Best Laid Plans

I rarely plan anything.

Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.

Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.

If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.

“What are you wearing?”

If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.

I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.

“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.

“Don’t fence me in…”

All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.

The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.

My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.

“Have you written up a workout plan?”

Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.

“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.

“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”

Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.

A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.

“So, what do you write about?”

Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.

Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.

“Have you written a mission statement?”

I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.

“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.

“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.

“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.

“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.

And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.

For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.

And, I never back down from a challenge…..

Girlfriend

Audrey is Jamaican; gorgeous, witty, intelligent, and when she speaks, each word is decorated by a latent trace of island accent. Since the first day, of the first season our sons’ were old enough to play youth sports, we have shared their ups and downs, together.

For four months, out of each of the last five years, we’ve met at the football field dressed in our finest blue and orange. We chant cheers, critique plays, and call our encouragement out to each boy, by name. And, as the coach brings the players together for a post-game prayer, we heft our gear and wave three, free fingers, as “See you next week” is called out in a variety of feminine voices.

Football ends in November. Basketball begins four weeks later, and, this year, we share both. There is no gear to heft. The gym is relatively warm. The chairs we carry upon our backs, comfortable, and placed side by side. For one hour and fifteen minutes, twice a week, we call our encouragement out to the boys by name, each relying upon the other to supply the names of children we don’t know.

“Great job…!” I call out before leaning close, in case his parents flank my other side. “What is his name?”

“Alex, that’s Alex.” Her voice comes from the other side of her head, as she continues to follow the play.

“I can’t keep them straight!” I whisper loudly. Her hand on my arm supports her giggle, as her head moves with the trajectory of the ball.

Our star player hefts the ball down-court, in the direction of…no one.

“Oh, dear!” The words escape before my hand covers my mouth.

Laughter competes with her accent, making her words even more melodious.

“Imagine what he could do if he looked in the direction he was throwing!”

And, later, my hand finds her wrist.

“Your son is on the floor.”, I deadpan.

Her head swivels as she searches the court, and on finding him unharmed, laughs, again.

“Well, it’s the third quarter. It had to happen some time!”

The ball is re-bounded by a boy whose girth limits his playing time. I call out my congratulations, just before he collides with a boy who outweighs him by at least twenty pounds. The boys wallow on the expensively tiled court for several seconds, and my hand, again, finds my mouth.

“Oh! What happened?” Both boys struggle, with much flailing of limbs, to rise, drawing a concerted sigh of relief from the parents lining the court.

Audrey, her smooth-skinned chin in one hand, points one carefully manicured nail with the other, as she begins to answer.

“Well…” She hesitates, as though studying the scene before us. “That one fell upon that one…” And, that was as far as she got.

Our giggles erupt, simultaneously, and go on for several minutes. Audrey alternately covers her face with her coat, and wipes her eyes with her pointer finger, as I struggle to contain myself. A second or two passes before our giggles erupt, again, and the sequence repeats several times, over several more minutes.

Mindful of running mascara, I, too, wipe tears from my eyes with mittened hands, and re-cross my legs in an act of composure, as Audrey finally manages to speak.

“Basketball is such a stress reliever, isn’t it?”

And, like two little girls, we giggle, again.

This is the gift of friendship.

Child to Child

I saw him.

I saw your child.

Bullies on your playground backed you into a corner, and he came out.

Your eyes blazed.

Your voice changed.

Confidence and bravado were exchanged for whining demands accompanied by the impotent stomping of rubber-soled feet.

A plush pout replaced your sardonic grin while red-rimmed eyes held years of unshed tears at bay.

And arms that should have held you crossed, instead, across my chest.

Clarity

I expected more clarity.

I bought into the old adage, “With age comes wisdom.” I hung my hat on it. As I floundered through my teens and twenties, I quieted myself with the notion that one day everything would magically fall into place, and the world would make sense. One day, I would be the one who had been there and done that, who had seen what life had to offer, plucked the juiciest bits from her burgeoning tree, and secreted her lessons inside my apron pockets, so that all that showed of my experience was a smile of complacent serenity.

It didn’t happen that way.

As I’ve aged, I’ve realized that, no matter how much life I live, answered questions are quickly stored away to make room for new quandaries. Conquered challenges are afforded only a modicum of celebration before the next hurdle comes barreling into view, and there is always more to learn.

Opportunity Knocks

Chance only develops into opportunity when mixed with desire.

Are You Still Fat?

“You won’t believe what she asked me!” The wind competed with her words as she drove, forcing me to push the cellphone closer to my ear.

I turned and walked in the other direction, in case the bad connection was on my end.

“What did she ask you, honey?” Thankful she couldn’t see the smile my words broke through, her obvious indignation conjured an image of my friend; short, and fiery, the hair she had worked so hard to contain that morning would, by now, have escaped its rubber restraints, so that it danced around and into her snapping, chocolate brown eyes.

“Are you still fat? That’s what she asked me! Are you still fat? Why does she do this to me, honey?”

“I…”, was as much as I was allowed.

“She’s so sweet! Why does she see me this way? Who would do that? I mean, you see someone you haven’t seen in a really long time, and do you say “Hi, how’re doing? Is your wife still fat?” Of course, you wouldn’t honey. You wouldn’t say that.” The wind continued to whip around her words, but her volume made it less of an issue.

“Well, I’m not sure…”, I started, again.

“I know, I know, she doesn’t mean it.” She anticipated my response, before pausing for a breath.

Sitting forward in the porch chair I had sunk into, I opened my mouth to continue, a moment too late.

“But she’s always done this, honey. You know she has! Remember the trip we took? The way she was always so solicitous of me?”

I rested against the cushions again, and, looking down, realized I still wore my running shoes. I did leg lifts, as I listened.

“This defines me, honey! Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she know my entire life has been defined by my weight?”

I did two more lifts before hearing her silence.

“Please don’t tell me that.” My voice was soft, but forceful, as I brought both feet to the ground, and stood.

“What honey?” Tired by her diatribe, her voice had quieted, too.

“Please don’t tell me that at your age you are still defined by your body type. I have to believe that at some point we just don’t care anymore, you know? And I count of you to be my barometer. What are you, thirteen years older than me?”

She left the question unanswered.

“I watch you, you know? I learn what to expect, from you.” I kicked a stray piece of mulch back into the flower bed as I walked.

“I’ve always believed that at some point we just don’t care anymore, that other things become more important, like what books we have read, or whether or not the garden is putting out, things like that. I need you to tell me that.”

Her silence continued for a moment before she asked softly, “What am I going to do, honey?”

“Did you ever think about talking to her?” Reaching the gate at the end of the walkway, I turned.

“I can’t do that. She has no idea she’s doing it. She’s so sweet.”

Her voice bore no sign of the horror she had described earlier, and as she spoke children’s voices drifted in and around her words.

“Well, I’m here, and no one seems to notice this thing sticking out of my ear.” I smiled along with her at the memory of every other time she had said those words.

“Hey! I posted to my blog! I mean I got to thinking about what you said…” Knowing her grandchildren would soon take her attention, my words came out in a rush.

“Good! ‘Cause if you left that last one in front, no one would ever come back! I gotta go, honey!”

And, this is what we do.

Unmade

Last year, I bought my favorite watch of all time. A man’s watch, it features a large, thin face, thick, brown leather bands, and the word “Fossil”, prominently displayed at the top of the dial.

And, yet…

My life is a rushed blur of missed opportunities, rescheduled appointments, unfinished projects, and tasks that need doing.

There was a time in my life when accepting an invitation to go to a concert meant an evening filled. Now, the offer requires careful calendar manipulation, and the certainty of playing catch-up the following day.

A visit to the hair salon used to be a welcome distraction, breaking up a lazy Saturday afternoon. My last appointment was scheduled, with surgical precision, over a month in advance. I rescheduled twice.

There is a jigsaw puzzle on a table in my office. The box is displayed, prominently, as an aid in connecting the pieces, which lay in a misshapen mound in front of it. Beside the table is an easel, bearing the weight of an unfinished canvas. If you squint, you can almost make out the image of wolves drinking from a stream.

The drawer in my wine cabinet is stuffed full of collected corks. I spent quite a bit of time searching for an appropriately-sized bulletin board on which to glue them. A friend finished hers last year. I saw it. It was cute, and I’m sure mine will be, too, when I get around to it. The glue gun is ready. I am not.

I have never “finished” the laundry. The pile is never-ending, growing faster than it shrinks.

My sewing box runneth over.

The hardwood floors, stripped of carpeting in hopes of easier maintenance, gather mounds of dusty dog hair in their corners, even as I sweep.

The pine trees, shading my house, weep brown needles faster than I can rake them.

I live life, as a perpetually unmade bed.

Sludge

I feel you, before I see you.

The light fades.
A heaviness permeates the air around me, too thick to breathe.
Anxiety ignites inside my soul.
You cast a long shadow,
as I begin to count minutes.

It takes hours,
and sometimes days,
to free myself of the black ooze with which you encase yourself;
the vileness that you fling, violently,
this way and that,
without conscience,
void of awareness,
despite my pleas.
You are deafened, by your own pain.

And, I slide.
No matter, the reinforcements,
the oft-repeated self-recriminations,
the desperate vows.
I slide into your abyss until I am covered by your noxious goo;
blinding,
binding,
bleeding,
burning,
brightly.

I boil over,
adding my excrement to yours,
until all exits are blocked;
spoiled by our filth.

And, all I can think of is getting out.

More Than A Calendar Change

I have a thing for calendars….

Every year, around this time, I struggle with which ones to hang, and which to donate to the “extra calendar pile” at the office.

It seems every charitable organization, to which I donate, sends me a calendar. Many of these, especially the ones portraying animals, are hard to resist. One year I didn’t. I hung five different calendars around my office, so that no matter which wall you faced, you were met by a furry visage, or a magnificent vista.

Last year, during a post-Christmas shopping trip, I stumbled upon a kiosk of interesting calendars in a local hobby store. I left with one for my son, featuring unusual, black and white photography, and one for me, decorated in a colorful, quilted pattern. I was enticed by the pocket at the bottom of each page, and the large, pastel-hued butterfly that adorned it. Each month was marked in a different color scheme; one more beautiful than the next. I really enjoyed that calendar.

During a spate of time, since 2004, really, when there didn’t seem to be much to look forward to, my calendars filled a New Year’s void.

The shock of that election changed me. My television went dark, and my radio presets changed. NPR could no longer be trusted. I shut off every media outlet that might remind me of America’s folly. I adopted a mindset of entrenchment. And, if ignorance wasn’t exactly bliss, it was definitely preferable to the panic, and utter embarrassment, which set upon my heart, and mind, at the sound of our president’s bumbling speech, or the sight of his “Aw, shucks” grin.

As 2008 dawned, I had a truly magnificent calendar, and a glimmer of hope, based in the knowledge, that no matter how the upcoming election turned out, one thing was certain; George W. Bush would no longer be President of the United States.

I struggled, for months, with choosing a candidate. There seemed to be so little difference between them. The feminists would have me vote for a woman, for gender reasons, alone. Patriots would have me support a former POW, based upon his years of military service, which ended over thirty years ago. Christian fundamentalists had their man, whose shining moment occurred during an appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was impressed. I would hire him as a straight man, but President of the United States?

And then, there was the tall skinny, big-eared, black guy, with the scary name.

I live in Georgia. I wish I had a dollar for every time, over the last eleven months, I’ve heard the following:

“Well, I just can’t vote for a man named “Obama”. It’s just not right!”

I assume this phrase to be uttered by those who choose their candidate based, solely, on appropriate surname…and their sports teams, by jersey color.

The feminists’ choice floundered, shrilly, when prompted for details. The patriot lost his edge, and the Christian choice threw in the towel, as did many other, less noticeable, candidates.

And, then there was one.

I began to research. I spent hours poring over internet articles. I listened to speeches, I sought highly regarded opinions, and by the time I flipped my calendar over to reveal November’s butterfly, I was content in my choice.

As is my custom, I took my son with me to our polling place. We stood, on a sun-splashed, blustery morning, in a longer than usual line of voters. We conversed with neighbors,rarely seen otherwise, and accepted the offer of a warm beverage from an excited, gray-haired poll worker.

At one point during our wait, my son scanned the affluent, monochromatic, bedroom-community crowd, and stage-whispered, “I don’t think many of these people are voting for Obama.”

I laughed, in surprise, at his insight; reminded, again that he is an old soul.

“You’re probably right!”, I began, before bending closer to him. “But, that’s ok. That’s what makes our country great, the ability to choose. We just have to hope that enough of us make the right choice.”

And, to my thinking, we did.

My television remains, for the most part, dark, but NPR has, once again, become part of my morning commute. The economic legacy, left by Mr. Bush, dampened my Christmas, and continues to spread its pall over the new year. The devastation didn’t come about rapidly, and, recovery will take some time.

My son-in-law was laid off, with a reasonable severance package, two weeks ago. My daughter has made arrangements to support her family by increasing her hours, from weekends, only, to full-time, starting this week. One of my sons has seen his hours cut back, drastically, with the warning that lay-offs could come in January. My next paycheck will reflect a ten-percent salary cut, in an admirable move, made by our administrators, to protect all our jobs.

And, while these events are somewhat disconcerting, they are not devastating. I find myself anticipating 2009 with a sense of hope, based in the fact that, despite our former misguided choices, this time, we, as a people did the right thing; we put aside petty differences, and superstition, and bias, and chose a rather unlikely leader to guide us through, what will surely be, very treacherous times. We dared to hope, we took definitive action, and we showed the world that we can change.

And, the world expelled a long-held sigh of relief…and applauded.

“How do you measure a year? In daylights, sunsets, midnights, cups of coffee…in laughter & strife. Remember the love. Measure your life in seasons of love.”
Jonathan Larson

Filling Time

His head came around the open door frame in an effort at coquettishness he should have abandoned twenty years, and forty pounds ago.

Reluctantly, Cameron dragged her eyes away from the monitor between them and forced a look of questioning welcome onto her face.

“Hi!” The word came out clipped, despite her efforts.

“Hi.” His body shifted as he spoke, bringing the rest of him into view.

“Busy?” Their single syllable conversation continued.

Her eyes strayed back to the screen in silent answer. She had just been poked.

“Uh….” She drew this syllable out, allowing her time to think.

“No!” She reached out and closed the notebook with a thud, opening the air between them. As she rose, her outstretched hand pulled her lips into a smile. Her other hand gestured, Vanna-like, at the only other chair in the room, before she returned to hers.

“What’s up, Jerry?” She leaned back casually and glanced at the clock on her desk. In just a little over an hour, she and thousands of others, would begin their trek across the city towards home. She made a mental note to stop at the grocery store.

The chair gave in with a “Whoosh” as he settled into it. One hand immediately found the buttons on his jacket, loosening it to make room for last night’s supper, and the burritos he’d eaten in a fast food parking lot two hours ago.

“Hey! I know its Christmas. Everybody’s busy.” As he paused, his eyes found the tiny, gold, bell-strewn tree she’d placed on a corner table. He shifted, uncomfortably inside the chair, before leaning forward.

“I’ve been working on something.”

Cameron uncrossed her legs and looked pointedly at the clock.

“I was really just winding down here…”

“Yeah…” He shifted again, shooting a glance at the computer on her desk. “Facebook, huh?”

She blushed, silently.

“Hey! I should “friend” you!”

She made an attempt at an appreciative laugh and straightened her skirt without commenting on his suggestion.

“I thought maybe we could stop in at “Dailey’s” for a pre-Christmas drink.” His face was prepared for her refusal. “And, I could tell you about my project!” The words were infused with a false enthusiasm.

Cameron glanced, again at the clock, and then her calendar, which was open.

Reaching behind her, she drug her jacket off the back of her chair.

“Sure! Why not, Jerry? Let me grab a few things…”

Her words catapulted him off the chair and he used both hands to re-button.

“Great!” Despite his efforts, he voiced his surprise.

A smoky haze wafted just under the bare-bulbed ceiling lights, lending carelessly strewn, multi-colored twinkle lights the appearance of being under water. Blues-infused Christmas carols played softly to a tiny pre-happy hour audience.

Cameron chose a table in the center of the room, and, measuring the distance to the door, decided to leave her jacket on.

“Here you go!” Jerry’s voice had found a comfort it had been missing earlier.

She thanked him and took a sip before placing her drink on a napkin and leaning forward with her arms crossed.

“Tell me.” She could feel her eyes dance.

Jerry smiled, as she knew he would, appreciative of her interest. His hands caressed the brown bottle in front of him, clearing the frost from its sides as he talked. He leaned towards the table as she had, closing the space between them.

Cameron smiled, asked appropriate questions, and watched, as he grew. An hour passed, and in that time, the rumpled, overweight man she had come in with, had transformed into a smiling, energetic, somewhat sweaty man with a boyish grin.

She wondered if his wife would notice the change, sure in the knowledge that she hadn’t really seen him in years.

His pitch complete, he withdrew a dog-eared, leather wallet filled with pictures of small people who saw the world through eyes that looked just like his. He had a story to tell about each one of them. She listened, making only appropriate listening sounds until she’d seen them all.

“I’ll bet you’re a great Dad, Jerry.”

Jerry blushed, slightly, as he pocketed his wallet. Cameron looked at her watch as she sat back in her chair.

“I’ve gotta run….” She reached for the purse strap on the back of the chair.

“Sure! Ok, sure!” Jerry stood quickly, lithely.

“Thanks for the drink. Give those kids a hug for me, ok? And, let me know how your project turns out.”

Cameron stood and pushed her chair closer to the table.

“I’ll do that. Thanks…” He tossed money onto the tabletop, averting his eyes.

As she walked the block to her car, she appreciated the sound of her heels striking concrete. She’d loved it since she was a girl when the heels were on her mother’s feet.

She pulled her unbuttoned coat more closely around her and smiled at the thought of Jerry climbing a tree to pull his daughter’s favorite doll to safety. The project he had shared with her had nothing to do with her department. He must have known that before coming into her office. But she’d given him what he’d been looking for.

He wanted to share. He wanted to talk to someone who would turn in her chair, and look him in the eyes, when he told a story. So he spent an hour in a bar with “another” woman before going home to a wife who wouldn’t know he was there until the trash bin needed emptying.

Cameron turned the key and joined the commute.