On My Career
On My Career
I was officially “bona fide”. Like Holly Hunter in “O Brother Where Art Thou”, I vaguely knew the meaning of the word, but it was the first one that came to mind when I received the official job offer and concomitant, company, coffee mug, professionally embraced by clear crinkle wrap, tied with a scissor-curled ribbon. I didn’t hang my diploma on my wall, but that darn cup was the proudest addition that I ever displayed. Whenever someone would ask me how I had become a dental technician after graduating from Vanderbilt with a degree in psychology, I would always joke that my “A & S” degree was an acronym for an “Arts & Crafts” diploma, and although my parents would vehemently disapprove of their educational investment being so casually dishonored, I had certainly made good on the misnomer. When all of my scholastic peers were heads of major corporations and huge philanthropists with hospital wings named after them, their smiling satisfied grins on the social pages of the “Nashville Neighbor”, I was busy carving wax blocks into little green bicuspids, shining handmade rings into future Christmas gifts and making all manner of plaster creatures with which to decorate my desk. Finally my parents’ dreams and aspirations had come true, and I wasn’t too unhappy about things either. Now I was a “Sales Rep.”, with my very own business cards. After eighteen years behind the bench, it was my time to shine.
On Being Single
On Being Single
It's Saturday morning. It has been raining for forty days and forty nights. Clothes are strewn around my bedroom. My dog has been throwing up for a week. I’ve tried to clean the spots with baking soda, but now all I have are white powdery places everywhere. Spoons and mugs encircle the floor around my computer desk. I am overwhelmed.
After a breakfast of "Nutty Nuggets", I place the empty vessel on the floor for the pets' obligatory inspection. My scrappy stray somehow manages to cram his head inside the domed glass, space traveler that he is. When he finally kicks it off he comes up to me with one nugget stuck mid forehead. The image of a married Indian woman comes to mind. He rubs his sticky, milk-white eyebrows against my chin while kneading my lap. The other cat is asleep, curled up on my hard drive. The space heater hums at my feet, or is that the cat purring? A small dog floats by my window. Maybe I am being punished for some unconfessed sin
After two days of being offline, I'm anxious to check my emails. I have about 50 new messages, half of which are junk mail, 17 responses to my Yahoo personal and only 2 at the Christian Cafe. Where are all the good Christian men anyway? I attend church, but a guy friend once told me that searching for potential dates in church is like taking a trip to the aquarium: all you do is look.
Each response reads basically the same:
“I liked your picture. I am a laid back, divorced male...”
“I am easy going, like to watch sports and keep fit...”
“I liked your profile and picture; I am an open minded, spiritual guy."
Personally, I prefer a little humor and a more unique opening line, and if grammar and spelling are any indication… Spirituality, he could be a Zen Buddhist for all the word implies. Some spiritual people are "twelve steppers", which is okay unless their higher power is still a tree or door knob, the Big Book is the only book they know and meetings their only church. And what is the fascination with being agreeable? Is that man-speak for I will let you walk all over me if you are worth my while? And what is it about the idea of a “laid-back” guy that they believe so entices us? Perhaps this is more about self-protection and not letting women into the deeper places of their hearts. Maybe it’s my issue altogether, just my angst over the whole subject of dating.
My stray leaps onto the keyboard, adding several indiscernible words to my email before booting me from the internet. He glares at me, his whole body obstructing the screen.
"What?" He meows.
"You're in my way," I insist.
He stretches, seductively drags his tail over my mouth and gleefully slides my pen onto the floor. As I reach down to pick it up, I see him skate, with deliberate abandon, my mouse off the desk. It’s at times like these when I wonder why I ever felt the compulsion to bring him home from that parking lot.
I think I’m finally ready to get out of the house, and planning my morning run by Doppler radar just doesn't appeal to me right now, so shopping it is. The mulch is out at Wal-Mart. Spring is much pretty obligated now. It’s only two more weeks until the Velveeta cheese of Tennessee trees, the Bradford Pears, are in bloom. Near the entrance I see a woman in a vivid, batik sari speaking tersely in some indiscernible language. Her toddler continues to kick the Coke machine. As I approach, I notice a cell phone attached to her head under her scarf. I'm watching her so closely that I almost walk into the opening double doors. After the usual wrestling match with the rusty carts, I roll, squeaking, with a strand of mop yarn on my left, back wheel, towards the blood pressure machine, the highlight of my Saturday, but there's a line, so I decide to check out the new Spring fashions instead. Hopefully I won't stroke out in the meantime. A large black man in thread bear, denim overalls, and a brilliant orange, Elmer Fudd hunting cap, flaps folded up, grins big and says hello as he walks by. The only things in his cart are two, fifty-pound bags of dog food and a sack of cedar shavings.
I see a pair of black strappy pumps for only 7 dollars, an almost exact replica of the 200 dollar pair that my mom bought for me for my 25 year, high school reunion. I was so worried that night. I had a raging, rosacea flare-up from a case of nerves that I got just thinking about meeting people who were practically siblings to me. My nose rivaled Rudolph’s on a good day. But I powdered up nicely. The group photo showed one very pale mime in a group of forty, red-faced and inebriated classmates.
I caught the thongs out of my periphery. I think they were laughing at me. A single Christian woman, I consider sex off limits, but what about sexy lingerie? And can one really find sexy underwear in granny size?
I don't see my usual cashier, the one who wears tight, black polyester pants and slicks his hair back. He looks like Little Richard, and he always flirts with me, telling me I look like his first wife. I haven’t decided whether I’m flattered or not.
There’s a guy in line in front of me. He has two bags of birdseed and two packets of peanuts.
“Let me guess,” I say. “The seed is for you and the peanuts are for the birds.”
After he realizes I’m talking to him, he turns around and chortles… “just a snack on the way home.”
“Sure it is! I'm telling your mom you're spoiling your appetite.”
Sometimes I overestimate my own wit. My bill comes to 70 dollars. I think I’m the only person I know who can spend that much on kitty litter and fiber laxatives.
Saturday is just about over, and I want to get home early enough to clean my polka dotted carpet. Sunday's my big social day, and I usually try to be in bed by nine so that I am not too tired for church. An old lady like me needs her beauty rest, and who knows, I may see a fish I like.
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karabear
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