April 12, 2014

I honestly had better get a job fairly soon (it's close, I can feel it) before I sustain any more injuries of the kind that seem to have befallen me regularly since moving to the country.

I have...

• fallen while going up the basement stairs, slamming my shin into the old wooden stairs

• fallen while coming down the upstairs stairs onto my knee (still can't kneel on it without feeling a sharp, shooting pain)

• sliced several fingers with tools and knives (not to mention a number of my fingertips simply cracking from the extremely dry conditions of winter)

• almost broken a toe or two walking into furniture and doors

• slammed my head into the corner point of the kitchen cabinet door

• been thwacked in the face, very near my eye, by tree branches

• developed a humongous blister from raking

• sustained many deep bruises from the counter corners when cutting my path a bit too closely going into and leaving the kitchen

• put my sacroiliac out of whack (probably from sleeping on an inflatable mattress for the past 10 months)

• given myself a fat, bruised and purple lip with the metal handle of the two-wheeled cart

• And...in trying to open the garage door, had it fall down, off the tracks, onto Mom's car (denting and scraping paint from the back window area of her brand new car, sigh). I had to hold the entire garage door up with my shoulder, for about 25 minutes, while bracing the full weight of the wooden door with my legs, knees bent. 

This most recent of challenges happened Saturday morning. Harry, Mom and I were going to pick up the garbage strewn along the side of the road, down to the corner crossroads and back. Unfortunately, there is SO much garbage thrown from passing vehicles on this small country road, that we needed the two-wheeled cart to collect it. 

The cart is stored in the garage. When I tried to open the garage door, I must have done it too fast or not taken ahold of it exactly in the middle to balance the old wooden door properly (there are a number of quirky rituals at Mom's which, if not followed precisely will result in something such as what happened then). 

The door came crashing down onto Mom's car. 

I burst into tears.

Then, gathering my wits, I set about trying to lift it...and hold it off her car to prevent more damage.

Harry came around the front of the garage and I told him to quickly "go get Grandma."

He ran to the back door, went inside and told Grandma that Mommy wanted her.

I waited. The weight of the door settling into my shoulder.

Harry came back.

"Did you tell Grandma that it was important, Harry?" I asked him through the tears streaming down my face.

"Tell Grandma that it's important." And off he ran...again.

Harry was excited, sensing that something was going on, just not sure what exactly.

Grandma received the message calmly, not really knowing what was going on either.  Harry actually quite often has something "important" to tell her, so she unfortunately didn't really recognize the real importance of this particular message.

And she was changing her socks. Had to put on her boots and coat and hat and...

Well, it took her a little time to get out of the house and respond.

I struggled to hold the door, shifting the weight further up my shoulder.  Quite a bit of time had passed by now and Harry reappeared, followed in a few more minutes by Mom.

She came in the back door of the garage, saw what was happening and quickly came around the front to help.

I told her to call Gilbert, my brother-in law.  I'd just seen him, not long before that across the road in the barnyard. 

And off she ran.

She returned after some time had passed.  I wondered really, what was taking so long to make a quick phone call?

She explained that my sister had said that Gil was not there, but she had called her son who was out in the woods hunting turkey. She hoped that he had his cell phone with him and turned on.

That was not good news.

Mom later told me that somehow she had disconnected the phone in the kitchen (an old rotary dial) while trying to make the call and had to use her cell phone. She does not keep her cell phone turned on. So, she struggled briefly to get it on and then made the call.

She returned to the garage.

Mom tried to help me hold the door, to relieve some of the weight, but I didn't want her to get hurt so I shooed her away.

"Just let me do it, Mom. Someone will be here soon," I assured her.

But we waited. More and more time passed.

Finally, my brother-in-law pulled into the driveway (my sister had called him on his cell phone and he had returned home as quickly as was possible).

Harry had been waiting excitedly and as he saw Gil get out of his truck, he exclaimed, "Oh, Thank Goodness, you are here. We really need your help. Do you think you can help us?"

He calmly replied, "Well, let's see," as he put on his gloves one by one and slowly walked over to the garage.

He quickly got the opposite side of the door that I was holding unstuck from the board that it had settled on, the wheel back onto the track, then the side of the door I was holding followed.

Everything back in place.

Ow.

The door, the track and the wheels are quite old...really old.  The wheels are worn down and are a bit too small now for the track and that's why it is so persnickety when you open and shut the door. It's why you have to follow the precise procedure of grabbing the door in the middle to lift and in doing it slowly, so as to keep the "too small" wheels on the track where they belong as it opens.

I feel horrible about Mom's car.  I really do. 

She said it was "O.K." and added that at least I wasn't hurt or that the door hadn't broken the back car window, but I know it bothers her.

It would bother me. 

It does bother me.

Something will have to be done with the chipped paint to prevent the rust from taking hold. She has a $500 deductible. It's really not worth claiming something like that.

Sigh.

Did I say that I feel horrible?

I do.

Mom was equally understanding when I burned her living room rug.

I had been popping popcorn (to string with cranberries for the Christmas tree) and I was losing my grip on the pot as I brought it into the living room to dump the popcorn from the pot into a basket, so I quickly put it down on the rug - thinking the rug would act just like a pot holder. 

I know, I know, but it seemed reasonable at the time. 

What I didn't consider was that the rug had some kind of plastic component to it, and it immediately melted to the pot, in what couldn't have been more than a one-hundredth of a second...  

When I quickly tried to lift the pot back up, after regaining my grip, I couldn't. 

It was stuck.

Stuck to the rug. 

Melted to the rug, really.

Popcorn and cranberries for the tree.

In hindsight, it's not one of the smartest things I have ever done.

When Mom came home that night from work, Harry met her at the back door.

"Grandma, Mommy burned your rug." he happily reported.

I know who I won't be sharing any secrets with anytime soon.

Oh, and as I'm writing this...it has started to hail.

April 11, 2014

I got two pieces of mail yesterday from the Child Support Unit of the Juneau County Dept. of Human Services.

One was a letter to confirm an appointment.

The letter stated that the purpose of the appointment was to reach an agreement in the pending paternity court action.

Huh?

The second, was a two page Mandatory Paternity Interview Form, accompanied by a letter imploring me to "cooperate."

The first section of the form requested information on the mother.

The second section of the form requested information on the child.

The third section of the form requested information on potential father(s), followed by the statement: Provide the following information for each man you had sexual intercourse with during the conceptive period (followed by the dates of the conceptive period.)

That was followed by other sections requesting information on "additional potential father(s) and a statement that read: If you are naming more than 2 potential fathers, attach a sheet with all other names and information.

Wow.

While I know, sadly, that this reflects a certain reality in our culture. I was a little...insulted?

The "facts about establishing paternity" informational sheet stated that in 2006 (the most recent date for appropriate statistics), 34% of Wisconsin births were to unmarried mothers.

But it is 2014, and perhaps the state of Wisconsin should add a check box at the beginning of their Mandatory Paternity Interview Form that says: 

Single parent by choice. (...allowing for the slightest bit of privacy.)

Or something like Anonymous Sperm Donor (...which just gets straight to the point.)

Mandatory Paternity Interview Form.

The phone rang bright and early this morning.  It was Kelly from the Juneau County Child Support Agency responding to a message I left explaining the circumstances of my single parenting status.

She sounded a bit befuddled as she assured me that my case would be closed and nothing more was needed on my part. 

"Honestly, none of us really knew WHAT to do when we heard your message. In 20 years in this office, we've never dealt with anything like this before."

Which brings me to another "moment of gratitude."

If I hadn't left Texas to take a position in Massachusetts, and ALL the things that happened in Massachusetts hadn't happened just as they did. I wouldn't have Harry.

My precious, amazing child.

The laws that existed and the health care coverage that I had at the time I decided to bring Harry into the world, allowed me an incredible opportunity and gave me an incredible gift.

I became Harry's Mommy.

Bravo, Wisconsin for going after "deadbeat" dads. 

When I called Mom at work yesterday to share my thoughts with her about what I was reading, she said, "It's too bad, really, they didn't have something like that years ago."

Assessing all the layers that statement implied, I quickly agreed. 

That process would have saved a lot of heartache, tears, bad feelings, lawyer's fees and tough times in our childhood. And frankly...a lot of paper.

But it is 2014 and there are all kinds of ways to become a parent. 

Perhaps the state of Wisconsin should just consider adding a check box or two?

My little King, surveying his kingdom.

April 11, 2014

Isn't it ironic?

That was the name of the hit single by Alanis Morissette. 

There was a particular time in my life when I listened to it over and over and over again.  

I listened because it made me smile and shake my head...and I think realize that what happens next is all in the response. How you deal with what life hands you...

It certainly helps to have a good sense of humor.

And to laugh. 

To laugh a lot.

An old man turned ninety-eight

He won the lottery and died the next day

It's a black fly in your Chardonnay

It's a death row pardon, two minutes too late

And isn't it ironic...don't you think

It's like rain on your wedding day

It's a free ride when you've already paid

It's the good advice that you just didn't take

Who would've thought...it figures

Irony is giving yourself a big...purple...bruised...swollen...fat lip in a "raking accident" (I'll explain later) the same day that your Christian Dior Lip Plumper arrives in the mail.

Indeed.

It is definitely big.

Definitely purple and bruised.

Definitely swollen.

Oh....and it hurt. OUCH.

Trust me.  There will be no "Selfie" on this one.

I had gone outside yesterday afternoon to pick up the leaves Mom had raked the night before with the goal of uncovering the sprouting crocus. Piled them high onto the two wheel wagon and maneuvered it into the woods, over brush and twigs and branches, to unload on top of one of the many mounds we've made into homes for various woodland creatures.

I'd been having trouble with the handle on the wagon. One side would pull out from it's brackets, making the handle uneven.  It was difficult to get back into place because the metal had rusted, so the last time I used it, I oiled it and forced the handle back into place.

There should be something holding the handle where it is supposed to be.  I need to take a closer look to see if I can fix that, but in the mean time, it continued to move in and out of place.

When I took the wagon into the woods, the wheels became stuck on a small tree that had self-planted like hundreds of others.  I turned around, put both hands on the handle and gave it a mighty tug.  The metal bar gave way, out of the brackets, and came straight for my face, hitting my lip and mouth with all the force behind that mighty tug!

Ugh. Makes me flinch to think about it.

Ow. Ow. Ow. 

Those expressions of pain got louder and louder, as I bent over in slight agony, clutching my mouth.

I could feel my lip swelling immediately, but my first concern was for my teeth.  As far as I could tell, they were all still where they were supposed to be.

I was able to confirm that quickly when I got into the house and to the bathroom mirror.

That is when I heard a light knock on the porch screen door. "UPS, with a package."

And there it was. A very small package from Sephora (the everything beauty store). 

Inside?  My lip moisturizing treatment or as it is more appropriately described: "Lip Plumper."

I smiled.

And BOY, did THAT hurt.

O.K., maybe just one Selfie.

April 10, 2014

I got an email yesterday from an old college friend.

The subject line said, "How's Paula?"

I chuckled. 

It's the content of the email that made me grin from ear to ear!

There is a new job posting at the organization of my dreams...the job that I started thinking about when I was in high school.

It's my dream employer that I actually featured in my high school Valedictory speech.  

It's the job that I've thought about endlessly year...after year...after year.

Dreamt about.

Ironically, it's the position that I applied for about two years ago, but that went through several iterations - at least three changes of job description - before it was given to a young talented woman.

She is leaving that job. And now they are looking for someone...again.

Ironic.

So, I wrote a new cover letter.  Tweaked and massaged it lovingly. 

Then sat down as I have many, many, many times in the past several months and I applied online.

Applying to the ether is what it's all about these days. A bit impersonal and sterile.

I am assured, by the automatically generated explanatory email, that my application has been accepted.

"Thank you for submitting your application for employment with X.  If your skills and qualifications match the requirements of the position, a representative from X will contact you. Unfortunately, due to the large volume of resumes that we receive, we are not able to speak to or meet with everyone.  Once a position has been filled, it will be removed from our website.  

Good luck and thank you for your interest in X."

Now comes the hard part.

Waiting.

And while I'm waiting for that one.  I continue waiting for the other one.

I had my second interview for it this week.  I think it went really well, although I've been reworking it in my head, changing some of my answers.

Geez, "I wish I'd said that." Or "What was it that I said when they asked me that question?"

It was about 50 minutes long.  A video "chat." 

They asked good questions and let me talk about my experience and how it would translate to the position. 

It's nerve-wracking, though. 

It's difficult.

The challenge is trying to sell who you are and what you have done, after almost 30 years of a successful career, when you don't really like talking about yourself. 

And all that on a video screen.

And there is a delicate balance to strike of not sounding just egotistical but just plain qualified.

I have reached 10 months of unemployment and I am SO ready to work again.

In the meantime, I continue my chores and odd jobs that are self-assigned.

I raked around the exterior of the house yesterday. The 60-degree weather calling to me like the siren song of the Greek mythical creatures who lured nearby sailors with their enchanting music and voices to the rocky coast. 

Rocky coast, leafy lawn...very similar.

As long as I was enjoying the weather, I thought I should be productive.

The flower beds at the base of the house had been covered with layers and layers and layers of leaves to protect whatever might bloom there in better weather; flowers, ferns and ivy.

Seven more wagon loads to the woods! 

I have never seen so many leaves. Nor raked so many.

Mom went outside briefly last night to rake the area where we planted crocus bulbs last fall. (Yes, unbelievably, I have been here long enough to be within the growing cycle of the crocus.)

I think I'll finish raking and removing the leaves from that area this afternoon.

After lunch.

April 7, 2014

"The wider we open our eyes, the more we see."

That message came in an email today from a potential business collaborator.

I've been very blessed most recently by the support of friends and colleagues, but also from some more unlikely sources and actually, from time to time...complete strangers.

I've been a recipient of words of wisdom, messages of support and even a gift card or two.

My longtime friend, Leslie, reminded me recently (as we exchanged emails over tough times) of a line from Frank Capra's classic “It’s a Wonderful Life.” 

“No man is a failure who has friends.” 

That’s us," she said. 

Incidentally, "It's a Wonderful Life" is considered one of the most loved films in American cinema, based on the short story "The Greatest Gift". It was one of the most critically acclaimed films ever made, nominated for 5 Oscars and recognized by the American Film Institute as one of the 100 best films EVER made. It also placed on the Institute's list of the most inspirational films of all time. Frank Capra, himself, revealed that it was his personal favorite of all the films he directed.

And it's true.  "No man is a failure who has friends." 

My friends have sent quick texts, emails and messages of support with regularity. 

And they continue to read this blog, day after day, to keep track of Harry and I. One friend and former colleague said it was how she knew we were both "O.K." And she liked knowing that.

Old and dear friends in California (Santa Ana) sent a card a couple of weeks ago filled with hope and a surprise.

There was an image on the card of a young deer amidst the devastation of land charred by wildfire. The picture was made by my friend and tucked away among many, many other images of the day, until, she said, a card company saw the image and asked to use it. 

Now, she says, she recognizes that image's inherent message of hope and life and is inspired by it herself. 

That card was accompanied by two gift cards: one to support Harry's addiction to mango yogurt and one to treat Mommy at Starbucks. 

Such a wonderful surprise. Such an act of kindness. So unexpected and greatly appreciated.

Other friends and colleagues have sent alerts to job postings, notes about opportunities that they have heard about or that are worth checking out. And some, as I have mentioned, have offered their connections to help with introductions or endorsements that would lead to other opportunities.  

And complete strangers that I've struck up conversations with during the course of the day, have left me with good wishes for the future, "I know there is something out there for you, and you'll find it soon." 

Nice.

Really...very nice.

Tomorrow is my second interview with my prospective employer.  

BIG sigh.

I'm nervous. 

That lump in my throat is growing bigger and bigger as the day goes by.

I'm usually very confident, professionally, but the time that has passed since I've been gainfully employed has taken its toll, honestly.

There is so much riding on this one video interview...

I not only want this job, but I now need this job.

Harry and I need so much to get back to our life together. 

I need to feel again, that I am contributing with purpose, I need for Harry to be in a situation where he is getting the most opportunity available to him and being challenged to learn and thrive at a level that is appropriate.

We need our own routine, our own home, our own life back.

I need to pray for a sliver tongue tomorrow. 

I've been working on my mantra for the interview.  A bit corny, yes, I know, but also necessary.

"I have the talent, skills, knowledge and experience that you need with the inherent capacity for excellence that you want." 

Wish me Luck.  

If I'm honest, articulate, true to myself and maintain a sense of humor, I'll be fine.

All gestures of support are welcome.

If these walls could talk...

April 3, 2014

I want to scream out loud.

Just a little bit.

The other customers at the Coffee Bean might be disturbed by the blood curdling sound - the expression of my frustration.

I started out with good intentions. The best really.

I had collected some things, during the sorting and organizing of Mom’s accumulated possessions, only those that we had agreed could be donated to St. Vincent’s (one of the local charities.)

I set out this morning, after dropping Harry at Miss Margie’s, to do just that.

Just after I arrived at the back door where the donations are left in the sorting area, another woman came with a trunk full of children’s games and clothes. She quickly loaded a four-wheeled cart, but stopped just behind my 4Runner.

“Do you want to use this?” she asked.

My plan, which in hindsight I should have stuck to, was to take the boxes one by one or stacked two to a load through the door and into the sorting area. Instead, I accepted her offer.

“O.K.” I replied, “I guess I could finish filling that up.”

Sigh.

The cart was unwieldy at best. I pushed it right and it went left.  I gave it a shove straight ahead and it veered sharply in another direction.

I battled the cart to the door and then turned to open the heavy steel door. As I pushed backward, my coat sleeve (just at the inside elbow) got caught on the hinges.

And then it happened, that most unfortunate sound of fabric giving way...torn and ripping. 

I let out a little yelp.

Suddenly, I was losing feathers like a large goose during a heavy molt.

Feathers were flying everywhere!

I said a few words…loudly. Looked around to see that no one was near and repeated them, louder still.

Those words, most certainly, I wouldn’t want Harry to repeat.

I finished battling the cart into the warehouse, parked it inside and quickly left, still repeating those words, muttering like a crazy person under my breath.

I had a roll of packing tape in the back of the 4 Runner and managed to fasten a small piece of tape over the gaping hole near my elbow. That would stop the flow of feathers for the time being, while I thought of a way to repair the damage.

I’ve sewn some things in the past. Small repairs to knit gloves or replaced buttons, but this was a task for a professional.

I remembered the dry cleaners, just off "the square". Badger cleaners, same day service.

I drove quickly to the storefront, explained my dilemma to the woman behind the counter. 

“Yes, we can fix it.” She assured me. “In 7 to 10 days.”

Argh.

She told me about a dress shop, down the street, around the corner called Specially Hers.

“They have a seamstress there every day.  Maybe she could help you.”

“Terrific. I’ll try them.” And off I went after she offered me a new piece of tape to cover the damage. I had removed the original piece when explaining my dilemma.

When I got to the door, I gave it a tug, but it was locked. A woman (who reminded me of a tall, brunette version of Dolly Parton) quickly came to the front door and unlocked it, smiling.

“I got busy with the receipts and forgot to unlock the door. What can I do for you?” she asked, at first excited to have a customer, I think, and then quickly, seemingly perturbed when I told her my story.

“Well the seamstress doesn’t get in until at least 10 a.m.  She has to work late tonight, till 8 p.m. You know it’s best to call before you come by.” She explained, fairly annoyed.

“Yes, I understand that, but I didn’t know that this was going to happen, did I?” I countered.

“Oh, right…of course.”

I assured her that I would go find something to do until 10 a.m. and then return to see if the seamstress could help me.

“Well, I wouldn’t count on it, though you can try back. It’s Prom season you know and she is very busy.”

Of course. Prom season. How foolish of me to forget.

Back to the Coffee Bean (the corner coffee shop) for my second Cappuccino of the morning. I’m pretty sure that makes 4 shots of espresso so far, all before that magic hour of 10 a.m.

I took my big, lime green cup and walked over to a small table by the window, leaving a trail of fine white fluffy feathers floating effortlessly in the air behind me.

As I sat down to write, I realized that I didn’t have my glasses. (I also didn't have the power cord for my computer, nor the connectors to back up Harry's iPad and my iPhone, all things on my "To Do list.")

I have FOUR pairs of glasses, now that I’ve found the pair that spent the winter under 3 feet of frozen snow. Every single pair is sitting somewhere at home.

I’m using “spell check” but I really can’t be held responsible for typos at the moment…

It’s just that kind of day.

Sigh.

Cappuccino at the Coffee Bean.

April 1, 2014

There are essentially two kinds of occupations of people that you find yourself revealing the details of your life to (personal and heartfelt things) that you would only otherwise share with close friends and family? 

Well, I suppose there would be a third, if I was Catholic, and that would be a priest.

But I am not…Catholic.

You know who I’m talking about, right?

A hairdresser and a bartender. 

Sounds like the beginning to a potentially very bad joke.

Since I don’t go to bars, my confessional happens at the salon.

I’m sitting under the dryer at the moment, cooking my color. (Goodbye obstinate grays!)

But I’ve just finished a long and detailed conversation with Holly, the hairdresser.  She takes it all in, verbally acknowledging with short supportive phrases.

“Yes, of course.” 

“Oh, I hope so.”

“Well, why wouldn’t it?”

All the while, doing what she does. In my case, covering my roots with that thick, dark, stone cold-when-it-touches-my-scalp formula meant at its completion, to take 10 years off my perceived age.

I’m not much about telling anyone the most intimate details of my thoughts and fears, so I didn’t reveal anything really that important or personal, but I did feel the force.

That unknown, inexplicable, yet powerful force that releases your normal verbal filter and gets you talking while perched atop that chrome swivel chair. 

Before you know it, you’ve been non-stop chattering for 20 minutes.

Under the dryer.

Sitting under the dryer gives you time to reassess and get ahold of yourself.

Which I did.

Now, I just have to maintain my silence while she shampoos, rinses, dries and trims…

The hair dryer noise, gratefully, makes it difficult to hold a conversation anyway.

When I’m properly coiffed, it’s off to run some errands, including resupplying our yogurt and a few other things and then back home to continue my research for my upcoming interview.

The research is essential, but the preparation also includes a lot of talking out loud to myself.

I'm trying to practice answers to predicted interview questions with authority, knowledge and a bit of wit…hopefully.