Always Stories…

This morning my dad called my grandma to send thanksgiving wishes and he put her on speakerphone so we could all share. After greatings she says “Listen, do you have a second because I want to tell you a story about the toaster oven.” Of course my dad says “Sure I have all the time you need” so my 89 year old  Jewish, New York transplant to Florida grandma tells this story:

“So the other day I came home from Bingo with my friend and her boyfriend, and there was a big box on the porch. Luck for me I had my friend’s boyfriend (who can’t be younger than 85) and he carried the box in the house and set it on the table.  And its the toaster oven you sent to me! So we leave it on the table and my friend and her boyfriend go home and that’s that. So the next day the box is on the table, and I’m looking at the box and the box is looking at me, and that’s that.

Then the next day, I’m looking at the box and the box is looking at me, and I decide “alright, enough of this” and I try to get the toaster oven out of the box but, no way, nothing doing. So then the next day I’m looking at the box and the box is looking at me and then I had a brainstorm! I called security and I said ‘Help – there’s a toaster oven on my table!’ No, not really, but I did say ‘I have a  toaster over in my kitchen and I can’t lift it. I need a man with muscles to come help me.’

Well he came over and was very nice and he took the toaster oven out and I’d already gotten rid of my ’schmatas’ and so we plugged it in, and whatever whatever. And so I told him how it was a gift from my children and I asked him if he had any children and he said ‘only 4′ and I thought ONLY 4! My goodness! (cackling laughter by grandma and all of us listening because my grandma had 1 child (my dad) and we have always had the impression that that was almost too much for her.)

“So I asked him about their ages and he said that the oldest was 31, and I said ‘oh! that’s the age of my granddaughter (not quite but close – but she thought I was 12 until I was 20. At this point in the story I held my breath fearing that the point to the story was going to be that she wants to fix me up with this guy’s kid. But thankfully, grandma did not go there. She was happy to keep the attention on herself and her story.)

“Well, then I wished him happy thanksgiving and he left and now I have this lovely toaster oven and its really very pretty.”

My dad asks “have you used it yet, ma?”

Grandma: “I heated up some toast, it was lovely. Not very crispy but it was warm. But listen, its a lovely toaster oven.”

My mom says: “Ma, you have to turn the dial past 10 to “toast” and then it will toast the bread.”

Grandma: “wait, what? hang on, I’m going to go over to it.” (a slow tutorial ensues involving detailed discussions of lights and knobs, but at the end grandma definitely knows how to make toast).

Then my dad asks what she did with her old toaster and grandma says “I gave it to a deserving family.”

Dad: “Oh yea? How’d you find the family?”

Grandma: “oh you know, people told me whatever whatever.”

Dad: “what are you doing for thanksgiving today ma?”

Grandma: “I was invited by people. Someone’s picking me up at 1 o’clock.” (Grandma has an intricate network of people to drive her places. Most of them are “much younger” meaning early 80’s).

Then grandma starts making noises like she’s ready to get off the phone (10 minutes of family time is about all grandma can handle without martinis), so my dad says “Hey ma, I got someone here you’re gonna want to talk to,”  and grandma says “oh? who?” and my dad hands the phone to me (Grandma does’t know we are on speaker phone, so we have to pretend like we are passing the phone around. I don’t really know why.)

Me: “Hi Grandma!”

Grandma: “Oh hi! Listen, how ARE you?”

Me: “I’m good Grandma, how are you? I saw some pictures of you from when daddy visited, you’re looking really good (and she really is for being 89)

Grandma: “Really? Well, I have my days.”

Me: “Don’t we all.”

Grandma: “Listen, I want you to find your Mr. Wonderful, ok?”

Me: “I want that too.”

Grandma: “well you know, all in good time. You know how it is, things happen like they are supposed to.”

Me: “this is true.”

Grandma: “You don’t call me enough.”

Me: “I know, I’m sorry. But i don’t call anyone. Are you on email yet?”

Grandma: “not yet, I have the computer, but we have to go slow. I have the toaster over and the computer and that’s a lot of change, I’ll get there, but you know, its slow,” she laughes.

Me: I know, change is scary, no need to rush into it.

Grandma: but listen darling, you should call me more. I love my family.”

Me: I know you do grandma. (My parents and I smile at each other because while grandma does love her family, its in very small doses, like 10 minute phone conversations.)

Grandma: I want you to have everything you want in life darling. (This is her standard exiting line of all conversations)

Me: Thank you, you too. I love you.

Grandma: I love you too darling! Ok, bye-bye.

And the thing about it is, my grandma is very funny, and the phone calls would be short and I really have no reason not to call her. After we hung up my mom said that last time they talked to her she said that I was missing out on alot by not calling her. My dad interpreted that as I was missing out on all her stories and lifetime of wisdom that she has to share. My mom interpreted it as a threat to take me out of the will. Either way, calling her more often would really be a win/win.

So that’s my thanksgiving resolution – to call my grandma more.

We’ll see how that goes

On a recent Sunday afternoon I flew to Boston out of Dulles. It was around 2pm, and it wasn’t a holiday. This is my story.

The very long security line slowly snaked its way up toward the tables where passengers were supposed to fill bins with all their bits and pieces that are required to go in bins. But when I got there, there were no bins left. I didn’t immediately notice this, so focused was I on getting my coat and shoes off and laptop out of my bag. I vaguely wondered why the bin I was putting my coat into had a big red X painted on the bottom, but in the interest of not being one of those people who slow the line down, I ignored it and dropped my into it.  The guy behind me kindly pointed out that this was not a real bin – it was bolted to the cart on which it sat. I responded, “Oh,” and picked my jacket back up. I glanced around and noticed that the security line next to us had bins stacked almost as high as my shoulders. Between me and this plethora of bins was a very big security guard and the line of people going through that security lane, secure in their abundence of bins.

Normally I’m somone who will take charge in a situation like this, but I tend to become more passive when I’m in airports and surrounded by no less than 6 security guards. As I was looking from the big pile of bins to our own lack of bins, the guy behind me in line said to the big security guard  “Sir? We don’t have any bins.” The security guard replied definitively “Ok, sir.” He then lifted his walkie-talkie and said “Bin run needed, security lane 10.”

At this point I started to become a little fascinated with the scene: The security lines were very long, my lane had no bins, the other lane had lots of bins, and the security guard standing arms length from bins, chose to follow what was clearly the “standard procedure”.  I then looked ahead of me and noticed that the family with the baby in the wheely chair that had used up the remaining 10 bins before I got there, had finally started to send their stuff through the scanner and though it was soon going to be my turn, I had no bins.  I looked at the security guards behind the scanner and back at the security guard between our lanes, and started to wonder what would happen if I just put my stuff on the belt without a bin. Would everyone freak out? Would they stop our lane until the “bin run” had arrived? Would I be forcebly removed for violating airport security standards by letting my sneakers sit free on the belt?

I stalled by focusing on getting my laptop out of my bag, and then closing my bag up again. There was now room for the guy behind me to start filling his bins with his bits and pieces,if he had bins to fill that is. He and I looked at each other, then at the tower of bins in our neighboring lane, then back at each other. Then a new security guard walked up to the original security guard and started to do crowd control in the bottle neck of people who had formed trying to see why our lane wasn’t moving. The man behind me said “We have no bins.” She said “Yeah, ok.” then picked up her walkie-talkie and said “Bin run needed. Lane 10.” The she turned her back on us and stood shoulder to shoulder with the original security guard and proceeded to give random people waiting in line intimidating looks.

I started to laugh. It seemed like the right reaction to the situation. Then I lifted my wheely suitcase up onto the table, still curious as to how this was going to play out. The man behind me started to put his stuff on the table sans bins as well, and I wondered if having two of us do it would make it better or worse.

Suddenly, I noticed some activity behind the guy behind me. I looked up and saw that a man a few places back in line had decided to be bold, to take one for the team, and had pushed past the two security guards and was heading directly for the tower of bins that belonged to Lane 11.  Everyone turned to watch, including the people in Lane 11, the security guards and everyone in my lane. It was like it was happening in slow motion.

I looked from this crazy free thinking man to the security guards and back to him as he got closer to the bins, wondering what they would do, but they seemed as stunned as the rest of us. This everyday hero just pushed past the stunned travelers in Lane 11, and grabbed about 6 or 7 bins, then turned and walked back toward our lane. I thought for sure the security guards would taze him or something on his way back in retribution for his flagrant disregard for procedure. But they didn’t. Their heads swiveled like everyone else’s to follow him back to our lane as if they waiting to see what he would then do with his contraband bins.

The man plopped the bins down on the table and suddenly everything came back into real time. I shook myself out of my stupor and grabbed two bins and began hurredly shoving my bits and pieces into them while simultaneously moving forward toward the scanner.

As I pushed my full bins onto the belt I thought “Why didn’t I think of that?” and wondered if just maybe the guards were thinking the same thing. As I turned to walk through the body scanner, a guard held up a hand to stop me and I noticed that a big cart full of bins was coming through the scanner from the other direction. The bin run had arrived to Lane 10! But the security guard pushing the cart seemed overwhelmed and perplexed at all the people and stopped with his cart in the small space between lanes 10 and 11, and seemed to evaluate the presence of bin towers on one side, and the meager handful of bins making their way down the tables on our side, and finally, the empty cart. He looked at the security guards who had called him, and they immediately resumed staring down passengers further back in line.

Finally coming to a decision, the guard took one hand off the cart of bins, and placed it on the cart without bins, and began to attempt to maneuver the empty one out of the way so that he could replace it with the full one, but never letting go of the full one, lest some weary traveler be so bold as to attempt to get a bin off the cart before it was in place.

My rapt observation of this scene was interupted by “Ma’am? Ma’am. Come on through please.”

Refocused, I quickly walked through the scanner and was met with bells and buzzers. “OH! My Phone!” I cried out, shocked I’d forgotten to take it out of my pocket and put it in the bin. I dashed back through the scanner, pulled my phone out, grabbed one of the tiny bins that look like hats, and experienced a moment of panic at the idea that my phone would go through seperate from my other bags. As if reading my thoughts, the guy behind me grabbed his bin just before it went through so that I could set my hat/bin on the belt behind my bag that had just gone through.

I turned and dashed through the scanner again, now feeling obligated to hurry b/c I had become the source of the hold up – my worst fear. More bells and buzzers. The guard sent me back through, asked if I was wearing a belt (i wasn’t), had me empty my pockets and when I only came up with a piece of paper he said “hmph.” I looked at him across the divide of the scanner and suppressed a giggle. I half expected him to pick up his walkie-talkie and announce “Confusion. Lane 10.” Then he said, “ok, try just walking through real slow, exactly in the middle of the arch,” and he focused his eyes on my feet as if it guide me on the right path.

Slowly I stepped forward, judged that I was equa-distance from each side and stepped through. This time I was greated with silence and a satisfied smile on the face of the guard. I dashed forward, grabbed my shoes and shoved my feet into them while trying to put my laptop back into my bag and get out of the way before the guy behind me came through. Arms full but shoes on, I moved to the row of chairs set up away from the security lanes where people are meant to stop and collect themselves. As I rearranged my laptop in my bag, and found my boarding pass, I heard “Hey! Uh..Hey, miss,” from over at the scanner, but I ignored it…until I realized that I didn’t have my phone. I turned and saw the guy who had been behind me holding it up and he and the guy behind him were waving at me.  I immediately ran back and grabbed the phone, thanking them as I did. As soon as I had my phone I realized I’d left my bags “unattended,” and had an irrational fear that I was about to get yelled at. I turned back to see that my coat had fallen off the chair and was splayed across the floor and my laptop was hanging half out of the bag about to join the coat. I ran back, grabbed my coat in the same motion that I grabbed my lap top and put both back up on the bench. Stopping to take a get my breath and push my hair off my face, I noticed two security guards leaning on the wall openly watching me and shaking their heads in what could only identify as a combination of pity and disapproval.

And all because of the gross breakdown in the bin delivery system.

In one (or perhaps) more of my blogs post-Army Guy-break-up, I talked about how I didn’t care about being single again – that that wasn’t part of my upset about the break up. But don’t think I was totally honest with myself.

I don’t actually care about being single, in the sense that I don’t mind spending time alone, going to events alone, I don’t fear I’ll spend my life alone, I don’t feel like being in a relationship will make me a better/fuller/more complete person.

What I don’t like about being single, is having to identify with the cultural subgroup of “single women over the age of 30.” Mostly because I don’t actually identify with many members of that subgroup, exactly for the reasons I just outlined above. I’m not judging people who do dislike being single, who do feel like their lives would be better/fuller/more complete if they were in a relationship. I definitely don’t judge them because in those brief moments when I was with AG I saw the advantages to being in a relationship. Its just that I see those advantages as bonuses, not necessities for happiness.

What I don’t like about being part of this subgroup is the way other people react to me/treat me/view me. I feel like most people see being single (especially people who aren’t single) as a condition that needs to be addressed.

I’m not saying I don’t want to date or be in a relationship. And I appreciate efforts by my friends to help me find men to choose from…to a point. I’m not even sure where that line is, where it goes from being helpful to being annoying, but its definitely a fine line.

I hate the expectation that “finding a man” is always my top priority, that it is (or should be) what dictates my social activities, my dress, my behavior in general. I hate the pressure and the expectations that come from those for whom that is their top priority or who can’t understand why it isn’t mine.

Sometimes I really enjoy being single, sometimes I hate it, and most of the time I’m just content with what is. Sometimes I enjoy the act of dating and sometimes I hate it, and I don’t really know what makes the difference. Sometimes I wish I was in a relationship JUST so I could be part of that club, be part of the cultural majority, instead of this subgroup. Just for a change. Just to see what that would be like.

I voted today. I’ve voted in every presidential election and most mid-term elections since I turned 18. But for some reason today was different. It seemed normal at first. I walked into the school, there was no line, I was on the list, they gave me my pass, and I walked toward the booths. But as I was walking toward the booth I started to feel strange, almost nervous but I had nothing to be nervous about. I stepped into the booth, and I looked down at the electronic screen and the feeling intensified, I was almost shaking and I had this sudden urge to laugh out loud, and I realized I was experiencing the heady feeling of knowing that I was about to be a part of history. It was an amazing feeling.

I paused before pressing the button for Barak Obama so that I could savor the experience. Not just of casting a vote for the first black man ever to run for (and hopefully win) political office, but just the experience of voting in general. Its an amazing right, and its an incredible priviledge to have the power to make a difference.

But the nature of this election intensifies the election. This is the first presidential election where I’ve lived in Virginia, and so I’m REALLY aware of how much of a difference my vote makes. But I also think this was the first time where I really felt passionate about the choice, and about the outcome. 

I was excited to vote for Clinton, but I wasn’t passionate about him. Part of the reason was that I was young, I had grown up in the 80’s and didn’t really know badly the wrong president could screw up a country. I didn’t know that my life could actually be impacted in a daily way by the choices of our president. I didn’t really and truly understand that until the last four years. I voted for Gore and for Kerry because they were the democratic nominee, and because I honestly believed they were the best choice, but it was an unemotional choice.

I looked down at Barak Obama’s name on the touch screen, and I was filled with emotion. I wished I had a way to mark the moment – a picture or a print out. In that moment, all of the intellectual reasons for supporting Obama melted away and I was left with a pure emotion.  I fully felt the desperation for change, and the weight of the hope that he represents that has driven so many people to work so hard for his campaign.  Up until that moment of standing in the voting booth prepairing to cast my vote, I hadn’t really allowed myself to acknowledge how much I personally had invested in an Obama Presidency – both because of the historic turning point for our country in electing a black man, and because I believe he will save this country.

I can’t face the idea of a McCain presidency. I don’t know what to do with the idea that that many people in this country either a)think he will actually be good for the country, or b) refuse to vote for a black man. I may not fit the mold of a “true american” as defined by McCain/Palin, but I am an American, and I do want to be proud of my country and I want to feel connected to my country, but that won’t be possible if McCain wins. I can’t feel connected to a country that sees McCain and Palin as the right choice. And I can’t really think about what I’ll do if that happens. Hopefully that won’t have to face that.

Today was a pretty good day. I was more productive, functional and focused then I’ve been in the last three weeks. For those not keeping track, Army Guy exited my life three weeks ago. This is the longest its taken for me to get back to normal after a romantic disapointment, but at least I’m finally back. Mostly. I seem to still have one side effect that hasn’t gone away yet. I hate happy couples. I do. I don’t want to, but its a visceral reaction. Everytime I see a cute, happy couple I get this negative reaction. Actually, to say I “hate” them is overstating it. I’m not exactly sure how to explain the emotion – its not jealously in the normal sense, but its a negative emotion.

Here’s what happens. I see a happy couple and I get this tight feeling in my chest and my first thought is “that was me like 5 seconds ago,”(it still feels like that 5 seconds ago at times). Then the next thought is “How come the can do it, and I can’t?” (stay together), then the next thought is something like “eh. screw em” (which is really an attempt to make myself feel better).

I don’t want to feel this way, because I don’t like begrudging other people their happiness, but also because having that reaction is a reminder of the mark that he left, the piece of me that isn’t healed. Everyone keeps telling me to be patient, that it takes a while to heal after something like this, but I’m just so over…getting over it. I’m so ready to move on, but then these visceral reactions to things sneak up on me, mocking me and my efforts at moving on.  

The good news is that I’m getting used to it and it doesn’t really interupt my day that much. Its kinda like having the hiccups. Annoying, but not incapacitating.

I feel guilty every time I have this reaction, but the one thing that makes me feel better is that my reaction is the same whether its people I know or people on tv or strangers in the street. I don’t hate real couples any more or less than pretend couples. I don’t know why, but I take comfort in that.