The Office

When her office door is open she can hear the sounds of the people moving in the hallway and the idle chitter-chatter of her coworkers as they talk about their weekend or their children. Noises, made by her on the phone or talking to a staff member, seem to stream out the door and be carried away. She is usually able to tell who is coming by the sounds of shoes on carpet as they travel to her, the last office on the left. A body appears in the doorway temporarily blocking the view to the main room with a cheery, “Hey.” Some times the visitors sit in the chair next to the bookshelf that is crammed with professional publications, boring books and binders full of workshop notebooks. She wonders if they notice the boxes of hardware stuffed quietly in the corners and under her desk, or if the several paintings of calla lilies draw their eyes to the white walls, where if you look down to the ground, you can see scuffs from previous tenants.

Today however, her office door is closed. She sits looking out at the ducks swimming in the man-made pond in the courtyard. Sounds of typing of the keyboard do not stream away as they do when the door is open, but are held, bouncing off the walls, making the office seem smaller, enclosed - private. It is funny to think that on the other side of the door are 20 people sitting in cubicles, most with no view of the outside, working away, talking away. She can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, so she gets up and walks to the switch by the door and flips them off. Walking back to her desk, she turns on the floor lamp, and a softer, quieter light comes over the room. It is almost like a living room now, except for the standard issue office furniture. Ugly stuff, she thinks, as she gets the phone number from her purse on top of the filing cabinet.

Sitting back down she picks up the phone and punches in her doctor’s phone number with the back of her pen. She tucks the phone between her ear and her neck, as she slides a blank piece of paper out of the drawer to the top of the desk. She can see her reflection in the monitor of her computer. She waits for the receptionist to answer. She looks at the picture of her husband next to the phone, the small statue of Buddha and the jar of Happy Pills. Happy Pills, what a gimmick! She wishes they would work.

When her son was small he used to sit in the visitor chair, his feet dangling. He would look so young and fresh and out of place – his summer tan appearing yellowish in the gloom of the office. He was so fascinated by his mommy’s office – all the grown up stuff: staplers, scissors, holders filled with pens and highlighters. He’d count how many of the pictures were of him on the big bulletin board on the wall behind her. There were never enough, in his mind. “More Mommy. You need more of me.”

“Dr. William’s office,” the receptionist says in her ear.

Penelope

They happened to be in the same city at the same time: he for business, she for pleasure. They arranged to meet at his hotel: he after work, she after the museum. She sat in the bar and waited for him. In truth, she felt a little out of her league. The clientele was well dressed and city-sheik. Yes, she did look good for her, but if you looked really close you would see that her make-up was not the right color for her skin and her shirt was not of the finest quality.

He arrived when she was halfway through her first drink and had just finished putting on lipstick. He smiled and she smiled back. He told her to put the drink on his room. She needed his room number. He wrote it down. She got off the stool and they walked out of the bar and through the lobby. Her heels clicked on the tile floor. She could tell he was exhausted. She asked if he wanted to put down his briefcase and he said yes. She told him she’d wait for him downstairs. He asked her to come up. She didn’t think any thing of it and said yes.

Once in the room he put his bag down and sat in one of two chairs over looking the city skyline. It was beautiful, almost magical. The windows went from the floor to the ceiling and you had the sensation of flying between the twinkling lights of the buildings. He asked if they could sit for a while before they left for dinner. She said sure, she was in no hurry. You look beautiful he said to her. She still didn’t get it. Thank you, she replied. They sipped on whisky straight out of the little bottles you get on an airplane. She couldn’t stand the taste so she told him she was going to get some ice.

When she got back he told her about his day. It had been the usual day of presentations and boredom. She asked what the presentations were about and he told her. Although her green eyes blazed with intelligence, she didn’t really understand the terminology but she pretended to. He started to pepper his conversations with remarks that he couldn’t believe she was in his hotel room.

She finally asked, why, because you’re my cousin’s husband? He said you know you shouldn’t be here. Still not getting it she said, if it makes you feel any better, no one knows I am here. Nor can they, he said.

They talked a bit more, tip-toeing around their biggest commonality – family – and then there was a knock at the door and he got up to answer the door. For a moment she thought it might be her cousin. It was a very drunk woman thinking it was her room. This isn’t your room, she heard him say. Yes, it isss, the drunk woman insisted and then wobbled around the wall of the entryway and teetered over to the bed and slumped down. ‘Dis is ma rum, the drunk woman slurred. Ma boyfrien’ iss here. The drunk woman began to remove her shoes.

There was another knock at the door and she told him that she’d get it this time. It was the boyfriend, very embarrassed. Not a problem, she told the boyfriend. The boyfriend came in and collected his girlfriend, apologizing the whole time. She walked them to the door. It crossed her mind that the boyfriend thought she and he were a couple in their own hotel room, instead of a cousin and a cousin’s husband.

She sat back down on her chair. You are wearing heels, he said to her. Yes, she said. Are you wearing them for me? No, she told him with a smile. I love you, he said. This took her by surprise, but by her reaction you would not know it. Are you flirting with me, she asked? No, he said. I love you. The air stopped moving and the darkness outside became darker as the lights became brighter. She realized he was serious. In her mind, she admitted she loved him, too. And that single admission shed clarity on her reasons for being in the city and drove home the ramifications of the situation.

To Comment or Not To Comment

To my anonymous friend:

You can comment now. My fault on the settings. And thank you for your very kind words!

My Path as a Career

Dreams don’t automatically come true. I don’t mean the kind of dreams you have when you dream that your mother bought you a diamond tiara and then you fly to the moon and eat a really good tuna sandwich. I mean, the kinds of dreams you have about what you will do with your career.

I remember when I was around 15, people who were my age now would say “Ah, you’ll do 1,000 things before you decided on what you want to do.” I staunchly disagreed. This would not happen to me. I would pick a career and I would stay in it for life.

When I was little, as in seven or eight, I dreamed of being a bartender or a courtesan or an author. Ok, yes, at five or six I wanted to either tend bar or be a prostitute or write books. At least somewhere in my little mind I knew that a courtesan only serviced those of wealth. It's shocking, I know. When I think about it now, I really have no idea what I was thinking, other than I’d with one career I’d see a lot of money and get to lay around a lot (literally and figuratively) in nice houses with beautiful things, and the other I’d get to serve people pretty beverages in a swanky environment and maybe get to wear a little black dress. I wanted to be an author so I could sit around with a typewriter and look really smart.

I guess I didn’t know much about dive bars and/or inner cities or the process of writing – which to be honest, I still don’t know much about inner cities except for the movies I see and the literature I read.

In my early teens I still to wanted to be a writer, but replacing bartender and courtesan was oceanographer. To this day I have no idea what an oceanographer does. These two aspirations lasted a long time – a good five years – although beyond writing in my journal and hanging out at the beach, I am not so sure what I did to further my ambition.

At some point I decided I wanted to work in the corporate world. I’d live in New York in a nice apartment, wear suits every day and drink a lot of wine in nice restaurants while I negotiated big "deals." I had zero idea what it mean to “work in the corporate world” other than I’d get to have a lot of money and maybe a cool BMW.

Do you see a common theme here? I didn’t really think about the actual work (obviously with the courtesan thing), but the environment and the clothes that went a long with it. The bottom line is that I wanted to have a lot of money and wear nice clothes. I didn’t really have an accurate picture of what it took to get there.

My first attempt to the land of corporations was to study to become an engineer (although I always took a creative writing class). Now that I’ve worked in the corporate world, I know the kind of “corporate world” I wanted back then had more a marketing/sales bent, but I went full-board on the whole mechanical engineering thing. When I got to the Z line in calculus and I said “screw this, I’ll be an architect.” Architecture was the perfect blend of art and technology and well-known ones were quite famous. I saw how hard architects worked, didn’t make much money and had a huge passion for the job, which I did not. Not to mention, very few "make it big." By the time I figured this out I was 25 and had just graduated from college with a five-year degree in architecture. So, what did I do? I started working as an administrative assistant in various businesses that were mostly run out of people’s garage. Not my cup of tea.

My first real job was in hotel management. I worked hard but I wasn’t fond of the job. I didn't like dealing with the public. I did, however get to the wear the clothes and I learned a lot about customer service (I probably would not have been a good courtesan or bartender after all). I juiced all I could out of wearing the clothes, but finally I had to admit that my “career” was going in the wrong direction.

So, I took a new path and started to work as a marketing assistant. Ok, why didn’t anyone tell me that a marketing assistant is really an administrative assistant with a nicer title? I didn’t last long. After being told that it was my job to pick up my boss’s dry cleaning, I walked.

I did a quick inventory of my skills and what I liked to do. The only constant was writing. So, how could I make money and write? Trying to write a book is something like trying to become a movie star. I didn’t even consider writing non-fiction. I wasn’t informed enough to think about freelancing for magazines. I honed in on technical writing. And that is the direction I went, once again, full-steam ahead.

I liked it. I wrote manuals. I was in the corporate environment. I was a “writer.” The company where I worked was bought by a larger company. I started writing less and less, but now I was a “manager.” I liked this. I learned more. I went to meetings. I had a cell phone. I had a “calendar.” (To this day I love saying “I have to check my calendar.”) This was it. I had found my career.

Then, I started to get bored.

Remember the 15-year old who staunchly disagreed with having more than one career? Let’s review. In this little piece alone I’ve stated I’ve entertained the idea of bartender, courtesan, author, oceanographer, engineer, administrative assistant, hotel manager, marketing assistant, technical writer and manager.

In my late 30s I find I’m taking inventory - again. But the questions have a new flavor. What is the most important to me? What skills do I have? How much money do I need to live? My days as a corporate manager are coming to an end. And I’m beginning the next phase of my ever-elusive “career”. Writing is still a constant, but I can pretty much tell you that what I wear to work is not on the top of my list.

Eating Too Much Sugar

Sugar, for some, is a drug. If you are a sugar addict, then you know what I mean. Therefore this explains me, sitting at my desk, watching the cars drive by on the freeway thinking I will become a recovering sugar addict. Yep! That's it. I am never ever eating sugar again. Of course, I will probably remain in recovery until the sugar I ingested about five minutes ago has gone through my system, my blood sugar drops, and I run right back to the break room to eat some more. This will take 15, maybe 20, minutes.

Now, you non-sugar addicts might laugh. You can breeze through holidays like Easter and Valentines Day by having one small piece of candy and saying "Yum. Yum. That was good. But that is enough." You people make me sick.

Here is how I feel right now. High. I feel high as a kite. I am not quite "there." I can't focus. I feel a bit jittery. My mouth tastes sweet and sort of stale and it feels uncomfortably warm. However, I don't want to brush the sweet taste out of my mouth. My stomach hurts. I feel a bit like I want to throw up. I am thinking about how much more chocolate I can eat before I actually do throw up.

The only way to really stop this cycle (eat, feel high, feel sick, feel down, eat) is to completely leave the area where there is no sugar. I have found, that working in the corporate world, this is a near impossibility. First off, administrative assistants seem to feel the urge to pass out sweets for every holiday: 4th of July cookies, Halloween candy, Christmas cookies, 2nd Tuesday of the month cake...you get the idea.

And then there is the inevitable "doughnut day" where the company you work for buys doughnuts for everyone. In theory, there is about a doughnut a person. In reality, the non-sugar addicts eat a quarter (are you kidding me?) or none at all. The sugar addicts take one doughnut (like a normal person), and then when no one is looking they sneak back into the break room and eat more. How much of a doughnut can you eat while you fill up your water bottle. And let's not even go to how-many-doughnuts-can-you-stuff-under-your-shirt-with-out-anyone-noticing.

Another obstacle is people who bring in their "left overs." An email arrives at 830am saying Left Over Brownies in Break Room, with the explanation that there were left over brownies at Sunday's BBQ. The addict sits quietly. It's 830 in the morning. Hmmm...can I justify eating a brownie this early? Which, of course not only do you justify eating one at 830am, but you seem to find justifications for a brownie for every 15 minutes until the plate is gone.

If all else fails, there is always the vending machine.

Last night I was at my parent's house for dinner. My stepmother offered me some ice cream.

"Do you want some ice cream?" she asked.

I replied "When don't I want ice cream?" My father served it to me. He gave me about 1/4 cup of sorbet (geez, it wasn't even ice cream!).

"What are you? My father?" I said, dismayed at the small amount of sugar in my bowl.

"Yup." He said, smiled and put the sorbet container away. He knew full-well he had taken away my drug of choice.

"You make me sick," I smiled a smile that would have been suited for any 10-year old. Then I ate my little bit of sorbet.

My History in Shoes

This image captures two of the things that make me the most happy: shoes and dogs. That is my second to youngest dog, Red. I have four of them. Yes, four. They range in age from five months to seven years, and in weight from four to eight pounds.

The shoe thing is relatively new and I have to thank a friend for my new found fetish. For the past eight years I've shod myself mainly in clogs and flip-flops. As the friendship with the man grew, my appreciation in the "art of shoes" grew. I've found that buying them is not the challenge, but wearing them out in public is. I'm getting better. I'm up to about three days a week in non-clog, non-flip-flop shoes.

The interesting thing is that it took a few rounds of purchasing before I realized what I like to see in my closet is different to what I'd actually take out on my feet. Ideally I'd like to wear 3 1/2" heels or boots. In reality, I have a hard time with heels over 2" and please, don't cover up the back of my foot. All those years of clogs and flip-flops have conditioned my feet to be able to breathe. (This might explain why after I work out I feel the urge to rip the athletic shoes off my feet and put on my Crocs.)

As a child I bought all my sandals at Jackson's Shoes, which until last month, was still in business (remember, I'm pushing 40). I also remember having various sneakers, but I have no idea what they were. My friend Devin had a great pair of red hightops and I want to say I sported a nice blue pair, but I'm not certain. In grade school, in the 70s, I wanted Birkenstocks. My parents wouldn't buy them for me, so I made do with my mom's old pair. Trouble is, they were three sizes too large. I stuck cotton in my socks to make my feet look bigger. Eventually I talked them into buying me a pair of Interplantery Soles - these are shoes that mold to your feet and are just as funky, if not funkier (aka Not Very Pretty To Look At), than Birkenstocks.

In my teens, I was obessed with the ugliest shoes I could find. I was known to say "These are so ugly, they are cute." (Sorry, that doesn't really work for humans - but it can work for dogs.) In college my shoe criteria was color. I didn't care what they looked like or if they were functional, but they had to be yellow or purple, and if they were Doc Martens, all the better. Then came the years of my first job - hotel managment. My mother's spouse bought me a pair of Ralph Lauren something-or-others. They were so conservative I wasn't sure it was my feet in them, but they went really well with the nylons and suits I was required to wear.

Then I hit my marriage. I was thin and happy and all I could think about was looking sexy. And sexy I did. If it had heels I wore it. Not yet blossomed was the feeling for comfort or breath - just make me look sexy. Alas, that was short-lived and the era of flip-flops and clogs (and working in high tech) has reigned. At least until last spring.

I've branched out. The first thing I did was borrow my friend Anne's wedding shoes. They are red patent leather 3" heels. Great for photographing. Bad for walking. But inspired by them, I bought a pair of pink leather pumps with a 2" heel. I've worn them once. There are five other pairs of shoes that were worn once and then fell by the wayside - actually Anne's been the recipient of the "shoe-fallout" and she now owns eight pairs of shoes previously owned by me.

It was in my friend Laurie's shoe store where I began to buy shoes that fit my style: mules, clogs that are so nice they don't look like clogs, and cowboy boot slides. I love, and more importantly wear, them all. Spring shoes are coming out now. The colors are fantastic and there are a lot of sandals that meet the "breathing requirement". The shoes above were purchased in San Francisco just three weeks ago. Right now they've only seen the inside of my bedroom, but I see a bright future for them out in the real world (sorry Anne).

In short, I must thank my friend, who shall remain anonymous, for showing me the appreciation of women's feet. Much to his chargrin, my taste did not develop along the lines of his, but he has gotten me out of my Danskos and Zoris.