tower of bullshit down.

So what you're telling me is that you've grown a conscience.

Ouch. Wow.

I processed that for a moment. (Process isn't a word I use all that much because I'm more react than reflect.) It felt like a blow. A physical blow.

And before I could stop them, tears fell.

That may be the meanest thing you've ever said to me.

A bit of perspective - if you stack that statement up next to all the mean things I've said to MathMan over the last twenty-five years, it's nothing. If you were to create a pie chart of ugly comments exchanged between the two of us, his statement wouldn't even make a big enough sliver to require a fork.

But when you stack it up against all the mean things he's ever actually said aloud to me? It doesn't leave much room in the pie for anything else.

He apologized. I didn't mean it that way. I just meant -----

Don't apologize. It's true. We both know it's true.

Sniff!

This marked the first time he'd ever mentioned that he thought my writing about the family and our relationship was out of line. I chewed over that revelation for the rest of the drive.

What? You didn't think I was going to quit the GIFs so soon, did you?

Far be for me to let go an opportunity to milk a good line. This martyr is all over it. A week later and I still haven't let it go.

Damn it, some cat puked on my conscience.

One sec, let me set my conscience aside so I can help you.

Do these earrings go with this conscience?

Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to grow a conscience?

I don't know if I can go. I have to wash my conscience that night.

Does this conscience make my butt look bigger?

You're standing on my conscience!

Now where did I leave my conscience?

Step aside! Lady with a conscience!

So what do you suppose is the standard gestational period for a conscience?

I may have been late to the conscience party, but don't let me slow you down.

A few more days of this and I'll reel it in. There's no point to taking that joke too far.

Of one thing you can be certain. If he doesn't kill me for being such an unconscionable bore and I do decide to write again, I won't be telling MathMan my pen name.

Don't forget you come from nothing

It's been very busy at the office since, well, since the beginning of the new year. This is good busy. The kind that keeps me off the streets and the internet.

The projects are rolling in and I'm all...

We have a new leadership team and there are new faces and personalities in the office. It's changed the dynamic and, truth be told, it's livelier. There's more give and take. More moments of levity.

Worry not. We're all business when we have to be.

Surprisingly, even I am coming out of my shell, making friends, eating lunch in the break room with my coworkers instead of alone at my desk watching Netflix (and surfing the internet).

But then, who can be an introverted so and so when you've got a boss who declares a new office policy that should prove interesting and calorie-burning. From this point forward, all office conflicts will be resolved by Dance Off.

Which explains why I haven't been here very much. A lack of cogent things to say combined with a compression of free time leave me bereft of words, but not in a sad way. I'm more hell, yeah, I'm going to be a taker instead of a maker. Watching TV,  goofing around on Tumblr and Pinterest, taking naps. So much entertainment, so little time.

Of courses, the commute is still a lot like this -

And

But that doesn't stop me from being the consummate professional I so naturally am.

This post inspired by this.

How dry I am

When is a sneeze more than a sneeze?

When you're forty-something, have carried three babies and are a miserable failure at remembering to practice your Kegels at stoplights because that's when you check your text messages.

In which case, a sneeze is an adventure. A potentially embarrassing and damp adventure a little like juggling knives immediately after applying hand lotion. A slip could prove devastating, socially and otherwise.

Which is why I am home today. Coughing, sneezing, swallowing Ibuprofin.

I rarely got sick when I was unemployed. MathMan has kindly pointed out that it's because I rarely left the house.

Now I'm out there among the germs, but at least I have paid sick time. So there's that.

Now it's a matter of managing and mitigating the symptoms. Drink lots of liquids, they say. Oh, sure. Easy for them to say. They're not in danger of weeing themselves with each sneeze or cough.

I am unable to or refuse to take advantage of the ways the market has addressed the needs of the continence-challenged. I still can't afford the co-pay for southern rehabilitation and I'm not at all ready to leave the house wearing something named for admirable traits. Have you eyeballed those things? I've received samples in the mail and they definitely look absorbent, as in they ought to be used instead of sandbags during flood preparation.

The problem is they look like they'd feel like a brick in one's pants.

Imagine walking around making a sound like a toddler in a diaper. You know how it sounds when they run around in nothing but disposables, all bumble-bee butt and naked torso? Swish, swish. Someone might wonder why I sound as though I'm wearing corduroy when clearly I am not.

Then there's the worry of odor. Let's say I have a big sneeze in the middle of doing something like answering the phones. I can't always excuse myself immediately. Will I smell like the Washington Street station of the CTA? How will I know? My nose is so stuffed up, the only way I could tell know is by assessing the distressed looks on colleagues' faces?

By then it's too late. I've become that woman who makes a vaguely swishing sound and smells faintly of pee. Sure, it's a way to stand out, but I'd rather be known for my intelligence, competency, and ass-kicking problem-solving skills.

Which leaves me at home, watching old movies, counting Kegels, and dozing while at the mercy of the unsympathetic cats, who, by the way, have no compunction whatsoever about informing me when I'm making strange sounds or smell a bit off.

How are you avoiding the plague?

It feels more like an epiPHONY

For the last several months, writing has become something so difficult that I retreat instead of trying. Following my return to paid work, it's harder to keep up - with writing, reading, eating things that aren't scientifically engineered to make us grow a third nipple, exchanging a few words with my family, with everything. I spend in the neighborhood of twelve hours a day involved in work or getting to or from there so it's hardly a surprise that my online life has evolved. Devolved?

Even though I can't be online as much as I once was (that's what I get for finding a job without an office where I could fool around online without anyone seeing), doesn't mean I can't write. Right? Someone back me up here.

But where to start? I feel rusty, stiff, at a loss for subjects, voiceless. The  horror!

Enter the 3A.M. Epiphany - Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction by Brian Kitely. This book was a gift from Kirie back when I had all the time in the world to do nothing but write and of course, genius that I am, set it aside for a day when I felt I could dedicate myself to improving my craft.

I believe delusional is the appropriate word here.

So. I'm using the exercises in this book to get the wheels turning. Let me tell you, those brain squirrels are out of shape. Tubby from excess, wheezing with the smallest exertions..

Hard cheese. I'm flogging those lazy, lardy crybabies, insisting they pump their fat little legs until I my fingers move across the keys and produce the 500 words or more required to complete each exercise in Professor Kitely's book.

In other words, I'm doing things differently and expecting different results. Better results? Maybe. The point is, I'm going to use my writing muscle until I can crack nuts with it. Which is more than I can say for most of my other muscles. Okaaaaay, all of my other muscles.

Kitely has a list of the exercises here. If you're interested in joining me in this exercise, please let me know. I'm only on Exercise 2 and will do Exercise 3 on January 4th since I chose to write this post on the third instead of doing my book work If enough people are interested, perhaps we could do this as a sort of online writing group. Not being a natural joiner, I'm hesitant to suggest this, but one of the writing resolutions I've made for this month is to be more active in a writing community. Bob help me. Change is hard.

What are you doing differently?

Overdoing it is part of the job

I lay in bed and listen to that gurgle in my stomach. Was that the curried chicken? The $4 margaritas? Or the build your own nachos bar in the Hospitality Suite? The stress of being "on" all day as the meeting attendees needed me to be at the ready to deliver whatever they needed?

The gurgles grew into something not of this earth and I felt relieved at least that the hotel bathroom was located away from the room next door. On the other side of the wall was the room containing the ice machine. Oh wait. Was that sound the ice machine?

No. That was definitely my stomach. And those noises made the whirring - CaLUNK of the ice machine sound downright ladylike.

I crawled back into bed and looked at the illuminated clock. 2:36 a.m. In five short hours I would be sitting in a meeting, next to my boss, as I took minutes for a very long meeting.

Neither a gurgling stomach nor, dare I think it, gas would make for the optimum situation.

Ah, the joys of business travel.

Entire days entombed in latex to keep my curves in check. Sitting at attention for long stretches of time. Early mornings. Late nights. Full breakfasts of eggs, bacon, fruit and coffee. Fast food lunches eaten on the fly. Afternoon cookie breaks and soda pick-me-ups. Spicy dinners because I work with people who love Mexican and Asian food more than life itself. And the piece de resistance -- the open bar in the nightly Hospitality Suite.

Urp.

Thankfully, It's not just our bar that's well-stocked. We've learned to be prepared. Our meeting go-box is full of over the counter goodies.

Among those goodies are pain relievers, bottles of drinkable energy, gauze, adhesive bandages, alcohol wipes, intestinal globstoppers and, thank goodness, antacid and anti-gas products.

Apparently, I am not the only person who falls victim to overindulgence.

Early the next morning, I pawed through the box and came across the bottle of di·gel; an all-in-one antacid and anti-gas solution. It was brand new, unopened. I read the label:
Our specially formulated products handle everything from heartburn and acid indigestion, to upset stomach, bloating and even gas. di•gel is your all-in-one solution for digestive relief.
Score! I could kill two offensive birds with one freshmint tablet. Or two.

I popped a couple of chewables and got on with my day. Not once did I feel the need to excuse myself from the room in a big hurry or consider upon whom I could blame that smell. I created no foul smells or strange noises at all.

It was good thing, too, because that night was our last. Which meant that I'd hear on more than one occasion, "What are you drinking?" and vodka tonics would appear before me.

And the next morning was another early one.

I'm glad I learned about the different di·gel products that come in liquid, tablet, and convenient 'On the Go products for your pocket or purse, especially because of the upcoming holidays. That means plenty of overdoing it in my future. Anything resembling self-control will have to wait until January 1. di·gel is available as:

• Regular Strength Liquid (Freshmint) – Anti-gas/antacid
• Maximum Strength Liquid (Cherry) – Anti-gas/antacid
• Multi-Symptom Chewable Tablets (Freshmint) –Anti-gas/antacid
• Extra Strength Antacid Chewable Tablets (Mixed Berry) – Antacid
• Extra Strength “On-the-go” Antacid Chewable Tablets (Mixed Berry) –Antacid

Join me at www.godigel.com to learn more about how you can undo the overdoing and while you're at it, let's spread the word. Let's take the gas and gurgles head on. Tag your tweets and instagrams #undowithdigel to let your friends know that they don't have to live with the discomfort and gas and sour stomachs.

Unless, of course, your friends like that kind of thing. In which case, there's no helping them.

They call him Mister President

This is the only thing I can muster in these long days of short daylight, an extra workload while I fill in for a vacancy, despair over the suffering of people around the world, inefficiently wishing away a Nor'easter that's punishing the already punished, and a growing deficit of patience for stupidity.

Congratulations Citizens of the United States on voting for the expansion of freedoms.

With love and lots of yawning,

Lisa

P.S. Let's all agree that we're going to call him PRESIDENT Obama for the next four years, motherfuckers.

P.S.S. Please don't tell my mother I used the word motherfucker. She still possesses the ability to shame me mercilessly.

Take a good look around

The trip to Cincinnati was more than a business trip, more than meetings. It was a quick trip to the past, a visit to my childhood. A return, but with the knowledge I have today. Which, when you're playing penny slots, isn't much.

During the meeting, we stayed at the Hilton Netherland Plaza, a Depression era hotel that has been restored to its original opulence. I loved it, not only for its French Art Deco design, but for the history, the sense of stepping back in time. Until you realized you had to Instagram the shit out of the place.

Which hardly does the place justice, I know.

Then I posted this photo and what I'd been thinking and what my colleagues had been thinking was confirmed by tweets.

What? No twins?

The room corridors are reminiscent of The Overlook Hotel. At fourteen, I saw The Shining at least twice in movie theaters in the Cincinnati area. I loved it for its psychological thrill. I'd enjoyed a steady diet of slasher films, but this movie frightened me in a much deeper way.

One evening, my boss, another coworker and I skipped the optional group activity, had pizza in my room  and watched The Shining. It didn't frighten me like it used to - that exciting, fun kind of scared, but I confess - when I went to bed, I conveniently forgot to turn off the closet light.

The Netherland has its own ghost story. A woman in a green ball gown appears in the elevators, the guest room corridors and The Hall of Mirrors. Many of us joked about hoping to see her.

One afternoon I stepped onto the empty elevator and pushed the button to my floor. 28. At the mezzanine level the elevator stopped and a man from another large group meeting at the hotel got on. He smiled a hello as he fumbled with his tote bag of meeting goodies and pushed number 23.

On the seventh floor, the elevator stopped. The doors opened, but no one got on. Both the man and I leaned forward and craned our necks to see if we should hold the door for someone. There wasn't anyone there. The doors slid closed.

I could feel the man glance at me. Once, twice.

"Do you think she's on here with us?" I asked him.

He laughed. "I wondered that, too."

We both looked around at the gleaming wood, the Art Deco details. There was no green ball gown, no rush of cold air one might expect during a ghostly encounter.

We chatted about how pretty the hotel was as the floors ticked off. At floor twenty-three, he gave me a wink and said "Maybe she'll show herself on your way up to twenty-eight."

I laughed as the door closed behind him. Alone, I gave a shiver and pressed my back against the paneled wall. If the ghost was going to appear, I didn't want to be taken by surprise. I was in serious need of a pee as it was.

I never did see the ghost, but I did get to relive another part of my youth. Our group went to the Great American Ballpark to watch the Reds play the Mets. It was a great game with far better seats than I ever had in Riverfront Stadium back when the Cincinnati Enquirer gave free tickets to straight A students. We had a gorgeous night for it and the Reds were in fine form.

After the meeting, my brother collected me and deposited me at my parents' house in Rising Sun where there was homemade ice cream and Texas sheet cake waiting.

For a day and half, I wasn't a wife or a mother. I was simply a daughter again.

Before my brother arrived at the hotel, I mentioned to my colleagues that I was a little worried that the time would drag. My parents and I don't see each other very often. We don't have much in common. They don't have internet service. How would I survive?

My boss said that her parents were coming for a two week stay one day after she returned home from this trip. My coworker noted that she only wished her parents were still around to visit.

Ah. Perspective.

After the traditional family meal at the Big Boy, where my brother, sister and I reminisced over cherry cokes about eating there when it was a drive-in with carhops, I returned home with my parents. Now what would we do? I was stuck there - no car, no internet. I looked at my phone longingly.

Dad turned on the Reds game and I asked Mother if I could look through some of her boxes of photos.

The rest of the time flew.

We drove around town so I could see what had changed. And what had not.

Over coffee and donuts, they told me about their adventures with private health insurance and doctors visits. Without a lick of irony, Moter mentioned I should really take better care of myself. And I know she's right.

She helped me identify people in old family photos. It's become a project of mine to know these people ever since we accidentally got the Ancestry.com account.

My father called me Liza Jane, his pet name for me. He helped me find some photos of our former family cars. I've had an obsession with them since going to some car shows this summer.

I dragged them to the library to use the wi-fi to show them all the cool things I'd found on Ancestry.com. There they were - listed on the 1940 census. Their parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, some going all the way back to the 1850 census.

In retaliation, they dragged me to the casino on the riverfront.

My mother and I split a twenty on slots. I played for pennies and she suggested I'd become quite the skinflint. I remembered the story my friend told me about watching a guy over the security cameras. The guy masturbated and ejaculated onto one of the machines.

"It's your turn," my mother said.

"No, that's okay. You go ahead."

When the twenty was gone, we retired to the pub to watch baseball and wait for the Friday night drawings for cash prizes. I tried not to dwell on the fact that the casino was one of the most depressing places I've been in years. And that's coming from me, who for the last two years spent at least one day a month at the Department of Labor with all the other unemployed and desperate.

I ordered a beer. My parents drank water. We ate baked potatoes and watched the Reds game on the big screen overhead. A duo played music on a keyboard and guitar. People came and went. My parents knew many of them. My former gym teacher and her husband, once the high school basketball coach and sports director, took a seat in a booth near us. I wouldn't have recognized Mr. W. if his wife hadn't been with him.

It's hard to see these once lively and physically fit people aging. I ordered another beer. My mother wondered aloud if I might have a drinking problem.

I offered the teetotalers a taste of the Blue Moon beer. It took some wheedling. When I finally threatened to hold my breath until my face turned blue, they tried it. Dad didn't hate it. Mother pulled a face and said it tasted like vinegar. This coming from people who willingly drank Fresca.

Or maybe they were clever - they knew their children wouldn't drink it. Not even on a dare.

"Some Baptist you are," I crowed to my mother. "Gambling and drinking!"

"If I weren't so arthritic, I'd be dancing, too," she shot back.

Without elaborating, I mentioned that when she comes to the casino, she should bring hand sanitizer in her purse.

At 10 p.m. sharp, we headed back to their house where I took as many photos of their family photos as I could before I finally tumped over, tired and happy to have had a chance to hang out with my mom and dad. It didn't matter what we did, it was just nice to be there.

Besides, coming from these party animals, what could I expect?

Boogie with a suitcase

Source

Suzy traipsed all over Europe for a month.

Teri went to Italy. So did Sherry. Heck,Cat lives there! And she took a trip to Paris.

Downith, who lives in England, went to the Olympics.

Having conquered France, Bobbi is now moving to Switzerland. Averil left the desert for the green coolness of Portland while Laura just bought her first house and susan is getting ready to move into her new place in Halifax.

Me? I'm going to Cincinnati.

For work.

While this isn't New York London, Paris OR Munich, I'm still excited about it. I come from a small town on the Ohio River, not far from Cincinnati. Growing up, when we mentioned "the city," we were talking about Cincinnati.

In between meetings, there will be the comfort foods of my youth, a Reds game at their new ball field and a trip home to see my parents and siblings, provided my brother remembers to come get me at the hotel.

What's on your itinerary?

I'm an excellent driver

I listened to a radio show from 1952. It was a space thriller set in the future. 1987.

That was twenty-five years ago. 1987. The year I went to France, fell in love, came home, met my future husband, made choices that altered lives. If you could boil down a life, it was probably my most significant year.

In an instant, I became obsessed with the passage of time. I started timestamping everything.

MathMan and I have been living together twenty-four years. It's been thirty years since I got my driver's license. I haven't seen my family in two years. It's been (mumble, mumble) since I wore a size 8, fourteen years since I was pregnant for the last time, six years since I started blogging, three years since we moved into this house, almost five years since I last colored my hair, going on twenty-two years since I've seen Ethan if you don't count Skyping, three years since my 25th high school class reunion, nine months since I've been in Chicago, five years since I lost my head, twenty-three years since I graduated from I.U., three years since I've been on an airplane, fourteen years since Seinfeld went off the air, too long since I've seen some of my friends,  two years since I began working on the now fallow novel, six months since I've had a drink, six months since I started taking the anti-Ds, eleven weeks since I started working.....

MathMan says sometimes it's like living with Rainman. With boobs. And slightly better social skills. Read:  I can, and often do, make eye contact. And I'm an excellent driver.

My husband tries to engage me in conversation about Calculus and I want to talk about how Nabisco has gotten freakin' stingy with the cream in the Oreos. No, really. I swear the cream used to be thicker and it reached almost to the edges. Now? It's a shrinking circle of delicious fat and sugar. Life is so unfair.

More idiot than savant, I became so enthralled with our past that I created a Spotify playlist so I can immerse myself in the early 1990s while I work. Pathetic? Perhaps. But so many of my mistakes were ahead of me, you know? The naivete of potential and a seemingly endless future are enough some days. Enough is nice.

Six days in a hotel with airline pilots brought my six months without a drink to a swift and bubbly end. It isn't so much that they're hard to be around - they're actually quite delightful even when they're busy making sausage.

See, each night they host a hospitality suite with a well-stocked bar. Tough gig, right?

In light of that stifling pressure, my alcohol fast dove head first into a sparkling glass of Prosecco. Chloe gets some of the blame, too. She joined me at the hotel for the evening and we finally had a drink together. Strange on one hand, really cool on another. Daughter peer pressure. Having her holler Chug! Chug! Chug! and make chicken noises at me was too much for me to resist.

And then I realized that Chloe is closer in age to some of my colleagues than I am. Excuse me while I schedule a Botox treatment.


I was just sitting at the kitchen table having lunch with my colleagues at my first real job. They were telling me about how cool it was to be post-menopausal. Sex without consequences! I listened politely, trying to keep the horror from showing on my face. That was 1990 when the idea of being their age (over 45!) was as foreign to me as the idea that I would one day resort to eating Dominos Pizza because it was so easy to order online.

There was a time when I would have eaten liver before I'd touch a Domino's Pizza because the founder was such an anti-reproductive rights bumblenut.

Time has a way of making us reluctant believers, hypocrites, sinners against ourselves.

By Friday night I'd taught my favorite bartender how to make a Monaco, relearned the secrets for warding off a hangover and embraced my inner beer drinker. There may have been karaoke, hijinks at Zocalo (try the guac), my successfully wheedling the stories of how they got their nicknames out of a few pilots, and cigars. However, I'm bound by a confidentiality statement so....

The good news is that the days spent in the hotel were productive. The bad news is that alcohol is still made up of delicious, empty calories, still likely to cause mild silliness and will definitely alter the passage of time if you consume enough of it.

Which brings me back to the beginning.

Imagine 1987 as the future and not the shrinking image in the rearview mirror. What do you see?

Drive time

Someone's been playing with Picassa again.

Some random items because stringing together more than a few loose thoughts seems beyond my pay grade right now.

1. I am in desperate need of a blow up doll. Not for that. I need one to ride shotgun so I can use the carpool lane. What? You think I could make this simpler by getting a real person to commute with me? Please. That would be way more trouble than it's worth. A real person would expect me to make conversation. A real person might ask me to compromise on the radio station we listen to. They'd expect me to not let out air. Which I never do, but still. If a chick toots and there's no one there to hear/smell it, it never happened. I'll bet a real person would be offended if I plucked a chin hair at a red light.

Human being = obligations, manners and expectations. Griselda the Amazing Latex Friend = speedier commute without the hassles.

2. There's that guy at the office. Two actually. You know. Very serious. Very busy. And these are very serious times. I don't mean to make light of the good work they're doing on behalf of the organization.

But.

Anytime I'm doing something boneheaded or embarrassing like crawling around on the floor moving my computer tower or missing my mouth with a spoonful of yogurt as I eat lunch at my desk or like when the caterers spilled iced tea in the tiled foyer and needed napkins to sop up the spill and I wasn't supposed to leave the phones at the front desk, but dashed down the hall to the mail room where I know we keep the overstock of napkins....

A top-heavy woman dashing in a pencil skirt and pumps? Not a pretty sight.

Of course one of those guys was rounding the corner. One of them is always there to bear witness to my doofishness.

Then there was the day I filled in for the receptionist, and left one of them on hold for three minutes after I thought I'd transferred his call. Did I mention that these two guys are a couple of the biggest dogs in the kennel? Thankfully, they both seem to think despite my perceived quirks, that I'm doing a good job.

Which reminds me - whoever invented "soft" multi-line phone buttons that change when a new line rings in, should be strung up alongside the sadists who invented underwire bras, pantyhose, The Grapefruit Diet and Fox News.

3. Speaking of that guy, there was a different guy on I75 yesterday. He apparently enjoyed my singing with emotive facial expressions and hand gestures as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic. What can I say? Norah Jones makes me invisible. Or so I thought.

He beeped to get my attention and applauded when I looked his way. Lucky for him, me and my bad singing were walled off from the world. I blew him a kiss and he caught it with a big goofy grin.

My lane started moving. The moment was over.

4.  At our house, they're called Sloppy Jews. But don't be fooled. They taste just like my mother makes them with ketchup, mustard and brown sugar.

5.  I caught the stealth carpet pooper in the act today. Booing him loudly as he finished his business didn't stop him mid-dookie, but it sure made me feel better. Sadly, shame has no sway over felines.

6.  Atlanta needs a decent traffic report that isn't part of the AM right wing talk station. If I have to continue listening to Sean Hannity just to find out if I should take I75, I285 or I20, I will very likely have an aneurysm. Today he and his guests were talking about why George Zimmerman isn't a murderer. One of his young female guests was quick to point out that young Martin had been suspended from school. Can we start executing kids for being suspended from school because that means I should at least be able to taze my kids for backtalk. Or, you know, that electric cattle prod is just collecting dust since MathMan and I gave up those particular role-playing games......

7.  Every morning, it's the same thing - straight or curly? Burn myself on the flat iron or the curling iron? Life was much easier when the question was simply  shower or not shower? This morning, I made pin curls which turned out quite nicely, but Mathman was concerned that I was going to leave the house with the coils pinned to my head with bobby pins. Bless his heart. But will he tell me when my shirt is on wrong-side out? Of course not.

8.  Shredding is most gratifying. I like to call it destroying the evidence. I don't think the shredder is supposed to smoke though.

9. MathMan and I are in a bit of a standoff. I had a fit about the lack of division of labor around here. I shouted something about if I was going to do the majority of the housework, baseball bleacher sitting, kid management, hunting and gathering, doctor/dentist appointment making and keeping, bill paying and cooking, then I sure as hell will not be taking care of the yard, too. Then I scooched up a little higher on that cross and got comfortable.

All of which explains the backyard.

Weedy. But don't the dogwoods look lovely?

Hi! What's growing on you?

Treat me like a stranger and it feels so rough

When my first paycheck arrived, the last vestiges of the clouds of despair parted, a ray of sunlight fell upon the quaint paper check* and the sweet voices of faeries sang an ancient ballad of a bank account not overdrawn.

Aside from the paycheck, the ability to be among bipeds who make great conversationalists and a general sense of being a productive human being**, this job puts a major crimp in my life. No time to read blogs, surf the internet, or work on my Used Dental Floss of the Stars collection.

That's not to say I'm not grateful. I'm ever so. Every time I answered the phone yesterday with "Good (morning/afternoon), (name of the organization), this is Lisa." I felt gratitude for being able to do one of the things I do best - greet people then hand them off. And I don't even have to wear a blue vest to do it.

I'm reminded at this moment that you can't just greet newborns or cats and then hand them off.

"Hello, Baby, this is Lisa, how can your daddy help you?" or "Hi, kitty! You're so cute! Now let's find someone to scoop that litter......"

I'm in limbo because I've been filling in for the receptionist since last Monday so my real job hasn't really began. I've spent so little time at my desk that it's week three and I haven't set my own voicemail or spilled anything on my keyboard. A good start in my experience!

Oh, and before I forget - if you want to know what really matters to a company's customers or an organization's members, answer the phones for a week. There's much to learn.

So while I try to gather what little wits I had about me, I hope you know that I'm missing reading those of you who blog. My rss feed reader got so full, it's going to be on an episode of Hoarders. Google is threatening to expose my search history to my mother if I don't clean out my email. 

This doesn't mean I don't care. It only means that while I'm in the probationary period of this job, I don't plan to get pinched surfing the internet during work hours.

Until I'm a little less consumed, I hope you'll accept my apologies and know that as I'm toiling away at the multi-line phone, I remember how much you all kept me company while I was home being kneaded by cats.

Speaking of - the cats had a fur-shedding row the other day over the proper spelling of the word whoa. Some were dead certain it's spelled w-h-o-a and two others insisted on the spelling w-o-a-h. Thankfully, order was restored before the police showed up at the house. When I got home, I tried to get to the origins of the kerfluffle but no one was meowing. Finally, I took my favorite kitty, the one who isn't so bright, aside and got some answers as she licked at the Mariner's Catch pate I used to lure her into conversation.

"Why do you guys need to use the word whoa anyway?" I asked, my voice like cream.

Her eyes shifted, searching out bewhiskered spies. "It was just a conversation," she said between tiny bites.

Unsatisfied, I pressed her. "Ivy, does it have anything to do with the photos of the horses I found on the google history?"

She swallowed audibly then daintily licked her lips. "Horses?"  Her breath smelled of fishy parts.

I know faux ignorance when I see it. "Ivela, spill or I won't let you sleep in Sophie's room."

She blinked. I could tell she was thinking it over. Her Pillow Pet rests at the foot of Sophie's bed and she does not like to sleep without it.

"It's not a horse. It's only a very large dog......"



*Can't wait for the direct deposit to kick in!
**Which is really nonsense because keeping house and raising kids is productivity.

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.