Intervention

There was a brief intervention at the Tampa IKEA today.

It began in the café over a plate of their apple glazed salmon and a side of macaroni and cheese – my absolute favorite cafeteria food ever. Peach crisp comes in a close, close second, but they don’t serve that at IKEA.

My mother had driven over to return Boy from dropping off his truck with my uncle who’s going to sell it at auction. Since she’ll be living in a rental while she oversees the building of the house in Vermont, she wanted to check out IKEA for cheap furnishings for the place she’s renting in town.

So, she began slowly, “Paige, I want to talk with you about leaving your job and going to school fulltime.”

“O-kay,” I said between bites of mac-n-cheese. It was a really, really big side order, so I was trying to pace myself. I was thinking that it was a good thing I’d gone to yoga that morning and could control my breathing to allow myself to take more in than my stomach could possibly hold.

“You’re going through a period of transition right now, and I think that because of that, you’re making a lot of decisions that you don’t necessarily need to make right now.”

“I know,” I acknowledged. “I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by it all. There are all these options right now.”

“And that's a good thing. I'm just saying that you should just take a step back and change one thing at a time, instead of trying to make all these changes at once. You’re in a really good place in your life. Stop trying to rush it.”


By the time we’d gotten through the kitchen displays and into textiles, I’d realized she was right. Now probably isn’t the time to be turning my world upside down. Especially not when I'm so easily swayed. Carrie had brought up the same points only the day before, but it’s a bit harder to stage an intervention over the phone.

It’s just that I’m the kind of person who needs a plan. I can handle anything life throws at me, as long as I can work out a plan to deal with it. I think I just need to pace myself with these changes, and I guess that’ll be my new plan.


I told Lily about my new plan when she came over to help me unbutton my pants. I’d given myself a French manicure and realized too late that I had to pee. Now that’s a good friend. Not a lot of neighbors will drop what they’re doing to help you pee.

Lily’s daughter just went off to college last weekend, so we’re kind of in the same place right now. And she’s also in a flurry of change. Everything from cleaning out her closet to applying for a more challenging job.

Lily nodded while I outlined the pros and cons of my situation. And then she hiked up my jeans and headed home to start her laundry so she could come back over later to watch a movie with me. I walked Dog and fixed a nail that got messed up despite how careful I’d tried to be.

You know, these life changes will screw with you. I’m so lucky that I have friends and family to help guide me through.

I mean right now I can’t even work out on my own that I should probably pee before I do my nails.

So, Lily will come over. I'll make her watch "Eastern Promises" on HBO with me, because Viggo Mortensen is so, so hot in it, even with the tattoos. And I'll fall asleep halfway into the movie, while I sit next to her on the couch stomach still full of cafeteria mac-n-cheese, and dream about what I'm going to do with all these possibilities.

Mama's Boy

Boy came home from his trip to New Jersey a week early.

Who loves his mama?

Here’s how that went.

Eight o’clock last night as I’m driving home from CVS, I get a text from him:

“I think I want to come home.”

An hour later, he had a new plane ticket that I had to buy outright, because the people at Travelocity wanted to charge me FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS to reticket him. I simply got off the phone with the very nice man from Pakistan and bought him a new ticket from Spirit Airlines. This saved me $316 and saved Boy three hours of travel time, which was to include another layover in Atlanta's airport.

On his trip up, I got really odd texts from Boy while he was in Atlanta about the used needles receptacles in the bathrooms and the guy who was wearing a kilt and reading a book on Paganism, so you can imagine the scenarios that were running through my head at the idea of him spending three hours in Atlanta again. Plus, if he doesn't know better that to share all that crazy stuff with his mother who will obsess over it, how much common sense could Boy possibly have? I'm just saying.

So, I picked him up from the airport this afternoon.

He's already driving me crazy.

It’s fantastic!

Sleep Deprivation

Got up at 4:30 in the morning to drive Boy to the airport. Yeah, that’s right. FOUR-THIRTY. Guess who’s on my shit list.

I love to sleep. It is my absolute favorite thing to do in the world. And I’m super cranky if I don’t get at least six hours, eight is better, of sleep a night. Lily came over last night after softball, so I was up until midnight, and…well, you do the math.

When you’re the boss, a cranky you makes for a bad day for everyone. So guess who’s on everyone’s shit list. Yeah, that's right, The Boy.

He went up to New Jersey to watch all his friends graduate. He was a rising sophomore when we moved home to Florida from South Jersey three years ago. He kept in touch with all his friends, and because we have family there, he still gets to visit from time-to-time. And say what you will about South Jersey, but if it’s a negative word, you’ve never lived there. Most of the area is beautiful. The people are awesome. And the food’s fairly awesome, too.


So Boy is gone for two weeks. This is what living alone will feel like. Dog and Dog’s Cat and I are having a very nice conversation about how long it’s been since they’ve eaten or been outside.

Oh God! They weren’t kidding about Empty Nest Syndrome. It’s real. And I’m going to be one of those weird old ladies who talk to their animals and cook more food than one person could possibly eat. Heaven preserve us!

Ack! And say stuff like “Heaven preserve us.”


Anyway, I’m super busy with life right now, and I haven’t eaten a thing in days besides cheese, crackers, and beer. No way am I going to become one of those ladies.

I’m almost too busy. It’s a fairly frantic existence. Work, work out, yoga, barn, study for the GRE, learn French. I do it to myself, though. I'd be bored, too, if I scheduled in the time for it!

When did life begin to consist of chores? Is it wrong that I’m already mentally redecorating Boy’s room? How can I ever have enough hours in the day to get everything done?

And, yet, at some point it did, it isn’t completely wrong, and I do somehow have enough time.

Or so the dog and cat have convinced me.

Changing Lightbulbs

I think there’s something really wonderful about differences between people in a relationship, whether it’s a friendship, familial bond, or significant other. For me, opposites attract like gangbusters.

I mean, I get that you need to have some kind of common ground to get along with a person. But when you get two people together who know everything there is to know about something, what do you have left to talk about? How are you learning from each other? How are you growing?

And, more importantly, if you both are experts in, say, sociology of religion, which one of you is going to take a break from discussing the correlation between the concept of God as creator and the life giving energy of the sun and finally just change the frickin' lightbulb?

There needs to be someone in the relationship who’s able to take a step back and deal with practical matters.

And the converse is true. There’s got to be a yin for every yang.

Having those separate interests and opposing strengths allows each person in the relationship to bring themselves to the table. Their true selves. Not the self that’s trying desperately to be good at everything. When you’re with someone who’s has what you lack, you get to be yourself, that strange wonderful neurotic person who has what your partner lacks. Together you get to be one perfect person.


I was talking with a friend today who’s trying to fix me up with this guy. And he’s a great guy. We’d be perfect for each other, my friend thinks.

But we wouldn’t. Here’s why: We’re too much alike at our core.

We both think before we leap. We both have a certain way we like the things on our coffee tables to line up. We react to situations in much the same way. We use the same coping mechanisms. We have similar temperaments. We’re both good looking. We’re both smart. We’re both funny. We’re both decent cooks and decent company. We’re both holding out for something better. We’re both too right.

And two rights make a U-turn.

I’ve dated the “perfect for me” guy. Finding someone perfectly like you, though, doesn’t necessarily make for a perfect match. For me it makes for a perfectly boring, predictable time.

Give me the person who has what I lack. Give me the guy who is my opposite. The one who makes me want to leap without thinking about it first. The one who breaks down some high-level idea that I can’t get my head around into something completely basic that makes total sense and manages to blow my mind. Give me the guy who’ll pull my head out of the clouds as he’s pushing me into the pool.

Or even just the one who’ll just say, “For Christ’s sake, Paige, it’s just a lightbulb.”

The Good Mother

Well, it happened. I was checking out some stuff on the Arts Journal website, and I had my Eureka! moment. I feel like I should be running through the streets of ancient Greece like Archimedes..

I’ve been playing with this story idea for months and I couldn’t make something fit. I couldn’t get my characters together in a believable way, and I did it. And the storyline’s just falling into place now. And, just like that, I’m unblocked. Woo hoo!


Went to work out with EBE today. He put together a workout program for me that I’m certain will leave me unable to walk or lift my arms, but boy, I’m gonna look good. We got finished about an hour ago, and my arms are already stiff…

I bitched so much while I was doing it that I forgot to thank him for all the trouble he went to until I was halfway home. I shot him a quick text, and to my “You’re the best!” he said, “No problem.” And I’m supposed to come back Wednesday for more abuse. Motility is over-rated anyway.


So, I’m doing yoga tomorrow. Workout with EBE on Wednesday. Out to the barn on Thursday. And I think I’m going to head over to Melbourne again on Friday. My mom’s going back up to Vermont on Saturday, and she said I can stay at the place on the beach while she’s gone. My aunt’s offered to take me to her Bikram class on Saturday where she’s promised that the surfers in her class are so cute, I’ll be able to get into a full Camel just to check out the guy behind me. Ha ha.

And I’ve decided I want to learn to surf, so I’m going to see about that while I’m over there. My uncle’s surfed since he was a kid, but I’m thinking he’ll be working all weekend. I’m sure I can cruise up to Cocoa or down to Sebastian’s Inlet to find somebody who’ll show me the ropes.


I swear it’s like I’m fifteen again trying out all these new things. There are just so many things I’ve always wanted to try, but I didn’t. Didn’t because I was too scared or busy or consumed with all the responsibility I took on at a young age.

Becoming a single mother as a teenager, I put off a lot of stuff. I don’t regret it. But, I took it so seriously. I had to be there for my child. But I was still a child. I lived away from family, so I really had no idea, no example, no guiding hand. I figured that my son hadn’t asked to be stuck with just me to be responsible for his every want and need. So I felt like I owed it to him not to put myself in harm’s way.

And I was fearless as a child. I’m the same girl who jumped in the pool at two without knowing how to swim. Somehow that little girl grew up and grew scared – of flying, of heights, of not being in control. More than anything, though, I was afraid of failing my son. Of leaving him alone. Of not being there if and when he needed me.

So I put everything on hold. I didn’t date. I didn’t travel. I didn’t try new things. It was like a limbo of sorts. And it's not to be underrated that I was with him for every birthday, for every holiday, for every bedtime story. But, though I was there, I wasn’t growing. I wasn’t living. I lived through him. And I isolated myself. Insulated both of us. I felt it was my duty. It was my job. It was my honor to be his mother.

But I lost that fearless girl. Somewhere along the way, I lost that part of me that existed before he came into being. Maybe because I never gave myself the chance to mature into adulthood before the responsibilities of adulthood were upon me.

How do we, any of us, hold on to that person we once were? Do we, are we supposed to, give that person up when we become parents?

So, now that Boy is raised up sufficiently enough to have a car, a girlfriend, a job, a dormitory, I’m looking for that fearless girl again. I’m taking a step back into that girl’s shoes, so I can finally take a step forward out of this self-imposed limbo that was this child’s idea of what a good mother should be.

Stupid Bitch

I went on a blind date about six months ago. He was an engineer. He was kind of creepy looking. I mean, good looking but in a creepy way. We’d had a couple of nice phone calls between us, though, so I let him buy me a drink and we talked for a bit.

Everything’s going fine, and creepy looking or not, he’s a nice guy. I’m thinking we can be friends, but then he throws it at me, out of nowhere, “I drive a Porsche.”

Ugh!

I bring this up because I was at the grocery store yesterday picking up an onion and a six pack when I notice this very cute guy checking me out as he’s checking out at the register. He’s wearing softball gear, and his hair’s kinda longer than I usually like. But he’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him. Neither of us makes a move. I’m not about to, because, well, I just don’t. If a guy can’t walk over to me and strike up a conversation, I figure he’s not going to put forth much effort to do anything else to see me.

We both hit the parking lot at around the same time. We’re parked next to each other. I get into the Volvo, while he starts to load his groceries in, wait for it, a shiny new blue Porsche Boxster.

Now I’m not a huge Porsche snob. My dad had one when I was a teenager, and it was so cool to get dropped off at the football games in a new black Porsche. My mom even let me take it out right after I’d learned to drive to show off for my friends.

I love cars. I do. But my tastes run along the lines of a convertible Karmann Ghia and a Jeep Grand Wagoneer (Yes, the Woody!). My mother still talks about how I was the only 14-year-old she knew of who wanted a Volvo 240 DL wagon. I mean, I dig cars. So that’s not it.

I explained my Porsche issue to Julia on the phone as I was driving to my grandmother’s today.

“Why can’t I just meet some regular Joe who likes to hang out and have fun and doesn’t have to impress everyone with the things his money can buy? And, by the way, it would help if his name were, in fact, ‘Joe.’ Or even Sam. I could date a Sam.”

She laughs and asks me, “Don’t you think you’re being kind of superficial? Who cares if a guy drives a Porsche?”

“Because a Porsche means he’s got something to prove.”

“Did Dad have something to prove?”

“Well, no. He always drove sports cars. But then he’d buy a big truck. The Porsche was just fun.”

“There you go.”

“No, Dad was settled before he bought that car. These guys were single. It’s just different. When a single guy drives a car like that, it’s different.”

“How?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”


I know this other guy. He’s a frenemy. One time, during a ceasefire, he asked me, “What kind of cars do women think are cool?”

I didn’t answer him, because it was just the most ridiculous question in the world and because I couldn’t find a way to answer without hurting his feelings. Ceasefire, remember? But here’s what I would have told him:

“Women, real women, aren’t impressed by what kind of car you drive. It’s nice if you have a car that doesn’t look like a total piece of crap and won’t break down. Beyond that, we don’t care. We like the guy, not the car. Get a flashy car, and we don’t think, ‘Wow, this guy’s a catch.’ We think, ‘I wonder what he's compensating for.’

“Your problem, Frenemy of Mine, with women specifically, is that you would ask a question like that. Your problem is that you care if a woman likes your car or your kids or that stupid chain you wear around your neck. Like yourself, Moron. Own who you are and that dumb car you drive. Be confident, and other people will like you. Stop being some needy creep who tries too hard, and women will like you.”

See what I mean? How do you say that nicely?


I got to my grandmother’s today, and it was a girl’s day. I got to play with the babies for a bit, and we had lunch. My uncle, who’s in the car business, dropped in to eat some macaroni salad but had to leave almost as soon as he arrived.

I was in one of the back bedrooms talking with my aunt, the psychologist. We’re talking about my plans to quit my job and go to school full time in a year or so. I laid out my plan, and then she asked, “Is there a man anywhere in this plan of yours?”

“I hope so. No one I’m seeing right now really fits the bill, though.” Then I told her about how I’m looking for a regular guy, but I keep attracting these other guys.

Then she told me, “The problem is you’re too smart. Those guys don't like smart.”

My mother chimed in, “And those guys like bitches.”

“So what do I do? I can't help what I'm attracted to.” I said to my aunt.

“I don’t know. Dumb yourself down? Become a bitch? That’s up to you.” But she was laughing when she said it.


“Somehow, somewhere, my life went way off track,” I said into the phone to Carrie as I was driving home a couple of hours later. “Apparently, I’m overqualified to date.”

Mr. Unavailable

Dear Cute Guy,

I'm writing to inform you that I cannot date you as you fall into one of the following categories. You are either:

1) Married to a wonderful woman who actually does understand you, which is why you’re sleeping on the couch in the first place.

2) Separated from previously mentioned wonderful wife. Just like you can't be "kinda pregnant," you can't be "kinda married." There’s no gray area here.

3) Blowing the ink dry on your divorce decree. Come see me after you’ve finished plowing through the entire female population of your apartment building and corner bar. On second thought, please don't come see me after that. Ick.

4) Still living with a female of whom you have carnal knowledge. I don’t care if it was three years ago, you were both drunk the one time it happened, and that now she’s just like a little sister to you. If you’ve told me about it, you’re still thinking about it. Yes, the economy does suck. Get a male roommate.

5) Still communicating with your off-again girlfriend in some kind of co-dependent melodrama wherein you are still the person she calls to come fix her flat tire. Come on. If she could call you, she could call AAA, too. You’re not really buying that story are you?

6) Talking about your ex within the first hour of our first date, or during the last hour of our third date for that matter. Look, I’m not one of the guys. And it doesn’t make me feel sorry for you. It makes me feel sorry for her.

So, while you are very handsome, charming, and successful, I have to say "no, thank you" to your invitation. Well, I don't have to, but I'm going to.

I know you don’t want to be alone right now. And I'm sure you really could use a friend to lean on. Of course, this would be a tough transition for anyone. We really do get along great, and I do like you very much.

But, I like me more.

Now, go get your shit together, and then you can call me.

Bikram Schmikram

I walked out of the yoga studio tonight next to this man who looked like I felt: battle weary and wet.

He looked over at me as we crossed the street to get to the crowded parking lot and said, “It takes me about an hour to feel human again after these classes. I do nothing but sit and drink water.”

This, of course, was my cue to say something sweet and charming, but I was too worn out to form a sentence. I may have grunted. I can’t be sure.

If he hadn’t been gay, and therefore un-dateable, I might have made more of an effort.


So I made it through my third Bikram class. I think I’m addicted. What else would explain this compulsion to contort my body in a heated room for an hour-and-a-half? I mean it takes a forklift to get me out of bed some days. Yet, I make the drive over to this place after a full day’s work and with laundry still to do at home just so I can try to touch my head to the floor from the standing position and walk out afterward bone tired and soaked to the skin in my own sweat. Ewww.

I’m digging it, though, while I’m doing it. And the next day, my skin’s all dewy, and I have a ton of energy. I’m meeting all kinds of cool, if smelly, people, and my size fours are fitting really, really well these days.

And I’ll be damned if my forehead isn’t getting closer to that bamboo floor, too.