Rainy day songs

Sitting at my desk, trying to figure out how to make things work, I'm caught up in lyrics, in bits and pieces of songs that have nothing to do with the numbers I'm crunching. They distract me. Drive me to distraction. Bring me back again. They help me figure out things I don't know how to do.

People are people... So why should it be?
Come on, people, now. Smile on your brother…
Everybody get together try to love one another right now
What the world needs now... is love, sweet love
It's the only thing there's just too little of…
Love bites, love bleeds… it's bringing me to my knees
Love stinks… yeah yeah
If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife... from my personal point of view, get an ugly girl to marry you
Pretty woman... Walking down the street
I want to run... I want to hide... I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside... I want to reach out... And touch the flame... where the streets have no name
There she was... just a walkin' down the street singin' doo wa ditty ditty dum ditty doo
We were dancing in the streets!
And you can dance... for inspiration...

It goes on and on. There was more before this stream. More after. It all started with the lyrics to Ice Cream, a song that's been in my head since I saw The Great New Wonderful a few days ago. The song doesn't have much to do with the movie. A girl singing karaoke. A woman crying.

Your love is better than ice cream
Better than anything else that I’ve tried
And your love is better than ice cream
Everyone here knows how to cry

It's not really pivotal to the plot or maybe it is. Maybe it all is. All I know is that it stuck with me. Three days later, I'm still singing the song.

I tried giving it away. People took it, happy with the song, unhappy with the gift as it stuck for them as well, but it kept coming back to me. Your love… is better than ice cream. Honestly, I've wanted ice cream for the past three days, too, and I blame the song. I tried downloading it and listening to it a half dozen times: I've managed to reinforce the lyrics.

I've created a rainy day playlist, trying to drown out the song, but the moment I step away from the computer, there it is. Waiting at the edges of my mind. Your love… is better than ice cream.

Just go away. Stop. Your love isn't better than ice cream. It's not. I swear. It's not better than anything else that I've tried. Stupid song. I'm not even singing to anyone but still it stays.

I'm sure it will be driven out at some point, replaced by Solsbury Hill or Jane Says, Kathleen or Eleanor Put Your Boots On. One of a million songs will replace it in my mind. In the meantime, I just keep trying to push it away.

We can dance if we want to. We can leave your friends behind 'cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine
Just remember who's taking you home and in whose arms you're gonna be... so darling, save the last dance for me...
Take me home tonight. I don't want to let you go until you see the light.
You know I'm a dreamer... but my hearts of gold... I had to run away high, so I wouldn't come home low... just when things went right... doesn't mean they were always wrong... just take this song and you'll never feel left all alone... Take me to your heart... feel me in your bones... just one more night and I'm coming off this long winding road... I'm on my way... I'm on my way... home sweeet home...
The long and winding road that leads to your door will never disappear I've seen that road before it always leads me here...
On the road again... just can't wait to get on the road again...
We've come to the end of the road... Still I can't let go... It's unnatural... You belong me. I belong to you.

Do I remember the lyrics correctly? Can I let go and think of something to follow? Another song? Another theme? It keeps me thinking. It keeps me interested. The game pulls my mind from work and lets me understand it better.

I come at numbers in a whole new way because of the mental and verbal acrobatics we're playing. I almost can't wait for my file to download. I almost can't wait for the next song.


Tag: Songs Work

Hard rain

The sky seems almost blue now; though, it was raining no more than 20 minutes ago. I suppose it is blue, just a pale, pale blue as seen through a veil of thin white clouds, not the bright blue of summer that I've come to expect, want, need.

Nevertheless, I'll take the baby blue and relish in it. From my office window, I can see sunlit reflections in shrinking puddles and shadows on the street below. As minutes pass, the rain seems more a memory, a mere recollection than anything else, but last night it was a force fit for reckoning.

I'll be dealing with it for days, if not weeks to come. My car is wet and starting to smell. And I'm allergic to mildew. Things might get a little ugly before they get better.

It's not my fault, not quite. I didn't leave the roof down. I didn't leave the windows open. My car flooded from the bottom up. Though, I suppose that is my fault. I removed the drain plugs the first time the Jeep flooded in 2001.

That time, I did leave the roof down and went to a party. By the time I returned (noon the next day) the cupholders were full and about two inches of standing water filled the bottom of the car. I removed the drain plugs, dropped the roof (when the sun broke free) and brought the floormats to the dehumidifier. It all worked out.

Built for rain, sand, dirt, my car is a little rugged. You can hose the thing down. The only problem is that I lost the drain plugs and never bothered to replace them. I didn't worry about it – it seemed to require a lot of draining, given my love of dropping the top in the summer and my terrible intuition about rain.

Last night, I went to a movie with my brother and friends. The weather seemed clear enough when they got to my house but by the time we left, rain started. I offered to drive and we piled into the Jeep. Fortunately, we found a spot not far from the theater, down just a block, and we slip-slided our way in flipflops on wet sidewalks to the movies.

After the film (an interesting indie flick entitled The Great New Wonderful), we headed back up to the lobby (from the subterranean screens at E Street), the very crowded lobby. Rain, lots and lots of rain, kept moviegoers inside, waiting for a break in the torrents. Eventually, they (like we) gave up and headed into the storm.

Under my flimsy umbrella, I walked slowly and carefully in my tractionless flips to the Jeep down the street, through puddles, under rivers of water pouring off awnings. I dodged between drops streaming from the roof of the car and into the driver's seat to retrieve my umbrellaless party.

We drove to Foggy Bottom, through lakes, streams and curtains of water, through terrible (albeit light) traffic – people switched lanes without signals, drove dangerously slowly, stopped without warning. The windshield wipers flapped across glass and the rubber on the passenger side blade started to peel from the casing.

Buses waited at the side of the street for a break that did not come. The Jeep splashed water on itself to the point that I prayed that I was driving straight. Even the frantic swish, swish, swishing of the blades did little to aid in visibility. Water oozed through the drain plugs, flooding the bottom of the car.

We made it to Foggy Bottom and the first stop before heading cross city and back to the Hill. A slow, treacherous drive through driving rain. The gaslight warned me of an impending crisis and after dropping off the next two moviegoers, I asked my brother to go to the gas station with me.

"Is it dangerous to get gas in a storm?" I asked as lightning flashed and thunder crashed around us.

"I don't know," he said. "Probably."

Though, the only problem we faced was downed phone lines and the inability to pay with credit. The $13 from my wallet barely moved the needle and the gaslight remained lit for several minutes.

I dropped off my brother and found a parking spot a block or so from my house, cowering under the umbrella for the short, slippery walk home. The TV was out but the phone and electricity worked. I checked the drain outside my bedroom (the cause of flooding twice last year) and set my phone alarm in case I lost electricity.

The morning dawned gray but dry. The TV came back and the morning news warned of disruption to Metro service. No Orange or Blue lines between Smithsonian and Metro Center. Buses bridged the gap, but honestly, that sounded a little too complicated and quite messy.

I decided, in all my wisdom, to drive. I called my brother and arranged to pick him up. (We work together.) Now, half the lights were out between his house and mine. Constitution was flooded. Metro out. Tourists swarmed the city. Forty-five minutes into the 6-mile drive, we were only halfway there. We were late, very, very late, but earlier than some.

Downed trees. Flooded basements. Terrible traffic.

Hours later, though, it's starting to fade. The windows are down in the Jeep in the garage downstairs; the carpet will dry (and smell for a while). The rain will come again and maybe more flooding, but for now, I see a patch of baby blue outside.


Tag: Rain Washington DC Metro

What would you do?

"You would not believe what Andy’s aunt wants me to do," Ella said as she flopped into a chair in my office. "She wants me to buy her cigarettes. She just had brain surgery. For the third time. And she wants me to buy her cigarettes. What would you do?"

"I... I really don’t know."

"We’re going over there tonight and bringing food, Eatzi's. Anyway, I guess neither her husband nor daughter will buy her cigarettes. What do I do?"

She thought for a while. I worked. She called her husband. We went outside for a cigarette (Ella smoking, me enjoying the sun).

"What would you do? I mean is there a reason she shouldn’t be smoking, that the doctors would say ‘no’?" she asked.

"Other than the fact that it’s really bad for you and doctors will automatically tell you to quit except for my doctor who says I don’t smoke enough to quit?"

"That was nice," she replied. "Yeah. There’s that. And she did just get out of surgery. Is there a reason she shouldn't be smoking? Will it get in the way of her recovery?"

Raising my brows, I shrugged.

"I know," she said.

We talked about it for a while, getting nowhere. We wished that Cha Cha had called Andy, Ella’s husband, instead of her. When Ella asked for help, he said he didn’t know what to do.

"I don’t know. Can you just buy a pack and not really give them to her? Leave them in your purse and if she wants them, she’ll just take them?"

"But if she doesn’t, what am I supposed to do with Marlboro Ultra Light Menthols?"

I shuddered and shrugged. "I don’t know, man. I don’t know."

"What am I going to do?" she asked again. "I wish I hadn’t told Andy. I could call her back and tell her to call him."

It would have been so much easier if he made the decision. It was his aunt by blood, hers by marriage and a hard decision to make in any event.

Throughout the afternoon, as we bantered back and forth, we sought an answer and realized there wasn’t a right one. Yeah, smoking kills. So does going under the knife and the woman’s had neurosurgery three times. Besides, she’s an adult; if she wants a cigarette, more power to her.

Later, working on a report that just wouldn’t work, Ella told me that she’d talked to a coworker, a psychologist, a man more well-lived than either of us.

"Don said ‘The woman just had brain surgery. If she wants a cigarette, give her one!’"

"Makes sense to me."

Later yet, Andy called. His father had called him and said "Buy Cha Cha some cigarettes" and so Ella would. We both shrugged with relief: neither one of us would have to make the call. Neither one of us would have to make the decision. Sometimes, there just isn’t a right answer.

Tag: Smoking Surgery Family Decisions

Locks of Love

"Hi, Lodi. It's me. How are you? How was graduation? I saw the pictures; where did your hair go? Give me a call back."

I pressed two to save and hung up the phone, planning to call my sister back later in the night. I was fine. Graduation was fun and my hair waits in a plastic bag on the ottoman, to be mailed to Locks of Love.

As a child, my hair was long, blond and hopelessly tangled. As I grew older, I progressed through perms (a bad idea), layers (a very bad idea), a poodle cut, long, short, curly, straight, and once, in college, a Rachel cut. During the fall of my freshman year in high school, before a varsity football game, I stepped out of the shower and wiped the steam from the mirror. Pushing my shaggy bangs out of the way, I scowled at my reflection.

The bangs dropped, blocking my sight. With growing frustration, I blew it off my forehead and reached for a pair of scissors and started cutting. With each crunch of the blades, my bangs got shorter until I could see again. And shorter yet as I tried to straighten the mess I made.

By the time I finished and my hair dried, I had a fringe of bangs. These were not the days of fringed bangs. These were the days of big, billowing helmets of hair, lacquered with aerosol hairsprays, ozone be damned. My fringe preceded the trend by about a decade and set me apart at Cambridge High School. Tugging the hair did nothing to help and I decided to quit with the cutting. Temporarily.

By the following spring, the bangs fell to the tip of my nose, and the rest of my hair spilled down my back. One steamy night in Mexico, on spring break with the Spanish Club, Terry, Noelle and I wandered down to the front desk of our hotel.

"Do you have any scissors?" Terry asked. The hotelier stared at us blankly. We struggled with our limited vocabulary. (Noelle and I were only three quarters of the way through our first year.) "Tiene usted algo… scissors?"

That didn't help. We pantomimed cutting motions, with two fingers swinging wildly. "Tiene usted?" Finally, a lightbulb moment and the guy got it. "Tijeras!" He disappeared into an office and returned with a pair of dull rusting scissors. "Those will work. Gracias!"

We scampered back to the room and Terry took the clippers to my hair, lopping off about eight inches. One would think I learned my lesson, but I liked the new, shorter hair and the fact that it had been cut with rusty scissors in a hotel bathroom in Mexico. I liked the drama. The shock factor. The look on my mother's face when I got off the plane.

Eventually, it all grew out and eventually, I started to equate drastic haircuts with life change. It might have been reading Deenie, by Judy Blume. It might have been learning about the slash and burn method of farming – getting rid of the old to make way for the new. Maybe it was just me.

Whatever it was, over the years, the tie deepened and I found myself in an endless cycle of growth and shedding. Graduation from high school, from college. Moving to Colorado. Losing 70 pounds. Leaving Colorado. 8, 10, 12 inches at a time. Gone. New hair for a new life.

When I started at my current job, four and a half years ago, my hair fell well below my shoulders. (Honestly, I could have modeled for a painting of Eve; it was long enough to hide my considerable assets.) I decided to cut again. My life had changed again. This time, though, I decided to do something with it and I planned on Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces for financially disadvantaged children. Or, as I like to say, they make wigs for kids with cancer.

Early one Saturday morning, I met my sister and the kids at my brother-in-law's barbershop. Marvin took up the scissors and a handful of long, thick hair. I heard the crunching and watched the kids faces, my sister's eyes widening. The men in the shop stared and I saw the thought streaming through their minds, flashing across their faces. "What is the little white girl doing?"

In minutes, he was done: My hair reduced to a chin-length bob. I loved it but it wasn't quite straight. The more Marvin tried to even the locks, the shorter it got. I told him to leave it. I'd stop someplace on the way home just to even up the back. And, after an afternoon at Frying Pan Park, with my sister, the kids and a farm full of animals, I stopped at the Hair Cuttery by my house. The stylist asked what I wanted.

"I really just want it straightened up. It's a little uneven in the back."

She took one look at my hair and proceeded to cut layers into my already short mop. (Marvin had cut off more than 16 inches.)

"I know you're not going to like it," she smugly declared as she clipped, "But the layers will give it more body."

My hair, my thick, unruly hair, did not need more body. It needed a bit of evening. I watched, speechless as she cut the shortest layer to no more than two inches, crown to tip. I wanted to cry. Instead, I paid. I even tipped the crazy woman and I stumbled out to my Jeep. I drove home and sat on the couch for a while, watching a blank TV.

Overcome, I wandered back downstairs and into the shower where the running water released my tears. I pulled on my hair between the bouts of weeping and gnashing of teeth and stood under the stream until the water turned cold. I dressed and toweled my very short hair.

I climbed back into the Jeep and drove straight to Whole Foods. The vitamin aisle. I grabbed a bottle of folic acid, on sale for only $3.99, and started popping them in the parking lot. I prayed that the power of prenatal vitamins would work on my hair. Four weeks later, it was almost long enough to tuck behind my ears and I had beautiful, long nails.

Eventually, it grew back. All of it. And I almost laughed at my overreaction to the mushroom cloud of hair. Almost. A couple of years later, I did it again. 12 inches. After an initial fear of becoming "fat girl with short hair", I realized that I liked my hair short. So did the boys. That might have colored my opinion as I found myself on date after date before ending up with my boyfriend.

My hair grew out. I pigtailed it. Ponytailed. Barretted. Twisted. Clipped. The boy disappeared; the hair kept growing. Another boy appeared and still it grew. Driving me nuts: both of them. Eventually, he left, too, and I decided to cut my hair. I kept a ruler in the bathroom, measuring before work. After work. Before bed.

One Monday, two weeks ago, give or take a little, I had had enough. I made an appointment, went in and chopped my hair. Gone. All of it. The next day at work, some of my coworkers did double or triple takes. Others had seen it before, the shock worn off but not completely gone. My brother stared at me in astonishment.

"You look 10 years younger. You look 14," he said, math obviously not his strong suit, as I am well past 24. Then, again. I was carded for cigarettes that night.

When I went to Seattle for the graduation, my cousins gaped at me. "Where did your hair go?"

I laughed. I liked the reaction. I liked shocking people but I didn't think much about it. I had done it before. I will do it again. After the ceremony, though, curled up on the couch with an aunt and a couple of cousins, I did think about it.

My aunt Becky has two more treatments of chemotherapy. Under a scarf, her luxurious locks reduced to stubble. Her brows were gone. She mused aloud as to what her hair would look like when it grew back. Under the scarf, short, soft curls poked through the stubble.

My hair still waits in a plastic bag on the ottoman, to be mailed to Locks of Love. My intentions might not be pure – I like me with short hair and I like shocking people – but the outcome is true. Some child might feel a little more confident, more comfortable, more normal with a wig from my hair. Crazy.


Tag: Hair Locks of Love

Girls with balls

When the phone rang, I picked up and stepped up in a single fluid motion. I headed toward the door and out of the loud bar. After chatting a minute or two, exchanging pleasantries, giving our current status (“I’m heading into the gym” and “I’m at RFD”) the boy on the other end asked if I wanted to go to the Romanian embassy for some event.

“Oh, tonight?” I asked. “I’d love to but I’m going to a basketball game, a WNBA game.”

“Really? I don’t know that anyone was a fan,” he replied.

Stereotypes. Despite our best intentions, we’ve all got them. When a friend asked me if I wanted to go to a WNBA game, my first reaction was “Hell, no.” Fortunately, I stopped myself before seriously offending this friend of mine and agreed.

“Oh, yeah. I’m not. A friend of a friend plays for Charlotte. I said I’d go.”

I could not remember the last time that I’d been to a women’s basketball game. Definitely high school. Maybe high school. I must have seen a girls’ game in high school. I had friends on the team but I spent most of my time with the boys. Go figure. I definitely saw a game or two in junior high.

Nevertheless, despite my lack of exposure, I had some definite ideas about women’s basketball and I was sure that it wasn’t something I would enjoy.

Then, again, my feelings might have colored by a flight to Hawaii years ago. The 23-year-old me found herself sitting next to a young, attractive, single lawyer from Chicago. We chatted easily – his brother would be meeting him in a couple of days. (He’d gotten sick and ended up in the hospital. The lawyer debated canceling the trip but decided to go alone.) I was flying out to meet a friend from Colorado and her son. We were staying on the same island, the Big Island, not far from each other.

Moments before takeoff, a short, round woman scurried up from the back of the plane and tapped his shoulder.

“Would you mind trading me seats?” she asked. “I’m traveling with her [gesturing across the aisle] and we’d really like to sit together.”

Being a nice, young, attractive lawyer he acquiesced and I found myself next to the evil, evil woman from the back of the plane. A fan of women’s basketball. She and her friend from across the aisle were headed to Hawaii to watch a tournament. Harrumph.

I was definitely not looking forward to last week’s game. I didn’t really know what was going on at the Romanian embassy, but short of torture, it had to be better than women’s basketball. But I had committed and I would go.

My $10 ticket in a club level seat was well worth the price of admission. The fans were sparse compared to a men’s game but terribly devoted. Attentive. Loud. Having fun. The players seemed to be having fun as well and as the friend of my friend rolled around on the floor, fighting for possession and forcing a jump ball, she laughed hard and long.

After the game, we met up with the players and the coach Muggsy Bogues. We saw them close up, these professional players, these women ranging in height from 5’6” to 6’7” and in weight from 145 to 220 (according to the stats sheet). Some of them were absolutely gorgeous and even with a Charlotte loss, they smiled broadly and met their fans with grace and ease.

It wasn’t what I expected. They weren’t what I expected nor were the fans or the game itself.

I’m glad I went.

Days later, I found myself at another girls’ basketball game. In Seattle for a high school graduation, I joined my aunt and uncle in cheering on my 15-year-old cousin at her summer league game. She played after two hours of private lessons, her third game in two days. Her life revolves around basketball and she plays on two or three teams, taking private lessons, training with her high school. I hope she makes it.


Tag: WNBA Basketball

Curiosity

I seem to have completely lost my curiosity. I'm not sure where I went but I know I had it a week or two ago. I believe I may have defenestrated it alongside my motivation.

Yesterday, on the way back to the office, I made my way through masses of people to the Metro elevator and it took me a second to realize that the masses of people were not the normal masses of people.

Groups of toddlers led the way, holding hands with each other and the occasional grown up, four and five across the sidewalk.

Adults pushing cribs followed with four, five babies in each. Some of the older babies leaned against the Plexiglas on the end, others held the bars at the sides. The youngest just lolled about in the crib.

More children, a little older but still holding hands.

Badged and ID'd adults followed. They seemed to be DHS but I really couldn't tell. I was a little dazed by the crowd, the kids, the cribs.

From a distance I heard a siren and saw a fire truck pull up a block or two away. And then another.

Adults continued to stream past, up Seventh Street toward the Mall, past the L'Enfant Metro elevator. Hordes pushed up the steps into the grassy area between the tracks and C Street SW. They may have been heading to the Orville Wright building. Or is it Wilbur? I always forget.

I missed the end of the presumably unplanned parade. I never did figure out from whence the came or where they were going. I never figured out why there were masses of kids, cribs and adults with badges rolling up the street.

Honestly, I forgot about it until I arrived in the office this morning and someone else was talking about it.

"It sounds like one of those times you wish you had your camera," a coworker observed.

It should have been but as I said, I've defenestrated the curiosity. Much like the motivation. Ambition. I hope they return. Life's a little boring without them.


Tag: Curiosity Washington DC

Trying it on for size

"Really, I'll probably just stay on this floor," I protested when he offered, for the fifth or sixth time, to show me how to use the very big TV downstairs. "I won't even go down there."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yeah. Really. I don't use much space… My entire apartment would fit in your kitchen."

He shook his head, somewhat disappointed in my seeming lack of interest. To be honest, I wasn't disinterested, just overwhelmed. I grew up in a big house, a very big house, but this was something altogether different. Newer. More opulent. More extreme.

On paper, it doesn't sound all that impressive. Four bedrooms. Not exactly an overabundance of sleeping space for a family of four but it could have been a seven-bedroom house. One became an exercise room. Two more combined to make a playroom for the kids. And all of the bedrooms, including the exercise room, were bigger than my "master bedroom" at home. Honestly, I think they were bigger than my living room.

Five and a half baths or was it five and two halves? I lost count. Two refrigerators. Two washer/dryer combinations. Two sinks in the kitchen (one closer to the dining room for washing up, the other near the stove for preparing meals on the six burner range). Two driveways. A pantry twice the size of my kitchen.

And the yard? Slate steps wound from both the front and back down the hill to a field bordered by creek and trees. A soccer net. A basketball hoop. Decks overlooked them all. So much space. So much money. So much… everything.

Later, after they left, and I settled into my house and dog/cat/fish sitting gig, I thought about it.

"I want a big house," I whined to myself. I took the dogs down to the yard and let them run, looking back at the house glowing brightly on the hill. I considered what it would be like to live there, all grown up with a husband and kids of my own. Two dogs, running in the yard. A cat, curling up on the chair. A solitary fish in a tank on the counter next to school papers waiting to be taped to the stainless steel fridge.

I pretended for a minute, an hour, a day that it was mine. My pictures on the wall. My dogs, my family.

Saturday morning, I continued to think about it as I drove to West Virginia and sat through my niece's ballet recital. I laughed. I clapped. I think I hooted once or twice but did I want that life? Ballet recitals? Soccer practice? Big houses and bigger yards. Lawn mowers. Extra washers. Radon tests and floor treatment.

The fish died over the weekend, standing on its head for a while. Lips to rocks, tail to sky before flipping to its back for the belly up float. Rising slowly to the top of the tank. I didn't know if I should flush it. Toss it into the woods. Wait for the family. Replace it. (Though, I knew if I flushed and replaced it, the dead fish would somehow find its way back to the toilet bowl traumatizing one or both of the kids.)

One of the dogs threw up in the middle of the night. I crawled out of the bed at the sound and looked at the mess. I threw myself back on the bed with my arm over my eyes. Five minutes. Ten. I got up and cleaned the mess. Patted the miserable dog and spent the night worrying about her, tossing and turning in bed.

By Sunday, I just wanted to go home. I missed my life, walking to the market for pancakes on Saturday morning. Walking to the bar for beer on Saturday night. Curling up with a book at the park on the corner. I curled up with a book and the dogs on the deck but it wasn't the same. I was alone.

I didn't want to drive anywhere. I didn't want to eat any more junk food. (House with kids = house with food Kristin likes but would never, in a million years, buy). I was tired from all that quiet and all that noise, the dogs' labored breathing, worrying about the fish, worrying about the cat. Did I lock the door? Would I lock myself out?

Later that night, as I crawled into bed to the sound of the neighbor baby crying and sirens wailing, I grumbled softly and smiled, happy to be home.


Tag: Housesitting

So bad yet so good

French fries. One more beer. Shoes and jeans and trips to Alaska, Turkey and Chile within weeks of each other. Boys with angelic faces, devilish grins and a trail of broken hearts. So bad yet so good.

There’s cake in the kitchen at work. A big, beautiful Twinkie-tasting sheet cake and it is, or rather was, a whole sheet. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your perspective, only 10 of us showed up for the bimonthly birthday blowout (read: cake, ice cream and soda) in the medium conference room. Ten people. Out of 45. To eat a whole, friggin’ sheet cake.

I don’t even like cake.

Nevertheless, I ate a piece. An unhealthily huge (at least, bigger than my fist) edge piece with loads of icing and a dollop of butter pecan ice cream. Again, I don’t even like cake, but why let that stop me?

Later, despite an overly full stomach and a raging sugar high, I found myself cruising the kitchen considering another piece. Three times. For the love of all things holy, why?! (Note: I didn't actually eat more cake. I just thought about it enough to leave my office, walk to the kitchen and look at it.)

My obsession with cake made me think of Sex and the City and the episode where Miranda dug the last piece of chocolate cake out of the trash. She knew it was wrong.

“Your good friend has just taken a piece of cake out of the garbage and eaten it. You will probably need this information when you check me into the Betty Crocker Clinic.”

She knew she shouldn’t eat it – that’s why it was in the trash – but even the trashcan didn’t prove a strong enough deterrent. It happened in Seinfeld, with George and the éclair, and I've got to admit – I have been there, working late, starving and thinking about a sub in the trash.

“It’s wrapped in paper... And plastic… And really there’s only paper in that trashcan. It’s not like it’s dirty or anything... It’s just veggies… And it’s wrapped in paper… And plastic.”

Scary, scary thoughts.

Obviously, the trash is not enough. Some things just need to be ruined.

Years ago, my friend Melanie, a disciple of the good doctor, Atkins, ordered a burger and a side salad. Somehow, she ended up with fries. She ate the meat, the pile of lettuce and proceeded to demolish the bun and fries. Vinegar. An entire shaker of salt. Ketchup. Mustard. Sugar.

I think she might have added Sweet and Low, but by that point I had stopped watching. (I actually cowered a little behind the drink menu in light of her maniacal and methodical removal of temptation.) I was simultaneously impressed and revolted.

Most of the time, I try to avoid extremes. Eat what I want, within reason. Drink what I want, within reason. I moved from the 'burbs, in part, to make exercise a part of my daily life. (Even on a bad day, I have to walk at least a mile for work.)

Granted, I’ve yo-yoed from a size 14 to a size four and back again and am currently somewhere in the middle. I have been addicted to the treadmill and addicted to Little Debbie’s snack cakes. Simultaneously, for a while. (One let me enjoy the other.)

These days, I just want balance. I like how I look. I like eating what I want. I think that cutting anything out entirely will just make me want it more. It's true of food. It's true of travel and things and boys with bad reputations.

I have figured out how to eat in moderation. I have figured out how to balance my budget and prioritize the things and trips and experiences I want. I haven't quite figured out the boys but I'm working on it. Maybe I can find my own vinegar, salt and sugar combination.

Then, again, maybe every once in a while, it’s okay to indulge.


Tag: Moderation Indulging Cake Self control

Breakup breakdowns

I jinxed myself, writing about the metro breakdown. I know I did. And I don't know how to fix it. Actually, that's the point of at least a couple of my breakdown stories from this week. Not knowing how to fix it.

I just finished Ethan Hawke's first book, Hottest State. I picked it up over the weekend. I had just finished watching Hawke's movie with Angelina Jolie, Taking Lives, and I knew he could act. I just didn't know if he could write.

"You read fast," my favorite bookseller said. He hadn't read either book by Hawke. "You might as well give it a try."

Not exactly a glowing endorsement, but I added it to my stack and bought it anyway. When I finished the Garrison Keiller I started Saturday (trying to get in the mood for the upcoming A Prairie Home Companion), I picked up the Hottest State. I didn't put it down again until I finished the acknowledgements.

The book earned mixed reviews and honestly, just 20-some hours after finishing, I hesitate to speak to its quality as a piece of writing, but the content resonated. It hit home. The desperation. The frustration. The seeming randomness of falling in and out of love.

Briefly, narrator fell in love with a girl. The relationship moved quickly and ended even more quickly. He didn't know why; it really happened without him. He broke down. He went a little nuts with calling, romantic gestures, trying to fix it.

While reading, I pictured Jon Favreau in Swingers, calling and calling and calling the girl he met in the club. The machine cut him off. The words didn't come out right. He kept trying, seeming to think, "If I call one more time, I'll get it right. I'll find the words to fix it, to make everything better."

In the book, the narrator escaped to the movies to stop calling. Twelve times. In three days. (Number of movies, not calls.) Excessive, maybe, but I understood the urge to remove oneself from temptation.

Please step away from the phone.

"Why don't you want to go out?" the Albanian asked over and over and over again before I stopped answering.

"I think that you want more from a relationship than I'm willing to give."

"Why don't we go out and talk about it?"

I didn't want to go out. Period. He called hundreds of times over the next two months, calling me at work, hanging up without leaving a messaging and calling back until I answered. All that after one date. One. Who knew I could have that effect on men?

Thinking about the calling, I realized that in movies, in books, in popular culture, only men seemed to do the crazy constant calling, the obsession, the passion. Looking back on my own life, I realized that I had seen the same: Men only.

Did women not call? Did they just not talk about it? I asked a friend. She said she did it once or rather in one relationship (many calls). Years later, after receiving a slew of "Why don't you want to talk about it?" and "What's wrong with me?" and "How can I make things right?" calls, she realized what she had done and that she would never do it again.

I understood the impulse. I have been tempted. If I could just call, text, email, stop by, rent a skywriting plane, I would find the words to fix it. I could explain; I could persuade. I could make things right. I'd take back all the words that have hurt you and you'd stay.

Or maybe I just wanted to turn back time. And I admit the impulse comes with a momentary flash of Superman spinning the world back on its axis, taking back the words, the actions, everything, anything, if only the breakdown and crazy calling.


Tag: Hottest State Swingers Breakup Breakdown