How is it that some folks can have their cake and eat it too? While others are scrambling for a piece of dried-out melba toast?
I am off all week. I don't have the funds or the motivation to do something with myself, so I have been living rather like the college student I used to be--sleeping a lot, eating lots of cookies, and enjoying lots of television and movies accompanied by a bottle of red. I was asked today by three different people how I am doing with my week off. My response is that I absolutely love it.
Sure, I am rather lonely sometimes. But I am lonely when I have 84,000 things to do, places to go, people to be. So no great revelation there. There are several things I should be accomplishing this week around the house, but I just am not in the mood. I am enjoying he hell out of doing very little, answering to no one, and just doing my thing which is apparently a whole lot of nothing.
I never wanted a career in the post-feminist sense. I wanted to be an actress, not work nine to fine five days a week doing what the rest of the working world did. But my kind of actressing has yet to pay a single bill, so it's off to work I go.
I have had jobs since I was twelve years old. Babysitting year-round (I started at $2 an hour.) My cousin and I ran a snack bar at the pool the summers we were newly minted teenagers. I started working as a page at the public library the day after I turned 16 and I held that job through most of college. I worked in retail a lot. I waitressed. I temped. I spent seven years in a common-law marriage with an evil bloodsucking corporation. I ended up back at my first post-college gig, in a college library, which is why I have the glorious gift of spending the week between Christmas and New Year's on a mini-break from life as I know it.
I went to college because it was expected of me, because I loved learning, because I wanted to study shoes and ships and sealing wax and speak of cabbages and kings. It was a glorious four years. But as my best friend and I would half-joke at that time, we really went to college to get a husband. Like it was finishing school. And we were living fifty years earlier than we actually were. We didn't want careers, really, though we were certainly awfully bright and we were hard workers. We didn't expect things handed to us. But we assumed that since we hadn't found the one in high school, we would in college.
She actually did. She also went on to be the breadwinner in her household, and her one is now the stay-at-home dad to their two amazing kiddos. That's how it worked out. That is what happened to feminism.
I found the one, too, but he ended up being the one who got away. So post-graduation off I went, not so gently, into that good night of going to bed early to wake up and take that morning train.
The past weeks I have been obsessed with Mad Men. This is the most perfect show I have ever seen on television. Not one episode has let me down. And there is so much going on the world of those Sterling Cooperites, the one they inhabit by day and the one they inhabit by night and the one that turns on its axis 24-7 all around them.
Women living in this man's world had few choices. Abortion was illegal. Adultery was commonplace. Polio was still having its way with their kids. Ladies were expected to attend secreterial school and then type up memos and land a husband, or go off to a woman's college and get married after a brief stint as an artist or a model or an actress. Clothing was restrictive and uncomfortable but it made you look good. You got a wash and set once a week. Your lips were the rubiest of reds. And every night you had a rump roast and a cold beer set up at the dinette for your man, after spending the day in suburban banality tending children, ironing laundry, picking up dry cleaning, and firing your maid.
Then the sixties really got started. And some women yearned for more. They fought hard battles to get more. They burned their cone-shaped bras and wore their hair long and started running their own ships rather than acting as deckhand for one captained by a man. Sex and drugs and rock and roll reigned. Home and hearth, not so much.
Fast forward to the new millenium. We are gender-bending more than ever in terms of choices, what we are capable of, what we want, what we need, what we do. And it's all very confusing. Because with this Ms. title comes a lot of loss. Manners, etiquette, elegance. It is looked down on to not want a career, to want to build a home without simultaneously building your own corporate empire. Your daddy isn't footing the bills one day and your husband the next. And it is interesting because the feminine mystique was never supposed to be about women having to work--feminism is about choices. To be able to choose to be the woman you wanted to be. One who climbs that corporate ladder. One who sleeps with whomever she wants whenever she wants. One who wants five children and one who wants none. One who chooses to live as an artist, a mom, a wife, a best friend, a girl Friday, a presidential candidate. We don't need to stand by our man. We don't need a man at all. And we need to be all of this, all of the time. We are supposed to have it all, but who has it all? Not one person I know in either sex. And why should they? If we have it all, we wouldn't have dreams.
Life for the ladies has always been rough. But the more separate but equal we become, in myriad ways the harder it becomes to be a woman. I relish these days we live in, the opportunities available to me whether I take them or not. Vaccines, and thongs, and not a single white glove in sight. Civil "rights." Equal pay for equal work (which I do not think I have actually ever experienced, but it's a swell theory.) But a week spent home alone, and I fantasize that I could probably live quite cheerfully in a garter belt and Pucci shift planning meals, and redecorating the living room, and dining out in the city to charm the senior partners once a month, and doing some docent work one morning a week at the museum, and having a couple of kids and a doting bankrolling husband and a white picket fence to hide all my racy longings behind.
Mad (wo)men, indeed.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
It's a little bit funny
Credit. I have bad credit, financially speaking. I wasn't raised to be fiscally responsible, largely because when I was eight years old my dad quit his high-profile and I presume well-paying job as the PR man for a big NFL team and was subsequently out of work for three years. In this time he made an excellent Mr. Mom, was written about in Sports Illustrated, and almost went on tour with the Jackson Five but declined so as to not leave us alone all summer, which was a good decision as that was the summer my sister broke her little arm.
These lean years were the kindling upon which my deep-seated hatred of numbers were built. I began keeping a diary at some point and remember writing entries in all caps screaming "I HATE MONEY!" from my bedroom while below my parents were loudly arguing over same, or the lack thereof. The financial crisis my parents found themselves in at this time changed immeasurably most things that I took for granted as our lifestyle. Gone were the company cars and the vacations and the Sundays dressed in full green regalia. My mother had to unwillingly return to the workforce she had happily stopped being a part of after I was born, taking a series of shitty retail jobs before landing a long-term gig as a secretary for the local college. My dad eventually found a new position which did not fulfill him but did start paying the bills. Obviously at age eight through eleven I didn't know the details of how things were, but I heard things that stuck with me, which may or may not be true thirty years later. That this one event created a chain reaction heard 'round the walls of our home--that there was no planned-for and much-wanted third child, that my parents almost separated either to save money or because being together without any was that bad, that big trips and the best schools and piano and ballet lessons and annually replenished back-to-school wardrobes were but dreams of the past.
I know that somehow deep down by eight I had expectations for my future. Certainly my mother instilled in me a sense of being upper middle class rather than blue collar once removed by way of Irish Catholic neighborhoods. And it isn't that I was an unhappy child, far from it. I was a kid growing up in the late seventies and early eighties--we made a lot of our own fun. And it's not like I wasn't amply provided for in terms of food, clothing, fun, and affection--I was. But the unhappiness of my parents regarding their financial situation was a constant presence in our lives. The year Cabbage Patch kids were the it gift of the century, we didn't them for no reason as would have been the case in the pre-struggling to stay solvent days. We got them for Christmas, which was the best. Until I heard a snippet on the radio about knock-off dolls that were highly flammable, and I was convinced that my poor parents had probably purchased that version of the coveted dolls and I felt terrible that not only did we have dangerous Preemies but that my hardworking parents had been so duped simply because they lacked enough money to go around. Our dolls were the real thing, but I worried for weeks that they weren't. Not that I ever said anything. But I examined my precious present over and over again for signs of inauthenticity until Easter.
As I grew older and entered high school, I was suddenly confronted with lots more people in the world who had lots more money than us. And ironically, I didn't even go to the private school I always assumed I would go to which was a far richer place because the tuition was too high. I went to the parochial school instead, which was immense and full of kids from wealthier areas whose fathers were doctors and lawyers and chemists and who always had the latest everything--things I didn't even know existed, and things that bought you entrance into the cool crowd. I didn't care about being cool. I didn't care about having things. What I did care about was being myself, and that self need different things in order to flourish. Things that cost money. I don't recall being denied very specific items--and again, my parents did the best they could by me and for that I am very grateful. But the inner child of my teenage self always felt it was sort of second-best, and not what anyone had led me to expect, or what my mom had told me I could be. And always the shadow of the poorhouse hung over us like a phantom menace.
College came and things got even worse on many fronts. Once again, it wasn't about what I wanted and worked to get, it was about the best that could be afforded. And once again, I was confronted with even more kids who had even more diverse backgrounds of wealth and privilege. I got into almost $1000 worth of debt the very first day of school on my brand-new and wildly ill-advised credit card, paying for a phone hookup and books and renting a fridge. I don't know who my parents thought would pay the bill since a 17-year old full-time college freshman with no job and no way to get to one was likely to be making monthly payments, but that is how it happened. And as I needed more and more things that my peers seemed to have the means for--late-night pizzas, a school wardrobe that twelve years of uniforms didn't prepare me for, the occasional dinner out and birthday presents and trips into the city to shows and museums and art galleries--I just used my crazy-high limit credit cards to pay for them because no one else was going to.
Very unhealthy, fiscally speaking, Suze Orman would have a field day with this tale. It's not one of irony and pity, it's one of ignorance and timidity. Being raised in the solid white suburbs of the middle class, what else could have happened? I worked every summer. I had two scholarships to school and still needed to take out insane amounts of money on student loans for an education that prepared me to do very little that would entail prompt and easy payback. I spent so much of high school in a dream world of my own making about what would happen after graduation that I found myself wholly unprepared to have to choose outfits to wear to class every day and attend frat parties with $5 keg cups and go on spring breaks and plan to study abroad. I was taught to be scared of everything and everyone even though I had been half-raised in the city and had street smarts instilled in me from birth, so it never seemed possible that I could get a job off-campus, or better jobs in the summers, or just sit down and try to reason with my increasingly unreasonable parents about the realities of being a college girl in the early nineties. Once again, not a top shelf time. I rebelled later than most teenagers and took matters into my own hands at some point, and did the best I could with the best I had going for me, and I didn't get to go abroad or do three-quarters of what I really always wanted to do in college. And it was fine. College was amazing for me nevertheless. And I was very, very lucky to have been able to go and have the fun I did, get the education I wanted. I was very, very stupid to graduate in heaps of debt with no job recruiters in sight, no friends to room with in new places, and a home life that was completely wasted.
And on it went. At some point it isn't anyone else's fault, but at some point it become impossible to shoulder the blame squarely on one's own shoulders. And the mountain of debt grows ever higher until it is less a mountain than a volcano of ashes.
The point of this tale was less about the money though, than about the pay-it-forward-ness of credit in life. Because it occurs to me that I think I have been pretty generous with my love and my time and my affection to a fair number of people I have been blessed to know in my lthirty-odd years. Family, friends, lovers. My loving people well, if not always wisely, has a credit limit never maxed and always increasing. And the APR is locked down at a crazy-low rate. But the return on my investments is suddenly looking like it's at an all-time low. I swipe my debit card over and over and wipe out my account again and again only to realize that it isn't being replenished really. And like an eight-year old with what was probably an unhealthy sense of dreamy entitlement, taht just doesn't seem fair.
These lean years were the kindling upon which my deep-seated hatred of numbers were built. I began keeping a diary at some point and remember writing entries in all caps screaming "I HATE MONEY!" from my bedroom while below my parents were loudly arguing over same, or the lack thereof. The financial crisis my parents found themselves in at this time changed immeasurably most things that I took for granted as our lifestyle. Gone were the company cars and the vacations and the Sundays dressed in full green regalia. My mother had to unwillingly return to the workforce she had happily stopped being a part of after I was born, taking a series of shitty retail jobs before landing a long-term gig as a secretary for the local college. My dad eventually found a new position which did not fulfill him but did start paying the bills. Obviously at age eight through eleven I didn't know the details of how things were, but I heard things that stuck with me, which may or may not be true thirty years later. That this one event created a chain reaction heard 'round the walls of our home--that there was no planned-for and much-wanted third child, that my parents almost separated either to save money or because being together without any was that bad, that big trips and the best schools and piano and ballet lessons and annually replenished back-to-school wardrobes were but dreams of the past.
I know that somehow deep down by eight I had expectations for my future. Certainly my mother instilled in me a sense of being upper middle class rather than blue collar once removed by way of Irish Catholic neighborhoods. And it isn't that I was an unhappy child, far from it. I was a kid growing up in the late seventies and early eighties--we made a lot of our own fun. And it's not like I wasn't amply provided for in terms of food, clothing, fun, and affection--I was. But the unhappiness of my parents regarding their financial situation was a constant presence in our lives. The year Cabbage Patch kids were the it gift of the century, we didn't them for no reason as would have been the case in the pre-struggling to stay solvent days. We got them for Christmas, which was the best. Until I heard a snippet on the radio about knock-off dolls that were highly flammable, and I was convinced that my poor parents had probably purchased that version of the coveted dolls and I felt terrible that not only did we have dangerous Preemies but that my hardworking parents had been so duped simply because they lacked enough money to go around. Our dolls were the real thing, but I worried for weeks that they weren't. Not that I ever said anything. But I examined my precious present over and over again for signs of inauthenticity until Easter.
As I grew older and entered high school, I was suddenly confronted with lots more people in the world who had lots more money than us. And ironically, I didn't even go to the private school I always assumed I would go to which was a far richer place because the tuition was too high. I went to the parochial school instead, which was immense and full of kids from wealthier areas whose fathers were doctors and lawyers and chemists and who always had the latest everything--things I didn't even know existed, and things that bought you entrance into the cool crowd. I didn't care about being cool. I didn't care about having things. What I did care about was being myself, and that self need different things in order to flourish. Things that cost money. I don't recall being denied very specific items--and again, my parents did the best they could by me and for that I am very grateful. But the inner child of my teenage self always felt it was sort of second-best, and not what anyone had led me to expect, or what my mom had told me I could be. And always the shadow of the poorhouse hung over us like a phantom menace.
College came and things got even worse on many fronts. Once again, it wasn't about what I wanted and worked to get, it was about the best that could be afforded. And once again, I was confronted with even more kids who had even more diverse backgrounds of wealth and privilege. I got into almost $1000 worth of debt the very first day of school on my brand-new and wildly ill-advised credit card, paying for a phone hookup and books and renting a fridge. I don't know who my parents thought would pay the bill since a 17-year old full-time college freshman with no job and no way to get to one was likely to be making monthly payments, but that is how it happened. And as I needed more and more things that my peers seemed to have the means for--late-night pizzas, a school wardrobe that twelve years of uniforms didn't prepare me for, the occasional dinner out and birthday presents and trips into the city to shows and museums and art galleries--I just used my crazy-high limit credit cards to pay for them because no one else was going to.
Very unhealthy, fiscally speaking, Suze Orman would have a field day with this tale. It's not one of irony and pity, it's one of ignorance and timidity. Being raised in the solid white suburbs of the middle class, what else could have happened? I worked every summer. I had two scholarships to school and still needed to take out insane amounts of money on student loans for an education that prepared me to do very little that would entail prompt and easy payback. I spent so much of high school in a dream world of my own making about what would happen after graduation that I found myself wholly unprepared to have to choose outfits to wear to class every day and attend frat parties with $5 keg cups and go on spring breaks and plan to study abroad. I was taught to be scared of everything and everyone even though I had been half-raised in the city and had street smarts instilled in me from birth, so it never seemed possible that I could get a job off-campus, or better jobs in the summers, or just sit down and try to reason with my increasingly unreasonable parents about the realities of being a college girl in the early nineties. Once again, not a top shelf time. I rebelled later than most teenagers and took matters into my own hands at some point, and did the best I could with the best I had going for me, and I didn't get to go abroad or do three-quarters of what I really always wanted to do in college. And it was fine. College was amazing for me nevertheless. And I was very, very lucky to have been able to go and have the fun I did, get the education I wanted. I was very, very stupid to graduate in heaps of debt with no job recruiters in sight, no friends to room with in new places, and a home life that was completely wasted.
And on it went. At some point it isn't anyone else's fault, but at some point it become impossible to shoulder the blame squarely on one's own shoulders. And the mountain of debt grows ever higher until it is less a mountain than a volcano of ashes.
The point of this tale was less about the money though, than about the pay-it-forward-ness of credit in life. Because it occurs to me that I think I have been pretty generous with my love and my time and my affection to a fair number of people I have been blessed to know in my lthirty-odd years. Family, friends, lovers. My loving people well, if not always wisely, has a credit limit never maxed and always increasing. And the APR is locked down at a crazy-low rate. But the return on my investments is suddenly looking like it's at an all-time low. I swipe my debit card over and over and wipe out my account again and again only to realize that it isn't being replenished really. And like an eight-year old with what was probably an unhealthy sense of dreamy entitlement, taht just doesn't seem fair.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Boxing Day
Strange items of cheap clothing that make me wonder how it is possible I am so little-known by those who made me, check. Snoopy calendar with over 200 stickers, check. Love Actually and a bottle of red on Xmas Eve and no actual love present and accounted for, check. Dogs dressed in reindeer antlers and a Santa suit, respectively, check. Nice dinner with the immediate family, first with an official brother-in-law, check. Mass texts of holiday wishes, check. Personalized message of cheer from ex-boyfriend in lieu of Christmas beers, check. Thoughtfulness paid forward with little return on the investment, check. A blizzard on its way and no milk or eggs or bread in the house, check. A nice and uneventful holiday, check. Nothing good on television, check. Bored now. Check.
Friday, December 24, 2010
And so this is Christmas (Eve)
And so here I go again on my own. The downstairs is decorated in what I feel is a festive manner. Thanks to my best friends' help carrying and drilling the shit out of its trunk I have a tree now adorned with pretty things and lights that makes me happy.
I attempted to shop starting yesterday and overspent on the first gifts I got, then got screwed by a bank error so not in my favor, so had to screw others over on the gifting. I have decided to make myself alfredo from scratch for dinner and am worried it will not turn out which may result in me eating spaghettios for dinner. I also am so wildly unmotivated to begin to cook that I am worried I will be eating spaghettios cold straight from the can for dinner. What the hell happened to me? This is so not me! I bumped my head last week--did I give myself amnesia from festivating?
As I combed many stores today and yesterday trying to find good thoughtful awesome gifts at reasonable prices, it occurred to me that there are quite a lot of things I would like to have and cannot afford to purchase. There are also many things I wish others to have through my intercession and this also I cannot afford. I am tired of being poor. I would like to be rich. Not for material gains so much as just less worry, less ridiculousness going on at every turn.
Once I spent Christmas in a dingy motel somewhere in Texas where it was freezing and my boyfriend, my sole companion, was in a foul mood all eve and day and night. It didn't feel like Christmas at all, like it just never happened that year, because there were no family, friends, church, stockings, presents, Santa, dinner. It was interesting to experience.
Once was enough to experience the Christmas that wasn't, I have always felt. Fool me once....yeah yeah. Happy hols.
I attempted to shop starting yesterday and overspent on the first gifts I got, then got screwed by a bank error so not in my favor, so had to screw others over on the gifting. I have decided to make myself alfredo from scratch for dinner and am worried it will not turn out which may result in me eating spaghettios for dinner. I also am so wildly unmotivated to begin to cook that I am worried I will be eating spaghettios cold straight from the can for dinner. What the hell happened to me? This is so not me! I bumped my head last week--did I give myself amnesia from festivating?
As I combed many stores today and yesterday trying to find good thoughtful awesome gifts at reasonable prices, it occurred to me that there are quite a lot of things I would like to have and cannot afford to purchase. There are also many things I wish others to have through my intercession and this also I cannot afford. I am tired of being poor. I would like to be rich. Not for material gains so much as just less worry, less ridiculousness going on at every turn.
Once I spent Christmas in a dingy motel somewhere in Texas where it was freezing and my boyfriend, my sole companion, was in a foul mood all eve and day and night. It didn't feel like Christmas at all, like it just never happened that year, because there were no family, friends, church, stockings, presents, Santa, dinner. It was interesting to experience.
Once was enough to experience the Christmas that wasn't, I have always felt. Fool me once....yeah yeah. Happy hols.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Holidaze
Most Decembers I am involved in a show that begins at the start of the month and races through three weekends until suddenly I find myself at Christmas, for which I have become increasingly woefully unprepared.
This year is no exception. I am in a play--a play which coincidentally is pretty much about Christmas--and we close tonight, exactly one week before Christmas. As I have spent the past two months running around at rehearsals and costume shopping and memorizing lines on top of a full-time job and rehearsing for my next outing onstage, my house looks like a clothing/junk mail/wig/fish tank/shoe bomb exploded, my cupboards are bare, and I have little hope that Saint Nicholas soon will be there since I haven't hauled out a single stocking.
I am hoping that once the curtain drops on this particular run, I will be better able to wrap my home and subsequently myself in the joys of the season. But I have my doubts. I've lost that festive feeling.
For about seven years now I have lived on my own for Christmas. And in that time I have discovered that one really does have a blue Christmas without you--whoever "you" are.
Christmas is, of course, first and foremost a religious occasion celebrating the birth of Christianity. It was designed by wise old men afeared that their new cult wouldn't get off the ground if they didn't throw the pagans a bone for winter festival rituals. So, to begin with, if you aren't into organized religion, which I am not, there is something lacking in your Xmas factor.
Christmas is also a highly profitable enterprise. What was crass and commercial in Charlie Brown's day is now quaint and retro. Christmas is even more so all about getting the right gift and stuffing those stockings, big red bows on shiny new cars in snow-driven drives, the latest in Apple products, new wardrobes, cool toys. But if you aren't topping anyone's list, regardless of how naughty or nice you've been all year, there is something missing from the proceedings. Ditto if you have checked your list and realize that while there are several gifts to be got for all your fellow elves, you haven't much in the way of feliz navidad dinero to grace others with much more than your presence in lieu of actual presents--you are missing out--remember that Mrs. Claus and Santa are kind of a package deal.
Christmas is often a great day for kiddos. This goes with the corporate culture of it, but it's grand to hear the oohs and aahs as the little nutcrackers see all the shiny new things awaiting them beneath the tannenbaum's lovely old branches. It's fun to dress 'em up too with red velvet bows and candy cane ties to parade them around the local church, which fulfills the obligations to the oh holy night-ness part of the holiday. So if you don't have children in your family tree, which I do not, you are without that certain something that makes all your Christmases bright.
Now with these three kings of Orient being in place, I could surmise that when one lacks religion, money, a partner, and children, the holidays are somewhat lukewarm. Then there are the traditions and the notion that we all live on a movie set full of rambling old houses covered in snow and aglow with lights and holly and bickering relatives. Most of us just get the bickering relatives part. Getting colder.
Even the songs are designed to take the wind right out of your seasonal sails when you're a singleton. If all I want for Christmas is "you" and I'm not getting it, how can Santa Claus come to town and take us on a sleigh ride filled with jingle bells to a destination where chestnuts are roasting on an open fire, the halls are decked with boughs of holly, and oh ho the misteltoe will trap me in cause baby it's so cold outside and the next thing we know it's baby's first Christmas away in a manger and we'll meet forever in an auld lang syne? Frozen.
I have my own Christmas traditions. They involve gifting as many of those that I can with things I hope they will love, playing Harry Connick Jr.'s Christmas albums, making ravioli for one on Christmas Eve, trimming a tree whose firry goodness will make me happy until Epiphany. I usually see my immediate family and we do presents and maybe share a meal at some point. Sometimes I even get to play with my friends late on Christmas night, or go see a movie. I dress my dog up as Santa Paws. I relax in my cheerfully decorated house and watch my favorite holiday movies and drink spiced apple wine. I hostess a New Year's Eve get-togther for those I love most dear and friends new and old. I keep Christmas with me in my own way. And it's always worked out. I end up having myself a merry little Christmas.
But this year I just feel spent over the whole ordeal, and it hasn't even begun yet. I don't feel Yulish. I feel worried about the path I am on as we flow into a new year. I feel annoyed that for seven years I have awoken with no excited anticipation of the coming celebrations. I feel sad that I view Christmas as a time of stress and fear regarding my family. I feel like I am somehow missing the whole point, and I dislike not being in the know. I'm not depressed--but I am starting to feel like some of my lights have gone out. I've got the peace and love and goodwill, but the joy has yet to surface. And maybe making the best of how things are for so long has grown staler than a dried-up fruitcake from last year. And through all my musings, I know that so many people out there have it way worse than I do this time of year--and I am grateful for what I do have and sorry for those that have less. But for the me I have to live with, I just wish this year it will be different.
Here's to hoping for a Christmas miracle.
This year is no exception. I am in a play--a play which coincidentally is pretty much about Christmas--and we close tonight, exactly one week before Christmas. As I have spent the past two months running around at rehearsals and costume shopping and memorizing lines on top of a full-time job and rehearsing for my next outing onstage, my house looks like a clothing/junk mail/wig/fish tank/shoe bomb exploded, my cupboards are bare, and I have little hope that Saint Nicholas soon will be there since I haven't hauled out a single stocking.
I am hoping that once the curtain drops on this particular run, I will be better able to wrap my home and subsequently myself in the joys of the season. But I have my doubts. I've lost that festive feeling.
For about seven years now I have lived on my own for Christmas. And in that time I have discovered that one really does have a blue Christmas without you--whoever "you" are.
Christmas is, of course, first and foremost a religious occasion celebrating the birth of Christianity. It was designed by wise old men afeared that their new cult wouldn't get off the ground if they didn't throw the pagans a bone for winter festival rituals. So, to begin with, if you aren't into organized religion, which I am not, there is something lacking in your Xmas factor.
Christmas is also a highly profitable enterprise. What was crass and commercial in Charlie Brown's day is now quaint and retro. Christmas is even more so all about getting the right gift and stuffing those stockings, big red bows on shiny new cars in snow-driven drives, the latest in Apple products, new wardrobes, cool toys. But if you aren't topping anyone's list, regardless of how naughty or nice you've been all year, there is something missing from the proceedings. Ditto if you have checked your list and realize that while there are several gifts to be got for all your fellow elves, you haven't much in the way of feliz navidad dinero to grace others with much more than your presence in lieu of actual presents--you are missing out--remember that Mrs. Claus and Santa are kind of a package deal.
Christmas is often a great day for kiddos. This goes with the corporate culture of it, but it's grand to hear the oohs and aahs as the little nutcrackers see all the shiny new things awaiting them beneath the tannenbaum's lovely old branches. It's fun to dress 'em up too with red velvet bows and candy cane ties to parade them around the local church, which fulfills the obligations to the oh holy night-ness part of the holiday. So if you don't have children in your family tree, which I do not, you are without that certain something that makes all your Christmases bright.
Now with these three kings of Orient being in place, I could surmise that when one lacks religion, money, a partner, and children, the holidays are somewhat lukewarm. Then there are the traditions and the notion that we all live on a movie set full of rambling old houses covered in snow and aglow with lights and holly and bickering relatives. Most of us just get the bickering relatives part. Getting colder.
Even the songs are designed to take the wind right out of your seasonal sails when you're a singleton. If all I want for Christmas is "you" and I'm not getting it, how can Santa Claus come to town and take us on a sleigh ride filled with jingle bells to a destination where chestnuts are roasting on an open fire, the halls are decked with boughs of holly, and oh ho the misteltoe will trap me in cause baby it's so cold outside and the next thing we know it's baby's first Christmas away in a manger and we'll meet forever in an auld lang syne? Frozen.
I have my own Christmas traditions. They involve gifting as many of those that I can with things I hope they will love, playing Harry Connick Jr.'s Christmas albums, making ravioli for one on Christmas Eve, trimming a tree whose firry goodness will make me happy until Epiphany. I usually see my immediate family and we do presents and maybe share a meal at some point. Sometimes I even get to play with my friends late on Christmas night, or go see a movie. I dress my dog up as Santa Paws. I relax in my cheerfully decorated house and watch my favorite holiday movies and drink spiced apple wine. I hostess a New Year's Eve get-togther for those I love most dear and friends new and old. I keep Christmas with me in my own way. And it's always worked out. I end up having myself a merry little Christmas.
But this year I just feel spent over the whole ordeal, and it hasn't even begun yet. I don't feel Yulish. I feel worried about the path I am on as we flow into a new year. I feel annoyed that for seven years I have awoken with no excited anticipation of the coming celebrations. I feel sad that I view Christmas as a time of stress and fear regarding my family. I feel like I am somehow missing the whole point, and I dislike not being in the know. I'm not depressed--but I am starting to feel like some of my lights have gone out. I've got the peace and love and goodwill, but the joy has yet to surface. And maybe making the best of how things are for so long has grown staler than a dried-up fruitcake from last year. And through all my musings, I know that so many people out there have it way worse than I do this time of year--and I am grateful for what I do have and sorry for those that have less. But for the me I have to live with, I just wish this year it will be different.
Here's to hoping for a Christmas miracle.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Family Matters
So, I am in a play. An amazingly crafted comedy called Reckless by the playwright Craig Lucas. This play features a strong ensemble cast, good direction, and swell sounds of the season. It is being produced by the company I have made my home in for all of its seventeen years of existence, and I have worked hard behind the scenes to promote what we do--which is bring some of the best theater this side of the Mason-Dixon Line to anyone smart enough to support the arts.
Alas and alack, crowds have not been flocking to this piece. There are, I am certain, several things which prevent patrons from, well, patronizing us. Perhaps the ticket prices are a bit steep for folks in a poor economy during a holiday season whose commercialism somehow continues to grow. Perhaps our small budget and smaller staff did not allow us to promote things with enough aplomb. Perhaps people in these parts just prefer their live holiday performances to feature men in tights, maids a'milking, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Perhaps plays, especially ones that do not offer immediate name recognition, are just not as easy to draw attendees as big brash musicals. Perhaps people are just too busy or lazy or stupid. Perhaps it is for each individual out there one or two or three of these things.
I am proud of my work in this show as well as that of its standout stars. I would like that work to be appreciated by more people. The feedback has been unanimously positive. We have three great reviews published in various places. We have been getting genuine compliments from the small crowds who have seen us. This is awesome and I am fully appreciative of it.
But theater is not meant to be performed without a live studio audience. That is what rehearsals are for. Once the lights are hung up above with care, our hopes are that the sell-out crowd soon will be there. The jolly ho-ho-hos from a responsive audience are what fuels a comedy. We all study hard and put a lot of thought and time and effort into setting the stage, and designing the sets and lights and sounds and costumes, and memorizing lines and blocking and creating three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood characters from some words printed on a page. It's meant to be seen and heard and enjoyed, and it is a unique experience every night, and the audience is part of that whole experience. Yes we are here to entertain you--but we simply cannot entertain anyone if you aren't there.
This is the second weekend of our run. We have four performances under our belts. And I feel like I directly up to this point have been responsible for four patrons in that time, and really could easily cut that down to two if I consider friends whose only real reason for coming to see this show is to support me. There are more performances to go, and I expect more people will check this out not because they love plays or the arts or live theater but because they love me. And that is awesome.
But you know who will not be there? Anyone actually related to me. And every time there is a production that I am in, I observe the crowds of relatives who come out, often multiple times during a run, to support their son, daughter, brother, sister, father, mother, cousin, grandkids, nieces, nephews. These relatives often strong arm their own sets of friends and extended families to come with them to see little Johnny act his little heart out.
I have a long-standing policy with my immediate family as regards their attendance at my shows. I do not ask them to attend or tell them flat-out not to attend shows I do not thing they will enjoy, because I do not have the kind of family who thinks everything I do is worthy of their support or attention. They will not enjoy seeing me running around in my bra as Janet in The Rocky Horror Show whilst a Sweet Transvestite tramps it up in drag next to me. So, I advise them to skip this one. They will like a more traditional musical in which I knock everyone's socks off singing one of the fastest songs ever written while dressed as a bride as Amy in Company. So, I tell them they would be likely to enjoy this one and it would be swell if they attend. And so they do. Or rather, did. I have been in what feels like 84,000 productions since that one, which was in 2005. And eventually I gave up the dream that even my selective encouragement and discouragement motto, designed to keep all parties comfortable, was even worth chasing anymore.
And every single time a show roles around for me, I think I am over it. I am doing what I want to do the way I want to do it. I am not doing all of this for my parents or sister or cousins or aunts and uncles and grandparents. I am not doing any of it for any of them. And I daresay that they have events which would not be my cup of tea. So we're even Steven. I would prefer they not have to spend money and sit through something that will bore or offend them, only to leave at intermission (as my parents did during my final college show [read: kinda big deal] which was that crazy old Shakespeare romp The Winter's Tale [read I was so shocked that they were not there afterwards that I rushed back to my dorm to call them frantic because I thought something had happened. nope, they thought my character was done for the show and so they didn't want to stick around. Other people's parents actually brought me flowers the following weekend. Nice, but embarrassing.]) or tell me in the lobby afterwards that it was "cute" (standard praise from my mother no matter what tragedy she has just witnessed.) It became at some point just easier to not even play that game. Apparently that point was five years ago.
And yet every single time a show roles around for me, I witness the scads of supporters--willing or not--that show up for their person at a production. For the daughter with no lines, the straight son kissing another man, the sister stealing scenes in a supporting role, the nephew with the lead. And it bothers me in a way where I begin to feel like there is something wrong with me. That I maybe am embarrassing to them as a performer. That these productions I am involved in (the quality of which I strive to be very fair-minded and realistic about) actually are like a visit to the dentist for those who share my gene pool. And when the crowds in general aren't packing in the seats--despite the numerous family members who have attended en masse for at least one cast member every night--I feel terrible, like I am not doing my bit because my family isn't doing theirs. And I really do question everything--my talent, my worth, the way I present myself and my work, all I hold dear as the essence of who I am. It kind of sucks.
I don't even think I am Ms. Thang in this play, either. Again, the years lacking in what I perceive to be familial support of me and the art I do have me fairly solid in my convictions despite the nagging doubts. This is not a must-see for me.
But I think it probably should be, because this is what I do and therefore this is me, and it would be nice to experience the people I come from--who are why I can do what it is I do to begin with--being proud that I am theirs even if they don't agree with it or have passion for it or even get it. It's not going to happen, and given all the above frankly I don't even want it to happen because it's just not how we do.
But I guess it still sucks.
Alas and alack, crowds have not been flocking to this piece. There are, I am certain, several things which prevent patrons from, well, patronizing us. Perhaps the ticket prices are a bit steep for folks in a poor economy during a holiday season whose commercialism somehow continues to grow. Perhaps our small budget and smaller staff did not allow us to promote things with enough aplomb. Perhaps people in these parts just prefer their live holiday performances to feature men in tights, maids a'milking, chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Perhaps plays, especially ones that do not offer immediate name recognition, are just not as easy to draw attendees as big brash musicals. Perhaps people are just too busy or lazy or stupid. Perhaps it is for each individual out there one or two or three of these things.
I am proud of my work in this show as well as that of its standout stars. I would like that work to be appreciated by more people. The feedback has been unanimously positive. We have three great reviews published in various places. We have been getting genuine compliments from the small crowds who have seen us. This is awesome and I am fully appreciative of it.
But theater is not meant to be performed without a live studio audience. That is what rehearsals are for. Once the lights are hung up above with care, our hopes are that the sell-out crowd soon will be there. The jolly ho-ho-hos from a responsive audience are what fuels a comedy. We all study hard and put a lot of thought and time and effort into setting the stage, and designing the sets and lights and sounds and costumes, and memorizing lines and blocking and creating three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood characters from some words printed on a page. It's meant to be seen and heard and enjoyed, and it is a unique experience every night, and the audience is part of that whole experience. Yes we are here to entertain you--but we simply cannot entertain anyone if you aren't there.
This is the second weekend of our run. We have four performances under our belts. And I feel like I directly up to this point have been responsible for four patrons in that time, and really could easily cut that down to two if I consider friends whose only real reason for coming to see this show is to support me. There are more performances to go, and I expect more people will check this out not because they love plays or the arts or live theater but because they love me. And that is awesome.
But you know who will not be there? Anyone actually related to me. And every time there is a production that I am in, I observe the crowds of relatives who come out, often multiple times during a run, to support their son, daughter, brother, sister, father, mother, cousin, grandkids, nieces, nephews. These relatives often strong arm their own sets of friends and extended families to come with them to see little Johnny act his little heart out.
I have a long-standing policy with my immediate family as regards their attendance at my shows. I do not ask them to attend or tell them flat-out not to attend shows I do not thing they will enjoy, because I do not have the kind of family who thinks everything I do is worthy of their support or attention. They will not enjoy seeing me running around in my bra as Janet in The Rocky Horror Show whilst a Sweet Transvestite tramps it up in drag next to me. So, I advise them to skip this one. They will like a more traditional musical in which I knock everyone's socks off singing one of the fastest songs ever written while dressed as a bride as Amy in Company. So, I tell them they would be likely to enjoy this one and it would be swell if they attend. And so they do. Or rather, did. I have been in what feels like 84,000 productions since that one, which was in 2005. And eventually I gave up the dream that even my selective encouragement and discouragement motto, designed to keep all parties comfortable, was even worth chasing anymore.
And every single time a show roles around for me, I think I am over it. I am doing what I want to do the way I want to do it. I am not doing all of this for my parents or sister or cousins or aunts and uncles and grandparents. I am not doing any of it for any of them. And I daresay that they have events which would not be my cup of tea. So we're even Steven. I would prefer they not have to spend money and sit through something that will bore or offend them, only to leave at intermission (as my parents did during my final college show [read: kinda big deal] which was that crazy old Shakespeare romp The Winter's Tale [read I was so shocked that they were not there afterwards that I rushed back to my dorm to call them frantic because I thought something had happened. nope, they thought my character was done for the show and so they didn't want to stick around. Other people's parents actually brought me flowers the following weekend. Nice, but embarrassing.]) or tell me in the lobby afterwards that it was "cute" (standard praise from my mother no matter what tragedy she has just witnessed.) It became at some point just easier to not even play that game. Apparently that point was five years ago.
And yet every single time a show roles around for me, I witness the scads of supporters--willing or not--that show up for their person at a production. For the daughter with no lines, the straight son kissing another man, the sister stealing scenes in a supporting role, the nephew with the lead. And it bothers me in a way where I begin to feel like there is something wrong with me. That I maybe am embarrassing to them as a performer. That these productions I am involved in (the quality of which I strive to be very fair-minded and realistic about) actually are like a visit to the dentist for those who share my gene pool. And when the crowds in general aren't packing in the seats--despite the numerous family members who have attended en masse for at least one cast member every night--I feel terrible, like I am not doing my bit because my family isn't doing theirs. And I really do question everything--my talent, my worth, the way I present myself and my work, all I hold dear as the essence of who I am. It kind of sucks.
I don't even think I am Ms. Thang in this play, either. Again, the years lacking in what I perceive to be familial support of me and the art I do have me fairly solid in my convictions despite the nagging doubts. This is not a must-see for me.
But I think it probably should be, because this is what I do and therefore this is me, and it would be nice to experience the people I come from--who are why I can do what it is I do to begin with--being proud that I am theirs even if they don't agree with it or have passion for it or even get it. It's not going to happen, and given all the above frankly I don't even want it to happen because it's just not how we do.
But I guess it still sucks.
Friday, December 10, 2010
I am because my little dog knew me
The exquisite pain.
Once upon a time, I was home sick with a bad cold. I was sitting on my living room floor, chatting by phone with my friend, waiting for my beloved to come home from work. It was cold out--December—-a few weeks before Christmas. The door opened and in came D. Something--or someone--was peeking out of his work jacket. I looked. I stared. I started being giddy and nonsensical. Phone forgotten, hacking cough and stuffed-up nose a dream, I melted into a puddle of supreme joy, joy most-high. I think I felt what we hope the resurrection day is like.
A tiny puppy. A tiny little guy with a perfectly temperatured, cuddly and curious body. A black and brown and white puppy who climbed into my lap and made me happier than I have ever been before or since, really. I knew in an instant, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was my beagle and this was true love at first sight.
I have had a lot of happiness in my life. I hope to have a great deal more before this mortal coil ends. But this puppy brought me an ecstasy of loving I have never known before or since. I never knew it was possible to love that much. I adored this dog without question, without reservation, without limits, from the moment I laid eyes on his tiny head with its big nose. I thought about him incessantly. In those first days—months—years--I was terrified of how much I loved him--so much that I would probably die instantly if anything happened to him. I couldn’t imagine life without him—how had there been one? How would there ever be a suitable one again? I thought I could probably never have a baby, because I would probably always love this dog more than any human child—or that I would love a human child more, and could not handle that notion on either end!
So here he was, my guy—our guy back then--and he was here to stay. We debated what to name him for days. We agreed that we were not the sort of folk who went in for names like Spot or Socks or the dreaded Fido. We also felt compelled to make a nod to his AKC-registered parents with their long-ass bizarre names. We finally decided on Charles BeGaulle, a French-inspired moniker that befitted a noble canine with a
blue-blooded lineage such as himself. But we came up with that one based on his true name, the one that he would have been called no matter where he hung his hat, because it just was his name—we called him Charlie.
Those first few months were a blur, at least so they seem now. I do remember feeling every day like it was Christmas morning and I was 7 years old and Santa was bringing me a bike--every morning when I woke up I was that excited to see him. Even if he had kept us awake half the night with lots of crying because he hated—HATED—being in his crate.
Ah the crate days. We did everything you were supposed to do according to the beagle book. But this guy wanted no parts of his crate. No matter what tasty morsels went in as a reward, no matter what cozy blankets we piled within, no matter how den-like we tried to make it, Charlie would have none of it. When as exasperated as two first-time beagle parents can be brought this up to the vet, he laughed and said “he just wants to be with you all of the time.”
What a concept. And how true it was. This was a beagle after all—knowers of the breed understand that these pups are rarely the loyal “I can’t go anywhere alone” types like a retriever, say. But he did want to be where we were all the time, pretty much. We were his people, he was as sure of that from his crated puppy days to his last one, and he did not care to be left out of the fun. He didn’t like to eat alone, be in the yard alone, be downstairs in a crate at night alone. He was a strict lover of the three’s-a-crowd axiom. But to him, that seemed paradise.
Little he realized, he was always with me. I carried his picture around in my waitressing book and somehow the sight if his big expectant eyes and jaunty ears made it a breeze to deal with cranky elderly ladies who insisted on grilled cheeses (which were not on the menu) and ill-behaved monsters-cum-children who threw crayons (and up their dinners) at me and dirtballs who left pennies on the table (by generous way of supplementing my $2.05/hour salary.) At night if the weather was bad, D. would come to pick me up because I hated driving in any kind of snow, and the sight of that boy and our beagle in the window made me out of my mind with a feeling of being all-good, all-adored and adoring, utterly beloved.
Charlie was one smart guy. He learned to ring a bell on the back door whenever he needed to go outside to take care of bizness. After a short time, he realized that if he rang the bell we would help out a brother who lacked opposable thumbs. A fact he used to his advantage when we would go out and open the door, and instead of bounding out into the evening, he would look up at us and with as much dignity as a floppy-eared sir could, walk evenly around us and over to his kibble so he could dine with a companion.
But that was his dog-food mode. His people-food mode was sorely lacking in dignity. At parties, he was not known for couth. Charming anecdotes include the time he sprung five feet in the air to snatch an entire Buffalo chicken wing from the mouth-bound hand of a guest, the growling and snapping when he determined that a bit of nacho chip (or floor fuzz) on the floor was his birthright, and the time he neatly reared his head, shark-like, at the dining room table and snatched and subsequently gobbled a slice of pizza—despite the fact that he was very ill that time and not one with much of an appetite.
There were foods he did not find interesting enough to eat. Desserts, soups, pastas usually could be shared without a peep from him. One evening I was settled in with a slice of cake and a tall glass of milk, Charlie uninterested soldered to my side. I ate the cake and took one sip of the milk and then ran upstairs to get something. When I came down 30 seconds later, there was a very guilty-looking beagle refusing to catch my eye. I looked around to see what he could have done, and saw no evidence of anything bad. I ventured into the kitchen as well—all was in apple pie order. I even asked him “what did you do?” But he wouldn’t tell me. I assumed it was some odd quirk and sat back down again and reached for my milk, to discover that he had neatly drunk it all, from the glass, without spilling a drop. He was no dummy, after back surgery the year prior he knew that strong bones were essential to the life of Riley. And boy oh boy, did he have that life.
By day, he slept, presumably. Sometimes, especially when winter came, he would need to be roused from his doggie dreams when we came home from work. Sometimes, we had to actually find him, since Charlie’s idea of napping nirvana was to build a fort of pillows and blankets and pretend to be hibernating for the winter. He never minded being awoken for us though, and would wind his way out from the tangle of blankets and even sometimes ending with an undignified drop to the floor would simply bound back up, tail wagging at the speed of light, ready to give hugs and accept kisses and pats on the head and gamely suffer our witty “so what did you do all day” comments.
Other days he was on the alert at the 6 o’clock hour, waiting like a little sentry by the window or atop the back of the couch. These reunions were as joyous as if we were all prodigals returned home. If there were fatted calfs lying about Charlie would have slain them all just for us. As is the case with many dogs, he knew what time we came home nightly, and recognized the sound of the cars from what had to be a few miles away even if we were off our schedule.
He had a kissing spot above each ear. He did not like to swim but he liked snowdrifts and to play a game we liked to call "mountain dogs." He was the most faithful friend imaginable. Today is Charlie's birthday, he would be 10 years old if he had lived past the too-young age of seven. He was the best friend a girl like me could have. It is not an exaggeration to say that without him I would not have survived the worst year of my life--I simply would not have. He was the greatest gift ever. He died five years ago and mine was the last face he ever saw. He knew he had to go, and with dignity he settled his affairs. He said his goodbyes to his favorite people in the world. And suddenly he was just gone, and my heart broke into so many pieces that some of them are still scattered to the winds.
I am eternally grateful to have known that guy. He made me a better person than I ever thought I could be. His short happy life gave mine more meaning than words could ever express, and I miss him more than words could ever say.
Once upon a time, I was home sick with a bad cold. I was sitting on my living room floor, chatting by phone with my friend, waiting for my beloved to come home from work. It was cold out--December—-a few weeks before Christmas. The door opened and in came D. Something--or someone--was peeking out of his work jacket. I looked. I stared. I started being giddy and nonsensical. Phone forgotten, hacking cough and stuffed-up nose a dream, I melted into a puddle of supreme joy, joy most-high. I think I felt what we hope the resurrection day is like.
A tiny puppy. A tiny little guy with a perfectly temperatured, cuddly and curious body. A black and brown and white puppy who climbed into my lap and made me happier than I have ever been before or since, really. I knew in an instant, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this was my beagle and this was true love at first sight.
I have had a lot of happiness in my life. I hope to have a great deal more before this mortal coil ends. But this puppy brought me an ecstasy of loving I have never known before or since. I never knew it was possible to love that much. I adored this dog without question, without reservation, without limits, from the moment I laid eyes on his tiny head with its big nose. I thought about him incessantly. In those first days—months—years--I was terrified of how much I loved him--so much that I would probably die instantly if anything happened to him. I couldn’t imagine life without him—how had there been one? How would there ever be a suitable one again? I thought I could probably never have a baby, because I would probably always love this dog more than any human child—or that I would love a human child more, and could not handle that notion on either end!
So here he was, my guy—our guy back then--and he was here to stay. We debated what to name him for days. We agreed that we were not the sort of folk who went in for names like Spot or Socks or the dreaded Fido. We also felt compelled to make a nod to his AKC-registered parents with their long-ass bizarre names. We finally decided on Charles BeGaulle, a French-inspired moniker that befitted a noble canine with a
blue-blooded lineage such as himself. But we came up with that one based on his true name, the one that he would have been called no matter where he hung his hat, because it just was his name—we called him Charlie.
Those first few months were a blur, at least so they seem now. I do remember feeling every day like it was Christmas morning and I was 7 years old and Santa was bringing me a bike--every morning when I woke up I was that excited to see him. Even if he had kept us awake half the night with lots of crying because he hated—HATED—being in his crate.
Ah the crate days. We did everything you were supposed to do according to the beagle book. But this guy wanted no parts of his crate. No matter what tasty morsels went in as a reward, no matter what cozy blankets we piled within, no matter how den-like we tried to make it, Charlie would have none of it. When as exasperated as two first-time beagle parents can be brought this up to the vet, he laughed and said “he just wants to be with you all of the time.”
What a concept. And how true it was. This was a beagle after all—knowers of the breed understand that these pups are rarely the loyal “I can’t go anywhere alone” types like a retriever, say. But he did want to be where we were all the time, pretty much. We were his people, he was as sure of that from his crated puppy days to his last one, and he did not care to be left out of the fun. He didn’t like to eat alone, be in the yard alone, be downstairs in a crate at night alone. He was a strict lover of the three’s-a-crowd axiom. But to him, that seemed paradise.
Little he realized, he was always with me. I carried his picture around in my waitressing book and somehow the sight if his big expectant eyes and jaunty ears made it a breeze to deal with cranky elderly ladies who insisted on grilled cheeses (which were not on the menu) and ill-behaved monsters-cum-children who threw crayons (and up their dinners) at me and dirtballs who left pennies on the table (by generous way of supplementing my $2.05/hour salary.) At night if the weather was bad, D. would come to pick me up because I hated driving in any kind of snow, and the sight of that boy and our beagle in the window made me out of my mind with a feeling of being all-good, all-adored and adoring, utterly beloved.
Charlie was one smart guy. He learned to ring a bell on the back door whenever he needed to go outside to take care of bizness. After a short time, he realized that if he rang the bell we would help out a brother who lacked opposable thumbs. A fact he used to his advantage when we would go out and open the door, and instead of bounding out into the evening, he would look up at us and with as much dignity as a floppy-eared sir could, walk evenly around us and over to his kibble so he could dine with a companion.
But that was his dog-food mode. His people-food mode was sorely lacking in dignity. At parties, he was not known for couth. Charming anecdotes include the time he sprung five feet in the air to snatch an entire Buffalo chicken wing from the mouth-bound hand of a guest, the growling and snapping when he determined that a bit of nacho chip (or floor fuzz) on the floor was his birthright, and the time he neatly reared his head, shark-like, at the dining room table and snatched and subsequently gobbled a slice of pizza—despite the fact that he was very ill that time and not one with much of an appetite.
There were foods he did not find interesting enough to eat. Desserts, soups, pastas usually could be shared without a peep from him. One evening I was settled in with a slice of cake and a tall glass of milk, Charlie uninterested soldered to my side. I ate the cake and took one sip of the milk and then ran upstairs to get something. When I came down 30 seconds later, there was a very guilty-looking beagle refusing to catch my eye. I looked around to see what he could have done, and saw no evidence of anything bad. I ventured into the kitchen as well—all was in apple pie order. I even asked him “what did you do?” But he wouldn’t tell me. I assumed it was some odd quirk and sat back down again and reached for my milk, to discover that he had neatly drunk it all, from the glass, without spilling a drop. He was no dummy, after back surgery the year prior he knew that strong bones were essential to the life of Riley. And boy oh boy, did he have that life.
By day, he slept, presumably. Sometimes, especially when winter came, he would need to be roused from his doggie dreams when we came home from work. Sometimes, we had to actually find him, since Charlie’s idea of napping nirvana was to build a fort of pillows and blankets and pretend to be hibernating for the winter. He never minded being awoken for us though, and would wind his way out from the tangle of blankets and even sometimes ending with an undignified drop to the floor would simply bound back up, tail wagging at the speed of light, ready to give hugs and accept kisses and pats on the head and gamely suffer our witty “so what did you do all day” comments.
Other days he was on the alert at the 6 o’clock hour, waiting like a little sentry by the window or atop the back of the couch. These reunions were as joyous as if we were all prodigals returned home. If there were fatted calfs lying about Charlie would have slain them all just for us. As is the case with many dogs, he knew what time we came home nightly, and recognized the sound of the cars from what had to be a few miles away even if we were off our schedule.
He had a kissing spot above each ear. He did not like to swim but he liked snowdrifts and to play a game we liked to call "mountain dogs." He was the most faithful friend imaginable. Today is Charlie's birthday, he would be 10 years old if he had lived past the too-young age of seven. He was the best friend a girl like me could have. It is not an exaggeration to say that without him I would not have survived the worst year of my life--I simply would not have. He was the greatest gift ever. He died five years ago and mine was the last face he ever saw. He knew he had to go, and with dignity he settled his affairs. He said his goodbyes to his favorite people in the world. And suddenly he was just gone, and my heart broke into so many pieces that some of them are still scattered to the winds.
I am eternally grateful to have known that guy. He made me a better person than I ever thought I could be. His short happy life gave mine more meaning than words could ever express, and I miss him more than words could ever say.
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