Back to Life. Back to Reality.

It feels like someone is sitting on my chest.

My breathing is fast and shallow, my jaw feels creaky, and my fingers and toes are starting to tingle.

The panic just crept up on me.

I didn’t even realize my stress level was edging towards extremity-numbing proportions until it was too late. Deep breathing won’t even slow this thing down; that’s like a tranquilizer dart bouncing off the skin of a charging rhino.

Ain't nothing gonna break his stride.

Work starts on Monday: a new job with new people and new responsibilities in a new industry. I’m OD’ing on “new.”

It’s been almost nine years since I started my last new job. I panicked then, too.

Of the three people in the casting office, I was the only one there for my first day. But – unfortunately – I wasn’t alone. Someone sat next to me, training me: the girl who was fired so I could take her job.

Awkward.

She didn’t even show me where the bathrooms were.

I couldn’t really blame her.

But Monday will be wall-to-wall corporate orientation. Insurance. Harassment. Honesty. Surely they’ll cover bathroom locations along with the emergency exits?

The most important thing I'll learn in orientation?

Meantime, I’ll keep breathing. I might even use the same peaceful image that proved so handy while attempting to breathe during childbirth. 

Ahh. Snorkeling in Hawaii. Good times.

Gotta go back to Poipu Beach.
via Alexandre Mineev's flickr.

Which reminds me: what is that vacation policy again?

Prayers, Please.

I feel very lucky today.

My family is safe. My home is intact.

But across the Southeast, thousands of others do not share my good fortune.

At least 250 people died yesterday as massive tornadoes plowed across Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and Georgia, ripping communities up by their roots.

Pratt City, just north of downtown Birmingham.

via Butch Dill / AP

People are missing. Homes are gone. And rescue teams now move street by street in Alabama, picking through piles of rubble.

Two months ago, I joked about my fear of tornadoes. I have no jokes today.

Instead I humbly pray for those who lost so much. 

Seduction in the Suburbs

I pride myself on my pragmatism.

And yet when the serpent offered me a shiny red apple, I couldn’t help myself. I took a huge bite.

Folks, I've been seduced...

Pretty, isn't she?
via Automotive.com

By an Inferno Red Jeep.

"Jungle Red" just can't compete.
Photo: "The Women," MGM. 1939.

Going from a two-MetroCard apartment to a two-car household is quite an adjustment, both mentally and financially.

So, for ten months Clay and I delayed the inevitable and shared a car. A sturdy, perfectly wonderful car that takes a licking and keeps on ticking.

(By “licking,” I mean “two kids, four kicking feet, countless crumbs, splashed milk and 20,000 miles in ten months.”)

But with my new job starting in just a few days, it was time to muster my intestinal fortitude and go get a car and – ugh – a loan.

I’ve never had a loan before. No debt in my credit history. I like this about myself. I do not like the thought of owing money to anyone, ever.

With these things in mind – sturdy, licking, ticking, low debt – I went shopping with a very strong, practical idea of what kind of car I’d buy.

Bells and whistles need not apply. I needed durability. Of the “pre-owned” variety. With low mileage. And low gas mileage.

This was no time for vanity. This was time for utility.

My resolve was firm until the moment I saw the Jeep, and then, well, time stood still.

Suddenly I flashed back to March 2001. Access Theater. Broadway, a few blocks south of Canal. Way, way “Off Broadway.”

My date stood next to me. He was very much like the 2010 white Dodge Avenger with 15,000 miles on it. His stats were perfect, just what I was looking for. But I just couldn’t seem to find even the faintest flicker of lust.

No matter how funny or smart or steady, I just couldn’t make myself really like him. And I really wanted to really like him.

Across from us stood my ex-boyfriend. The Inferno Red Jeep.

He had double the mileage and was more than I’d originally budgeted. But gosh. Standing there, he just looked so good.

I took them both out again for another test drive. I had my answer.

The Avenger would be someone else’s perfect car. The Inferno Red Jeep called to me, singing songs he’d written on his super-sexy acoustic guitar. 

I plunged. The car is mine, and so is the man.

Clay and I have been together for almost ten years. 

Let’s hope the car can go the distance, too.

A Red Flag

I'm going to tell you an incredibly unflattering story about myself.

I tend to do this a lot; I'll do something horrifically embarrassing, threaten my husband's life if he ever mentions it again, then immediately turn around and tell an entire room of people.

I am powerless against the temptation of a good story.

This, however, is not a "good story." This is not me being daft. This does not involve bodily functions or my daughter screaming about genitalia on a busy sidewalk.

A few months after I moved to the city, my boss summoned me to her office, telling me we needed to “speak.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone needs to “speak” with me, the speaking is rarely anything I actually want to hear.

Nervous, I pushed my chair back and began the very long short walk into her office. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I saw that we were not alone.

The company president sat there with an odd expression on his face.

A co-worker had accused me of racism.

Rare is the occasion that I am speechless. But my thoughts raced far too fast for me to catch even one by its tail and throw it out into the air between us.

My brain quickly edited a montage of all remembered interactions with my accuser. The search yielded nothing, not one moment that I could imagine being taken in that way. 

Finally, words came out of my mouth. I couldn't tell you exactly what they were, but, strung together, they must've included some sort of denial along with a question of the exact accusations against me.

Apparently, the only specific allegation was that I’m from North Carolina. Which I am.

But being from North Carolina is not a litmus test for racism. Geographical borders cannot pen ignorance. Haters are everywhere. Even New York.

Yet, coming back to the South, I see things with sharper eyes. I see large, far-reaching consequences where before I could only see one person’s small-mindedness.

And I see far too many Confederate flags for my comfort.

What does this flag mean to you?

Maybe this is my own bigotry. Maybe people don’t intend the “Stars and Bars” as a political or social statement. Maybe they are merely expressing pride in their Southern heritage.

But as I drove past Talladega last Thursday, where thousands camped for the NASCAR race, my stomach lurched at the sight of all the Confederate flags flying.

One hundred and fifty years and two days after the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter, this looked like a brand-new battlefield.

The visceral reaction at seeing those flags, though, helped me better understand the allegations leveled against me more than a decade ago.

My accuser couldn't separate the legacy of enslavement, Jim Crow and the Klan from me and my childhood. To her, that is the Southern heritage.

And that, to me, is heartbreaking. An entire people thrown out with the bathwater.

How do we acknowledge the past and move forward together?

Closet Case

It's not that there isn't a Costco in Brooklyn; there is: a huge two-story building filled with all the whiz-bang deals normally offered at your garden-variety suburban big box retailer.

No, the problem is where to store the 12 rolls of paper towels, 36 rolls of toilet tissue, 6-pack of pasta boxes and 24 sandwich thins that you'll inevitably buy there.

This should last us a few days.

We lived in a lovely 100-year old home, the second story of which had been converted into our apartment. Apparently, in the early 20^th century, people didn’t have much need for storage, because my three-bedroom apartment came with a total of two tiny spaces that the realtor referred to as “closets.”

These closets were not much bigger than the mouse holes in the wall.

"You call this a closet?!"

Realizing the apartment’s deficiency, our landlords kindly provided us with two wardrobes: one in the living area and another in the master bedroom. This still left us with very little room to hang clothes, stack towels, and stash a vacuum cleaner.

We had not one cubic inch of extra space.

I do not mean this figuratively.

Make your own cubic inch here.

So, as friends and relatives – all living outside of New York – bragged to us about their Costco memberships, we briefly thought, “Hey! This might be worth renting a Zipcar for three hours to drive to Costco where we can purchase a year’s worth of paper products.”

Until we realized that spending $40 on a Zipcar would not really be cost-effective and that we would then have to give away all paper products as we didn’t have room for more than four rolls of t.p. at one time.

With this in mind, please now imagine my delight at seeing my new walk-in pantry.

Yes, walk-in. As in, “I can walk IN my pantry and do jumping jacks.”

Not that I will do this, just that I could if I so desired.

One night I might make a pallet and sleep in here.
Just because I CAN.

And look at this: all 12 rolls of paper towels in one spot.

The downside, however, would be the $500 Costco bill.

I'm now an executive.
Sounds fancy, doesn't it?

That’s an even tighter squeeze than my Brooklyn closets.

Wonderful "Town"

The past few weeks have been pretty lonely.

You know, what with all the packing and the moving and the new places and strange faces, I’ve just really craved a good 30 minutes to sit down, glass of red wine in hand, and hang out with some friends.

Tonight, that moment has come:

Cougar Town returns to ABC at 9:30 p.m. Eastern. 

Don't judge a show by its title.
via Doozer, Coquette Productions in assoc. with ABC Studios.

Yes, I realize that my excitement level may be – to your mind – excessive. But Cougar Town has been a faithful companion throughout my odyssey from Brooklyn to Birmingham.

Last April, out of sheer curiosity, I decided to “watch” the show as I began packing our lives into cardboard boxes. I liked it so much that I put down the packing tape and paid actual, real, single-tasking attention. That pretty much never happens in my free-time-challenged life.

But by the time I got Clay on board, we were leaving New York and returning our DVR with all the unwatched episodes. Solution? A Season Pass on iTunes, watched on a laptop, surrounded, once again, by boxes.

As the months rolled by, I found myself a teensy bit sad at the end of the weekly episodes, wishing I could extend my hang out time with Jules, Ellie and Laurie, thinking that perhaps I could really rock a game of Penny Can with the guys.

I take this as a challenge.
Find a similar wine glass at Big Joe Wine Glass. 

I saw myself from the outside: a girl, half-drunk from that Cougar Town-sized glass of wine, in a strange city without friends. 

Since having kids, I’d relied on co-workers for my hang out needs, which were fulfilled four days a week in either my office or the Writers’ Assistants’, usually with coffee, almost always with food or candy of some sort.

Unemployment really blew apart my social life.

Time that would normally be spent with friend-workers was instead spent on my laptop, trying to leverage a career in television news and daytime drama into something that would pay money and provide benefits.

Thankfully, the (job) search is over, and Cougar Town was with me all the while. 

Except, of course, for the past two months while they were on hiatus.

As silly as it feels to say it, I looked forward to those Wednesday nights with my imaginary friends. And when the Cul-de-Sac Crew wasn't there, I missed my weekly ritual of wine and laughter. I missed that moment when the show ends and I, invariably, turn to Clay and say,

"I want friends like that."

Cougar Town's secret weapons: Busy Philipps and Brian Van Holt.
Photo by Danny Feld / ABC.

I start my new job two weeks from today. In Georgia. Our third state in ten months.

Hopefully people will like me. Hopefully someone might even want to chat over coffee.

PENNY CAN!
Find game rules at BuddyTV.

Maybe, if I'm really lucky, there will even be someone who enjoys cooking out, red wine and an occasional game of Truth or Penny Can. 

The above is strictly my opinion and is, in no way, a paid endorsement. Not that I'd be opposed to such a thing.

Another One(s) Bites the Dust

What I found most surprising about my father’s death was my grief.

Cancer had eaten away at him for the better part of seven years. I prayed unceasingly for the end of his pain and, selfishly, for the end of my pain, an end to the cruelty that comes with watching a vibrant man wither.

I lay next to my Daddy as he died. And I felt peace there, warm as a blanket.

But as the days went by, the blanket seemed to shrink, and my toes got cold. I now had to learn to live in a world that didn’t include my father.

There is no sufficient preparation for that – no matter how many years you’ve had to imagine it.

Four years after Dad died, I stood in my Brooklyn kitchen, phone to my ear. My boss told me that we’d been canceled, that in seven months I’d be unemployed. My kitchen felt airless.

Now, this “news” was not actually new. We’d seen it coming; we just didn’t know the “when.”

I had hated the not knowing. But then, it turns out, I hated the knowing, too.

As the World Turns was on the air 54 years. I was there for eight. It was a family. Behind the scenes and on camera, it was a family. In the end, we were a family watching our loved one die.

There was a lot of talk about new challenges and doors opening and blah blah blah. But mostly there were just goodbyes.  Every day another goodbye.

And then yesterday, news of two more soaps – All My Children and One Life to Live – going off the air. More friends watching their loved ones die.

This announcement was not a surprise. Rumors had been swirling for years and had grown louder over the last couple of weeks. But again, the grief shocked me. The realization that people I love will be saying their goodbyes in just a few months, that I too will have to say goodbye to characters I’ve loved for a quarter century, that pain was sharper than anticipated.

I'll miss you most of all, Scarecrow.
Michael E. Knight, via TV Guide.

It may seem silly to compare the end of a television show to the death of a parent. They are not equal.

They are, however, similar.

The landscape of my life shifted completely when the lights went out in Oakdale. Almost ten months later, I still feel the aftershocks. And I bet I’ll still feel them 10 years from now, too.

These aren't just jobs. This is a community that is dying. And just like any other death, there follows the question, “What now?”

I say we start with a champagne toast and go from there.

Salud!

Getting Carded

I surrendered today: turned in my New York Driver’s License, trading it for a nice, shiny Georgia card.

Never expected I’d be so reluctant to see the old ID – with its baggy sweater and messy ponytail – go.

Yet, as I sat in the packed D.M.V. waiting room, my stomach jumped with each customer number called.

At first I thought my trepidation grew from the antsy four-year old on my lap. Olivia’s patience is finite, and there is no telling when the beast will be unleashed.

If you think this is scary, you should see her in tantrum mode.
October 2010.

But the jumps’ amplitude grew increasingly higher as my turn approached. I realized it couldn’t be Livvie. Her behavior approached perfection… or at the least the preschool version of perfection.

No, this was my fear of relinquishing the last remaining piece of my New York residency.

As my number flashed on the board, I walked to the counter with a breeziness that belied my internal state. In the midst of all the employees with wide, friendly smiles sat my assigned lady: grumpy, old and sour.

Imagine this... but female.

Instantly I felt like I’d disapparated and found my way into the D.M.V. office in the Manhattan Mall. This woman, with her complete lack of customer service, was the perfect person to guide me through this transition.

She was like the New York Counter Lady Everywoman: non-responsive, uninterested and never one to toss away a “Have a nice day.”

After all that build up, it was painless, just a quick rip of the Band-Aid. Except for the part where my weight is listed. 

If I’d thought about it, I surely would’ve shaved off a few more pounds.

Dang it.

Let's Make A Deal

The MTA is a big old mess. Costs are ballooning, and New York subway riders are tired of bearing the brunt of bureaucratic idiocy.

But I tell you what: those whiners have a pretty sweet deal.

If only these were sold here.
via mta.info

Yes, I realize there have been far too many fare hikes and way too few service improvements. For instance, when I moved to New York, a 30-day Unlimited Ride MetroCard was $63; eleven years later it is $104, a hefty 66% increase. I cannot recall a single service change during that time that made my life better or easier.

However, $104 per month is still a deal I’d love to make.

Here’s why: I paid $55 to fill up my car’s gas tank on Saturday. Chances are I’ll be paying another $55 in just a few days. And another $55 a few days after that.

via savingdollarsandsense.com

Then add the cost of the car. And the insurance. And the taxes. And the tags.

And the second car we will be purchasing next week. (And the insurance, taxes, tags and even more friggin’ gasoline.)

Mother Mary, come to me.

"Let it be, Kate."
Botticelli, via London's National Gallery.

Now, the MTA gives a “bulk” discount to those riders who pony up for the Unlimited. You can either pay “per ride” or pay the $104 for as many rides as you can possibly squeeze into 30 days.

It’s like Costco for mass transit, but instead of getting a case of paper towels you are getting a potentially pungent and rat-infested ride through the five boroughs.

“SOLD!”

Seriously, I don’t see the gas companies making deals like that. The only time the gas giants reward loyal customers is when they’re trying to siphon the negative P.R. out of the Gulf of Mexico.

So, while I love the freedom of driving my own vehicle, I definitely pay for it. And not just with my wallet.

I’m paying with my lack of reading time.

With my built-in excuse to be late for work.

"Damn train took FOREVER!"
via Emmert / Getty

With the knowledge that the MTA is my designated driver.

"Keep it coming."
via Getty

With the insularity of my world – one that lacks human interaction, even with those who should’ve clipped their nails at home and not in the seat next to me.

I can't believe I found a photo - much less a video - to support this statement.
via Gothamist.

Plus, no celebrities ride in my car. 

Though I've seen bigger stars on the train my absolute favorite sighting was Jay Thomas (a.k.a. Eddie LeBec, "Cheers") and David Rasche ("Sledge Hammer!") together. Via Paramount (top) and New World Television.

Doesn’t that $104 look better by the moment, New York?

Let the Show Begin

Nine months ago – right this moment – I sat in Madison Square Garden, waiting for the show to start. It was my last night in New York.

That night everything seemed bigger than big and completely beyond my grasp. The idea of leaving the city was so huge there was no way to box it up and order it neatly in my mind’s closet.

If only my brain was this well-ordered. Via Apartment Therapy.

So, rather than the concert being a bombastic celebration of Gaga and her “little monsters”, it seemed more like a mood piece, perhaps Bernard Hermann’s tightrope of  a “Psycho” theme, scoring my anxiety, my tension and my fear of big knives.

"Psycho," via virginmedia.com

Thankfully a terrible fate did not, in fact, await me that night. Yes, the life I knew died, as it were, but some really wonderful things sprang from the ashes. Things like:

My excitement at seeing cows. And horses. And pastures in general.

My ability to let my kids do things for themselves. An extra 60 seconds is no longer make or break to my commute.

My love of milkshakes. Thank goodness I also have a newfound love of Zumba.

Heavenly milkshakes. Photo by Linda Stetler, Birmingham News.

My patience at the playground. Having a jungle gym all to yourself sure does a lot for those fears that the kids will be ‘napped.

My obsession with the phrase “a gracious plenty.” As in, “Please take some of these leftovers. I have a gracious plenty.”

My confidence in meeting strangers. When your livelihood depends on networking in a new town, you’ve got to get over old insecurities. And Lord knows I had a gracious plenty of old insecurities.

But tonight, nine months into this “new life,” I feel stronger, a little wiser and – after nine months of living on the dole – a lot older.

In 36 hours we take the kids to our new home, in a new city, in a new state.

Can’t wait to see what this new life has in store.

Moving Sucks: Part Deux

As I recently asserted: moving sucks.

And not just for me. For my kids, too.

Especially for a certain almost-five-year-old, who for the second time in nine months is leaving her friends and moving to a strange place.

Rocking her cares away in the hammock. March 2011.

This almost-five-year-old barely remembers her best friends from Brooklyn. Guilt overwhelms me when I think that in another nine months she won’t remember her friends in Birmingham.

This almost-five-year-old has become accustomed to a mommy who doesn’t have a day job, a mommy who can ferry her to and from Pre-K, dance class, swim lessons, and play dates.

She had anxiety about bubble blowing. Just imagine how she feels about moving. AGAIN.
October 2010.

This almost-five-year-old won’t get to graduate with her class. She won’t get to dance in her recital. And she won’t get to run to Mommy whenever she has a boo-boo.

Mommy is going to be at work.

I know. You’re thinking: “Get over it. She’s four!”

And you’re right.  She is four, and we will both get over it.

But for today – for right this minute – this is painful.

I took her on a long-awaited date today, going to her favorite restaurant for her favorite strawberry shortcake. When we got there she crawled into my lap like a toddler, buried her face in my chest and refused dessert. 

I ask you: what happy almost-five-year-old refuses dessert?

It ain't fine dining, but it ain't bad either. And they serve Leffe.

What happy almost-five-year-old flips out that Bitty Baby needs changing but all her clothes are in Atlanta? That someone might think this almost-five-year-old is a neglectful mommy?

Get your Bitty Baby - and, hopefully, plenty of wardrobe changes - at American Girl.

What happy almost-five-year-old breaks down like a drunk teenaged girl?

Weepy Hysterical Drunk, courtesy of "Glee" and "Santana Lopez."

Since we moved to Birmingham, this almost-five-year-old has continually pled, “I want to go home.”

Now there’s a home to go to – not a temporary home, not just a place to hang our hats, but a place to live, grow, make memories and finally give Bitty Baby a clean outfit. 

It's going to get better. 

Right?

An Inconvenient Truth: Moving Sucks

I’m tired.

I’ve spent the past few days packing, stacking and lugging boxes. And boxes. And boxes.

And though the U-Haul is full to bursting now, I’ve got a full day of unloading – followed by several more days of unpacking – boxes. And boxes. And, you guessed it, boxes.

This is the 26' monstrosity currently in the driveway.
Get yours at uhaul.com

Moving is an exciting, wearying and stressful thing. There is much to do and, it seems, even more to buy.

So, as I stand at the back of the truck, with my boxes like an enormous barricade between me and sanity, I wish for one very New York thing: Fresh Direct.

Sadly, I don't think they make the trip to Cumming, GA.

You see, much of my life is currently packed in Fresh Direct boxes. Cardboard that once held watermelons, pork chops and Rosa Mexicana Pomegranate-Black Bean salsa now holds scrapbooks, kitchen utensils and our (mostly Disney) DVD collection.

Best. Salsa. Ever.

Yet, when those boxes are finally empty, the house may look full, but the cabinets will still be barren. A new kitchen needs new foodstuffs. And these ‘stuffs aren’t the fun stuff, either: flour, sugar, detergent, and prunes. (Yes, prunes.)

Prunes: they do a body good.

I love grocery shopping. I love supermarkets, mini-markets and, especially, Fresh Markets. I love to squeeze and sniff my produce, carefully inspecting everything to make sure that I have exactly what I want.

But right now I have no time to obsess over the ripeness of avocadoes. I just want Fresh Direct to send me some of their pre-made guac. And some parbaked ciabatta rolls. Ooh, and Tabla samosas. Yes, yes, definitely the samosas.

That way I can still eat like a champ and use that extra time – time otherwise spent trying to find the taco mix and deciding which checkout line is least likely to make me scream – to multi-task the multitude of “to do’s” on my list.

Fresh Direct is a convenience… And right now I could use a little convenience.