Mal du Monde

Margie called me this afternoon about plans for my birthday. I croaked weakly at her. "You sound sick. Are you sick?" she asked me, rather huffily I thought. "You're never sick."

"Well, I'm sick now," I said.

"That's no excuse," Margie remarked unsympathetically. "What do you have, swine flu? You swine."

Could I get some chicken soup with that?

Here are the top ten things you should not do whilst recuperating from swine flu:

10. Pick at the scabs on your slowly-healing heart - this is always highly contraindicated, but especially when you're suffering your own personal pandemic. (Doesn't that sound like a menu offering at Pizza Hut? Granted, a fairly gross one - but we are talking Pizza Hut here.)

9. Go to work. You have to anyway, because if you're out more than three days in a row you have to bring a doctor's note, and I'm not paying $20 to sit around in a waiting room full of people with much worse infections than mine, only to be told to stay home and drink plenty of fluids (NOT vodka) and get some sleep, which I already knew. So if you come to my office, be sure and wear a gas mask. Otherwise, you're going DOWN, pal.

8. Take your kids to visit your ex-mother-in-law in the hospital. She's fine, except she has a cracked vertebra from being hit by a VW bus while trying to retrieve a cardboard garage sale sign from the median near a major intersection. However, 30 minutes into our visit, she got a phone call from her daughter-in-law, who brusquely informed her that she has a staph infection and visitors aren't allowed into her room without gowning up. Now, the nurses hadn't mentioned this, and she does have a (gownless) roommate, who also had a (gownless) visitor while we were there.

Frankly, it was too much for my feeble brain and I just decided our visit had been about long enough anyway; but I'm still scratching my head over that one, or would be, except I'm frightened of getting my hands that close to my face.

7. Be the parent of an equally sick child. I'm sorry, but frankly this is just irresponsible. When you're sick, you really can't afford to be up all night bringing water and comfort to a coughing, feverish infant. So cut it out.

6. Read the weekly wildflower report for the state's recorded information line. Your voice sounds all husky from the sore throat, and you'll only give the traveling public the wrong idea.

5. Permit a cool front to bring a line of thunderstorms across the region where you live, dropping temperatures by 15 degrees and reawakening all the mold, cedar and pollen which thought spring was over and were all ready for a long summer's nap, therefore bringing about the worst allergy attack you've suffered in years. That was a dumb-ass thing to do.

4. Entertain Bill Gates with your karaoke stylings.

3. Go to the roller rink with your best friend. This isn't so bad in and of itself, but you need to go when the place isn't full of preteens, because preteens do not fear death, and therefore aren't nearly as frightened of 75-mph collisions as you are. Feel that funny thing your heart is doing? That's probably not good.

2. Plan the mother of all happy hours for your 40th birthday this coming Friday, itself merely a precursor to a full night of debauchery in Austin and a Memorial Day weekend of alcohol-fueled madness in Corpus. I have friends coming in from at least four different cities for the event. I don't think it'll be a proper party unless at least someone gets arrested, as long as that someone is not me, because the number one thing you should never, ever, ever do whilst H1N1ing your sick little ass into next week?

1. Go to jail!

On the other hand, I have been pretty badly in need of blog fodder lately.

Rain Bath Aftermath

And so life returns to normal - such as it is.

Yesterday, Tony took Anna and me to the turtle pond at UT. Oddly, I don't remember ever noticing it before, although I must have walked past it nearly every day when I was at school; it presumably existed before I was born, having been dedicated in memory of the 1966 shootings.

Sometimes when you are very sad and missing someone, almost everything reminds you of them. But the fact that the 1966 shootings fall so squarely into that category really ought to give me pause.

Walking back to the car after our excursion, Tony and I passed a guy heading the other way down the sidewalk. He was holding a plastic container slightly above him, at arm's length. "Would you like some Chex Mix?" he inquired as our paths crossed.

I'm not sure what you're supposed to say to this, unless you're unusually hungry. Tony and I politely declined and waited until we were out of earshot to begin snickering in bewildered amusement. Chex Mix: it's not just for people you know!

Back at work today, I sent an email Tony told me not to. It's unlikely ever to get read anyway. Maybe it's the darkness and the rain that make my heart so heavy.

There is bad news about Debby - not that it can really get worse than it already is. Her pain has increased enough that she's now drugged pretty much out of her head. This is probably kinder, as the inside of her head can't be a very fun place anymore, and I guess I'm glad I got to visit and say goodbye while she was still completely lucid. Her little girl has finally been told, which is - well, not good exactly. What could be good? Life is so short, and so often filled with unnecessary hurt, isn't it? Where there's life, there should be hope. But some things are hopeless.

At work, staff photographer Kevin gave me a sneak preview of all the pictures from conference, though I can only look at them, can't have 'em, until he does some editing. And he told me a story. Our CVB contact at conference came up to him Thursday, in his slouchy driver's hat (remember those? In the early 80's, when I was a mere slip of a girl, my more stylish classmates wore those in smart red satin that matched their lip gloss) and said to him, brusquely - she's cute, competent, and lots of fun, this girl, but her manner is very abrupt - "I like your hat. I knew a guy who used to wear a hat like that. But he died." Then she walked away.

Kevin was speechless. If only someone had approached him immediately afterward to offer him some Chex Mix.

I still wish... But what can you wish for? Life is normal, which is to say, as good as you make it. I would kind of like some Chex Mix, though.

Chocolate Bunnies

Life is too short for holding grudges, for unkindness, for ill-will, for being mean. Life is just too short for - well, life's too short, and then you die.

Jim's sister, two years older than I am, has been diagnosed with a second form of blood cancer, in addition to the leukemia whose recurrence was diagnosed in November. It's not just "leukemia" - there are different types, and Jim's mom mentioned the name, but I don't remember what it was. She was cured a couple of years ago, after receiving a bone marrow transplant from Jim's stem cells. But cancer, like the cat, came back. She's far too weakened from double pneumonia (a little "oops" from her chemotherapy) for them to treat the new problem. It's not likely she has much time.

So Jim's family gathered in Houston for Easter, and I went with Jim and my daughters to see Debby. She was the one who introduced us in the first place. I used to work with her, at Sematech, in the 1990's. Cute girl, outgoing, exubuerant, lots of pretty, curly, dark hair, but she was in a lousy situation: waiting for a lease to expire, she was still living with a guy who had broken up with her, so the juxtaposition of our situation on hers is a little ironic, maybe. Short as it may be, life abounds with odd little coincidences. Jim's family has not been told we have been (to all intents and purposes) separated for years now, though obviously they've noticed I never show up for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or other family gatherings. They were surprised to see me for Easter.

Unmercifully, her brain remains clear and alert, though her physical body has become a liability. She can't speak, because she had a tracheostomy to get her through the pneumonia. Her skin is dry, flaking, blistering. She can barely use her hands: they are weak, and shake uncontrollably. She uses a suction tube frequently to remove bile from her mouth. She's in diapers. There are tubes into her nose, her throat, and her arms. But when Jim bumbles into the room, knocking over the box of surgical masks by the door and blowing into his gloves in a ridiculously futile effort to get them comfortably onto his hands, she laughs.

Her 9-year-old daughter hasn't been told that her mom won't be getting better and coming home this time. Debby asked her next younger sister to break the news. Of course, the little girl knows - people know things. This is one reason it's always better to be honest. She refuses to go to the hospital to visit, and it's not hard to understand.

Visiting is hard. It's hard to act normal, to talk cheerfully in a surgical mask and latex gloves, to someone who looks like a caricature of the someone you once went out clubbing with. But it's stupid to talk about little else besides the amusing fart noises you can make with the gloves. So I talk about the kids playing in mud puddles after the freaky Easter morning rainstorm, or about how once I was forced to sit through Oprah and Oprah brought a puppy on her show and proved herself to be, beyond question, the single most annoying human being on the face of the earth. Occasionally Debby tries to join in the conversation and I can't understand her. Cracking a joke? Asking for her blanket? Needing the nurse? Debby is frustrated.

But goodbye is the awful part. I do understand when Debby mouths, "You can go, you don't have to stay." It's late and we have to drive back to Austin. How horrible to leave her there to the nurses and to the sad little thing her life has become. No one deserves this, no one. Debby was a demanding patient from the very first, before she really got sick, tending to overstate her pain and even - to use her own phrase - "playing the leukemia card" to get her way, and the nurses know this. So now, they take their time answering the frequent summons from her call button, and are a bit brusque when they deal with her. I feel like shaking them.

We say goodbye and she cries, and Katie and I cry though we've been trying really hard to project good cheer. "I love you so much, I love you so much," she is whispering. We tell her we love her, and blow kisses - you can't touch her - and leave, stripping off our gloves and masks, to reenter the normal world outside the hospital doors where the bright afternoon sun is setting, where Debby can't go. Driving back to Austin, I glanced at the speedometer several times to find I was pegging ninety. I get to leave.

Life's too short. But knowing that isn't enough.

I Can't Get No Respect

My elaborate road-trip plans having fallen through today, due to softball tournaments that did not (despite all the frogs in the known universe) get rained out, late-night drinking binges, parental visits, emergency haircuts, and other reasons not particularly worth going into, transpire (read it again, it actually does make grammatical sense), Tony and his friend Josh took me out to lunch today at Magnolia. I'd already eaten.

You can always find something worth having at Magnolia Cafe, though. This is one of the very first echt-Austin establishments I was taken to, at the tender age of 17, by my then-30-year-old boyfriend, when I was a little freshman newbie to Austin and he was the creature of the world, showing me the ropes of the place. At that time, I remember, Magnolia Cafe had a mural depicting (among other things) Superman with a Hitler mustache. I expect that was meant to be a Nietzsche reference. Whatever it was, it's gone now.

So today I had cottage cheese and a flamingo sandwich (tomatoes, avocadoes, swiss cheese, and alfalfa sprouts on grilled whole wheat bread - I removed the sprouts), and the boys had more substantial fare, and polished off my discarded alfalfa sprouts, to boot. They're big muscle men. Of course.

Then we went to Redbud Island. I've lived in Austin - and adored it with my whole heart, which probably goes without saying - for about 23 years now, minus the year I spent back with my parents in northern Virginia, and the two years I had the insane notion of living in Corpus because it has a beach. I'll tell you what: rotting seaweed, dirty sand, the occasional stinging jellyfish, and zero nightlife make for a lousy beach. Go for the weekend, if you will. Several of us will be down there, getting drunk and possibly less-legally impaired, and painting the town some chic and unexpected color, for my 40th birthday in May. But live there? I can't recommend it.

Redbud Island is really nice. I would have liked to be led to know beforehand that we were going, because it's a beautiful leash-free park with decomposed granite trails, plentiful poison ivy, gorgeous rock-studded river vistas, and joyful, exuberant, incredibly wet dogs, and I was in a skirt and high heels. No matter: the views are incredible and the atmosphere is so relaxed. Tony, Josh and I climbed around for a bit, then settled ourselves on a bench in the tree-dappled sunshine, some twenty feet from the water's edge. A guy was resting at the shore about fifteen feet in front tossing sticks to his slightly oblivious dog, which I don't think ever actually retrieved anything. We chatted in desultory fashion about dogs, animals, turtles (Tony's pet of choice), cats, and things that sneak in through the pet door, such as raccoons and possums.

"Oh, you have to watch out for them," chimed in the guy sitting by the water with his dog, "they can be really vicious!"

We got to talking about parallel parking (finding parking at Redbud involved, I might mention, rather a significant amount of obscenity from Tony, despite his Lenten vows); and Josh - about 10-12 years younger than Tony and me - said that he never had trouble, because his Jetta's side mirrors automatically adjusted to point at the curb when he parallel-parked. Tony and I were slightly outraged. When we were his age, we didn't have amenities like that.

"Did they even have cars when you were my age?" Josh teased me; but before I could wind up for a proper smacking, the guy on the shore turned around. "Oh, they did," he said, "but they were the kind where you had to stick your feet out the bottom and run."

Oh! No! You! Di!N'T!!!!!!

We left the park - me, flowing skirt, high heels and all - and got a latte at Mozart's on Lake Austin. Where this thing happened, about which I am about (are you ready?) to blog.

Tony and Josh and I had coffeehouse drinks, and as I was polishing off my iced latte, enjoying the cool early spring weather, a guy at a neighboring table got up to walk inside, but turned and gave me a brief, but fairly dark, significant and serious Look.

"Oh my God," I said to Tony, as the guy walked away and went inside, "that guy is really cute."

Tony turned and looked. "That guy," he said calmly, "looks an awful lot like (you-know-who, dammit)."

"Oh. Shit," I said, putting my head in my hands, because the guy (who didn't really look all that much like him, but had that certain quality of Somethingness by which we tend to group the people we meet in our heads, thereby figuring out in quick order how to deal with them) was unarguably of that type. He looked a bit like a loner, like the type of guy that people tend to misunderstand: intelligent, capable of great insight and humor, defensive, and (as far as my experience goes), perhaps not entirely sane.

Whatever that means. Like I'm claiming I am.

I thought of Agatha Christie, and Miss Marple, and was talking about this still when our neighbor returned to his seat. "Miss Marple's theory," I was explaining, "was that there are really only a fairly limited number of Types of people in the world; and that therefore, as you become older, and get to meet more and more people - however limited the society you live in - you get to recognize and understand them, and to predict the way that the new people you meet will behave, based on the way the people they remind you of have acted in the past.

"And therefore," I went on - probably within earshot of this incredibly fascinating guy, who on second examination did not look that much at all like the person he reminded me of, "we should go ahead and leave, maybe now."

Which we did. As we walked out I turned back briefly and caught his gaze again, and there was that brief electric shock again. Hello, I thought. I had someone to psychologically torture me, and I seem to be fresh out. How about you?

I need a road trip. NOW.

Religious Leanings

Robbie gave up alcohol for Lent, which means that although we have every bit as much fun running around being crazy as we ever did, we feel a lot less shitty the next morning.

Last night we stopped by Tony's house. "What'd you give up?" Robbie asked him.

(Why do I know so many Catholics?)

"I gave up negativity," said Tony, and again it's a good thing we weren't having wine or some would have come out my nose. Not because Tony has been particularly negative - not at all. I just instantly pictured Easter service as being a great deal more interesting. Perhaps, when it comes time to give the peace to your neighbor, instead of shaking hands or hugging, he'll flip them off or punch them.

Then again, who hasn't wanted to do that?! Hug me, willya... I don't even know you, you damn Jesus freak! I'm just here to keep the in-laws quiet. It may also be worth mentioning at this point that a few years ago, when I first knew Tony, he suffered a badly broken leg from tripping while trying to outrun some little kids at an Easter-egg hunt.

I guess I gave up 3-martini breaks for Lent, although the timing wasn't exact, and I know I won't get them back at Easter. This is one of the disadvantages of not being religious, although getting to sleep in on Sundays outweighs almost every other drawback I can think of.

My cube neighbor's father passed away week before last. This coworker has been such a kind friend to me. I haven't talked to anyone about what, specifically, was going on, but it's obvious enough I've been very down; and he's been so sweet and sympathetic, not asking any questions, but has lent me everything from a book of funny animal pictures to money (when I mentioned in passing that I'd like to go out to dinner with the field office coworker who was in town for training, but that it was the end of the month - state employees get paid once a month, on the first - and believe me, that's a comment I won't be letting drop again!) He just got back late last week, and I was very glad to see him. But he hugged me, and the first thing he said to me was, "How've you been? Have you got your smile back?" I mean, my gosh, his father. I felt awful.

But we were talking, later, and I asked how he was doing, and he said that he was fine as long as he kept remembering how his dad is in a better place now. "It frustrated him so much, towards the end," he said, "being sick, being immobile, not being able to do the things he used to do. I'm fine as long as I remember that he's able to do those things again now. He's better off, now, he's happier."

This is real comfort. When you aren't religious, you don't have that. Death is nothing but loss - relief, perhaps, if there's been suffering; but really the only positive thing about it is an end to pain. In the case of tragic, senseless, untimely death, you've really got nothing. How do you face the losses that rip your heart out, or the certainty that there will be more losses like them in your future, or your own eventual horrifying mortality, without faith? But you can't base your beliefs on the way you want the world to be, either. What do you do?

So far the best answer I've come up with is not to think about it as much as possible, and let's put that down as reason #126,974 not to give up alcohol for Lent. As for Easter eggs, you're on your own. Watch out for Tony!

I Just Want to be Left Alone

Well, geesh. So much for spring.

One of the advantages of cold, gray, drizzly days is that I get the hike-and-bike trail largely to myself; and one of the disadvantages of the hike-and-bike trail is that it makes an excellent backdrop for local-news lifestyle stories, student movies, and TV commercials. Fine. Great if you happen to be involved in producing such a venture, as you have a beautiful, free resource at your fingertips. Not so great if you're a miserable peon like myself, who can't even go for a brisk lunch hour stroll without occasionally getting filmed - and not at your prettiest either. Who wants to appear on camera sweaty, flushed, and in gym clothes? After the fourth or fifth time this happens, you start to understand exactly where Sean Penn is coming from.

Today a good-sized crew was filming a commercial under the South First bridge, so there was a motorcycle cop stationed in the road to keep people from driving onto the set, and a cute guy deflecting approaching pedestrians.

I cooperated and stepped aside to wait, uncomplainingly,* though I really don't see how these people get off just co-opting the whole trail at will. The jogger twenty seconds behind me was much less tolerant. "How am I supposed to run then? Huh?!" he demanded, not unreasonably I thought, then jogged angrily off towards the street. Fortunately the take really was just as quick as the cute guy said it would be, so I was back on my way within two minutes. The jogger overtook me several seconds later, still looking pissed off. Bet he was straight. I should have run after him.

Nah, I'm just kidding: no offense to any joggers who happen to be reading. I just don't believe habitual runners are entirely normal.**

For me at least, excessive physical activity is the sign of a deeply distressed mind: I can't sit still for long, but have to get up and move, walk about, pace, like a caged animal. Misery makes a great weight-loss aid. (Unless you're a comfort eater.) I'm not talking about a dull, throbbing ache, or a sense of general purposelessness, or angst or mere ennui: no, but I've always found that sharp emotional anguish does wonders for my figure.

But it doesn't last... mercifully, I suppose. Before you even know it, and long before you would have thought it was possible, the world begins to look normal again and you go most of a week simply forgetting to be unhappy. First you have to go through all the Official Stages™ of Grief: Denial, Anger, Sorrow, and finally Acceptance*** - which would be perfectly fine, if you didn't go through them in sequence five or six times during a single day, which tends to give you whiplash. But gosh darnit if life doesn't just go right along and next thing you know you can't remember quite what you were so upset about. I don't know about you, but it makes me feel a bit like Peggy Lee.

Or maybe Sean Penn. I think I'll maybe take a kickboxing class this fall. That way I'll be better equipped to deal with the film crews and photographers on the hike-and-bike.

--------
*Did I mention there was a cute guy?
**srsly. We're talking compared to me, here. You cannot possibly be offended.
***Your mileage may vary

Kissing Lessons

I'm really good at kissing. It seems simple enough; but there's a finesse to it, an art that a lot of guys just don't understand. Let your lips just brush your partner's at first; pull back slightly, whisper something sweet, laugh a little, lightly touch her face, her hair. Start off almost hesitantly - savor it. It's delicious. The anticipation of the kiss is the best part.

So what you don't do, I'm saying, is lean over and stick your tongue right down a girl's throat. Why?? do guys do this??? There's no clearer signal you can give that sex will be perfunctory and mechanical, and that the most lasting impression your partner will bring away is that your ceiling could probably stand to be painted.

I don't mean to complain, though. Last night's was my first kiss in nearly a year. It wasn't a particularly good kiss, but at least somebody wanted to kiss me. Plus it was on a boat under a starry sky on Lake Austin, which is kind of a plus. It's a start.

Lucky me, I have so many friends. You can identify them by their soggy shoulders. I've been so unhappy... Yesterday I officially made the decision to get better, although actually this past week was already a lot better than the weeks before it. Last night, Tony took me to a happy hour reunion of school buddies at Hula Hut, where we met the cute guy with the boat. It was a wonderful night for me, but I'm not sure Tony had quite such a good time: the cute guy's friend was fairly drunk and possessed of a full complement of not-entirely-intelligent opinions, upon which he expounded at great length while his friend was cuddled with me in the driver's seat, showing me how to steer. I wouldn't have gone on the boat with them without Tony. I owe him one - or more.

Robbie came down and took me bowling tonight. I probably bowled the best game I ever have, with a score of - sit down, now - over 100!!! 116, to be precise. I'll have to look into it, but I suspect that might be the highest score possible in bowling. Of course, I had to sacrifice a thumbnail. And the rental shoes didn't smell at all the way I would have liked them to.

We went to Zilker Botanical Gardens, practically overflowing with brides and photographers on this lovely sunny day, then an early dinner at Freddie's before bowling. (I like Freddie's a lot, but I don't recommend the chicken-fried steak - I finally had to spit out a wad into my napkin when it wouldn't go down after chewing on it for three minutes.)

Robbie is a better bowler than I am. Granted that being a worse one would be no small feat. One of his pins fell down and forward, into the gutter along the lane; it lay there for several frames. Finally Robbie rolled a gutter ball that hit the pin and actually kicked it up into the standing pins for the most amazing spare I've ever seen. I had to sit down for a little while. I thought about him - a serious bowler. I thought about how much he would laugh at that. I teared up.

We went to Dominican Joe, Robbie bought me a mocha, and we took our coffee to the park by Palmer and watched the water fountains spraying in their ballet of changing colors, as skaters, bicyclists, and lovers gamboled nearby under a huge earthshine-lit moon. What could be more beautiful? I'm still grieving for kisses that were never possible to begin with; why? With all the friends and love and blessings and beauty that surround me?

It does and will get better. Didn't I just say that anticipation was the best part?

Coping Mechanisms

"Did you know," called out a gnarled, homeless-looking guy with a cigarette, causing me to break stride and reluctantly take out my earbuds, "did you know that seven thousand... minus two thousand... equals five thousand?" He held up five fingers.

Um. "Yes?" I ventured, smiling.

"That's correct!" he crowed, and strode away, guffawing loudly. "Thank you!" I called after him, and put my earbuds back in and resumed my walk.

I see random people.

Walking, pacing, biking, dancing - just to keep moving, is the best cure I've ever come across for heartache. It isn't good enough, but I guess it'll have to do.

Mind you, when I say dancing, I mean dancing to music that other people can hear; I don't care how cool those old iPod commercials were, dancing to yours will only make you look like a spaz. And word to that chick on the hike-and-bike trail last week: that goes double for singing along! You know who you are.

It's also helpful to whinge to the exact same friends who have been telling me for two years that I was acting like a complete idiot and really needed to give it up and walk away already. These friends are remarkably patient with me, considering. Still, it's always nice to make new friends, if only to give the old ones a break; we wouldn't want them to get bored.

Felicia and I met through Tony a few weeks ago, and hit it off grandly. Last night I met up with her and some of her friends at the Parish for an 80's dance party. And did we dance!

Considering the theme of the evening, I was a little surprised to see so many youngsters - who were also the ones who dressed for the occasion, albeit not always with complete accuracy. There was a free intermingling of spandex with leg warmers, black lace fingerless gloves, and sequins - the 80's being represented as a big mishmash of Michael Jackson, Madonna, the Cure, Depeche Mode, AC/DC, and wait, wasn't that Fergie?! On the one hand, I was there, and the 80's were really not very much like last night. On the other hand, last night was a lot more fun.

I ache all over today. The ache inside is still worse. Distract and wait, distract and wait; keep moving, keep going, and have random conversations with questionable strangers. It has to get better eventually.

Meanwhile, put on some spandex and dance!

Unmotivated

My boss and I went down to San Antonio today for a speaker/trainer showcase: a half-day sampler of motivational speakers broken down into easily digestible, ten-minute chunks.

I mean, the presentations were broken down into ten-minute chunks. The speakers themselves seemed to be more or less physically intact, and none of them looked particularly appetizing anyway.

One of the interesting things about this format is that, when you have to go through them every ten minutes, the gimmicks speakers use to engage and involve their audience really stand out. Or stand up, as the case may be. Stand up, hold out your arms, find out a random fact about someone else in the audience, make a circle with your thumb and forefinger and put it on your chin (as the speaker places his on his cheek and half the audience does what he does instead of what he says - hilarity and enlightenment ensue), close your eyes, take three deep breaths, point in different directions, now point in the same direction, turn around, sit down, stand up, sit down, fight! fight! fight!

Conflict resolution is a popular topic for corporate trainers. It's a great topic to train on, because you can deliver inspiring platitudes all day without ever actually solving any problems, and therefore rendering your further services unnecessary.

My favorite speaker today talked about negotiation. "There are four possible outcomes to a negotiation," he said. "One, you could get everything you want and the other person could get nothing. But how often does that happen? Two, the other person could get everything they want, and you get nothing. Three, you could compromise; but if you do, how do you feel? That's right. Compromised. Or four, you can go for the win-win."

One, win-win is a myth. There's always compromise; in a relationship, you may take turns getting your own way, or you may know and care about one another enough to give on the things that matter to the other person, and stand stronger on the things that matter to you. Personally, I think that's as close enough to win-win as makes no difference. I once took a negotiation-skills class where we divided into two groups fighting over an orange crop, each needing it desperately for our own particular purpose. Of course, once the exercise was over and the groups revealed their instructions to each other, it turned out one group only needed the fruit, while the other only needed the rind. So there really never had to be any conflict at all, and if the students had only been smart enough, we'd have worked together and each of us would have gotten everything we needed for half the price we had been prepared to pay if the other guy got shut out, you see? But come on - is life ever really like that?

Two, he was wrong. The four possible outcomes are win-lose (both of his first two options were examples of that one), compromise, win-win, or lose-lose. He forgot that last one completely, but sometimes I suspect that's what happens most of all: you can't reach an agreement, your pride gets in the way, you need appeasement, the other party feels equally hurt and angry, everything goes horribly wrong, and finally, talks break down completely, nobody gets anything they want (not even what they started out with), and hope is lost forever.

Another favorite gimmick of motivational speakers is the random, unsubstantiated statistic. Did you know that 68% of customers who don't return aren't staying away because of bad customer service - they stay away because of indifferent customer service? Maybe there's a study somewhere that backs this up, but the speaker didn't cite it. I've been leery of statistics like this ever since a trainer I had to listen to in 2001, to back up his assertion that we all needed to expunge the word "try" from our vocabularies ("Don't try... Do!"), claimed that ever since Avis adopted the motto "We Try Harder," their sales had dropped by 75%.

This is obviously rampant bullshit, because of course if there were any truth to that claim, Avis would have gone out and found them a new motto, toot sweet - something less offensive to the car-renting public, like maybe "Avis: We Kick Puppies."

Oh well. At least it got me out of the office all day.

The Morose Blog of Untimely Death

Yesterday Peachy caught a baby squirrel in the front yard. I rescued it from her, poor sad tiny thing, lying on the grass, panting and squeaking in terror. There wasn't any blood, or any visible injury. Eric and I put it in a shoebox padded with a hand towel and kept it in his room with the door shut, hoping it was just in shock and would recover; it fell asleep, but after four or five hours it died quietly. So I guess we'll bury it in the backyard, poor little thing. I was really hoping it would be okay.

Anna asked if we could keep it. So I had to explain to her that dead bodies decompose, which means that they rot, like - I had to pause for an analogy.

"Like the leftovers in the fridge?" she suggested.

Ouch.

I just wish things like this would not happen. I've been so sad lately, partly from losing poor old Moe, but some of it for no good reason - just a reaction to change, and loss of the familiar, I guess. The new job is going well, though.

It would have been better - for us, at least - if Romeo was going to die, for him to have done it at home. It would have been comforting to do what we'll do with the baby squirrel, and have a little ritual; it would have been nice to be able to bury him in the back yard, wrapped in a pillowcase, with a few toys and a can of his favorite smelly food. Sweet old kitty. I wonder if the others miss him? Bingo, especially (Romeo's the one on the right):

Apologies to what readers I have for subjecting you to all this. I'll try to cheer up. I'm going to Georgetown to see Robbie today. He has a very ridiculous new puppy.

The Cat's Tail

Back in '94 I was newly divorced, living with my two kids in an apartment off Riverside and I-35. I was one of, I think, two women who lived in this complex. The owner, the onsite manager, and almost all the residents were gay men.

Some things, you see, never change.

Being an all-gay complex, of course, the place had a wonderful sense of community, so it wasn't like your normal apartment complex where none of the residents know each other. People used to sit around and visit on the deck by the pool, and pretty much every weekend an impromptu party would break out. Everybody was really friendly, and we all knew each other. One of my neighbors was an aspiring drag queen and occasionally staged elaborate shows. She went by "the Duchess." She'd get all dolled up in improbable blonde wigs and tiaras, and I'd help with her makeup and lend her clothes and jewelry; but she never returned my favorite pair of black pumps. That bitch!

One of the guys, though, was not quite right. A bunch of neighbors were barbecuing by the pool, and he came out to mingle dressed in a T-shirt and his tighty whities. Everyone thought this was a little strange. I don't remember ever talking to him much, but I got a weird vibe off him. He lived alone, but had a kitten, a cute little black-and-white tuxedo kitty he called "Austin."

Which was kind of a stupid name for a cat. I mean, we live in Austin. He should have called it something like "Dakota."

One evening everyone was out and about, not doing anything in particular, just enjoying the summer evening and chatting, when one of the neighbors came running up in a panic. The weird guy, who had an apartment on the second floor at the front of the complex, had jumped out his window. He didn't open it first. Several neighbors ran to the scene, but the jumper, not seriously hurt by the fall, but cut up pretty badly by the glass, had crawled bleeding up the stairs, back to his apartment - and jumped out the window again.

Somebody called an ambulance. Several people stood on guard around him in the parking lot - he was conscious, but not very coherent, and had crawled under a parked car. I don't know what happened to him after the ambulance took him away. He never came back.

Maybe a week or two later, the only other woman I remember living there knocked on my door. She'd taken in the kitten, Austin, but found out she was allergic. So she thought, hey! Elizabeth has cats! Would I take in Austin, just until she could find a permanent home for him?

Did I mention that some things never change?

Of course we got attached to him right away, the new guy in my life and I. He was such a cute little kitty. I don't remember at what point we told the neighbor she didn't need to find him another place. That stupid name had to go, though. We called him "Romeo," after the restaurant where we first went out to eat together, and in honor of our new romance. But two-year-old Katie couldn't say the name properly, so she called him "Moe."

It's a strange beginning to a cat's story. I like to think that, on the balance, it worked out pretty well for him. It's just the ending that hurts so much.

Cleavage

TMI alert!

Like that's going to stop anybody.

I was a bit of an early bloomer. By the time I was ten years old, I was reasonably chesty. By the time I was twelve, I was perhaps unreasonably chesty. Toss in a few breastfed babies and the fact that when I gain weight, that's the first place it goes, and... well, you get the picture.

My sisters both grew up to be A-cups, and they are pissed.

The thing is, female body image being what it is, and general, non-gender-specific human insecurity about the things that make you, um, stand out, I was always pretty self-conscious about this particular portion of my anatomy. It took a long time for me to get comfortable with it. Well - I'm not entirely comfortable, actually. But you know what? Men seem to like them, I've noticed. So I go with it. Tastefully, so to speak.

Today is the first day of my second week on the new job. I'm in a foul mood to begin with. As much as the old job pissed me off at times, I'd been there for two years, and it wasn't the worst job in the world (we all know what that was). I'd made lots of friends, I have some great memories (NO PUNS) and it was a fun, relaxed environment in a lot of ways, as long as you didn't mind the fact that everything you did was completely pointless. So even though this job is (presumably) a better fit for me, a better division to be in, and the work is substantially more rewarding, I'm terribly homesick. Plus I just called an end to - something we won't go into. Plus I am extremely unhappy about Romeo. Plus Bill Gates is running a little behind, so PMS is absolutely kicking my ass right now. Plus I forgot to bring my thermos of coffee this morning. Plus it's cold and wet and gray and depressing out.

And now, for the punchline, my new supervisor calls me into her office this morning to tell me that my cleavage violates office dress policy. How mortifying is that?! I was so upset, I wasn't even tempted to snicker when she used the phrase "nip this in the bud." (She really did!)

She didn't mention it specifically, but she gave me a copy of the written dress code, and apparently toe rings and ankle bracelets and big dangly earrings are out, too. "This sucks!" I wailed to a friend, "they're going to turn me into a dowdy middle-aged woman!"

"Yes," he said.

So I'm going to have to go joylessly shopping for some boring clothes. Could I file for discrimination if I can't wear something that someone else could get away with, just because of the way I'm built?

Goddamn it. This sucks. Anyway, I'm done. At least I should be good on web traffic for a while.

Overly Emotional

I don't really know how to write about yesterday (my last day at the old job). I guess I'll just write anyway. Why I have this feeling that everything I publish on here has to be a masterpiece anyway, I am not sure, because who am I kidding? Besides, nobody reads it but friends, family, a snopester here and there, and the occasional buttlicker - in other words, a very forgiving audience, and people who will take what they can get.

My immediate work group took me out to a wonderful going-away lunch at Magnolia Cafe - all my coworkers except the panicmonger supervisor, who can't function in the same building as meat (this would explain a few things), plus my boss' boss, plus Cheryl's Bitch with Pinche and Don Juan from his work group. It was so nice, and so kind and flattering to be thought so well of. My boss' boss has something of a reputation for turning a cold shoulder to people who leave her group, so I was really happy that she came to my lunch.

But there was sad news, too. Robbie could not make it to my going-away happy hour, which he had organized for me; but family friends whom he hadn't seen in years came unexpectedly to town. And, displaying appallingly poor timing, here in this universe which revolves entirely around me (or so I would appear to believe), the grandfather of another beloved 3MBG alum died late night before last, leaving his grandson too bereaved and exhausted to party. Do ya think?!? I was terribly disappointed, and ashamed of myself for being so.

It made me cry to leave behind such kind friends. I even hugged the panicmonger. Bubbly Bitching Nonsmoker, who sits in the cube opposite, hastened to inform me that I would not be doing this to her - so I'm sorry, Robbie; I did not get to "boop" her on the nose like I know you were wanting me to.

Still, she was awfully nice to me, wishing me lots of luck and congratulating me sincerely. "Break a leg, kid!" she called in parting.

Happy hour was great fun. Any snopesters reading? Well, Kev came out for it! He's in a similar situation, having just received an internal upwards transfer where he works. So I'll be at his happy hour next Friday! Other 3MBG alums were there, plus lots of other good friends. Unfortunately I sort of forgot to eat - in evolutionary terms, perhaps one of the stupidest things you can do, especially when drinking heavily. By midnight, even the graffiti in the restroom at the Horseshoe Lounge was not enough to perk me up, the party said goodnight in front of the bar, and I got dropped off at home.

So there were a lot of tears yesterday. Sad ones, bittersweet ones, and happy, happy, happy ones, because someone I love wrote poetry for me. I don't think anything will top that for a very, very, very long time - even though the feeling does not appear to be mutual (sigh).

It's okay. I don't really mind. I'll take what I can get.

Love Is Good for Anything that Ails You

I know it's a classic song, but this is patently untrue. There are a lot of things that might ail you that love is no good for at all.

Syphilis springs to mind.

Love is good for doubt, uncertainty, worry, and even PMS, but it's not much help for lovesickness. But new shoes work wonders for all of these ailments. So Katie and I, in the name of making a decision about the job offer, went out and bought three pairs of shoes, a really cute top, a couple of pairs of tights, some nail polish, and a bottle each of neon pink and electric blue hair dye.

Those last items were for Katie, although I suppose the start of a new job would be as good an opportunity as any to change up my look a little.

Also good for many of the things that might ail you is a long walk and a long think in the most sensible of the new shoes: down the length of Stacy Park and back up Alta Vista and back down Travis Heights, listening to sad songs on the iPod, the evening breeze rapidly cooling the air, and all the houses lighting up silently one by one under a darkening sky.

Why should I feel so sad? I have no excuse for it. I have new shoes. And I don't have the clap!

Brown Paper Bags

One time, when I was seven or eight, my stepfather got me out of bed late at night because he had to take Mom to the emergency room. I remember her trembling, and snuggling up to her in the waiting room in my pajamas. It turned out she was having a panic attack. She was prone to those, and I guess maybe it's hereditary, though I don't get anything so severe: just, once in a while, a sickening sense of impending doom, a nasty case of the screaming heebie-jeebies in the middle of the night.

You know how people tend to establish balanced roles in their relationships? I mean, not just "relationship" relationships but any kind of ongoing interpersonal interaction. Anyway, for the last year or so I've been dealing with the panicmonger boss on a daily basis; but ever since Friday she's been calm and relaxed and cheerful. I don't know if she found another job or is just on some good drugs - or both - but maybe I'm picking up the slack, panicwise.

Or it's Robbie leaving, which will constitute a major upheaval in my daily life and is setting off some ass-kicking abandonment issues. Ugh, that terrible fear of rejection and loss and loneliness, of being left behind and unloved and unwanted... And even aside from missing him, it's just a big change, and change is scary.

Or perhaps it's a creeping terror of overwrought armchair psychology. Or it's Slappy White washing his unmentionable bits upwind of me on the bed. Or the lasagna I had for dinner.

Whatever it is, I can't sleep.

Could I Get a To-Go Box Please?

You've been to Hill's Cafe, right? Nice place. The food is good and it has an awesome patio. It's a great live music venue. And it's got loads of home-cooked South Austin-y charm.

We had lunch there today for my brother-in-law's birthday, and were seated at a large wooden table topped with glass. The wooden surface bore hundreds of touching little memorials scrawled in black ink: names, dates of birth and death, and tender messages. "I'll always love you." "I miss you so much." "Best dad ever." "Beloved daughter, sister, and friend." "Our angel in Heaven, we'll be together again someday." And about fifteen inches to my left was a winged heart, drawn by a childish hand, the word "Mommy" spelled clumsily within.

What are you going to do, call the manager and complain? "Excuse me, the suffering of my fellow man is putting me off my cheese grits. Could we get another table?" But I couldn't eat. I was too busy trying not to cry, and anyway it's hard to swallow with a lump the size of a golf ball in your throat.

So I highly recommend Hill's, but if I were you, I'd avoid being seated at the Dolorous Table of Untimely Death.

Desafinado

When you're at odds (who can say why?) with someone you care about, your whole universe is out of whack. Nothing seems quite right: food doesn't taste the way it should, colors aren't as bright, everything seems generally off-kilter.

And I have these dreams. I have dreams of reconciliation, where we talk, and cut easily through all the mess. By the end of the dream it turns out that everything that was wrong was just a misunderstanding. Everything is all straightened out now. There's this wonderful sense of connectedness, and happiness, and peace, and friendship, and love, and harmony.

Then you wake up and realize it was only a dream, and you feel so broken and sad. Was anything ever real at all?