:: Dictated But Not Read ::
Musings from the ''Miracle Girl''| [::..archive..::] |
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| Things That Have Been Said About Me |
| You are the Minx. |
| She plays taller than her height. |
| You have a refreshing attitude. |
| You're such a renaissance woman. |
| She's not much of a biller. |
| You are very angry. |
| You are so self aware. |
| You need a more sophisticated haircut. |
| You are not afraid of anything. |
| You have a great attitude. |
| Your life is like a Seinfeld episode. |
| You are winsome. |
| You look great in hats. |
| Miracle girl. |
| I am belligerently conciliatory. |
| You've got it big time. |
Thursday, October 31, 2002
The Salmon was GoodThe summer of my thirtieth birthday was horrible. I was depressed and demoralized. I looked around and noted that all of my friends seemed to be consumed with the pains of pregnancy, the appropriate breast pump, or the nanny vs. daycare dilemma. I, on the other hand, was consumed by the nightmare of a failing marriage. Just after I almost died from pneumonia, my husband, J., decided to make a career change which involved him making less than no income. He decided not to be a lawyer (after 2 long years) and instead to take up photography. He quit his job at the law firm and signed up for photography school. During this time his lifestyle was impacted little if at all. He continued to drive his zippy BMW sports car, to order such things as exotic salt from other states, and to eat in nice restaurants.
I was working at a new job which required insane hours and left me just enough time to cry myself to sleep before getting up the next day to do it all over again. All of this was not completely lost on J. He knew he was loosing me and so he decided to make one last ditch attempt to salvage things. He told me that we were going to go on a surprise trip for my thirtieth birthday. I knew immediately that that was not the case. I knew he was planning a surprise party. I was further clued in by the nervous way in which my close friends were looking at me. I finally told them all not to worry I already knew there was going to be a party. I think I heard a collective sigh breathed throughout the city. I am uncertain what my friends thought I might do if I had been caught unaware but they were relieved to know that I knew and was taking it in stride.
One of my closest friends called me to ask how we were going to celebrate my birthday. I told her that I didn’t feel much like celebrating but that I would see her at the party. She blanched and said she hadn’t been invited. I got irritated and told her to cut it out. Of course I knew there was a party. She insisted she hadn’t gotten an invite. I huffed at her and hung up.
My birthday is July 14, Bastille Day and that year it was on a Sunday. The Friday before J. and I went to airport as if we were catching a flight and instead met up with my 2 college friends who he had flown in from two different cities. I was thrilled to see them but exhausted at the effort of keeping from breaking down in front of them.
The party was Saturday night. I think J. said we were going to dinner but we had to stop some place first. The stop was the party. I looked good. J. had told me to get a new outfit for the “trip” so I got a cute little dress and I was pleased with how I looked. I still have the dress and wore it often this past summer as a reminder of my perseverance. The party was spectacularly done. It was at a new hip coffee shop, a very industrial warehouse type place he had rented out. There was a delicious and elaborate catered meal of salmon, red potatoes, green beans, salad and 2 cakes. All the food was elegantly prepared and presented. And there was white wine, lots of white wine. I know this because I can name no other occasion in my life when I consumed that much alcohol. I drank enough to make up for all of the pregnant and breast feeding women at the party. There were lots of photos taken and each and everyone of them I have a glass of wine and glossed over eyes. This was fortunate because when J. gave a speech about how wonderful I was and how lucky he felt to have me I didn’t have the slightest urge to slap him. Nor did I confront him, until three days later when the hangover faded, about the absence of two of my close friends, my sister, and my parents. Nor did I respond to the inquiring looks from my friends that seemed to me to be saying: Are you paying for all of this?
We separated a couple of months later and divorced a couple of months after that but the party will always be the marker of the end of the marriage for me. In the years that have passed since, whenever the topic of the party comes up my friends first express sympathy about that period of time and tell me I made myself a very nice party. They always seem to end by noting with enthusiasm that the salmon was good. I laugh, and they earnestly repeat, really, it was very good.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
In the presence of greatnessI am the self-appointed guru of on line dating. I have been doing it for a while and more importantly I enjoy it. I have met some fascinating people and there seem to be an endless number of adventures to be found with a few clever remarks and a few clicks of the mouse.
I generally keep to my own region for my on line adventures but for a potentially compelling partner I may be willing to stray. I got an interesting note from A. in a far away city one night last fall. His profile stated that he was 38. His picture was handsome so I decided to chat a bit. He had me laughing out loud in minutes with his on line banter. I was, as I confess I easily am, totally smitten. We chatted on line and on the phone for a couple of months and then he told me that he would be in my city in late January for business. I was ridiculously excited. I even consented to my friend’s extensive shopping trip to find the perfect outfit. We found a just smashing leather skirt.
A. called to say he would be staying in a very nice hotel near my apartment. He made a reservation for us to have dinner there on Saturday night. To say I was nervous would be making light. As a general rule I don’t get nervous about dates. I really do like people and find them engaging even if they are so boring that I would never want to spend another five minutes with them after the first date. I am generally prepared to assume that the person I meet is going to blow me away and they often do. I assume, perhaps wrongly, that people will either like me or not and that there is little I can do to change that. However, I was terrified about meeting A. as if my future happiness was somehow dependent upon whether he liked me or not. Never mind that I couldn’t be sure I would really like him and never mind that we were totally geographically undesirable to one another. And finally and probably most saliently, never mind his still pending and rather messy divorce and his 15 year old son. None of that was in my mind as I walked shakily into the hotel. He met me at the door and hugged me as if we were old friends. I was immediately at ease. We had a wonderful evening and spent much of the weekend together. The realities of the situation dictated that it was only a weekend and nothing more but it was a special few days.
During our hilarious and elaborate dinner a man came into the dining room who was dressed in tattered jeans and t-shirt. He went and talked to a table full of people and then sat down at the table right next to ours. A. and I were perplexed by someone dressed so casually in a very upscale restaurant. Our waiter, with whom we had bonded, informed us that the man at the next table was Bruce Springsteen. The combined brain power at our table assumed that the waiter was joking. A while later I went to the rest room and when I returned A. looked sheepishly at me and said, “That is Bruce Springsteen.” I was startled and aware that I was that I should be excited but I was largely unmoved by the man at the next table. I don’t live in New York or L.A. and so we aren’t as accustomed as some to seeing celebrities in our midst. When I told my friends about the encounter they wanted to know if I had heard the conversation at the next table and wanted to know what exactly the boss did and said while he was there. Why hadn’t I spoken to him? Why hadn’t I called to say he was there? The truth was I was singularly absorbed by the very real and wonderful person sitting at my table. I had no need of the boss I was in the presence of greatness.
D.B.N.R.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
Fat Free BolognaOne Thursday evening I was driving home from one of many meetings I attend on a regular basis. It was the young leadership of something meeting. I was, as always, feeling disgusted with my haphazard eating habits: grabbing lunch at the food court at the office, running to a meeting with a fattening dinner and then having virtually no food at home. I was also exhausted. I was driving home and talking to my sister in New York. I was expressing my dismay about the dearth of food in my apartment and swearing that at least I would go and pick up some carrots and some fruit. She encouraged me, knowing my struggle with weight and health. I talked myself into it and soon found myself in the grocery store, still on the phone. Several years ago I was visiting my sister and she introduced me to the phenomenon that is fat free bologna. I choose the word phenomenon carefully here as I do not want anyone to confuse fat free bologna with food. It does contain a substantial amount of sodium and a few calories but largely I believe it to be made up of various kinds of plastics. (Note: I wouldn’t dare actually read the ingredients, so don’t tell me what is in it.) I do not mean to disparage the bologna; it is a tasty snack, a dieter’s delight.
So, I decide to purchase some fat free bologna and reached for it, still gabbing away on the phone. As I reached for my tasty snack, my eye caught the eye of a true “hotty”. To my shock and embarrassment, he turned to his friend who was standing next to him and said, “She’s cute.” Perhaps it would be important to share here a bit of a description of my neighborhood. I live in the predominantly gay neighborhood of a large city. It is therefore shocking that a straight woman could be hit on by a straight man right there in the grocery store and yet it seemed to be happening. I scurried away without saying anything. Not only am I not supposed to be meeting straight men in my grocery store but also it is a sheer impossibility that one would make the first move with me. I am forever approaching men. They usually come around quickly and happily but I am the first one out of the box. I told my sister what was happening and she told me to get off the phone and talk to him. I protested but eventually did get off the phone. He found me in the produce section and expressed horror at the items in my basket which included the aforementioned bologna, baby carrots, a few apples, and of course some frozen dinners for the rare night at home. He introduced himself as P. and immediately concluded that he needed to cook for me. Now, another woman might have been offended and another woman might have been afraid, I agreed quickly and wholeheartedly that I needed a personal chef.
I’d like to say we lived happily ever after free of fat free bologna but there is bologna in my fridge right now and I just finished eating a frozen dinner. It was a blissful 6 weeks of Caribbean chicken, mango salads, lots of lime juice, and… However, all good things must come to an end and this was a good thing. So if you meet me at the grocery store and I appear to be trolling for men in the packaged deli meats section, do not scoff, it worked once.
Friday, October 25, 2002
USED PAJAMASOne night in early fall I found myself sitting in my now ex then mother-in-law’s kitchen while she was washing dishes. We had just finished a characteristically delicious but sparse dinner. The men, as is the custom in that house, had retired to the modern day equivalent of the smoking room, the computer room. My ex-mother-in-law, D., has no daughters and so I was the unwitting repository for all of her female advice. We both worked hard to avoid the dangerous topics: my husband/her son, child bearing (specifically my perceived lack of interest in same), and of course, anyone’s weight. We focused instead on such weighty topics as clothing, minor gossip, and her new furnishings. On this particular night, apparently having exhausted skirts and shoes we moved on to sleep wear. D. shared that she does not like pajamas. She prefers nightgowns. D. had, over the years, bought several pairs of pajamas and not worn them because she just couldn’t get used to them. I didn’t realize where the conversation was headed until it was much too late. It was a similar conversation that resulted in my having a sisal rug stained with dog vomit gracing my den. D. is very generous in her disposal of items she no longer needs/wants. She exemplifies the finest traditions of conservationism. So, inevitably I found myself smiling and nodding at her suggestion that maybe I would want some of those “never worn” pajamas. We moved on to other topics and I breathed a sigh of relief when my husband and I went home at the end of the evening and the pajamas had not reared their ugly heads again. I had completely forgotten about them until a few months later.
In the winter of 1999, I had a severe case of pneumonia and almost died. Several 90 year old pneumonia sufferers came and went during my week long stay at the hospital. I was 29 at the time and was referred to as “the miracle girl” by the emergency room nurses because they had been unsure I would survive my first night. On one of my last days in the hospital, D. burst into my room without knocking. She came bearing “gifts”. At this point I feel it important to describe my comportment at the time D. entered the room. The only other person in the room with me at the time was my sister. I have to say that although I have been in many close relationships and a marriage there is no one with whom I will let it all hang out as I do with my sister. You can imagine then, with my sister as the only other human around, an IV in my arm, oxygen tubes up my nose and a raging infection that shall remain nameless, what I looked like when D. thrust herself upon me. In any event, she brought two items; one was a Ziploc bag with two and one-half chocolate chips cookies, the other a brown shopping bag from which she pulled a pair of pink pilky pajamas. I KNOW pilky isn’t a word. I didn’t know that until the eighth time I tried to tell this story. Apparently, my mother made up the word pilky and it remains as a permanent part of the family vocabulary. For the uninitiated, pilky is that condition of clothing where it is covered in those irritating little pills. Another definition would be: ready for discard. I thanked her profusely for the gifts. I thought about mentioning that it was perfect timing for the pajamas since my catheter had been removed a few hours earlier. When I got home I disposed of the pajamas appropriately but sometimes I wish I still had them. For one thing, I doubt anyone who has never met D. would even believe this story. So I find myself thinking, if only I had the evidence. Also, I have some temptation to collect items that exemplify turning points in my life. Surely, the pajamas are emblematic of so much that happened to me at that time. Oh well, as I write I am lounging comfortably in some brand new beige Old Navy P.Js and they feel great.
D.B.N.R.
