Islay Girl

Fancy Ladies, pt II

Today was yet another birthday party, and i was NOT looking forward to it, not least because of issues I discussed in the Fancy Ladies post.

But today, it was good. I was only marginally socially awkward, and I had that feeling I've had every now and then since August when this school year started, that these people were actually my friends. I've always struggled with what it means to be a part of a community. I've almost always pulled back and cut ties and walked away from any relationship (except my completely screwed up approach to romantic relationships, where I hold on like a limpet).

This year, especially this past school year, has been a test of my commitment to find community, to allow myself to make those connections, however small and tenuous. On the one hand, the Fancy Lady contingent that comprises about half of the mommies at school scares the crap out of me. On the other hand, the non-Fancy Lady contingent has been a support and comfort in a lot of unexpected ways.

And today I was wandering around the party, and I realized that some of the women I would have classified as Scary and Fake and Fancy Lady nine months ago? Not so much. One woman I held up in my demented little classification system as the most scary turned out to be funny and self-deprecating and what initially came off as aloof and snotty was actually probably a lot of the same shyness and insecurity I felt at the beginning of getting to know this group.

This year has been a weird combination of learning to trust my first instincts, while simultaneously reserving judgment (yeah, YOU try it). On the one hand, I need to believe my gut. On the other hand, 99% of the time, someone else's behavior that freaks me out or pushes my insecurity buttons has absolutely nothing to do with me, and everything to do with them.

All of this, work and school and church and just living here in this city i'm none too sure about, it's been an experiment this year. This is the longest period I've been without a boyfriend/lover/husband in my life to lean on and make call the plumber or the pizza guy or do the stuff I didn't want to do.

A lot of it hasn't been fun. And it's very much a work in progress (she types, while quivering internally at the thought of the Scary Meeting she has to lead next week), but I'm (oh God) growing. I am. I'm better at being me than I was before all of this.

Don't get me wrong, I still have those moments months of self-crippling doubt, but now they're not related to the HH or something like that, it's very clearly me struggling with my own demons, and not creating demons to fight.

I'm making no sense whatsoever. It's the heat. We topped 100 for the first time today. Welcome to the siege. I'll be over here in the shade. Growing.

Fancy Ladies

The Thinking Fashionista was at a chi-chi event a couple of weeks ago and she and a friend were talking about the women that seem to be under every rock in this part of the world -- the ones who've made their deal with the devil and have artificially unlined faces, size 0 wardrobes, and houses that look like they fell out of Architectural Digest. The friend calls them Fancy Ladies, and I was at a Fancy Lady's house last night for a Fancy Lady party.

The house was gorgeous inside and out, and overlooked a mountain range. Everything in the house was white or beige, with artfully antique cabinetry and chandeliers. It was fabulous. It also looked like no one lived there. This particular FL has two children in elementary school, so I wonder where they live, as every stick of furniture (though stick seems an unappreciative term) was generously upholstered in spotless cream silk/linen something. She did mention they had built two guest houses, so maybe one was for the kids.

Anyway. The women at the party spanned the range from other FL's to those I like to call Normal People (i.e. me) so it was an interesting bunch.

The Thinking Fashionista posits that these women who marry millionaires and have the artificial enhancements are actually precariously positioned. They marry for money, the men marry for beauty and/or they both marry for connections, not so different from medieval Europe, but (possibly) with fewer tapestries. A change in fortune, a change of whim, and these couples crumble like the Southwestern sand their bank accounts are built on.

It's amusing to me, in my own personal disloyalty, that I'll sit in these houses and wish they were mine. I'm not sure I could take the strings that come with these relationships, but I'd still like a surfeit of cream silk sofas in my travertine living room with cream plaster walls. I'll covet the lifestyle just a bit, and feel intimidated for a while, and then something will happen to snap me back.

Last night what brought me to reality was watching this impossibly well-maintained woman, who was very clearly anorexic (trust me, BTDT) talk about how hungry she was as she urged us toward the dining room. I realized as I walked through this dreamlike house that the only spots of color were clear glass apothecary jars of brightly colored candy. Tootsie roll pops, and Smarties, and Skittles, and peppermints, all behind glass, all just out of reach.

Oh, i can't ~wait~ for 12.

The Wee One has developed an Attitude.

Since I've come back from my Chicago trip, she has been Moody and Tearful and I'm not sure that it has anything to do with me, I think it's something at school.

Oh, how true it is that one of the horrible parts of parenting is watching your kids go through things and not being able to do much but hurt along with them.

Today she was stomping around after I reminded her that kicking at the dog was not an appropriate behavior (really just the ~threat~ of kicking, but still) and I just held out my arms and she came and sat on my lap.

I asked her if she wanted to talk and she shook her head and I could smell that unmistakable scent of elementary school emanating from her little body -- dirty hands and the metal from the jungle gym and sour milk from well-used lunchboxes. She put her sweaty arms around my neck and I asked her if she knew what was wrong, and she shook her head again. I made her look at me and I told her she could tell me anything and it would be ok, and she nodded, unwound her arms from my neck and trudged off to watch cartoons.

And this is FIVE. I shudder at the thought of twelve.

A helping hand

Do you find it easy to accept, or (even worse) ask for help?

I don't. I have no problem offering assistance, big or small, and would happily inconvenience myself to help someone else without a second thought.

And usually, I don't need help. Which I've always thought of as a good thing. But lately I'm beginning to understand that ~receiving~ help is a crucial lesson in the threads that bind us together.

The other night the Wee One asked me what 'community' meant, and we talked about our circle of friends at school and church, and our neighbors and the checker at the grocery store ... and I realized that since the divorce I've not been isolating myself, at least not in the same ways.

So. Help. Since the HH and I split up, everything's been OK, but there is a much finer edge. And since the sister moved to Portland, that bit of a safety net is even more porous.

I'm in this weird position of really wanting to find my place in my new community, but to do that I need help. (This is the part where it sounds stupid, even to me.) Every now and then there are little events -- get-togethers or dinners or what have you, and I want to go but to go would mean getting a babysitter, and getting a babysitter is out of the budget right now.

In the past, I think I would have said nothing beyond 'Sorry, can't make it!' But now I'm in this weird position of being more open about why I can't make it, but also feeling very awkward about it and like maybe I'm washing my dirty linen in public.

So. There's a thing this week, and I really want to go. We're all 'replying all' about who will be there, and I say "I'd love to go, but I've got the Wee One, hope to see you at Event This Weekend We'll All Be At Where We're Bringing Kids." Within a few minutes one of the circle e-mails me that I should drop the Wee One at her house with her kids and we can attend event together.

The normal part of me feels like 'Oh, that's so nice of her, I'd love to do that, how kind." and the completely screwed-up part of me feels like screaming 'WE DON'T NEED YOUR CHARITY!" while I adjust my hairshirt.

I know, it's crazy. I'm pretty sure that I should feel grateful and lucky to have such kind friends, to have the chance to be a part of a community where we do rely on one another, even for such small things. That being put in this complicated financial situation is God's way of showing me that I don't have to be alone, that there's more than husbands and lovers and drama, there are friends and acquaintances and other people who are part of my everyday, part of my community.

Who are your friends?

Are your friends women, or men, or both? Do you believe (sorry, When Harry Met Sally alert) that men and women can't ever really be friends because the sex thing always gets in the way?

Can you be truly just friends even when the sex thing is a below-the-surface frisson? Is there always a frisson?

I've always unconsciously approached men as these beings that I have to get approval from. Even the men I don't like I treat this way. (Why yes, those are my father issues showing. Thanks, Dad!) The flip side of this is that historically my relationships with women ~sucked~ because I treated them as expendable. Yes, I need validation from that Neanderthal on the sofa with his hand down his trousers, but I'm blowing off my girlfriends.

In the past few months, I've become friends with a couple of guys who, for a variety of reasons are not boyfriend material. Well, I would consider them boyfriend material, I mean they're ~worthy~ of the title, but for several complications there isn't even a remote chance of anything happening. Not that I want anything to happen.

I'm not explaining myself very well.

What I mean is that normally these are men I would be interested in. They clean up well, they're smart and funny. And tall, now that I think of it. In the past, I probably would have found a way to sexualize my relationship with either of them. But I'm not doing that. There are outside reasons for that, but a big reason is a shift in my thinking combined with those natural restraints.

And it's been interesting, to actually know these guys, and consider them friends, but to also know that I'm not investing time in them so they'll approve of me or to make them like me or whatever. It's also interesting because I don't know how to do it, exactly. I'm at this point where we feel like genuine friends, and it kind of freaks me out. I mean, it's good and all, but it makes me laugh that there isn't going to be drama, most likely. We'll just continue on as we are. Being friends. And that's good. Novel, but good.

Or am I just kidding myself and the sex thing is already out there but I'm controlling myself better than I used to?

Home again, home again, jiggety jig

Goodbye to gorgeously restored classic hotel in beloved Big City. Back to the land of bad shag carpeting and Formica kitchen.

But also back to my delightful daughter. Who welcomed me with adorable Mother's Day presents. Yay!

Love the Drake.

I'm staying here:

It's beautiful. I'm in a room bigger than most of the living space in my house, combined. I'm on a corner and I have six windows that are letting in the most gorgeous light. I think I'm going to move in.

I am struggling a little bit with my usual Oh I Want To Move Back Here, but I'm trying to treat it like a nice vacation.

Oh my aching back.

I hurt my back last month. I thought it was getting better (more realistically, not getting worse) and then my hand started going numb, when it wasn't throbbing.

So. I went to my new GP today, because I was scared to go back to the creepy chiropractor, and within 3 minutes she said, "Ummm, herniated disc." and sent me off to get more x-rays. There's an MRI in my future.
And physical therapy.

Honestly, the back part doesn't hurt that much, it's the pain in my index finger in my dominant hand that is driving me batty.

And I have 3.5 hours in a horrible airplane seat on Wednesday. I think I'll be doing a lot of strolling the aisle.

It's funny though, I mean, when I hear the term "herniated disc" I think agonizing, debilitating pain. And surgery. But no, it's just annoying. And only debilitating when I do the quick-look-over-my-shoulder when changing lanes. Which must look like I have a bad case of St. Vitus' Dance. "Look! No don't look! Agh! Can't change lanes til I look! Slow, but not so slow you plow into car in front of you while looking behind you!"

Well, at least I'm not imagining it all.

Gutter Ball.

So, I'm going back to Chicago this week, for a conference.

Now, do you remember what happened the last time I went to Chicago for a conference?

The Southern Gentleman happened. And he needs another name, which I've already given him, I just haven't shared here: The Non-Bowler.

A friend of mine had a boyfriend once, and she experienced a similar bedroom horror as I did with the SG. One time they went on a double date to a bowling alley, and his friend commented what a horrible bowler he was, that he had no rhythm. And that explained everything!

Thus, the SG becomes the Non-Bowler.

Anyway. So, I'm going back to the scene of the crime. And what's even goofier is that I feel the same way as I did before the conference in November, all anticipatory (not for the conference, just for life) and ready to meet someone, and like my life is about to take an exciting turn.

In any case, I'm staying at the Drake! I've never stayed at the Drake, never even had tea there, and I lived within 10 miles of it the entire time I was in Chicago. So no matter what else happens, it should be a good time.

Another day older.

So tonight I'm child-free and in an admirable attempt not to be pathetic by lying around on the sofa and eating potato chips, I embark on a little after-dark shopping.

First stop: Ross. They're supposed to have a lot of summer dresses in stock.

Well, not so much. Unless you like a LOT of that jersey polyester stuff. I do, however, manage to find a cotton skirt. But still, not the haul i was hoping for.

So. That's 15 minutes, what next? I'm down the street from Borders. Ah, Borders! Perfect! Open late, bookish folk are likely to frequent a bookstore, we can all be alone together.

I'm happily ambling around Borders and decide to buy a couple of books (austerity plan still in effect, but annual bonus hit my bank account today, and i think i can spend 1.5% of it). There are a few events going on around the store -- back in the Philosophy/New Age section there's a little group listening to a man talk about chakras, and in the coffee shop there's half-hearted applause every four and a half minutes or so for a guy with a pan flute.

I'm wandering toward the cash wrap and take a detour into bargain books. Remaindered books always make me so sad. There are the junky gift books and the no-name cookbooks, of course, but then there are books that you know some novelist somewhere was so proud of, spent years struggling and writing and getting rejection letters and finally got it published and now, here it sits with a thick black marker line along the top and a red sticker ending in .99.

But I don't feel so bad that I don't look anyway. So I'm in the aisle with 30 Nights of Chicken on a Budget and 1,001 Curry Recipes for One! and a new guy takes over in the coffee shop. I breathe a silent prayer for the retirement of the pan flute.

I'm not really paying attention, engrossed as I am in Eggplant for Everybody, and at first i can't identify the song.

Can I tell you there is nothing sadder than being an unattached woman in the remainders section of the Paradise Valley Borders on a Friday night while some skinny cowboy with an electric guitar sings this Tennessee Ernie Ford number.