Sometime around the ripe age of twelve, a relative gave my name and number to someone in search of a babysitter. I didn’t know the first thing about diapers or pacifiers but I gave it a go. The botton line was I didn’t have anything better to do with my weekend nights and at $8/hour, I was well on my way to stockpiling enough money to buy my very first boombox.
I gotta be honest, babysitting wasn’t a natural fit for me. I’ve never been drawn to kids. Not then and certainly not now. I’m not the girl who passes a stroller and coos at the baby inside. I’m not the girl who derives hours of enjoyment from entertaining my niece and nephew. No. I’m the girl who responds with nothing other than utter annoyance when while sitting on a train or a plane I’m greeted by a little hand or face poking between the seats. I’ll either give a stone face on the verge of a growl or a smirky smile that translates as turn-the-fuck-around.
“Billy, don’t bother the nice lady,” the parent will gayily sing.
“Yes, don’t,” I’ll respond under my breath.
Everyone tells me that when the child is your own, you see it all differently. The problem is I just don’t have the urge to test drive this theory. I'm open to having one if I meet a great guy and it's uber important to him. I just don't crave babies. A dog? Now you're talking. I could spend hours upon hours rolling around on the floor with a pooch. When I’m walking down the street and I see someone with a doggie, I have to stop and pet the pup. I could be running an hour late and in the midst of a torrential downpour. Nothing would hinder me from stopping to pet the dog.
With all of that said, I headed down to Sarasota this week excited that Leslie and the kids were going to be joining us. My dad turned 65 on the 25th and seeing he’s outlived his mother by 23 years and his father by 6 years, it was a big deal. Friends and family came over for dinner Christmas day and as I excused myself to go to the bathroom, I strolled past the front door and saw my sister’s SUV turning into the driveway.
“They’re here! They’re here!” I exclaimed with the uncontained excitement of a five year old.
I headed outside and released Anders (3 1/2) out from the backseat before going around to the other side to retrieve Olivia (2). She giggled and nuzzled me as we made our way back into the house.
Fast forward thirty-six hours and all I could think about was how much it would cost to fly back a day early. Don’t get me wrong. The kids are adorable. And to be honest, they’re really sweet and well behaved. But they’re still kids. They scream for no reason or have mini meltdowns when they don’t get their way. The problem is I just can’t stand hearing all of it.
So, I’m back to thinking I’m just not cut out for kids. Earlier tonight, I sat on the sofa and witnessed Anders bop Olivia on he head with a piece of plastic. She broke out in tears and he hastily searched for an escape route. The first thing that came to mind was whether or not I’d remembered to take my daily dose of the pill. My mom scurried to diffuse the situation. Leslie jumped up to calm Olivia and reprimand Anders. Meanwhile, in the ten minutes that passed since the initial head bopping, I upgraded the concern from popping my birth control pill to whether I should just get my tubes tied.
“What do you two want to do tomorrow?” my mom asked as Leslie and I sprawled out on my bed.
“I really want to go to Jungle Gardens,” Leslie replied.
“That sounds like fun,” I tentatively offered.
“Are you sure?” my mom and Leslie asked in unison, both of them emphasizing the sincerity of the question.
“No, but what the heck. Can I go on a pony ride too? ”
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Hope
A diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis isn’t based so much on what you do have but what you don’t have. It’s a matter of elimination. The doctor rules out all of the other diseases and eventually lands on MS. You see, there isn’t a fingerprint for the illness, contributing both to the challenge of diagnosing it and the challenge of curing it.
My dad’s been sick since I was eight. His leg muscles got stiffer and stiffer, making him walk silly and his speech became more and more slurred, making him sound like a drunk. Not sure what was going on, he headed off to various specialists in search of an answer. He had a spinal tap, multiple scans, and various blood tests. After a year of being poked and prodded, a doctor informed him he had Multiple Sclerosis.
Not willing to be taken down by the illness, my dad originally turned to alternative medicine. He started out with a macrobiotic diet. Think steamed mulch. Then he moved onto meditation. Think weird woman’s voice. Not finding success with the holistic approach, my dad turned to medicine-medicine. He first looked into the theory that MS was linked to a strain of Chlamydia and could thereby be cured by an antiobiotic. But the first step involved my dad having another spinal tap, so he passed. He next looked into a different medication based on a different theory. This one was pumped directly into the spinal fluid. Since his body didn't respond to the oral version of the med, he decided to halt the proceess altogether. Then he tried out Botox shots in his leg muscles. That just made him go from bad to worse. He pretty much stalled out there.
I’ve always hoped my dad would somehow be miraculously cured by one of those uncertain and unproven medical procedures but I never pushed him to try any of them. At least not beyond a simple introduction. I shared what I knew and then let him decide if it was of interest. It’s his body and it’s up to him what to do with it. My mom took a similar approach until those Botox shots over the summer that went, well, awry. Newly retired, she used her free time to decorate the house in Sarasota and to nag my dad about seeing more specialists.
“This is Paige Jennifer,” I announced as I picked up my office phone.
“PJ, it’s me,” my dad sputtered out.
“Where are you? Please tell me you haven’t been lying flat on your back in the parking lot for the last two hours.”
“No,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m at Penn. With mom. Did I forget to tell you? She insisted I see some neurological guru.”
“And what’d he have to say?”
“He had good news and bad news. Good news? I don’t have MS. Bad news? He has no idea what I do have.”
“Shut the fuck up! You’ve been misdiagnosed for twenty-five years? Unreal. What did you say to him?”
“I yelled ‘praise the lord, I’m healed’ and then I threw my walker across the room and ran out of there.”
“Cute. Now what did you really say,” I said instead of asked.
“Nothing. I’m not sure there’s anything to be said. At least not from me. At least not now. He wants me to go through another round of tests. I'll set it all up for early next year.”
When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a moment. Suddenly I started imagining my dad healthy, walking not only without a walker but with a normal gait. I tried to recall what his voice sounded like before it was interrupted with stuttering and slurring and gasping for words. And as all of these things filled my head, I settled on the feeling that maybe one of those miracle cures really could happen. I had that feeling once before. It was many years ago and I eventually let go of it. But I’ve got to admit. It’s something special having that feeling of hope back again.
PS: Happy Holidays, everyone!
My dad’s been sick since I was eight. His leg muscles got stiffer and stiffer, making him walk silly and his speech became more and more slurred, making him sound like a drunk. Not sure what was going on, he headed off to various specialists in search of an answer. He had a spinal tap, multiple scans, and various blood tests. After a year of being poked and prodded, a doctor informed him he had Multiple Sclerosis.
Not willing to be taken down by the illness, my dad originally turned to alternative medicine. He started out with a macrobiotic diet. Think steamed mulch. Then he moved onto meditation. Think weird woman’s voice. Not finding success with the holistic approach, my dad turned to medicine-medicine. He first looked into the theory that MS was linked to a strain of Chlamydia and could thereby be cured by an antiobiotic. But the first step involved my dad having another spinal tap, so he passed. He next looked into a different medication based on a different theory. This one was pumped directly into the spinal fluid. Since his body didn't respond to the oral version of the med, he decided to halt the proceess altogether. Then he tried out Botox shots in his leg muscles. That just made him go from bad to worse. He pretty much stalled out there.
I’ve always hoped my dad would somehow be miraculously cured by one of those uncertain and unproven medical procedures but I never pushed him to try any of them. At least not beyond a simple introduction. I shared what I knew and then let him decide if it was of interest. It’s his body and it’s up to him what to do with it. My mom took a similar approach until those Botox shots over the summer that went, well, awry. Newly retired, she used her free time to decorate the house in Sarasota and to nag my dad about seeing more specialists.
“This is Paige Jennifer,” I announced as I picked up my office phone.
“PJ, it’s me,” my dad sputtered out.
“Where are you? Please tell me you haven’t been lying flat on your back in the parking lot for the last two hours.”
“No,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m at Penn. With mom. Did I forget to tell you? She insisted I see some neurological guru.”
“And what’d he have to say?”
“He had good news and bad news. Good news? I don’t have MS. Bad news? He has no idea what I do have.”
“Shut the fuck up! You’ve been misdiagnosed for twenty-five years? Unreal. What did you say to him?”
“I yelled ‘praise the lord, I’m healed’ and then I threw my walker across the room and ran out of there.”
“Cute. Now what did you really say,” I said instead of asked.
“Nothing. I’m not sure there’s anything to be said. At least not from me. At least not now. He wants me to go through another round of tests. I'll set it all up for early next year.”
When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a moment. Suddenly I started imagining my dad healthy, walking not only without a walker but with a normal gait. I tried to recall what his voice sounded like before it was interrupted with stuttering and slurring and gasping for words. And as all of these things filled my head, I settled on the feeling that maybe one of those miracle cures really could happen. I had that feeling once before. It was many years ago and I eventually let go of it. But I’ve got to admit. It’s something special having that feeling of hope back again.
PS: Happy Holidays, everyone!
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Being Taken
This is the season of giving, right? Yeah, well, this year's been the season of taking. Or at least the season of taking advantage of me. Bah-humbug. Since early November, I’ve been taken three times. Correction, three people have tried to take me. Two succeeded, those bitches. But don’t think it’ll happen again.
When I first bought my condo, my mom insisted I enlist her housekeepers to clean it. There was grime and filth the previous owner had ignored and my mother cringed at the mere thought of her daughter living amongst it all. Um, I could care less if my food hits the floor. But that's another dirty girl Paige-ism for another time. Anyway, the fee was $100 and it seemed fair considering the amount of scrubbing involved. They did a great job and I immediately went back to eating M&M's off the floor.
Earlier this summer, I contacted the housekeepers and asked them if they’d be able to clean my condo on a monthly basis. I’m only one person but I’m one lazy person. I can keep my place relatively tidy and I can change my sheets every Sunday. What I can't handle is scrubbing the tub tile and washing the kitchen floor. By August, I was officially on their roster as a monthly client. They were last at my condo to clean or perhaps to simply pour cleaning products down the drain and pick up their check just before Thanksgiving.
“I’m firing the housekeepers,” I announced to my dad as I plopped down in the chair across from his desk. “For $75, I expect my sofa cushions fluffed and the toothpaste cleaned off the shower door. And the fact they don't change my sheets is just ridic.”
“Wait, you pay them $75 to clean a one bedroom condo? What, you’ve got all of 800 square feet?” he replied with curiosity.
“Technically 784 square feet. What’s your point?”
“I pay them $85 to clean our three story, five bedroom, two full, two half bath house. And they change the sheets. Though I'm not sure how they define 'clean' seeing there’s been a dead beetle in the foyer for a month and they come every week.”
“Let me get this straight. You pay $10 more than I do for at least three times the space? Yeah, I’ve been had.”
A few days later, I asked my coworker how much I owed her thirteen year old daughter for helping me out with an office mailer. Every three months, we send a trifold leaflet to three hundred and sixty clients. It reminds them we’re around, if nothing else. I pay whoever does it $10 an hour because I’m too lazy to dig around in petty cash for anything that isn’t divisible by ten.
“Hey, I owe your daughter for helping me out. How many hours did it take?” I asked while rifling through the mail.
“Four,” she replied before turning on the microwave to make some popcorn.
I dipped into petty cash and forked over two crisp twenty dollar bills but I knew something wasn’t right. People, there is no way in hell it took 240 minutes to put together 360 mailers. No envelopes to stuff. No stamps to lick. And the kid isn’t disabled. I’m not wasting my time on the math but I’m guessing my two year old niece who walks like Frankenstein could knock that all out in 90 minutes flat. Yeah, I was taken. Again.
The weekend after the office mailer debacle, I drove my mom and her precious car south to Sarasota. I was tired but not too tired to search for a deal on some Prada sandals. I’d been eyeing them since I was down there in July but the price was just beyond my cut-off for indulgent purchases. So I passed, figuring I’d snag them on sale once the season changed.
With an hour to spare before grabbing my return flight to Philly, my mom drove me over to the shoe store. We parked the car and I skipped through the doorway in search of my beloved footwear. There they were. My Prada sandals. I lifted up the display shoe, gawked at the styling and then flipped it over and baulked at the price noted on the sole.
“Aren’t those great,” the way too skinny and way too blonde salesgirl exclaimed.
“They’re last years,” I replied. "Shouldn't these be on sale?" I asked.
“Oh no, those are this season,” she said while batting her eyelashes and nodding her head up and down.
Here’s the thing. I know the Prada Sport sandal collection inside and out. I couldn't name the eighteenth President or tell you how many cups are in a gallon but I could easily describe the 2003 Prada Sport sandal collection. Yes, they repeat some elements. They’ll maintain the platform heel or they’ll repeat a buckle detail. But no matter what, they change up the shoe just a little bit to ensure a difference between last season and this season. Every fashionista knows that you have to update the product if you want to sell it. No one wants last year's style, especially at this year's price.
I put the two-seasons-ago shoe back on the display and sauntered out to the street in my comfy and chic Target flip-flops. You messed with the wrong princess. I’m not getting taken again. Not this time. No way.
When I first bought my condo, my mom insisted I enlist her housekeepers to clean it. There was grime and filth the previous owner had ignored and my mother cringed at the mere thought of her daughter living amongst it all. Um, I could care less if my food hits the floor. But that's another dirty girl Paige-ism for another time. Anyway, the fee was $100 and it seemed fair considering the amount of scrubbing involved. They did a great job and I immediately went back to eating M&M's off the floor.
Earlier this summer, I contacted the housekeepers and asked them if they’d be able to clean my condo on a monthly basis. I’m only one person but I’m one lazy person. I can keep my place relatively tidy and I can change my sheets every Sunday. What I can't handle is scrubbing the tub tile and washing the kitchen floor. By August, I was officially on their roster as a monthly client. They were last at my condo to clean or perhaps to simply pour cleaning products down the drain and pick up their check just before Thanksgiving.
“I’m firing the housekeepers,” I announced to my dad as I plopped down in the chair across from his desk. “For $75, I expect my sofa cushions fluffed and the toothpaste cleaned off the shower door. And the fact they don't change my sheets is just ridic.”
“Wait, you pay them $75 to clean a one bedroom condo? What, you’ve got all of 800 square feet?” he replied with curiosity.
“Technically 784 square feet. What’s your point?”
“I pay them $85 to clean our three story, five bedroom, two full, two half bath house. And they change the sheets. Though I'm not sure how they define 'clean' seeing there’s been a dead beetle in the foyer for a month and they come every week.”
“Let me get this straight. You pay $10 more than I do for at least three times the space? Yeah, I’ve been had.”
A few days later, I asked my coworker how much I owed her thirteen year old daughter for helping me out with an office mailer. Every three months, we send a trifold leaflet to three hundred and sixty clients. It reminds them we’re around, if nothing else. I pay whoever does it $10 an hour because I’m too lazy to dig around in petty cash for anything that isn’t divisible by ten.
“Hey, I owe your daughter for helping me out. How many hours did it take?” I asked while rifling through the mail.
“Four,” she replied before turning on the microwave to make some popcorn.
I dipped into petty cash and forked over two crisp twenty dollar bills but I knew something wasn’t right. People, there is no way in hell it took 240 minutes to put together 360 mailers. No envelopes to stuff. No stamps to lick. And the kid isn’t disabled. I’m not wasting my time on the math but I’m guessing my two year old niece who walks like Frankenstein could knock that all out in 90 minutes flat. Yeah, I was taken. Again.
The weekend after the office mailer debacle, I drove my mom and her precious car south to Sarasota. I was tired but not too tired to search for a deal on some Prada sandals. I’d been eyeing them since I was down there in July but the price was just beyond my cut-off for indulgent purchases. So I passed, figuring I’d snag them on sale once the season changed.
With an hour to spare before grabbing my return flight to Philly, my mom drove me over to the shoe store. We parked the car and I skipped through the doorway in search of my beloved footwear. There they were. My Prada sandals. I lifted up the display shoe, gawked at the styling and then flipped it over and baulked at the price noted on the sole.
“Aren’t those great,” the way too skinny and way too blonde salesgirl exclaimed.
“They’re last years,” I replied. "Shouldn't these be on sale?" I asked.
“Oh no, those are this season,” she said while batting her eyelashes and nodding her head up and down.
Here’s the thing. I know the Prada Sport sandal collection inside and out. I couldn't name the eighteenth President or tell you how many cups are in a gallon but I could easily describe the 2003 Prada Sport sandal collection. Yes, they repeat some elements. They’ll maintain the platform heel or they’ll repeat a buckle detail. But no matter what, they change up the shoe just a little bit to ensure a difference between last season and this season. Every fashionista knows that you have to update the product if you want to sell it. No one wants last year's style, especially at this year's price.
I put the two-seasons-ago shoe back on the display and sauntered out to the street in my comfy and chic Target flip-flops. You messed with the wrong princess. I’m not getting taken again. Not this time. No way.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Six Things Left of Center
So there’s this gal Ryane I adore. No, not in that way, you kinky freak. Anyway, she tagged me. And while I refuse to partake in those silly emails that insist you immediately forward it to ten of your friends or risk never finding love/wealth/happiness, I’m digging this tagging thing. So, here it goes - my weirdness in a nutshell.
(insert the passage of one hour here)
Okay, I’m clearly thinking too hard. One more time….here it goes, my weirdness in a nutshell, in no particular order.
(1) I’ve mentioned this before but I’ll mention it again. I have this odd necessity of having my sheets tucked a certain way. The foot and one side must be super duper tight, leaving the head folded over and the last side an untucked flap for entry and exit. A few weeks ago, I was just too tired to make up my bed. For the first time ever, I put on the bottom sheet but simply rolled myself up in my flat sheet and slept in it like a cocoon. It was the worst week of sleep. Ever. I blame it all on the absence of tucking.
(2) I brush my teeth in the shower. I think I picked this up in college. Since I had my entire get-clean caddy in there with me, I figured I might as well multi-task it. Eventually I graduated college but I retained the brush-ah-brush-ah in the shower habit. Don't knock it until you try it.
(3) On the upper corner of my right eye is a freckle. Or an imperfection. Either way, it’s plain old weird. For it to be visible, I have to look down and pull the lid up but there it is. A brown blotch dotting the white of my eye. Until two years ago, my mother was convinced it was a tumor. She'd ask to look at it and then get all nervous and claim it had gotten larger. Like I needed to go through the better part of my life with that concern.
(4) When I get the literary urge, I think in paragraphs. It’s a royal pain in the ass. No matter how hard I try to jot down abbreviated notes in a little pad, I’ve got nothing if I don’t have a computer to pound out the idea. This is why I’m thinking of commissioning Dell or Jeremy to design a waterproof laptop I can mount in the shower because it’s usually after I brush my teeth but before I condition my hair that I come up with the most brilliant paragraphs.
(5) I have a thing for Swatch. It started in junior high when my parents got me one for Chanukah. The design on the face was so funky I couldn’t tell the time but I fell in love with the plastic timepiece right then and there. I didn’t acquire my second Swatch until college but ever since then, I’ve been increasing my collection. To date, I own seven and with the exception of the original one, I wear them all. Because the only local Swatch store is on the other side of security at the airport, I've had to roll my purchases into out of state travels. Luckily, Chicken (Boston) and Hope (NYC) and Caralyn (NYC) have been okay with my Swatch-a-riffic detours.
(6) I can only ice-skate counterclockwise. And forget that whole going backwards thing. I suppose it has to do with me being right handed and therefore right footed? I’m a rightest? Anyway, as soon as the rink changes the direction of the masses to clockwise, I’m benched. The upside is I haven’t skated since fourth grade. When I fell. Trying to go clockwise. And broke my wrist.
So I think I’m supposed to tag some other people to partake in this madness. But the glitch is I don’t really know many bloggers. Technically, I don’t know-know any bloggers. So, I’m going to tag (but in no way pressure) Ms. Dishalicious, Lushy, MiniJonB and Debbie. And in the off chance I’m still left being it, I’m inviting all of my readers (cough) to participate as well. Come on, fess up to your weirdness. If not six things, then how about one? Admit it, you’re a little bit weird too…
(insert the passage of one hour here)
Okay, I’m clearly thinking too hard. One more time….here it goes, my weirdness in a nutshell, in no particular order.
(1) I’ve mentioned this before but I’ll mention it again. I have this odd necessity of having my sheets tucked a certain way. The foot and one side must be super duper tight, leaving the head folded over and the last side an untucked flap for entry and exit. A few weeks ago, I was just too tired to make up my bed. For the first time ever, I put on the bottom sheet but simply rolled myself up in my flat sheet and slept in it like a cocoon. It was the worst week of sleep. Ever. I blame it all on the absence of tucking.
(2) I brush my teeth in the shower. I think I picked this up in college. Since I had my entire get-clean caddy in there with me, I figured I might as well multi-task it. Eventually I graduated college but I retained the brush-ah-brush-ah in the shower habit. Don't knock it until you try it.
(3) On the upper corner of my right eye is a freckle. Or an imperfection. Either way, it’s plain old weird. For it to be visible, I have to look down and pull the lid up but there it is. A brown blotch dotting the white of my eye. Until two years ago, my mother was convinced it was a tumor. She'd ask to look at it and then get all nervous and claim it had gotten larger. Like I needed to go through the better part of my life with that concern.
(4) When I get the literary urge, I think in paragraphs. It’s a royal pain in the ass. No matter how hard I try to jot down abbreviated notes in a little pad, I’ve got nothing if I don’t have a computer to pound out the idea. This is why I’m thinking of commissioning Dell or Jeremy to design a waterproof laptop I can mount in the shower because it’s usually after I brush my teeth but before I condition my hair that I come up with the most brilliant paragraphs.
(5) I have a thing for Swatch. It started in junior high when my parents got me one for Chanukah. The design on the face was so funky I couldn’t tell the time but I fell in love with the plastic timepiece right then and there. I didn’t acquire my second Swatch until college but ever since then, I’ve been increasing my collection. To date, I own seven and with the exception of the original one, I wear them all. Because the only local Swatch store is on the other side of security at the airport, I've had to roll my purchases into out of state travels. Luckily, Chicken (Boston) and Hope (NYC) and Caralyn (NYC) have been okay with my Swatch-a-riffic detours.
(6) I can only ice-skate counterclockwise. And forget that whole going backwards thing. I suppose it has to do with me being right handed and therefore right footed? I’m a rightest? Anyway, as soon as the rink changes the direction of the masses to clockwise, I’m benched. The upside is I haven’t skated since fourth grade. When I fell. Trying to go clockwise. And broke my wrist.
So I think I’m supposed to tag some other people to partake in this madness. But the glitch is I don’t really know many bloggers. Technically, I don’t know-know any bloggers. So, I’m going to tag (but in no way pressure) Ms. Dishalicious, Lushy, MiniJonB and Debbie. And in the off chance I’m still left being it, I’m inviting all of my readers (cough) to participate as well. Come on, fess up to your weirdness. If not six things, then how about one? Admit it, you’re a little bit weird too…
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
The Grind
Have you ever gotten on a treadmill and the speed gets too fast? You stumble to keep up as you try to find the off switch? That’s been my life since Labor Day. A treadmill I can’t turn the fuck off. I’m tired, I ache and I’m starting to think that flying off the back and slamming into the wall would be better than continuing to sprint.
In my eight years of being in this business, I’ve always had an end of year blitz. I won’t bore you with the details but a lot of companies renew their benefits on the first of the year. It keeps things simpler for the employee and it allows the employer time to make annual budgetary decisions before the year begins. Fascinating, I know.
This year’s been different because of two major factors. First, Aetna sat on their January 1st pricing for two weeks. This meant I had two less weeks to prepare data for all of my clients with January anniversaries. Math problems were never really my strength but you don’t have to be an MIT grad to understand the outcome. The second issue is my dad's gone and drummed up individual business. He walks with a walker, prefers I sit in on meetings to translate his mumbles and then he has the audacity to have one of his best quarters of production. Ever. The relevancy of this tidbit is that I’m the go-to-gal with the application process. He seals the deal but I'm the only person who can get the deal delivered.
“You sound tired,” my mom said when I rang her in Florida earlier today to tell her something.
“I am,” I admitted.
“Why? Oh wait, hold on. Caryn, is that where I turn for TJ Maxx? Caryn’s in the car. Say ‘hi’ Caryn!”
“Listen, I’d love to experience retirement with you two but I have to get back to work. See you in two weeks.”
I hung up the phone and glanced at my Day-By-Day New Yorker Cartoon calendar still flashing November 29th. I haven't had the time to tear off the days. I let out a sigh and then redirected my attention to the three-page list of tasks that needed to be completed sometime before the end of the day. I didn’t have evening plans . And even if I did, I’d have canceled them. Again. Just like I’ve done almost every night since the trees shed their leaves.
Friday night I was invited to a Kickball shindig. It was a gathering of around sixty people catching up and winding down. Stumbling out of the office at half past eight, the last thing I wanted to do was shlepp into the city to be social. So, I bought some chicken salad at Wholefoods, went home, put the food in the fridge because I was too tired to chew and then curled up on my sofa and fell asleep.
Saturday I was invited to a chic party being thrown by a chic friend. I declined the invite, knowing full well I've been chic-less for many months. My hair's in need of some styling, my roots are in need of some coloring and my ability to carry a conversation about anything other than health insurance is pretty limited. Instead, I went over to my parent's house and had Outback take-out with my dad.
I stood in front of my refrigerator last night, my pale face illuminated by the dim glow of the bulb in the back, and scanned my dinner options. Grated parmesan cheese, a bottle of Riesling, organic catsup, margarine, yogurt five days beyond the sell-by date and an onion. I grabbed the cheese and a fork and made a meal of Reggiano. Then, for the first time in I don't know how long, I suited up for a half hour on my treadmill. The real one. That plugs in and has an off switch.
On the 23rd, I head south for a few days. My dad turns 65 on Christmas so the gang's gathering in Sarasota to celebrate his birthday. Before leaving the office on the 22nd, I'm changing my email and voicemail messages to inform clients that I'll be out of the office and out of reach until January 2nd. I'm packing up my laptop with the hopes some creative energy will return once I get out from under the burden and stress of work. I'm putting this book and that book in my duffle so I can jump start my burnt out brain with other people's brilliance. And when all else fails, I'm sprawling out on a chaise on the lanai as the sun dips below the horizon and doing some mindless Sudoku while sipping some Shiraz.
In my eight years of being in this business, I’ve always had an end of year blitz. I won’t bore you with the details but a lot of companies renew their benefits on the first of the year. It keeps things simpler for the employee and it allows the employer time to make annual budgetary decisions before the year begins. Fascinating, I know.
This year’s been different because of two major factors. First, Aetna sat on their January 1st pricing for two weeks. This meant I had two less weeks to prepare data for all of my clients with January anniversaries. Math problems were never really my strength but you don’t have to be an MIT grad to understand the outcome. The second issue is my dad's gone and drummed up individual business. He walks with a walker, prefers I sit in on meetings to translate his mumbles and then he has the audacity to have one of his best quarters of production. Ever. The relevancy of this tidbit is that I’m the go-to-gal with the application process. He seals the deal but I'm the only person who can get the deal delivered.
“You sound tired,” my mom said when I rang her in Florida earlier today to tell her something.
“I am,” I admitted.
“Why? Oh wait, hold on. Caryn, is that where I turn for TJ Maxx? Caryn’s in the car. Say ‘hi’ Caryn!”
“Listen, I’d love to experience retirement with you two but I have to get back to work. See you in two weeks.”
I hung up the phone and glanced at my Day-By-Day New Yorker Cartoon calendar still flashing November 29th. I haven't had the time to tear off the days. I let out a sigh and then redirected my attention to the three-page list of tasks that needed to be completed sometime before the end of the day. I didn’t have evening plans . And even if I did, I’d have canceled them. Again. Just like I’ve done almost every night since the trees shed their leaves.
Friday night I was invited to a Kickball shindig. It was a gathering of around sixty people catching up and winding down. Stumbling out of the office at half past eight, the last thing I wanted to do was shlepp into the city to be social. So, I bought some chicken salad at Wholefoods, went home, put the food in the fridge because I was too tired to chew and then curled up on my sofa and fell asleep.
Saturday I was invited to a chic party being thrown by a chic friend. I declined the invite, knowing full well I've been chic-less for many months. My hair's in need of some styling, my roots are in need of some coloring and my ability to carry a conversation about anything other than health insurance is pretty limited. Instead, I went over to my parent's house and had Outback take-out with my dad.
I stood in front of my refrigerator last night, my pale face illuminated by the dim glow of the bulb in the back, and scanned my dinner options. Grated parmesan cheese, a bottle of Riesling, organic catsup, margarine, yogurt five days beyond the sell-by date and an onion. I grabbed the cheese and a fork and made a meal of Reggiano. Then, for the first time in I don't know how long, I suited up for a half hour on my treadmill. The real one. That plugs in and has an off switch.
On the 23rd, I head south for a few days. My dad turns 65 on Christmas so the gang's gathering in Sarasota to celebrate his birthday. Before leaving the office on the 22nd, I'm changing my email and voicemail messages to inform clients that I'll be out of the office and out of reach until January 2nd. I'm packing up my laptop with the hopes some creative energy will return once I get out from under the burden and stress of work. I'm putting this book and that book in my duffle so I can jump start my burnt out brain with other people's brilliance. And when all else fails, I'm sprawling out on a chaise on the lanai as the sun dips below the horizon and doing some mindless Sudoku while sipping some Shiraz.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
'Tis The Season
Maybe it’s because I’m Jewish but I’ve spent many years wavering between love and hate of the days that connect Thanksgiving to Christmas. Don’t get me wrong. I adore stepping out into the crisp evening air and inhaling the smell of a wood burning fireplace. I love walking through Rittenhouse Square tucked within a wooly scarf and coat, the illuminated holiday balls dangling sporadically from the branches overhead. And I always sidestep off my intended path to grab a complimentary cup of mulling spices from Williams Sonoma. But that’s about where I stall out.
Working for ten years in retail can do that to you. Being the Jew of the crew, I’ve oftentimes offered to help close on Christmas Eve at my Banana Republic. If I weren’t there, I’d be scarfing down a pre-movie dinner of Sesame Chicken from CinCin or mingling with desperately single Heebs at a Matzo Ball. I can easily live without both of these activities. My generosity to work on the 24th so Christian coworkers don’t have to is always put to the test by last minutes shoppers frantically in search of anything to throw into a box that can be tossed under the Christmas tree.
“What do you mean you don’t have a box?” Scrooge will exclaim.
“We ran out of boxes yesterday, sir,” I pleasantly reply.
“How can you run out of boxes on Christmas Eve?”
“We ran out of boxes yesterday, sir,” I repeat, knowing full well that nothing will appease a box-less customer.
At the core, I’ve always wanted to just tell the shopper to fuck off. It's a box, asshole, not the cure to cancer or the answer to world peace. I may not be Christian but if memory serves me right, Jesus didn’t say anything about gifts or boxes. Ever. Next in line?
Just as I’m ready to resign myself to the belief that the holiday season is nothing more than a marketing campaign by money hungry retailers, people go and change my mind.
Every Wednesday night that I volunteer, I stop off en route at a local bakery to retrieve a dozen cupcakes. It’s a small shop in a small town and I’m a firm believer of supporting the local merchants. Especially when said merchants make a butter cream frosting I could roll around in naked. Plus, cupcakes always make me smile and families at the Ronald McDonald House could use as many smiles as possible. At around three o’clock on the day I’m volunteering, I’ll call over and place my order.
“Let me tell you something,” I said to Baker yesterday as I walked up to the counter. “Last week, those cupcakes were gone in thirty minutes flat.”
She smiled. Then she paused. “You know what? I want to do something special for the house. Can you let me know when you’re going down there next? I just need two days notice.”
I couldn’t believe it. I mean, let’s be honest. This is a struggling bakery in a small town. They’ve been up and running for less than a year and while I’ve done nothing but provide rave reviews to everyone I know, I’m not sure how many cupcakes you have to sell to turn a profit.
“That'd be great. I’ll check my calendar and ring you tomorrow with the day. Wait, you gave me two boxes,” I said as I looked down at the counter.
“One box of the usual cupcakes and another box of gingerbread cookies. Those are on the house.”
“Are you sure?” I asked before offering to pay for the extra goodies.
“I may not be able to spare the time to volunteer but I definitely can spare some cookies.”
I gathered up the boxes and headed out the door. Before putting on my seatbelt and pulling away from the curb, I pushed back a corner of a box and peeked inside. This, I thought to myself, this is what the holidays are about.
Working for ten years in retail can do that to you. Being the Jew of the crew, I’ve oftentimes offered to help close on Christmas Eve at my Banana Republic. If I weren’t there, I’d be scarfing down a pre-movie dinner of Sesame Chicken from CinCin or mingling with desperately single Heebs at a Matzo Ball. I can easily live without both of these activities. My generosity to work on the 24th so Christian coworkers don’t have to is always put to the test by last minutes shoppers frantically in search of anything to throw into a box that can be tossed under the Christmas tree.
“What do you mean you don’t have a box?” Scrooge will exclaim.
“We ran out of boxes yesterday, sir,” I pleasantly reply.
“How can you run out of boxes on Christmas Eve?”
“We ran out of boxes yesterday, sir,” I repeat, knowing full well that nothing will appease a box-less customer.
At the core, I’ve always wanted to just tell the shopper to fuck off. It's a box, asshole, not the cure to cancer or the answer to world peace. I may not be Christian but if memory serves me right, Jesus didn’t say anything about gifts or boxes. Ever. Next in line?
Just as I’m ready to resign myself to the belief that the holiday season is nothing more than a marketing campaign by money hungry retailers, people go and change my mind.
Every Wednesday night that I volunteer, I stop off en route at a local bakery to retrieve a dozen cupcakes. It’s a small shop in a small town and I’m a firm believer of supporting the local merchants. Especially when said merchants make a butter cream frosting I could roll around in naked. Plus, cupcakes always make me smile and families at the Ronald McDonald House could use as many smiles as possible. At around three o’clock on the day I’m volunteering, I’ll call over and place my order.
“Let me tell you something,” I said to Baker yesterday as I walked up to the counter. “Last week, those cupcakes were gone in thirty minutes flat.”
She smiled. Then she paused. “You know what? I want to do something special for the house. Can you let me know when you’re going down there next? I just need two days notice.”
I couldn’t believe it. I mean, let’s be honest. This is a struggling bakery in a small town. They’ve been up and running for less than a year and while I’ve done nothing but provide rave reviews to everyone I know, I’m not sure how many cupcakes you have to sell to turn a profit.
“That'd be great. I’ll check my calendar and ring you tomorrow with the day. Wait, you gave me two boxes,” I said as I looked down at the counter.
“One box of the usual cupcakes and another box of gingerbread cookies. Those are on the house.”
“Are you sure?” I asked before offering to pay for the extra goodies.
“I may not be able to spare the time to volunteer but I definitely can spare some cookies.”
I gathered up the boxes and headed out the door. Before putting on my seatbelt and pulling away from the curb, I pushed back a corner of a box and peeked inside. This, I thought to myself, this is what the holidays are about.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Highlights of Heading South
At three o’clock, my mom rang me at the office to say she was just about ready to hit the road. I ran home to retrieve my bag overflowing with flip-flops for the warm weather in the South and cashmere for my return to the chilly North. Factoring in last minute adjustments and packing efforts, we were on the road by four o’clock.
In all honesty, the next three days were pretty boring. There’s only so much excitement you can pack into a road trip with your mother. For the sake of (a) not boring my seven loyal fans to tears and (b) avoiding a story that has “and then we” starting off every paragraph, I’m simply going to share the highlights.
On the stretch of highway linking Baltimore to Alexandria, I educated my mother about Medicare and, more importantly, didn’t threaten to kick her out of the moving car when she asked me to repeat it all. I talked. She listened. And in the end, she suggested I conduct seminars on the topic because I was so knowledgeable. I’ll take the compliment but I sure as heck am not doing seminars for lazy old retired people. If they can master Mahjong they sure as fuck can figure out Medicare.
Somewhere just south of our nation’s capital, my mother made an amendment to her previous diagnosis of Ex. In the year since he and I had parted ways, she’d done some thinking and concluded he didn’t suffer from PDD after all. He was plain old autistic. If only we were still in contact so I could relay the good news to him.
Joe left me a message on Friday afternoon but I didn’t get it until later that night as we checked into the Hilton in Durham, NC. “It’s three thirty and I’m calling to see how Thelma and Louise are doing. Call me with an update,” he said before hanging up in a fit of giggles. I relayed the message to my mother who immediately called dibs on being Louise. Yeah, well, Thelma slept with Brad Pitt so fine with me, bee-atch.
On the wretched stretch of I75 leading into Atlanta, we stopped off for lunch at the massive Wholefoods in Greenville. I wandered off to find cut up Papaya. My mom wandered off to sample the roasted honey pecans. A half hour later, my phone rang.
“Where are you?” my mom asked in between munches of something crunchy.
“At the salad bar. Beyond the wine racks. Where are you?”
“Cheese. Can you believe this place? Seriously. I already ate a meal’s worth of samples. Oh, I see you. Here I come. Wait, I need to try this Camembert.”
Somewhere between Atlanta and the Florida border, my glasses broke. The screw on the right arm came undone. As I struggled to get it back in, my hand slipped and the teeny tiny screw disappeared forever. This wouldn’t have been an issue except I need my glasses to drive and my contacts were buried in the trunk. When we stopped to buy gas, I ran into the mini mart and bought two watermelon Blow Pops and one eyeglass repair kit. I fixed my glasses, unwrapped a lollipop and we got back on the highway. Bored and unable to complete more than four clues of the Sunday NYTimes Crossword, I decided to use my regained vision to entertain us by reading aloud the billboards lining the roadway. A lot of them talked about how Jesus forgives / loves / heals you. Figuring he’d forgive me, I seductively licked my Blow Pop as we sped past each and every eighteen wheeler. Thanks, Jesus!
We pulled into the garage in Sarasota just as the sun was setting. I unpacked the stuff from the car while my mom worked to put away everything we’d transported. There were paintings and knickknacks and books. There was wine and clothes and shoes. With the car empty and our stomachs growling, we washed up and headed back out to retrieve something to eat.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping me drive down here, PJ,” my mom said in between bites of her salad. "I couldn't have done it without you."
“No problem, Louise. No problem at all,” I replied before popping some buttered bread in my mouth.
In all honesty, the next three days were pretty boring. There’s only so much excitement you can pack into a road trip with your mother. For the sake of (a) not boring my seven loyal fans to tears and (b) avoiding a story that has “and then we” starting off every paragraph, I’m simply going to share the highlights.
On the stretch of highway linking Baltimore to Alexandria, I educated my mother about Medicare and, more importantly, didn’t threaten to kick her out of the moving car when she asked me to repeat it all. I talked. She listened. And in the end, she suggested I conduct seminars on the topic because I was so knowledgeable. I’ll take the compliment but I sure as heck am not doing seminars for lazy old retired people. If they can master Mahjong they sure as fuck can figure out Medicare.
Somewhere just south of our nation’s capital, my mother made an amendment to her previous diagnosis of Ex. In the year since he and I had parted ways, she’d done some thinking and concluded he didn’t suffer from PDD after all. He was plain old autistic. If only we were still in contact so I could relay the good news to him.
Joe left me a message on Friday afternoon but I didn’t get it until later that night as we checked into the Hilton in Durham, NC. “It’s three thirty and I’m calling to see how Thelma and Louise are doing. Call me with an update,” he said before hanging up in a fit of giggles. I relayed the message to my mother who immediately called dibs on being Louise. Yeah, well, Thelma slept with Brad Pitt so fine with me, bee-atch.
On the wretched stretch of I75 leading into Atlanta, we stopped off for lunch at the massive Wholefoods in Greenville. I wandered off to find cut up Papaya. My mom wandered off to sample the roasted honey pecans. A half hour later, my phone rang.
“Where are you?” my mom asked in between munches of something crunchy.
“At the salad bar. Beyond the wine racks. Where are you?”
“Cheese. Can you believe this place? Seriously. I already ate a meal’s worth of samples. Oh, I see you. Here I come. Wait, I need to try this Camembert.”
Somewhere between Atlanta and the Florida border, my glasses broke. The screw on the right arm came undone. As I struggled to get it back in, my hand slipped and the teeny tiny screw disappeared forever. This wouldn’t have been an issue except I need my glasses to drive and my contacts were buried in the trunk. When we stopped to buy gas, I ran into the mini mart and bought two watermelon Blow Pops and one eyeglass repair kit. I fixed my glasses, unwrapped a lollipop and we got back on the highway. Bored and unable to complete more than four clues of the Sunday NYTimes Crossword, I decided to use my regained vision to entertain us by reading aloud the billboards lining the roadway. A lot of them talked about how Jesus forgives / loves / heals you. Figuring he’d forgive me, I seductively licked my Blow Pop as we sped past each and every eighteen wheeler. Thanks, Jesus!
We pulled into the garage in Sarasota just as the sun was setting. I unpacked the stuff from the car while my mom worked to put away everything we’d transported. There were paintings and knickknacks and books. There was wine and clothes and shoes. With the car empty and our stomachs growling, we washed up and headed back out to retrieve something to eat.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping me drive down here, PJ,” my mom said in between bites of her salad. "I couldn't have done it without you."
“No problem, Louise. No problem at all,” I replied before popping some buttered bread in my mouth.
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