Worlds Apart

I have my Grandma Curtis's forehead wrinkles and bad eyesight.  I know this because I have seen a close-up photo of her from sometime in the late 60's.  I know it's the late 60's because the picture is in color and because she died in 1970, when my mother was pregnant with me.  My Grandpa Curtis is in the photo too, and he died in October of 1969.  Even though I never knew them, I grew up with them all around me.  We lived in their house with the flowers my grandmother planted still popping up, every year, all over the yard.

I knew from the time I was a small girl that my grandmother loved flowers.  They were everywhere.  Pink and white striped flowers lined the concrete walkway up to the steps, daffodils popped up here and there every spring.  There were rose bushes and Forsythia bushes and other smelly, flowering bushes that no one ever learned the names of.  They were little parts of her colorful spirit that lingered all around us long after she was gone.

All my life I've felt a kind of kinship with this woman I never knew.  I was told stories of her love of the outdoors; how, if the weather was warm, she preferred working outside in the flowers to doing housework. I know she was a creative soul.  She had a room of the house set aside just for quilting. My mother told me about it many times when she would remember my grandmother's death and the way she and my aunts had to go in and clean up all the quilting materials that were strewn everywhere in that room.  For a while when I was growing up, that room became mine.  Now it is a front porch.

My grandmother played the accordion.  I've always tried to imagine her lively and with great enthusiasm pumping out a tune or two, but I really don't know what kind of music she played.  I like to think that it was her love of music that encouraged my dad and his brothers to learn to play guitar. In that way, she gave me memories of music with my family that I'll always treasure.

I know she was a good cook.  In fact, my mother used to say that if Grandma Curtis hadn't been around she wouldn't have learned to cook at all. "I couldn't boil water when we first got married," my mother would say. "So your Grandma Curtis had to teach me everything."  In fact, Grandma knew my mother couldn't cook and it worried her.

My dad's memory is fading.  Tonight I told him a story that my mother told me a dozen times, about how when my parents first got married and got their own little house, my grandma sent my uncles over while they were gone and had them move all my parents' things out and into her own house.  She was afraid my mother wouldn't be able to take care of my dad.  He didn't remember this happening at all but he didn't question it.  A big smile came over his face, his cheeks turning red the way they do every time he laughs.  "I don't remember that, but it sure sounds like something my Mama would have done. She didn't want any of her boys leaving home!"

Obstinate.  Determined.  Pig-headed even.  That's what she was, and here I've been, all my life measuring myself against her memory.  I look at the picture of her in her cat-eye glasses, the same swirl of wrinkles on her forehead that I see more and  more every day in my own.  I study her smile, her hairline, the fullness of her lips and the shape of her eyes and I see some of me in there.  I see a lot of me, actually.  I see a lot of me in all the little things, both good and questionable, that I know about this woman I've never known.

In a way, the familiar comfort I've always felt with her gives me some peace.  It reminds me that long after my life is over, little bits and pieces of what I have put into the world will continue on.  It is the mystery and hopefulness of family, of legacy and legend that seems to keep the wheels of life turning.  I just hope that I can leave more good in the world than bad.  I hope I am planting seeds that will continue to bloom and grow into beautiful things someday, even once I'm too far removed from this world to enjoy them anymore.  I hope my children will know, even when they are 81, how fiercely I have loved them.  I hope someone will have a song stuck in his head because I passed the love of music down the line.  I hope someone out there will be creating lovely things, making messes, choosing to play outside instead of working inside, cooking big tasty meals out of cheap home-grown food and stubbornly refusing to ever give up on what she wants because I lived that kind of life before her.

I was always told that my grandma died of a broken heart. Everyone told me she grieved herself to death after the sudden death of my grandpa.  They died only a few months apart, him in the fall, and her the following February.  There is another picture somewhere that was taken at her graveside.  In it, my sister is about five years old.  She is sitting in the foreground looking sad and uncertain with a couple of my cousins beside her. In the background, the profiles of two pregnant women stand behind them. I think one of those women is my aunt Lib.  The other is my mother.

I don't know what it would be like to love a man so much that my own spirit would perish if I lost him. I know what it is like to love and I know what it is like to lose.  I even know what it is like to lose myself in someone else, but I don't think I'll ever know the kind of love that transcends time and space. I don't think I will ever be lucky enough to make that kind of connection with another human being who doesn't share my DNA.  It seems so foreign to me.  This concept, this reality that was my grandmothers will never be mine.  In all my searching for where she and I reach our divide, this most unfortunate place is where I find it.  The chasm that puts me worlds away from the wholeness of who she was lies vast and wide between us, the echo of my own voice calling back to me across time, wondering if I've taken that obstinate, pig-headedness of hers a step too far this time.

A Dozen Random Thoughts for A Snowy Winter's Evening

1. Have you ever noticed how one bad actor in a scene makes every other actor in the scene seem like a bad actor?

2. It really bothers me how women in our society seem to carry around such a huge load of guilt because they assume responsibility for the behavior of other people. Who taught us to do that and why aren't we changing it?

3. I hate how my TV gets so blaring loud when something exciting is happening but when there is dialogue you can't hear a darned thing.

4. I also hate when my toes are so cold they seem like they'll never be warm again.  

5. I didn't make my bed today and now I dread getting into it later.  I know I could go make it now, but it's already dark so it's just not the same.  Is this some kind of bed-making OCD?  Should I be worried?

6. I can't figure out why my dog will not chew on a chew toy but seems to love chewing on everything else.  Also, why does he pee on the black and white rug?

7. It is very uncomfortable when a senior client gets all flirty and weird and I don't quite know how to respond in a way that discourages such behavior without seeming rude and unkind.  I need to work on setting that boundary without coming across as hostile 'cause it really does annoy me and I'm afraid my annoyance is too obvious to everyone except the guy who is being inappropriate.

8. I really wish I could pull off the geeky-borderline goth girl with glasses look, but I think I'm too old.  That really sucks.

9. I think James Spader plays the same character in every movie/show he's in.

10. I roll my eyes a lot without realizing it.  Bad habit.  It makes me seem condescending and inconsiderate.  Okay, so sometimes I am condescending and inconsiderate...but I shouldn't be so obvious about it.

11.  If it keeps snowing I am going to weigh 400 pounds before Spring.

12. There are way too many people in this world who are so screwed up in the head that they damage other people just by being who they are. I will never be able to understand how God lets this happen to anyone.  It frustrates and depresses me so I never think about it for any longer than it took me to write it down.

Annoyed by Old People?

Do you think old ladies are disgusting?  Do you cringe when you get behind an elderly man at the cash register who doesn't know how to swipe his debit card?  Think old people smell bad?  Hate the way they complain about "kids these days"?  Do you despise their ignorance regarding technology, their flip phones and their confusion about email and Facebook?

Well here's some discouraging news for you.  Unless you die first, you will be one of those people someday and some young douchebag is going to be standing in line behind you at the supermarket cursing under his breath because you don't understand this whole implant under your wrist thing that has to be scanned when you pay for your Metamucil.  

That's right, you will someday have chronic constipation unless you drink your fiber every day.  Then YOU will poop your pants because the Metamucil kicked in at the wrong time and you walk so slow (due to all those years of abusing your knees climbing mountains, doing yard work and jogging) that you cant make it to the bathroom on time.  Also, you will likely piss in your pants and need to wear diapers.

And if you are an elder-hater,now, you deserve every elderly ailment known to man.  In fact, you deserve to age prematurely just so you can get a clue.

I work with the elderly.  A long time ago I wrote a blog post that was not at all intended to be serious. It was probably mildly irreverent, but I let some of my elder friends read it and they all agreed it was accurate and pretty funny.  It was not written out of disrespect or a lack of regard for their life experiences, but from the point of view of someone who works with them every day and hears their woes on a regular basis.  That blog post has gotten more hits than anything else I've ever posted and the search term that always gets it to pop is always phrased something like, "Why are old people so annoying?" "I hate old people" "Annoying things old people do" yadda yadda...

So I put in a similar search term tonight and I was appalled at the intolerance and hate speech directed at the elderly that I found.  Some of these same people who go on and on about how the elderly should just go ahead and die also go into long rants about how the elderly of today are the same generation who fought against Civil Rights, hate gays and encouraged religious oppression.  I am amazed at the lack of insight it would take for a person to be able to discriminate in such a way against a population (a large part of the population) on the basis of their age alone and in the next breath condemn other people for being intolerant.

Do you think the elderly are clueless about their shortcomings?  I assure you, they are not.  They know they are slow.  They acknowledge that they're intimidated by technology.  They understand far more about life than you do and they know that when they were your age, they were just as stupid as you are now.  That's why it's so difficult for them to just sit back and watch you be an asshole without saying something about it.  Did you ever consider that their voiced opinions might have some merit based on the idea that they've already lived the years that you haven't even imagined making it through yet?

Do you think old ladies enjoy peeing their pants every time they sneeze?  Of course they don't, but they don't really complain about it all that much because they know the reason they can't control their bladders is because they carried and gave birth to your mother or your father or your uncle Fred.  So you aught to be thankful for the fact that your wrinkly grandma wears Depends and tries not to laugh too hard in public; if she didn't have to worry about those things, it would probably mean you didn't exist.

You think it's easy for your grandpa to hand over his driver's license?  It isn't.  Imagine how you'll feel one day when your grown children have to sit you down and tell you that you are scary behind the wheel and they're taking your keys away.  Yeah, grandpa would love to be able to go out for a beer and holla at some bitches.  He's still a man, you know--and probably more of a man than you'll ever be, despite the fact that he respects women enough to not refer to them all as "bitches", is too embarrassed to ask his doctor for Viagra and falls asleep every time he takes a few sips of a beer.  Guess what?  Someday your man-stick isn't going to work either.  You're going to have trouble peeing because your prostate is enlarged and one of them "bitches" you be hollin' at now is going to be wiping your ass for you.  

That's reality, man.

Old age is coming for you.

And that's something the elderly secretly feel pretty good about when you're being an asshole to them.  They might not know much about iPhones, but they do know your fate, even if you're too much of a tool to realize where you're headed.  And by the way, it will all happen a lot quicker than you think.

So go ahead and be a hater.  Time will get its revenge on you.

Brand New

Brand New

Mammo and Athena finally meet!

When I was 30 I received the official diagnosis of IgA Nephropathy. I was at work when my doctor called with the results of the biopsy I'd had the week before. He was sympathetic, kind, gentle even in his delivery of the bad news, and even though I didn't understand the full implications of what he was saying to me, I knew enough to understand that the softness of his delivery meant bad things for my future.  I left the room and walked down the hall at work in a daze.  My boss asked me to go pick up some food from an Italian restaurant for one of the residents and without even blinking I agreed to go.  What I really wanted to do was to go home and hug my girls. I wanted to cry. I wanted to talk to someone who would tell me that everything was going to be okay, but there was no one to turn to. In that moment, no one on Earth could honestly tell me that everything would be fine.

I eventually went home to my girls. I gave them the hugs and took comfort in having them in my presence. Later that evening, after the were asleep I  went online and looked up my prognosis.  It was scary. I wrote my worries in my journal. I remember wondering if I would live to see them graduate from high school? Would I get to see them get married? Would I even make it to see them become teenagers? I sat and imagined all the things in life I was going to miss and my heart broke into a million pieces as I thought about my daughters experiencing all of life's "firsts" without me.  I ached for them and for myself and I suppose in a way, I started grieving the life I'd never get to live.

I never imagined I'd have another child just 6 years later.  Even after I found out I was pregnant, I couldn't believe it was true.  I was told I'd never survive pregnancy and it was difficult, but I did it and I have my awesome little boy now.  Sure, I still sometimes get locked into the cycle of anxiety about whether or not I'll get to see HIM grow up, but now that I've made it this far, I can actually imagine making it to see him become a young man.  

Last Saturday when I walked into a delivery room and had a nurse hand me this beautiful little chubby-cheeked baby I was in complete awe. I was pretty much speechless as I took her in my arms and looked into her tiny face.  My daughter sat in the bed looking tired but glowing with the beauty of those early moments of motherhood and I honestly couldn't believe I had made it to see my own granddaughter.  It seems funny to me even typing the word.  Granddaughter.  I have a granddaughter!  I know it sounds like a horrible thought, but when you live on borrowed time, it seems like things need to happen sooner rather than later; otherwise they may never happen at all.

All I can say now is, thanks.  Thanks to God or the Universe or whomever decided to let me make to this milestone.  Thanks for the huge roller coaster ride of a life I've had so far, and thanks for the hope and joy that a new generation breathes into the world.  Thanks for making my daughter a mommy, thanks for making me a Mammo, and thanks for whatever happens tomorrow.

Nothing gives a family more hope than a brand new little person who shares the same dimples, the same little curl of the lips, the same chubby cheeks and funny-shaped toes.  Nothing makes life seem more worth the journey than looking into that sweet little face and seeing it all start anew.  It has been a long time since something made me so happy, so full of hope, and so ready to take on whatever struggle presents itself next.

Next?

I remember the days when all of life was something to be conquered.  It was sometimes a grueling way to live, but it wasn't all bad.  I think that attitude brought me a very long way in this world before, eventually, all the "stuff" of life caught up with me and I ended up wallowing for a while in all the mire of one stubborn problem or another.  It took me some time to learn that often in life, you get dealt a hand-full of crap that just refuses to be conquered at all.  Sometimes you just have to accept what IS and keep moving, otherwise you'll just stay stuck forever.

It's hard to believe my mother ever let me be lazy enough to sit and watch her vacuum, but I'm glad she did.  When I think about myself in recent years I am reminded of those times when I would watch her vacuum over the same piece of lint 200 times, rather than just stop, pick it up, and move on.  How did I not get frustrated with myself sooner, going over the same old ground time after time, instead of just stopping, removing the obstacle, and moving on?  Just like my mom who almost wore a hole in the carpet going over the same spot a million times, I have stayed stuck in the same place for far too long.  You can't keep going, can't conquer anything as long as you stay stuck in one place.

I think I know the exact moment when the light came on in my head and I finally saw myself running over the same ground again and again.  It was a sad, kind of traumatic event that I really could have avoided had I been more aware, more willing to just stop for a minute, examine what I was doing and choose a different course of action.  I know I can't go back and change the past. I can't go back and make myself come to these realizations sooner, can't save myself the wasted time.  All I can do is keep going forward.

It helps to know that even in the midst of the fog and confusion I WAS doing things to pull myself out of the mire.  

I start my new job tomorrow.  It is a job I applied for way back in October of last year, and again in November, and again in December.  In fact, I applied for it every time I saw it advertised but I never heard a single word from the employer. I had pretty much put it out of mind by the time January rolled around.  Certainly by February I had nearly forgotten about it, figuring the position had long-since been filled.  Then I opened my email one morning a couple of weeks ago and there it was, a request for an interview.

I ended up with two job offers at once, and for the first time in my life I had the opportunity to choose which job suited me best.  For all the discounting and accusations of laziness and lack of effort I endured for months,  I know these offers came because I put in the effort, I did the work, I made the good impressions.  This next step in life is a kind of vindication for me; it is validation that I am indeed a valuable person with some good things to put into this world.

I'm finally back in that old familiar place, feeling like myself again.  I'm dusting off my hands, taking a deep breath and looking both ways.  I'm finally done with all those things that didn't work and looking ahead to my own future.  I'm taking stock of what I've accomplished, learning from those things I wasn't able to conquer and greeting what awaits me, hands on hips, surprised at the strength in my own voice as I look fate in the eye and determinedly ask, "What's next?"

Best Valentine's Day Ever

Just feeling very thankful for a beautiful, uplifting, wonderful day.

Life is good.

The Audience

Recently I have gotten a lot of feedback on my blog.  Several people have contacted me with the desire to start blogging for themselves as sort of a "self-help" endeavor and have asked me questions about my blog that I never really even considered before.  Questions like:  "Who is your audience?" and "How do you decide who you're writing to?"

Hmmm, I never really asked myself that question. Although I am aware that if you want to have a successful money making blog, you need to have a focus and a particular audience, when I started this blog it was more about self-exploration and maybe even documenting my own journey in life.  I look back over my posts over the last few years (both the published an unpublished ones) and I can see exactly where I've made mistakes.  I can see where I (rarely) got things right and I can see clearly who the people are in my life who truly love me and want the best for me.  Everything you read here is about one person's quest to find that ever-elusive thing we call "happy."

This blog is my story.  It is about my crazy messed up trip through this dysfunctional insane world.  It is one person's experience on the road to enlightenment and self-actualization.  It is about a chick who is just trying to put all the pieces together to make herself the best life possible.

She often gets things wrong.  She often trusts the wrong people and fails to trust her own instincts. She is flawed.   She's Sometimes overwhelmed and she frequently over-thinks things to the point of exhaustion.

I guess my only goal, as far as my readers are concerned, is to be able to show you that whatever you may be going through, you're not alone.  Someone else out there has been in your shoes.  Someone understands you and someone cares.  It's easy to feel alone when you're facing big mountains of despair, confusion and hurt.  My hope is that someone can land here and read something that lets them know that their experiences aren't for nothing.  Maybe if I can learn from my mistakes and heartbreaks, I can help someone else do the same.

So if you ended up here today or if you end up here at some point in the future, just know that YOU are my audience.  You are who I am writing to and if you are looking for hope or help or just some understanding, I hope you find it here.

Plum Disappointed

It had been a long, hard day.  I wandered the store in a fog of stress and impatience as I waited for my name to be called letting me know my prescription was ready at the pharmacy.  I needed nothing else in particular but I grabbed a buggy (for you Northerners, a cart) and started aimlessly wandering the aisles with the intention of buying a few things to fill up the shelves in my pantry.

Nothing appealed to me.  I strolled down the potato chip aisle, picked up a bag of salt and vinegar chips, thought about buying some dip, changed my mind.  I perused the wines, but decided I wasn't in the mood for wine. I picked up a gallon of milk, considered chocolate but again, not really in the mood.  I checked out the selection of ice cream, cookies and snack cakes to see if something stirred my desire, but nope.  Nothing.

Then I turned the corner and stepped into the produce section.  I saw some apples, "Eh, maybe." I thought.  Then some oranges, "Hmm...I suppo--Wait!"

And there you were.  You perfect little shiny smooth orb of sweet delight, beckoning me to you at a mere $1.98 per pound.  I picked you up, smelled your sweet skin, rubbed my thumbs across your shiny surface and imagined myself standing in my sister's yard beneath the plum tree, barefooted and ten years old, about to take a big bite out of you.

Of course this all happened inside my head so the other shoppers had no idea that I was momentarily lost in my fantasy with you.  It can be our secret.

I  greedily grabbed you up and stuffed you into a thin plastic bag to protect you, of course, from any sharp protruding objects that might end up poking at you inside the buggy.  I was determined to keep you pure, spotless and perfect for our first beautiful moment.

Finally, I heard my name called and we made our way to the pharmacy where I paid for you along with my medication.  I placed you in another bag all by yourself and carried you out the door as delicately as I could.  I was perfectly giddy with anticipation as I thought about washing you and then drying you off, ever so gently, with a soft towel.

In fact, as soon as we were home I took you to the sink.  I let the water cascade over you like a waterfall as I gently rubbed away all the icky germs that other shoppers had no doubt left on your supple skin.  Then I took the softest kitchen towel and buffed you until you were dry and shiny.  At last, our time had come!

I couldn't wait another minute.  Right there in front of the kitchen sink I sunk my teeth into you.  Your flesh yielded to me tenderly, but then...Ugh!  Then I tasted you.  Oh my freaking goodness, you tasted awful!  You little misleading unripened lump of sour displeasure!  You turned out to be everything BUT what I was hoping for.

"Pluh! Pluh!" I spat you you out into the garbage, my heart sinking into the darkest depths of my soul as my love for you turned to bitterness and scorn.  How could you present yourself so perfectly to me on the outside and then completely turn my mouth into a sour fountain of saliva and disgust?  How dare you call to me the way you did and get my hopes up so high, only to dash them away the instant I discovered what was hiding beneath your surface.  What a complete shame.

Have you any idea how disappointed I am?  Do you?

I am sitting here now, staring at you as you look back at me with that one gaping bite missing.

You mock me.

You're trying to look all innocent and unassuming but I know you're laughing at me.

 You knew I was longing for the nostalgia of that long-lost barefoot summer day beneath the plum tree. You knew from the moment you called out to me that you didn't have what it would take to give me that rush of joy, that sweet moment of carefree youth, the pure pleasure of tasting summer on a cold winter's day.  You knew how sour and bitter and hard you were beneath that soft shiny exterior, but you called out to me anyway.

And I...Oh, I fell for it didn't I?  I took the bait.  I committed to the experience before I even took the time to make sure you were ready for it.  What a fool I am!

What shall I do with you now?  Your outside is flawed, your inside is unripe.  If I leave you out to ripen, you'll attract bugs, but if I put you in the fridge you'll never reach your full potential.  I'm struggling with this decision, Dear Plum.  I'm almost angry enough to chuck you in the garbage and call it a day.  But for now I'm just going to sit here and give you the evil eye for a little while longer.

What's that?  My being angry at you will not make you taste any better?

I know that.  I know you're just going to be a mouth-puckering sour bit of heartbreak no matter what.  So why does it really matter what I do at this point?

I could go out and find another plum but chances are, this time of year, it would disappoint me just as badly as you did.  So I think I'd rather sit here shunning you and wishing I had bought the apple instead.

You stupid sour plum.

All The World is a Stage...

I swear it is the longest holding traffic light in town.  I sit there every morning in the left-hand turning lane peeking past the bottom of my sun visor waiting anxiously for the green arrow to light up, pointing me on my way past the two bearded, bedraggled men who stand in the median with cardboard signs that read, "Homeless.  Anything Helps". As the car-dwellers sit captive,  the men walk up and down their yellow trimmed concrete platform, holding their signs in front of their chests. A cigarette dangles loosely from the lips of one of them as he grins and waves at us, hoping one of us will call him over  and give him the change we have left over from our morning coffee stops.

The men do not bother to avert their eyes. They look directly at us, their pupils boring into ours, so if we don't want to feel the discomfort of their gaze, we must determinedly look away. How is it that his stare makes us feel ashamed? And how much does a pack of cigarettes cost? Did someone give him that at the light?  Would he use my change to buy more smokes? Did it matter?

As the guy in the Carhardt jacket with a neatly trimmed goatee makes his way towards my car, I stare even more intently straight ahead at the light, my eyes stinging from the sun. In that moment, I'd rather go blind than look him in the eye, not because he's a homeless man, but because I wonder about his honesty. I doubt that he really is what he says he is.

"What is this con they've got going anyway?" I ask myself, as I reach to turn up my radio.  I can see him out the corner of my eye, standing across from my window, pointing at his sign, but I refuse to turn my head and acknowledge him.  As the light turns, I hear him holler out to the man who is strutting the yellow-painted stage along the opposite side of the intersection but I can't make out what he's saying.  I wonder if they're about to huddle and rethink their strategy.

By the time I made it in to work I had forgotten them.  I parked my car in its usual spot and took a moment to breathe deeply before I shut off the engine and gathered my things to walk inside.  Already my feet hurt as I took the first few steps through the parking lot towards the door.  Why did I wear these heels every day despite the fact that they hurt my feet so badly.  I remembered reading about women who have to get knee replacements later in life because of wearing high heels, but I thought to myself, "it's probably worth it."

I got to my desk just before my boss walked in the door.  Good thing she was running a little late.  As I sat down and turned on my computer I felt the ease and joy of the weekend melt away and let the stress of Monday take up the space where my peace should reside. I told myself I was there to make a difference in the world--to reach out to someone who needed a helping hand, but deep down, I knew that if I had no paycheck to look forward to at the end of the week, I wouldn't have been there.

My heart was still at home, watching my son play with blocks on the living room floor.  My mind was still being pulled back into the movies I watched on Saturday night, to the longing for companionship that overtook me on Sunday morning when I woke up in bed alone. Instead of the cute dress and uncomfortable shoes that defined my style when I was at work, I longed to be back in my causal duds again, wearing sneakers and a ponytail, or a t-shirt and pajamas.

"How was your weekend?"  I looked up to see my friend standing in the doorway of my office.
"It was great!" I said. "How was yours?"
I pretended to listen to her go on and on about her boyfriend and the fight they had as I scanned my emails and checked my schedule for the day.
"Sounds like you had an eventful few days" I finally said back when she paused.
"So what did you do?" She asked me.
"Oh, not much." I said. "Watched some movies. Played with my son."
"That's nice." She grinned. "You're such a great mom! I don't know anyone else who spends time with their kid like you do."
"I try." I said with a sigh.
"I'll see you at lunch time." She said, assuming I was up for a long lunch on a Monday.
"Yeah, let me know when you're going." I answered. "I'm not sure if I'll have time to get out, but I'd like to."

Off she went, bouncing down the hall with all the joy of youth and new love as I sighed again and sunk deeper into my chair.  I suddenly felt heavy enough to break through the floor.  I thought for a brief moment about how surprised the chap downstairs would be if I came crashing through the ceiling onto his desk at 9:00 a.m. on a Monday morning.

My phone rang at 9:03 and I quickly summoned my cheery voice before I picked up the receiver.
"Good morning, Rachel speaking," I said as cheerfully as I could muster.  No matter though, it was a client who was unhappy and his call started a marathon of a day with me having to, as pleasantly as possible, smooth ruffled feathers and make amends for our break down of customer service over the weekend. It was exhausting pretending to care so much about other people's problems when I had my own with which to contend.

I missed lunch with my friend; opting instead to eat the frozen boxed concoction of rice and some spongy substance that was supposed to be chicken at my desk while I returned emails and scanned the internet for a different job.

At the end of the day, all crises averted and hurt feelings soothed, I packed up my things, slipped my feet back into my uncomfortable shoes and headed out the door.  I took a couple of chocolates from the receptionist's candy dish when no one was looking.  Calories don't count if no one sees you eating them, right?

I tromped my way back to my car, wondering why I always chose to park so far from the front door. There was an evening chill working its way into the autumn air as a few dry leaves blew across the parking lot at my feet and I felt that old familiar longing for all things home and comfort sweep over me as I reached for the car door.

The heat of an almost-still-summer day embraced me as I settled in behind the wheel and fumbled with my keys.  The car faithfully hummed to a roar as I quickly reached to turn off the heat.  In favor of the little bite of cold in the air, I rolled my window down as I pulled out of the parking lot and joined the madness of rush hour, making my way back home.

Again at the light, the men were there.  They had traded places since morning, and the man with the goatee was once again standing in the median. He had no cigarette dangling from his lips that time, and for a brief moment, I looked away from the light long enough to examine him a little more closely.  He wore work boots, ragged blue jeans and an old baseball cap.  He spoke to people in the cars ahead of me.  He was smiling, jovial, graceful even as he thanked them for their kindness and put the change they gave him into his right coat pocket.  As he got closer to my door, I wanted to look away, but I made myself keep my eyes firmly focused on him.  Truth was, he reminded me of myself somehow, standing there with that fake smile plastered on his face.

Quickly, I reached for my purse and rummaged for the five dollar bill I hadn't spent for lunch.  I held it out to him and smiled as he spotted my arm waving wildly from my window and made his way over to where I sat.  "Thank you, m'am," he said humbly.  "Every little bit helps."

"You're welcome," I replied. As the light turned green, pointing me once again, back to where I belonged, I wondered where the goateed man went at the end of the day when his act was done.