perfect day

I know my perfect day and it usually, historically, starts with a phone call, a phone call telling me that there's work to be done. I'm needed, if I want to be. And though I'm tired, I'm ready, knowing there's coffee to be had to prologue an adventure unknown. I'm tired from the night before that blinked single digits on the clock before ebbing. A night that ended long after decent folk have already turned off porch lights, let out the dog for one last run, taken their Ambien, their Paxil, their Zoloft with warm glasses of spiked milk and are fast asleep. Fast asleep while my compatriots and I are still pursuing other, more traditional soporifics and medicants before we too fall wearily into our beds, smelling of bar and ears ringing. Well, maybe I don't like that last part so much. Not anymore. Really, not ever. Even though it's part of what makes me feel I'm living. Logic never my strong suit, proven by the GRE.

But the day ahead. Coffee with cream and cinnamon and honey. Empty pages aching to be full up with my illegible scribble, with patterns I'll swear until I creak that I had no hand in crafting. Even if my hand directs the color, it comes from elsewhere and I can't claim the credit. See the store owner. I just work here. Today I work here. I love this day. Working here. Tips, bless you, are warmly accepted.

Pay me by the hour and preferably in cash and I'm happiest. Never happier than when counting my take. Concrete wealth. Neat stacks faced and folded. Two plus two equals four. The alphabet of corporate benefits no part of the equation to muddy the satisfaction of cold, hard cash. Coins in a jar. I once bought a ticket to Belgium with the accumulated, never-accounted-for change from my waitress days. A fraction's worth of my IRA and ever so much sweeter.

Digression. This isn't a tirade against the ills of corporate America. I am a fool and I know it for wanting more than it gives steady, safe and real. But despite myself I'm a dreamer. And a coward. And conversely, I do so enjoy watching those numbers creep up under the smart direction of the corporate genius money people. 401K = hot food when I'm old. I worry that 50 years from now my arthritic hands will cramp while opening my cat food dinner. 401k = an automatic can opener and maybe a small countertop microwave. These things are important.

My perfect day is brave and foolish and takes place on a Thursday and not the Sunday I had of late. There's the phone call. The coffee. The journal. The delight of paid creativity. Lunch with friends by the warmth of a found fireplace. Later, a nap. Then a movie about a boy who sucks his thumb. Fred scooped into a backpack and off we go in the jump seat of a pickup truck. A Bluegrass festival, plus. Mindy Smith. A band like the Dead, the Beatles and the Muppets all at once. A legendary band of whom I've never heard fronted by a woman who is a dead ringer for Gilda Radner. I scan the audience for Andy Kauffman and find, instead, a festival companion with poor teeth and a gentleman's demeanor circa 1880. His name is Tree and I doubt I'll ever see him again. He tells me he sells honey to support his music habit and he offers me his arm as we walk to an art show held in a nearby hair salon. Totally high end. Great lighting. Lots of lesbians who love Fred, so cute zipped in his bag and hungrily gobbling the bits of sesame chicken they offer from their plates.

I know the artist from the restaurant where I most often enjoy Sunday brunch. She serves. I eat and tip. Most of the time I don't envy her. And today I don't either. Because, today, we're equals.

the adventures of amuk: rocky run

Dear Jill,

So, here is a story for you. We found a tick on Rocky and summarily and quite professionally, I might add, removed it. We then checked him over for more ticks and found what we thought were three more small ticks. We then spent the next hour and a half trying unsuccessfully to remove these tiny ticks. We called the emergency vet and they told us what to do. It involved Vaseline, alcohol, and tweezers. (Sounds obscene doesn't it?) Anyway, after further exploratory attempts at tickectomies, we gave up knowing that the following day we had a vet appointment anyway. Imagine our surprise and embarrassment when the Vet informed us that the tiny ticks which we had so assiduously tried to remove were, in fact, Rocky's nipples. Beware of us bearing tweezers!!!!!!! Needless to say, we slinked out of the animal hospital with our heads down, our tails between our legs and Rocky's tail covering his nipples. For some reason, he won't let me pet him. Hopefully his memory is as short as his tic/nipples are tiny.

Tick to you soon. Oops, I mean, talk to you soon.

Love,
Auntie Mame and Uncle Ken, a.k.a. Tweezer Man

self-absorption to a "t"

"You look like you want a latte," the barista guy said as he pulled a pot of freshly frothed milk from the cappuccino maker.

"Um. . . a. . .only if you've already made it and it's free." He hesitated. He was just being cute. I was just being cheap. So I backpedaled, "No, thanks, just regular coffee. Thanks anyway."

"Okay, then. . . light or dark roast?"

"Uh, um. . . I guess. . .light?" I stuttered.

"Having commitment issues this morning?"

"Always," I said.

* * *

Always with the commitment issues. It's becoming a theme in a manner of speaking. The small decisions of life more and more difficult in light of the big decisions I've made -- or not made -- and have had to live with for years on end.

The commitment to a living space. A job. An education. A dog. A social circle. A couch. A belief system. A paradigm. A skirt. An unrequited love. This blog. Not that any of these things are intrinsically good or bad. Just big even when not. And I often wonder what if. . . what if. . . .

But then again, who doesn't.

That said, logic dictates that what I don't like I can feasibly change. Sell it off. Move on. Quit. But therein lies the rub. As difficult as it is for me to actually make a decision -- it takes no less than the convening of a Senate subcommittee, the blessing from the religious heads of at least three legitimate faiths (and by that I mean those whose most committed followers regularly don anachronistic headgear and culturally obsolete costumes), the sealed assurance from a notary public that Fred will continue to enjoy the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed, a USA TODAY/CNN/Gallop Poll, not to mention my mom's say-so -- it's even harder for me to let it go once it's been made.

* * *

At a wedding recently, I reconnected with friends I haven't seen in more than ten years. It's funny, how we don't change. Stephanie is still the avant-garde writer/artist in flowing clothes and intellectual glasses. Scott is still the charming seeker, the thoughtful adventurer. And after one long-winded assessment on my part of the relationship between two other wedding guests I haven't seen in ages, there was a beat and then Scott turned to Stephanie and said, "Jill's a thinker. To which Steph responded, "She always was."

* * *

On the Myers-Briggs scale, which I've never taken, I suppose I'd be a T. (Is that right? T for thinker?) But for all my thinking, I don't trust my deductions. They're supremely unsatisfying. They're "right" for all practical intents and purposes. And for the record, I don't use the word "practical" by chance. Perfect in so many ways and from so many angles. But so often wrong. So often very, very wrong in terms of feel-good factor. I am my mother's daughter and we are nothing if not practical creatures. Whatever's best for the cheapest price. Whatever's stable with the least risk. Whatever's comfortable, with the longest shelf life. That's the choice to be made.

And after the head, comes the heart. I won't speak for my mother, but mine is an extremely poor decision-maker. Very black or white. Yes or no. Block of butter or block of ice. No going back and no in between.

You see how I've thought myself into an impasse? Pretty good, huh?

But if I were on Dr. Phil's show, he'd lean forward in his chair, put his hand on the arm of mine and say, "So how's all that workin' for ya?"

And I'd have to say, "Not very well."

If I left it there, at the "Not very well" I'd enjoy the bitter finality of this essay, the "so there" factor, the I'll-be-miserable-if-I-want-to element. I must admit, it has a vague appeal. I fight the lure of luxurious self-pity. But I really have nothing to moan about. Not really. Not actually. In the end, I'm not without resources. Because where the head fails and the heart disappoints, the gut comes to the fore.

I do trust my gut.

It's never failed me.

I just need to learn to listen.

Yeah. Something to think about. . . .

---

By the by, Katrina at Notes on a Napkin has a way better take on (i.e. attitude about) a topic very close to, if not exactly like this one that in the long run makes me feel pretty good about the world in general. Thank you Katrina, you magnificently delightful, marshmellow-roasting, poetry-writing, puddle-jumper, you. I don't remember who made the decision to sit next to whom on that big yellow bus, but it's one of the best decisions of which I was ever the benefitee. xoxojill

dispatch from dallas: unleashed

Dear Gentle Neighbor Lady,

I'm writing on behalf of my cousin Allyson's friend Rebekah. She lives next door to you and recently had the opportunity to make the make the acquaintance of your lovely canines. As she wasn't formally introduced and as she happened to be running for her life at the time, she didn't catch their given names so if you don't mind, for the sake of this missive we'll refer to them as "Pitt" and "Bull" herein.

Rebekah is concerned about her budding relationship with "Pitt" and "Bull," who she met today as they were on what was obviously their morning constitutional. She is worried that they got off on the wrong foot, that she inadvertently might have done something to offend them. Her only thought, now that she considers the incident, er. . . meeting is that perhaps "Pitt" and "Bull" had some interest in the trash she was placing in her outdoor trash receptacle, trash that contained the remains of last night's dinner. So you understand, last night's meal was a delicious rack of lamb (you know, the kind with the little white hats), bite-sized red potatoes seasoned with rosemary and a delightful side of asparagus. Rebekah and her husband Chad had very much enjoyed the meal themselves and so she understands that "Pitt" and "Bull" with their superior canine sense of smell, would also have discerned what a delectation it was and might simply have been requesting, in their pittish and bullish way, a share of the remnants.

If this is the case, she'd like to apologize in advance for any lack of generosity resulting from misunderstanding on her part. But given "Pitt"'s barking and growling, "Bull"'s teeth gnashing and slobbering, and her own panicked sweating, screaming and sudden, uncontrollable, fear-driven urge to poo she hopes you (and they) will forgive her.

Considering the awkwardness of their first meeting, she has asked me to tell you that she would like to try again. It is important to her that she establish a better rapport with your dogs (after all, it's the neighborly thing to do) and thinks that perhaps if they met under more, shall we say, controlled circumstances, they might get along a bit better. With this in mind, she'd be happy to bring over the leftovers from tonight's dinner, a gorgeous veal parmesan (but only, of course, under the condition that dear "Pitt" and sweet "Bull" aren't lactose intolerant) if you'd only promise to keep your RABID F*CKING DOGS ON A F*CKING LEASH!

Thank you kindly for your time.

Sincerely,
Jill (Rebekah's friend Allyson's cousin)

the origin of a dream

Someone was trying to break into my house. Seriously. I heard the tentative knock, the explorative jiggle of the knob. (Or at least Fred did. Hackles up, he looked like a puffer fish, only louder.) Doing my best to stave off the horror movie-panic, I crept out of bed and into some pants -- they never wear pants in horror movies -- before making my way into the living room just in time to see the shadow disappear from the door only to reappear a moment later at the window. As I moved further into the room, I imagined every neighborhood vagrant I'd ever denied my extra change coming for revenge, fancied every mug shot I've ever seen come to life. Then as the intruder moved into the light from the street . . . something about the shape of the burglar's head seemed familiar.

"Jesus! Francie?"

"Jill! Are you up?" Her voice muffled by the glass between us.

"Yeah, I'm up," I said, casual-like, like it wasn't actually the middle of the night. "No Francie, it's two in the morning! Of course, I wasn't up."

"Well. . . um, I'm sorry? You're up now though. So let me in," she said, tapping the window, but I was already unlocking it, dragging it open.

"I almost called the cops," I said moving out of the way as Francie threw her leg over the sill. "You scared the crap out of me. What are you doing here?"

"I came over to write," Francie said, reaching back outside to grab her bag and yank it back through the window before closing it behind her.

"Write what? A ransom note? I know you love Fred, but. . . ."

"No, just to write. It was the only place I could think of at this hour."

"What's wrong with your living room?"

"It's too crowded."

"Why, who's over?"

"No one," she said sitting down on the couch and pulling out notebook and pencil, setting them on the coffee table.

"Oh," I said.

"Oh," I said again as I watched her arrange her makeshift desk. "Um. . . so I haven't been to the store in a while. I don't really have anything to offer . . . ."

"That's okay. I brought port." And she produced a bottle of port from her bag, holding it up for me to see. "You want some?"

"Thanks, no. . . you know where the glasses are?" But France was already on her way to the kitchen.

"Go to bed," she yelled from the other room. "I'm really sorry about scaring you. I should have called. But I didn't want to wake you up."

"Breaking into my house is a lesser discourtesy?" I yelled back.

"It would have been if you weren't such a light sleeper," she said, now back in the room.

"Or if you were a better burglar. What are you writing about?"

She leaned on the wall and shook the cubes in her glass. "Ice," she said.

And that's what I dreamed about last night. Huge house-high icicles that kept me in, but kept the burglars out, too. Go figure.

only 33

A bellyful of chicken noodle soup, a supposed mendicant, the panacea to heal all ills. . . it does nothing to relieve the knowledge that he's gone.

It seems so unreal. A TV drama. The proverbial bad joke. The night terror from which I can't wake. (I despise these clichés.) Except I am awake. I'm even breathing.

And the clock says that I have to brush my teeth and go to work.

And the dog needs his pill.

And the color orange still is.

Doesn't it know?

Sudden trite imperatives reel through my mind like tickertape: . . . the laundry in my hamper three weeks clean needs folding the bathroom as always wants cleaning i must get my car washed organize papers record passwords tell my mother I love her just in case . . .

We're left with artifacts:
a number in a phone
a piece of art
the email correspondences, too few
the [now precious, starkly archival] photographs
the conversations that live in our memories, ephemeral

The conversations. I want to record them in stone, to give them form and texture, before I forget the bright scraps I remember. (I just didn't know to take better notes.) But how do you capture the tone of a hello? The way he stretched in thought. The shape of his mouth. The inaudible kindnesses. The expansive generosity. A chisel can't describe the careful pauses in his speech. Marble insults his warmth.

In the hierarchy of relationships, I am the least of those who mourn. But there was always tomorrow. (More the fool, I.) I mourn the lack of tomorrows. I mourn for my betters who now hold their yesterdays so close, who gasp for breath in their grief.

For his mother.

Oh, God. His mother.

I can't help but think that when she got the call, she must have wanted to hear it from him, improbably. And in that instant understood -- the finality of it, unwavering, Jupiter's gravity more forgiving.

No more ands.

I hate this.