Martinis at 3

Sometimes life’s detours are better than it’s destinations.

One day last week, my plan was to get drawer liners and bathmats. En route, I approached my friend Suzie’s empty house. After 32 years there, she had moved to lovely but landlocked Arizona.  Impulsively pulled out my cell phone and dialed her number.  A ring.   Vavam!  Her image appeared -- not on the phone, but in her front yard!  I immediately pulled over and attempted to kidnap her for two hours.  I applied all my charm, and she resisted.  The errand list was driving her like a cowboy. 

I finally coaxed Suzie into the car with promises of doing errands—all the while scheming to  spend one precious hour with her relaxing in some sunshine, on a beautiful day, in the beach community she has forsaken, with the friend she has left behind.  My dark side plotted a means to cajole this desert-and-mountain convert into acknowledging that beach is beautiful.

So, two destinations later, we were heading towards the ocean -- two old friends with a car stuffed with bathmats.  Seeking a sunny spot, somehow we found ourselves sitting down at Hennessy’s. 

It was three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon. 

Who was this person sitting in Hennessy's in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week?  I was supposed to be in my windowless office, surrounded by books, clicking away at endless emails, managing task lists, people and budgets and hoping at best for some diverting text message.  Wasn’t I?  No more!  I had shut that office door for its final time.  If not work time, then, wasn’t it time for homework, milk and cookies?  Well, I didn’t see any.

It was 3 o’clock, and it was HAPPY HOUR.  Lord, I didn’t even know people got happy so early in the day.  So, with limited savvy in the ordering of martinis, but emboldened by the offer of two for one, I ordered a most girly pink Cosmo. 

Gazing left, over the railing, I could see the blue Pacific rising up the wall of the horizon.  Looking up, I could imagine that the handsome bartender was glancing at me with appreciative eyes -- if I did not more realistically assess that he, too, was admiring the sparkling sea beyond me. 

Glancing right, I could see a twenty-something woman in a casual dark ponytail, scribbling on a well-filled, legal-sized yellow tablet.  My secretary, when I had a secretary, had always kept me supplied with stacks of these talismans which I believed invoked my best thinking.  I therefore assumed THINKING was happening at the adjacent table.  This young woman’s ink was black and her focus was enviable. 

I, myself, reserved by nature, did not inquire about the black ink. 

My friend, who has fewer inhibitions and therefore makes more friends, blurted out, “What are you writing?” 

The young woman looked up with pondering brown eyes and said simply,  “I’m writing a book.”  My ears pricked up. 

Then the Cosmo started talking, and my confession gushed.  “That’s what I‘ve always wanted to do!” 

And so the conversation expanded.  Here was a girl, age twenty-six, who obviously had it more together than I.  She had achieved miracles.  She had put black ink onto a tablet.  She had an agent who had offered her a book deal.  How did the happen?  Well, she had always been writing.  A few years ago, she had started writing a blog.  An agent had discovered her blog and approached her. 

Where does this girl live, anyway, in Never-Never-Web-Land? 

“A blog?”  My ears were now ringing and the Cosmo was half drained.  “I just started a blog a few weeks ago,” I responded with some dignity. 

The two-for-one martini deal was getting good.  Emboldened, I offered her my blog address.  She gave me hers, BecomingJennie.com.  Feeling suddenly chummy, I asked,“ Jennie, how many hits have you gotten?”

“Well, one day I woke up and actually cried when I hit ten thousand hits.”  I had to repeat the number.  She probably thought I was deaf in addition to being sixty years old.  My jaw dropped and my martini nearly splashed into my lap.  No!   Surely this girl lives on the moon, and has redefined cyberspace.

She must have sensed incredulity quickly turning into to E-Envy.  Generously, she offered up some advice, such as keeping a blog name short.  I reflected on my long, sweet-and-sassy name and looked with dismay at my empty martini glass.  I encouraged Suzie to order another martini, so I could drink half of it without feeling I had ordered a second martini. 

Suzie asked, “So what do you write about?” 

Jenny answered, “Well, basically, about life.”  I lifted my eyebrows. Didn’t you have to have more wrinkles before you could write on that topic?  She must have sensed my skepticism.  Turning a page of her tablet, she sighed, “It seems like I’ve already lived several lifetimes.” How could one achieve this so early on in the game?  Later, when I would hit her site, I would get some clues; it wasn’t easy. 

In my twenties, I don’t think I knew very much about life.   I was too busy achieving the predictable.  It takes a long time for most of us to figure out life. 

“Well, Jennie, I’ve got to tell you, if you think you have a lot to say about life and living now, just wait ‘til you hit your 60’s!  It will amaze you!  But be prepared:  You’ll be trying to figure it out all over again, just like when you were twenty. ” 

With an extravagant flourish, I paid the bill and walked out with my long-time, old-young pal.  I was smiling.  I might be just a beginner, and I might not understand a lot about life.  But I had just had my very first martini at 3.  And I was going to write about it. 

GRACE IN THE GRAY AREAS: 100 steps to grace for 2011

GRACE IN THE GRAY AREAS: 100 steps to grace for 2011

Chris Foster offers a list of 100 steps to grace. For any of us seeking a path, here is a way to create your own way.

What if you or I embarked on all 100 of these steps, one step at a time?

Has anyone done this?

How long would it take?  Does it matter?  

How would my path change? Would your path cross mine? 

Our Angel of Macy

     There are times in your life that you meet just the right person at just the right time.  This was just the right time to meet Ada. 

     I was actually feeling rather dismayed at what life had dealt me.  I had ruptured a disc in my spine, and was living in fear of triggering a recurrence of some rather vividly memorable pain.   Words, such as “possible permanent nerve damage” , pronounced by men in white coats, were still ringing in my ears.  

     You could imagine how someone might rupture a disc.  Yes, lifting a glass coffee table top would be a plausible explanation.  But the other occurrence is harder to explain.

     The day before, I ran over my own laptop computer.  Yes, demolished it under the wheels of the car. That’s a little harder to fathom.  So I will tell you how to do it.  First, you fill your mind with the presentation you will be giving to a hundred people in the next hour.  Next, you set down your nice, new, soft-sided briefcase which holds your nice, new Macbook Pro, by the side of the car as you make an urgent phone call.  Then, you just get in the car and pull out of the parking lot. 

     So, having completed those deft maneuvers, I heard a strange crunching sound under the tires.  Still completely clueless, I glanced in my rearview mirror and spotted my tattered briefcase on the pavement.  A strange premonition came over me as I approached the scene of the accident.   My turkey sandwich looked like road kill, my watch was shattered,  and my 4-month-old laptop had a screen that looked like it would bring many more than seven  years of bad luck.   Miraculously, my powerpoint, was still intact.  The show must go on!  And then I laughed, somewhat hysterically:   The ice-breaker which had eluded me until this moment,  just occurred to me., my own version of “A funny thing happened on my way to the auditorium . . .”.  The presentation would now be seen as minor miracle, my audience engaged in the pathos of the event.   Heck of an expensive way to create an authentic anecdote. 

     So, yesterday, still reeling from recent events, I entered Macy’s.  Relieved to have come through yesterday with my professional reputation intact, but chagrined at my personal ineptitude and my physical limitations, I was resolutely seeking reparations.  This was not the kind of indulgent shopping that evokes a serotonin rush, like multiple hits of dark chocolate.  This shopping was more like several swigs of Slimfast, a defiant act of trying to restore, at significant sacrifice, what you know you once had.

      And so I met Ada.  First, actually, I smelled Ada.  She exuded the fresh essence of soap as I followed her down the aisle of Macy’s.  Then, I saw Ada.  A large black woman, she was dressed in a black paisley blouse and a wide black skirt, her kinky, slightly grayed hair neatly clipped in a bun.  She lumbered in black shoes as sturdy as bricks.  Just a little later, I got to know Ada.

     For reasons of scanty service in Macy’s, I returned several times to Ada.   Ada did indeed seem to be the only living soul capable of taking my money in return for merchandise.  But there was something else about Ada.:  I liked coming back to Ada.  There was just something about her.  I sensed it. Each of her ministrations behind the watch counter were done with just a little extra care.  When I was looking down at the display, she was concerned I had a stomachache, ‘cause Ada knew that’s what she does when her stomach hurts.  When I remarked on the extra care she was giving, she drew herself tall and explained, “That’s just how I treat all my customers.”  Then she added, “I’m just so thankful to come to work every day.” 

     The last straw—or the best part—occurred on my last return to Ada, after discovering that I had missed my appointment at the Apple store because the watch I had just purchased, as aesthetically acceptable as it was, did not tell time.  It seemed that the battery was dead on arrival on my wrist, and it appeared that there was no other watch in my measly price range that didn’t dangle on my child-sized wrist.  Nevertheless, I just had faith that Ada was going to make it all right.  And Ada assured me she had that faith, too.   During the wait for the line management process to affect the appropriate reparations, Ada and I had a heart-to-heart.   Heaven knows why, yes It does!  I poured out recent traumas, and she told me of hers.  Ada has “arther-itis”  in her spine.  She’s had it since a child.  Her left leg is semi-paralyzed; she has to lift it with her hands if she wants to raise her leg.  Edema has swelled her calves and arms.  She is diabetic.  She was off work for a year having not one but two knee replacements.  She sometimes loses control of her limbs and falls down the stairs.  She was off work for a year having not one but two knee replacements.  But it was the happiest day of her life when the doctor said she could go back to work.  She loves her station;  she greets co-workers and customers with hellos, and smiles, and encouraging words from behind her glass enclosure.  People go out of their way to come in through “her door”.  This woman--as infirm as she is--this woman, she glows.

     I asked her, “Ada, what is your source?”  She knew exactly what I meant and she had a ready answer.  “Jesus!” she declared.  “He gives us life each and every day.” 

     And, though I am not of a church-going nature, I said a silent amen.   Aloud, I said, “Ada, He does something for you.   He surely does.”  She replied , “Honey, He does something for all of us, He surely does.”

     And so it is.  On the very same day, two things occurred.  First, an angel alighted on the shoulder of the Apple Store manager and whispered into his ear something about mercy for loyal customers who have certain lapses of mental functioning which require them to purchase two identical IPhones and two identical computers in a span of four months.  I was granted complete repairs on my laptop at no cost.  Halleluia!  Later that day, the same angel’s wings cast a benign shadow across my MRI report and brought to the neurosurgeon’s lips the pronouncement, “Thou hast no need of the surgeon’s knife, nor the nurse’s needle.” 

    And so, at the end of the day, I folded my hands and offered a prayer thanks for Ada and told the angel where to find Ada, behind the watch counter near the north door of Macys.

Valentines

Valentine’s Day

For many years, I studiously ignored Valentine’s Day.  This began, I think, in the days of the conscientious objector.  So idealistic I was, or so I thought, in the seventies when I was in my twenties.   I rejected such pro forma declarations of love, requisite on a given day, and spurred by the Hallmark conglomerate.  Think of all the days-before-the-day, when my husband was spared the angst of “Oh-My-God-I’ve-got-to-get-her-something”.  (I say “husband’ because I think there was only one Valentine’s Day in my life when I had a boyfriend who had not yet turned into a husband.) A rejection of Valentine's Day now has a name; it is called "Anti-Valentine's Day".  It bears a cynical tone and carries the freight of bitterness--a  far cry from the lofty notion that love is something more than chocolate, cards and reservations.  

As a child, I made valentines.  That was before love became consciously pursued or a commodity that could be lost.  They were joyously lacy, sticky red and gloriously, innocently conventional.  To me, they were beautiful.   I can’t remember who they were for:  It mattered not.  What was important was that there was love in my life and I was making them.  I reveled in the paper lace, the thrilling mastery of cutting a heart shape, the glue, the scraps falling on the floor—the glorious mess of it all!  With young-wise dignity, I knew that the purpose was to release these masterpieces into the hands of others.   I flung myself into the task with the naïve certainty that someone would be happy when they saw it. 

I made one adult valentine card.  It was 38 years ago.  It had no lace, but it had layers of hearts in different hues, one layer peeling back to reveal the next one underneath.  Within these layers, I wrote my poem.   It was read, I was thanked, it was tossed, and that was that.  I never made another one.  I lived a loving life, but that was that.  

Many years later, I learned to write love poems again.  I understood better what there was to say. Some are joyous, some sad.  But the saddest love poems are the ones unsent.  

Swimmers at Dawn

I am up before dawn today, just to see what the day is going to bring.  I fortify myself with a steaming coffee latte, which never tastes better than on a cold winter morning at the beach.  I head for that place of transition, where the ocean reaches shore.  It is a good place to dump your troubles and then see what answers the tide washes to your feet.  Walking to the end of the pier, land slips away and ocean deepens in the dawn.  I hug my sweatshirt and wrap my hands around my warm cup, gazing at the calm undulations brightened by a new sun.  I spot a lone swimmer, swaying in the swells, slowly progressing across the bay, steady kicks breaking the surface and strong strokes slipping under. 

Why did he leave the comfort of his bed this chilly morning to submerge himself in this frigid, foreign element?  Why does he take the hard way from one pier to the next?  Maybe it is because he is alive, and the sun this morning shines brighter and earlier than usual?   For that matter, why did I wake up hours before dawn today?  Is this crazy?  Or crazy-good?

The swimmer pauses and floats.  He looks around, finds his relationship to terra firma, measures his progress with puzzled, blinking eyes.  What is familiar seems so far away and small.  He spots a fellow swimmer many yards behind, and another beyond.  He pushes on with stronger strokes.

These swimmers are unafraid of the deep water.  In fact, they have fought their way past the breakers to get where they are.  Amazingly, it is calmer in the deep than when one clings to the shore, pulled and tossed and tumbled across the sand.

I spot a dolphin arcing out of the water, my reward for the early rise.  Is the dolphin playing, or seeking food?  Maybe for him it is all the same.  He is in his element, doing what he was born to do.  That is his bliss.  We humans must seek and search to find this.  We have to plunge in, shiver and shake, blink and wonder, go deep and kick hard. 

The Kitchen Magician

Yesterday, I engaged in some noteworthy kitchen wizardry.  After a morning of physical therapy for an injury that cannot be seen with the naked eye, and negotiating the installation of granite countertops, ,which I was beginning to fear would also never be seen by the naked eye, I went on to higher pursuits.  I read another chapter of Smart Women Don’t Retire—They Break Free! and then topped it off by hitting the website thetransitionnetwork.com.  This cranked  me up so much,  I flung myself out of the house to do something I had dreamed of doing when I retired.

  I went at high noon on a weekday to the Hermosa Beach farmer’s market.  The motto “Think global, act local” was ringing gloriously in my ears. I virtuously steered  myself past the hot dogs and kettle corn to the organic items, and was glowing with eco-glory as I carried dinner-to-be  in my recyclable canvas bag.  There was only one flaw in my buy-local pursuit: I came home with Black Cod from New Zealand!

This transgression led, if not to long-range environmental disaster, to immediate culinary disaster. It was not due to the freshness of the fish or the quality of the miso sauce, hand made by “Dave”.  In fact my respect for the marinating properties of this sauce has skyrocketed.  

In plain fact, I fell on the knife of linguistic arrogance.  The Asian fish seller told me correctly how to prepare the cod.  When describing the process of marinating, he said, “Half an hour.  No more is good.”  This was the prophetic truth he spoke.  What I heard was, “Half an hour.  No, more is good.”  The  English major should have been more mindful of the placement of that comma. 

So, in the spirit of my new-found hours available for meal preparation, I decided to make this dish “more better”.  I knew the delights of a Miso Baked Black Cod, and wanted mine to be outstanding.  So, I began marinating it at 2:00 in the afternoon.  Mmm, that sauce was good stuff.

Well, imagine my surprise when I took that sucker out of the oven at dinner time.  The fish had flattened, and was oozing into a spreading pool of miso sauce.  Dissolving!  Vanished!  The damn fish was liquefied. 

I humbly offer advice.  Do not, I repeat, “DO, NOT” underestimate the power of miso sauce to take high-quality protein and break down those molecules beyond recognition.  That stuff will quite literally be your culinary undoing. 

Viet

Viet

I have recently been reading books, talking with therapists, wrestling with life change, and challenging my relationships.  In other words, I have been conscientiously complicating my life.  Today, I did something simple.  It was really quite related to my previous topic of doggie diarrhea.  After a nice feeding of white rice, I took Daisy, the Diarrhea Dog, out on a test walk on the Manhattan Beach Strand.  All went well, with all outlets in proper working order, with all the proper on and off sphincters functional.  For this I gave thanks at the local Starbucks.  Sitting on the seat outside in the sun, with a dog that no one would think would be capable of such despicable displays as were the case the day before,  Daisy received the usual parade of admirers, and served in her best capacity as a conversation starter.  I met  Viet.  Predictably, Viet is from Vietnam.  Viet speaks in profound but broken English.  Although his syntax is inaccurate, he speaks truth better than I do with my nine years of higher education and my substantial resume.  He told me how people in this country don’t know how to be happy.  People in this beach town, which for so long prided itself for its laid-back attitude, live very complicated lives.  They pay a price for success.  They come to the U. S. for the American dream and have to then go to Mexico to achieve the Mexican dream.  He told me a story of a man in Vietnam who committed a crime, which ruined his chances for a good life.  He became a monk and walked from monastery to monastery with only his clothes on his back.  And he lived a good life.  Viet and I shared a simple moment.  Viet said four profound words:  “Free From – Free To”.  He said this four times.  I told Viet he was indeed a wise man.  He said that there was a reason that we connected today.  Viet today was my monk.  He wandered into my walk.  He was serendipity.