Bubble Bath

My nails are all one length and painted a color called “Bubble Bath.” It’s an old standby that’s pale pinky white and makes my nails look neat and nicer than just bare. I painted them this morning sitting at my desk while I was waiting for everyone to gather for a morning meeting.

And that was the last productive thing I did today.


I left work early and came home to sweep and take Dog for a walk while yet another few people traipsed through my house, judging my home, my furniture, my bedspread. Even though an offer is pending, my realtor believes in covering her bases. Her texts have become plaintive. My responses short. She always ends with “Thanks!”


I have two very close friends right now. It’s weird how they cycle through, isn’t it? I talk to them daily. I think of others often and pick up the phone to dial, to text, to anything. I think of them, and I put the phone down again. Instead, I send random "catch up" emails to people I once knew. People who knew me enough and who I knew enough, too.


I don’t feel very witty or charming or anything right now. Someone told me the other day that I was beautiful, but I don't feel that either. I don't feel. I float about in a sort of limbo and wait. Wait for a sign that it’s time to move forward. I’m not sure what that sign is, but I have faith that it will come.

I listen to Faith Hill while I drive in my car and keep forgetting to stop at the gas station or get my car washed or get to the post office before it closes, though I remind myself to do it every day.

I go to Pilates, to work, to the dog park, to the grocer and forget to go to the dry cleaner. But I’ll remember one of these days when I’m out, and I’ll drive thru and make small talk with the son of the owner while I pick up the baseball cap that I dropped off ages ago.

I want to buy an aquarium, to plant some flowers, to get a new couch that doesn’t smell like dog. But I can never find an aquarium stand I like, the flowers will die from a late frost before they can take root in the soil, and the couch, like all couches, will end up smelling like Dog... and Febreeze.

Cardboard People

Went with a friend today to see the movie “Up In the Air.” If you haven’t had the chance yet, run to the nearest movie theater and catch it.

One of the great things about this movie is its relevance. It’s just so appropriate in this time in America. George Clooney plays a guy who fires people for a living.

Tough gig.

One of the messages that came across loud and clear, though, is losing your job is not the worst thing in the world to happen to you. Your job is what you do. It’s not, and shouldn’t be, who you are. And how many of us take a job, fall into a career, sleepwalk through life, and come out of the industrial machine scratching our heads and wondering what the heck just happened.

Is that, was that, it?

What did we trade our dreams for? How much did we get paid to give them away? And was it worth it?

Now, to all of you out there who are doing just exactly what you dreamed of doing, you blessed ones who knew what you wanted to be from childhood and set about pursuing that goal, always keeping your eye on the prize, let me just tell you how lucky you are. You were one of the fortunate ones.

The rest of us stumbled along with a nebulous idea of what we might do and landed some kind of compensatory deal wherein we traded our time, attention, intellectual property, and energy for a wage and, if we were really lucky, a good dental package.

Having that door close on you might not be the worst thing that happens. It might be the best. Because it forces you to look back at what you might have done, the life you might have lived, had you lost the option of just getting by with something easy. You have a free pass at a do-over.

And, hey, if George Clooney’s the one giving you the news, all the better.


This movie also got me to thinking about the ways in which we insulate ourselves from pain through self-talk. Some of us manage to convince ourselves that we don’t want certain things and end up leading a life that will, we believe, keep us from harm. Be it personal relationships, a safe career, whatever.

Why show need or loneliness or dissatisfaction? Why take that risk?

We believe we’re smarter than that. We’ve got it all figured out. Everyone who chooses that other way of life? Reveals their underbelly? Suckers setting themselves up to fail.

Well, without risk, there’s no reward. It would be nice if you were just handed what you think you want, but life doesn’t work that way. Unless you’re fine with settling with just okay, you have to be brave and take a leap or you won’t get what you really, really want. And, often, all being brave means is admitting your need or loneliness or dissatisfaction. Admitting it to yourself.

Why is that so hard, though?

Sometimes you make the leap and fall flat, but you know, if it had worked out, it would have been great. Even though it didn't, you're still okay.

You’re better off flattened than afraid.

At least, that's how I see it.

Season 2, Episode 12

If it seems as though all I’m doing lately is watching television, that’s because I am. It’s been so freaking cold in Florida for the past two weeks, I can’t thaw out long enough to do much more than hang with dog on the couch. I tried to read, but my manual dexterity when wearing gloves isn’t up to turning the pages of the books I’ve been meaning to read for years…

And so, I’ve been catching up on shows I’ve never been meaning to watch with surprisingly good results.

If you haven’t caught it, look for the “Our ‘Cops’ is On!” episode of “My Name is Earl.” I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. Nobody does trailer trash like Jaime Pressly. You go, Girl!


Dog and I ate edamame and sour dough toast for breakfast.

We took a well-deserved “my job sucks and I’m not going in” day and spent most of it lazing about and haphazardly cleaning the house for the would-be buyer coming by tomorrow morning.

Because Dog is super-sized and gets overly excited whenever someone comes to see him, my realtor and I have to schedule carefully orchestrated viewings which double as trips to the park with Dog. These viewings are immediately proceeded by frantic sweeping of Dog-hair coated floors, liberal doses of Febreeze on my Dog-coated sofa, and multiple trips to the Volvo with baskets full of Dog toys.

I hate selling houses. I got off easy when I was leaving Jersey. I knew a guy who knew a guy. I never even listed my place. I don’t remember it costing me a dime, either. So not the process I’m going through this time.

After this, I’m renting until I die.

Getting Mugged in Wichita

I spent the weekend going through boxes in my garage.

Sorting through eighteen years of packratery takes a bit of time, so I distracted myself by watching "Monk" on DVD and alternating this with episodes of "Snapped," my new favorite guilty pleasure.

Okay, I’m just gonna put it out there - People are freaks.

I used to think that the only way I’d end up on the cover of People is if I were to get murdered. After watching this show back-to-back, I’m pretty sure even that’s not going to get me there. I’ve never heard half of these stories before. And you know I have a subscription.

I was talking with Carrie this weekend, and when I told her about my new dirty little secret, she told me about this show called “Deadly Women,” which is just about the same as “Snapped.” Same subject matter, at least.

Why is it so shocking when women lose their minds?

Is it shocking because the idea of a woman committing murder is sort of like the idea of getting mugged in Wichita?

You just don’t expect it.

And yet, there it is.