43 days to go until I turn 50…oh yeah, it’s going to be so glorious…sure….just get a load at what Barbie looks like. She couldn’t even keep it together and she’s plastic…
Barbie at 50: http://tiny.cc/Barbieat50
Dad always says he never thought Mom would lose her tiny little waist…who knew that Barbie would widen up…that bitch…she doesn’t even have hormones…what chance do the rest of us have???
42 days to the big 50 birthday….me and Barbie… Even worse it’s only 16 more days until Cobb Salad Lunch. Fans of Julie & Julia will recall the lunch with the way too successful friends, while there sits Julie with her dead end job. I’m so Julie these days. And, I am having my own Cobb Salad Lunch. Sadly I am the one that set this freakin’ lunch up. What was I thinking???
Since I’m using a former cat’s name (Tiger) to hide my identity, I’ll do the same for my Cobb friends. “Friskie” is the local version of Jackie Kennedy and has spawned her own local Kennedy-esque brood of beautiful children with straight white teeth and thick hair. It’s California so they are all lean and tanned too. “Sabrina” is a Hollywood success. Not just a couple of good parts that are memorable…she’s a player…a big one. Sabrina is a producer. Not a one time shot who got an indie flick noticed, but known and a long-working-with-no-career-end-in-sight producer. Please know I truly love my high school pals, Friskie and Sabrina — they are kind women. I wouldn’t and couldn’t even ever dislike them or wish them ill for one second. They are very important to me and I care deeply for them, but these days they make me feel like crap – just by being. I’m not proud to admit this and I know I suck for thinking this way…If you think I am whiny and bitchy about this, you are correct. However, I’m the one that went off to the big school and stayed there – even pursued an advanced degree and dove into a career working day and night. I was self-sufficient and on the road to “success” (not sure what that means now though). I even married a doctor — for love…We worked hard and played hard. Beach and mountain vacations; Husband piloted us to our getaways in private planes; we collected wine and art; we served in the community… Then boom! Baby making parts break down and come out; Husband loses career to health issues; I steer career into a not-so-profitable but altruistic path — we are barely scrapping by… And here I find myself in the bitter state of countdown to the “Where The Hell Did My Life Go” birthday…and now on top of that the “Crap I Am Going To Panic Because I have Nothing To Wear Because Everything Makes My Ass Look Fat Cobb Salad Lunch” is right around the corner. Friskie, brilliant as she is, went off after graduation to win beauty pageants and wed a trucker first time around. Personally, I think she saw Smoky and the Bandit one too many times. She’s now married to THE local Mr. Successful amongst a trendy burb full of Mr. Successfuls. Sabrina dropped out of college and worked at a bank in-between modeling and acting until her overwhelming “it” factor, and her considerable smarts, drew her into the business – literally in fairy tale like fashion. She even has a fairy tale family and an unheard of multi-decade Hollywood marriage.
And, here I am today, miserably counting down to the Cobb Salad Lunch…why did I set this up??? Probably, because I lost a friend at the beginning of this year… She died back East, far away from me and unexpectedly. She was a college roommate whom I adored, but had fallen out of touch with… Literally, one hour before I found out she was dead, I had googled “Pepper” in attempt to reconnect. (Yet again another former cat name…I can write a long, long, long time before I run out of pet names…we are still on cats – there are also former dogs, rabbits, horses, cows, guinea pigs, and gold fish, oh yeah, turtles too. And, most of them had middle names as well…) Losing Pepper has had a profound affect on me…she was too young and I was too late, so I began reaching out to friends I haven’t seen in awhile… now there’s the freakin’ Cobb Salad Lunch looming…
Oh, and 50, 50, 50 beats like a bass note in my head. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I hear you. 50 is supposedly better than the alternative – being dead…you could argue a couple of years in Gitmo is technically better than being dead too…but, I’m glad I’m not there…Crap…tick, tick, tick…tomorrow it’s 41 days and 15 days….then it will be 40 and 14…
Hmmmmmmmmm…what was that? Wait a minute…I feel something very strange.
While here I am today all like bitter and pissy about the count downs to 50 and Cobb Salad Lunch, my mind must be playing tricks on me…it feels strange…as if it’s softening its edges and compelling me to lighten my mood. WTF? I am finding myself actually enjoying certain moments…the autumn sunshine, hearing about my friend’s vacation at the coast, Husband’s joke…
Strangely, this feeling comes after a morning at the hospital with Dad. My big strong amazing Dad — who looked so frail and crumpled this morning in his recovery bed after they went in to take pictures of the much too big cancerous tumor.
I realize something…
I realize that I don’t want to start counting down my days with Dad.
I might just be at the point, dare I say it, for countdowns to be done?
Damm, perhaps “they” are right — you have to live in the moment.
GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR…
Getting out of bed is the hardest thing I do all day…that moment when I become conscious, even before my eyes open is when my filters are off and the façade of functionality isn’t turned on yet. My mind ticks down the checklist of reality: 1. My husband is ill and unable to work. 2. We are broke. (See number 1.) 3. My husband is miserable (See numbers 1 and 2) and therefore I am miserable as I am an “empath.” 4. My Dad has cancer. 5. My Mom, his wife of 64 years, isn’t going to handle this well – me either as I am an “empath…” 5. I hate my f’n job, but it’s pretty darn good and I should be grateful for it, so I’m an ingrate and I should be happy I don’t live in a war zone in Afghanistan. 6. I still hate my f’n job and my whole career. 7. For that matter I hate my life and the fact that I have lost control over it as I am careening towards 50. 8. I hate all the people that judge me – in particular my bitchy co-worker who I don’t want to get up and go to work to be around…9. I have a headache – as usual…Crap can’t I just go back to sleep? Then the dogs realize I’m awake. Soon they are sitting over me on the bed (130 lbs of them combined) all happy and excited for breakfast, the cat meows, the façade turns on and I get up…eventually…I am always f’n’ late….
My people would think me narcissistic for writing a blog. If they only knew. They are nothing if not judgmental. Picture the portrayal of Julie Powell’s mom in Julie and Julia. Not until Julie’s ventures hit the NY Times does mom get proud – then it was all a great idea all along. It’s not that I haven’t broken out of the uptight puritan wasp mold. (Although, I do occasionally still wear pearls…) My whole generation and the next pretty much has de-wasped…we are multi-ethnic now, we vote for Obama, we eat organic, but we are all still judgmental…Even the little Brooklyn artist of my tribe would think me narcissistic for blogging out my personal drama…artist or not, she’s still part wasp… and Asian… so there’s not much whining there…I resent to hell I am the only one in my family stupid enough to have a “real” job…I should be f’n Italian and/or Jewish…and not just by marriage…Could I stereotype a bit more???? In reality all people suck, why do I have to spend so much time around them?? Hard to tell my career is devoted to garnering equality for all – don’t you think!? Maybe I AM a narcissist…My Mom always freaks out when I accidentally call the narcissus flowers narcissists…maybe it’s a mental slip of some kind…
What the heck is happening to me…I just need to sleep for about a year…then maybe I can get out of bed…Whoops there’s the alarm again! What a beautiful day!!!
One good thing about trendy burbs is the great restaurants. Not a lot of good little neighborhood spots like a real city, but some tasty faire. Our neighborhood Applebee’s may have folded in the economic downturn, but our trendy burb bistros are booming! Our personal economic downturn means we shouldn’t frequent them, but TDB…we needed a night out!
It was a scrumptious meal…I verbally “yummed” my way through the mashed potatoes. Before my apparently life altering Julie & Julia experience, which launched this blog and my return to loving food, I was at war with all edibles except organic baby greens and raw nuts…If you read too much, “they” make you think all food is evil! Nothing you put in your mouth is safe for you or the environment…
Last night even Husband, the science guy, noticed the inordinate number of blondes in the joint. It must have truly been a mathematical anomaly with a visual pattern, or some crap like that for him to notice. They were all ages too…botoxed grandmas with their blonde bobs to pony tailed sprites staying up too late. It was Husband’s idea to play Wonder Boys during coffee – he clearly had his right brain fully functioning this evening. If you have seen that great flick, you know that they make up stories about who they see while people watching…
Now it was time for the floor show…We were seated in a booth on a dais (weird huh? you feel like your are eating on stage)…right below we had a table of 20 somethings whose conversation was lead by Taffy Summer. Taffy was the bosses daughter and sometime hostess here at trendy burb bistro. Her real purpose was to supply drugs to the staff. Here as a customer tonight, Taffy and her entourage were visited by practically every member of the wait staff. Not so clandestinely there to set up their drop times and places. Her entourage included Garcia and his date we never could name, but she looked like a Greek-American princess I knew in college. Biff, her long waisted date, newly graduated from law school was still mourning his stifled athletic success. Stifled due to his freakishly short legs. Talking to her date of unfortunate and disproportionate stature and their compadres, “Taffy’s” real voice wafted up to us…”I have degrees in marketing and nursing…”
Husband and I bumped fists. We had nailed it. Perfect background for a drug dealer with daddy issues!
This whole event was possible because Tiger Sonora was “born.” My other self would have worried about my Karma for ripping on everyone. I may have still done it half heartedly, buy with major guilt. It was a great escape from my nose dive towards 50, the news this week of Dad’s cancer diagnosis, and my giant ball of angst I have been carrying around like one of the blue inflatables for exercise…Whew! What a great evening! (I wore blue jeans by the way…) I couldn’t wait to blog about it!
Blogging is so much more fun that writing professional analysis and positions and spinning the organization at the whim of those with power. “Blog” is such a great word…While supposedly derived from “web log”, my visual of is of a bundle of emotionally charged words blurging out into web space…you never know when and if they’ll land. And if you are out there see it coming towards you and you don’t want to get hit by the blurge, you just hit a button! I love it!
For some reason, as I near 50 I am regressing into teenage like angst about my clothing and what it says about me. Even as I dress for a trip to the store I wonder — Does this make me look like a Wisteria Lane housewife or, god forbid, a cougar?? (Actually I insert the name of our burb in for Wisteria Lane…there is definitely a known look around here – one that I avoid at all cost. Last week I pulled off my shirt and put on one of husband’s t-shirts just because I looked too much like that stereotype – and that was just to run an errand.)
Dressing for work is just as dreadful. When I first started my career in the 80’s it was easy. I worked in the big city and I wore a suit, a princess Diana collared blouse, a LA Law criss-cross neck blouse (remember those?), or a button down with those little bows in men’s tie prints. On the weekends I wore jeans, or clothes to go with the sport I was participating in…skiing, hiking, etc. For evening I wore a little black dress.
Now working in the trendy burb, to fit in (or at least not stick out too much) with the pretend big time execs, it’s much harder. They are basically a bunch of country club members and/or “wanna bes” with day jobs in a modern day version of Madmen’s Tarrytown. They, men and women, are as catty as the cobb salad women in Julie & Julia. And actually the men are worse with their Italian loafers and the great debate on whether to match your socks to your shoes or to your pants… We are so way beyond does this make my butt look fat. I thought life got easier as I careen towards 50…
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