Chronicles of a Blonde Italian

The Discount Life: The closing of a Two Minute Movie Clip

2010-07-06T09:38:00.000-07:00

You remember the Julia Robert’s two minute movie clip? The one where our beloved Julia spends two minutes running, walking, packing, generally cleaning up her life and becoming who she wants to be. And at the end Richard Gere overcomes his fears and climbs up the fire escape to - Get. His. Woman. Or Julia gets down on bended knee and hands over her running shoes. Either way they end, happily ever after, in a fairy tale. Much as I have dreamed of living this scenario, I would like to submit that the abstraction has royally interfered with our concept of reality.

The problem with the movies is the camera stops rolling right after “I love you” or “I do”. Richard Gere says, “I promise at some point one or both of us will want out...”. But we never see the fight that tests that proclamation. You never see that heartbreaking moment where Julia’s eyes fill with tears or Richard swats papers off the dining room table because he’s so mad he can’t stand it. No one wants to watch that movie. It’s too close to real life. Romantic comedies are experts at ending their scripts on the cusp of reality. They tell you there’s no such thing as perfection, then they lead to you believe it anyway.

I’ll do you a favor and tell you up front, so as not to mislead you: Peter Stone would no more turn out to be perfect than Oprah would turn out to be thin. They’ve both come close a few times but no dice. Starting with, he turned out to be incredibly stubborn. He always eats food off of your plate and for the life of him can’t seem to get the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. But he rinses them before he walks away. That’s his saving grace. He makes me laugh and on more than one occasion has made me cry. But Peter Stone, with all his imperfections, gave me one gift no one else had managed: balance. He knew when to push and when to be gentle. He knew when to laugh and when to be silent. He made a practice of reading me. He saw me too, only not like Christian – not as a prize he wanted so badly to win but wasn’t sure he deserved. He saw me more as something he appreciated. Something he’d like to join the study of. He was passionate but practical and the two sides of him surrounded me like weight scales on my left and right hands and taught me to learn not only myself, but the balance of life. In this way he was perfect and because of this I overlooked his propensity to say ‘Actually’, finger pointed at subject, whenever he was about to join a conversation or the way he always drives the speed limit, even when we are incredibly late. Peter Stone’s endearing quality is not a Ken and Barbie look or his Prince Charming countenance but instead that he came close and he was real. IS real. He is a teacher every bit as much as he is a loving partner. I am constantly amazed by him.

And that is where my two minute movie clip begins to wrap. For all the struggles I had undergone during the Discount Life, I was about to learn love. Real love. The kind you can wrap yourself up in forever and not hide, and not pretend and still not get lost in. The kind you don’t mind sitting across from, legs touching under a tiny table top in a coffee shop, and still waking up next to every morning. The kind that doesn’t ask you to be different than who you are but tests you every day to accept the same of your mate. The kind that helps you finally understand the saying “love is patient, love is kind” and still let’s you have some fun in that occasional dark alleyway somewhere. My two minute movie clip was ending and that means the rest of my life was just beginning. Love is funny that way. It makes you, one way or another.

But I’ve gotten ahead of myself. I pulled a romantic comedy on you and left off where I returned Peter Stone’s phone call and then I cut off your movie clip. He did not show up to my violin concert at the Metropolitan Museum that Thursday night. That was Andrew, sans Marie, who came gallivanting down the corridors, his dress shoes slapping the marble floor like webbed feet on cement, and engulfed me with his big bear hug.

“You did so great. You really did it. Look at you.” He crushed my ribs. I didn’t mind. I always felt at home hooked under Andrews’s arms. Hugging as tightly as he preferred, never mind my discomfort. That was Andrew’s way and always would be – to have you under his terms.

“Thanks. Thank you. I feel good.” It was an absolute truth. We played in the atrium of the Italian gardens. Philadelphia’s elite drank champagne and nibbled on miniature delights wrapped in bacon (even the Richie rich prefer something wrapped in bacon to something not wrapped in bacon). The night sky descended and exposed the sparkling stars. We were covered by a glass ceiling that left us feeling we were playing under God.

I asked, “Where’s Marie?” but Andrew did not have time to answer. Eloise came approaching. She said, “She’s great isn’t she?” to Andrew and patted my shoulder with her slender hands.

“She’s pretty amazing,” he said. “The whole concert was great.”

“Andrew, this is Eloise.” They exchanged their hello’s and were interrupted by the joyful eruption of Mel, who ran up to me with open arms, exclaiming, “You were soooo great. I’m so proud of you!”. Jack and Tucker followed closely behind her, their hands in their pockets until they reached me. Their hugs were gentle, one armed affairs. Slight and well intentioned.

“These must be the friends I’ve heard so much about,” Eloise said. I smiled, introduced them and couldn’t help but be inspired by this tall, elegant woman. She had the grace of a Siamese cat, tall and slender, and she carried herself like no thing could ever be big enough to shake her. Something told me that kind of confidence took years to build.

“You were great up there. So natural looking. I forgot it’s been ages since you really did this,” Mel said. “Everyone sounded amazing,” she said, turning toward Eloise. “I’m really impressed by you all.”

“Thank you, “ Eloise said. “I’m impressed by you also. Something makes me think your friend did so well because she had you all there behind her. ” Everyone gave an uncomfortable laugh. Eloise’s philosophical remarks had taken the air to another level. She made her pleasantries and excused herself shortly thereafter, leaving behind an aura of wisdom, as if to say my work here is done. We were momentarily quiet in her wake. Then Tucker broke the spell saying, “Interesting lady”, followed by, “is there any food in this joint? I’m hungry.”

We ended the evening with drinks and bar food at one of those pubs you can’t remember the name of that serves great fries and bad salad and is floor to ceiling with mahogany wood and old alcohol advertisements. Tucker had iced tea. He wore his new jeans. He’d cut his hair. Sitting across from him, I would never have known he’d been homeless seven months ago. He had come so far. To be clean, with cash and drinking iced tea. It was like watching an infant morph into an adult. He was in control of his life. I felt a swoon of pride at the thought that my little theory had had something to do with that. And Andrew, who later would explain to me that the last DLA meeting had gotten him thinking about his relationship with Marie, sat next to me with his hand on my leg and said, “You’ve really come full circle you know that? Remember sitting on my front porch, drinking that sangria and making that goals list? And now look at you. Crossing off one after another.”

“I’m proud of myself,” I said, “but I couldn’t have done it without you guys. I might not have had the strength.”

“You’re wrong, “ he said picking up his beer glass, “you always had the strength. You just wanted our reassurance.” He took a long slow drink of golden beer and then said, “You gave us the strength. Look at how our lives have changed since we’ve all started this thing. I just made the decision to end a relationship because I didn’t feel enough. That should tell you something. The old me would have stayed with Marie until I found the next girl. The new me let her go because he was thinking enough to realize that he was being complacent. That’s a lot of big thoughts for me.”

“I never would have thought it was possible,” I said, punching his arm and picking up a French fry.

“Me neither. That’s what I’m saying. You think we gave you the strength but really, Chloe, you taught us. Challenging us to live all the way is hard. And I fuck it up all the time but at least now I think about it. It’s been awesome. You’re awesome.” He looked in my eyes for a long time and I returned the stare. Then out of nowhere he said, “I love you Chloe.” And the sound of it sent shock waves through my body. In all our years of friendship he had never said that. He delivered it with a smile and a serious undertone. He didn’t laugh or make a sly comment to diminish its potency. He left it hanging in mid air and returned to his burger, no tomato and hold the lettuce. I hadn’t expected this from him and I couldn’t be sure how he meant it. I heard “I love you” and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this would always be true but somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I heard Agnes’s voice. So I said “I love you too,” but I didn’t stay on it for long, and followed up with,” the real question is why didn’t you love Marie?” He crinkled his eyebrows and made a face that said come on, you know why.

“She wasn’t all the way. She was my way. Whatever I wanted. Whatever pleased me. It’s great. Really it is. To have someone that into you. You can do no wrong . But I was getting bored. I was working too hard at having a “relationship” instead of really loving her. Appreciating her. She’s great but for me, she was a discount. Discount girlfriend. So I broke it off.”

I bit into my hamburger at just the right moment. With a mouthful of cow, I did not have to respond to Andrew. I shook my head in concurrence with his dialogue and let it go at that. I was rid of Marie. Andrew had returned. This was the place I loved us the most. But the truth was there. It was there in things he didn’t do. He had said I love you but when I redirected the conversation he followed. He didn’t say - No, Chloe. I love you. Did you hear me? He didn’t say I mean it. He took the switch bait and went passively back to conversation. And somewhere in between I love you and the details on Marie, I think I knew, even if I didn’t admit it to myself right then, that though our love was forever and maybe it held traces of romance, it was not the kind you chase. A chase would kill it. Crush all the subtleties that made it so profound. And maybe consciously and maybe subconsciously, I followed the flow of conversation away from romance and said, “I have a date,” chomping through the last bits of my burger bite. “The realtor. He finally called. We’re going out next week.” I said it nonchalantly but in truth, I meant it as a test. He responded with “Good” but I saw his eyes dart down to his plate. I almost thought he caught his breath but I didn’t want to kid myself.

“What did you say to upset Andrew over there?” Tucker asked. There was a long pause, neither one of us answering, neither one of use sure of what had just transpired.

“We were talking about Agnes, “I lied. Andrew smiled ever slightly – so slight it was undetectable if you weren’t looking.

“Damn shame,” Tucker said, “and no change in her yet. I’d I’ve thought she’d be kickin’ herself out by now.” The conversation grew dim and gloomy until Jack bought a round to toast to Agnes and then me, saying “To Chloe for making it one step closer to all the way.”

When the night was over Andrew said, “I’ll walk you to your car…” This was not unusual. Andrew and I had spent plenty of time walking from place to place alone. But the energy in the air was different. Electric. The kind of jolt that put you on edge. The kind you might mistake for chemistry. And before the night was over he kissed me. He thought about it, I could tell. You could see him thinking, should I do this, just before he grabbed my waist, pulled me to him and kissed me softly on the mouth. I kissed him back. And something in it felt good and solid. Something in it felt like the quench of a red, white and blue popsicle on the fourth of July – a match that made you nostalgic and brought you back to all the memories that sustain you. When he pulled back and looked into my eyes, I searched his for a reaction. Then I kissed him back. We did this for what seemed like a long time, up against my car, his hands feeling my torso. The platonic body he had always known. The same curves he had held a hundred times before - at a dance in college or picked up after a victory during a game of touch football. But this was different. This time it was giving for him under his touch. I can’t say this was bad. It was wonderful. His mouth on my mouth, knew each other with such depth we hardly felt the space between us. But I also couldn’t help but feel that something between us was closing. All this time we had been exploring the what if? plausibility. Now, every kiss felt first tantalizing and then like a confirmation; a goodbye. There was a place between the carnality against my car and sitting on the front porch with a glass of sangria, that Andrew and I existed best. It took me a while- that night, the next day, the weekend, to dissect all the emotion down to this one last thought: that spot between romance and brotherhood was where we belonged.

I didn’t hear from Andrew again for a few weeks, which was not entirely surprising, considering his tendency to disappear when things were left undefined. But this time it felt different. This time there was actually something to digest. I called him. I sent him a note: “Don’t be a jackass. Call me back. “ and signed it “still your friend – Chloe”. He didn’t respond. I wouldn’t see him until my marathon. Until after my first date with Peter. Until after my second date with Peter. I hiked Grandfather Mountain – with Peter. By the time I saw Andrew again, silence had made the transition for us. We were like brand new people learning each other all over again. Today our friendship is solid. But the weeks in between felt like a slow and untimely death of something that had meant more to me than any romance I’d ever had.

(Next: a bridal shower, a date, a marathon.....leads Chloe one step further to the close of the DLA)

The Hedonist Within

2010-06-08T09:10:00.000-07:00

Consider this: Valentine’s Day is a holiday named after a Saint who, upon refusal to renounce his faith and stop performing secret marriages, was beaten with clubs and then beheaded on February 14th. We commemorate his death, a decidedly romantic affair, with chocolates and roses and hearts because beheadings and brutal attacks are the universal mark of love (perfect logic?). Doesn’t it seem that pain of this nature coincides more fluently with the plight of single people? Macabre death scenes forebode a certain doomsday quality if you ask me but then we live in a world where horror films gross twice as much as art films. They are, in fact, a favorite date excursion. In this case, love and death are linked, begging the question: On Valentine’s Day, will you or will you not survive, heart intake?

For Agnes the question was answered literally. Valentine’s Day, by the grace of God, had fallen on a Sunday this year. I managed to escape people in general and with the exception of a long run, had almost made it an entire day without a plan, without shame and without the comment there’s someone great out there for you…wait ‘til next year! But it hadn’t even been a year, need I remind the placating mouths of my well intentioned cause holders. There was no rush.

The DLA had decided to postpone their meeting for another week so that everyone could spend the day of the patron saint of love snuggling, cuddling and copulating with their significant others. I spent the day running and had almost made it through a long hot shower before I got the call from Lizzie. I peeked out from the shower and decided to ignore her for the moment. I’d run 16 miles and deserved the hot water running down my back. It wasn’t until I’d showered, changed and poured a glass of red wine that I hit play on the voicemail button.

“Chloe, its Lizzie. Listen. Agnes is in the hospital. Heart attack I think. I’m picking up Tucker and we’re headed to St. Vincent’s hospital. Meet us there if you want to. Otherwise, we’ll call you when we know more.” She hung up without saying goodbye. I thought that only happened in the movies.

I hadn’t spoken to Agnes since the last DL meeting where we got into a fight over love versus self-exploration. I was mad. Half truth. I was embarrassed that what she’d said contained some merit and that fact made me look pathetic. She had me doubting the veracity of the Discount Life and therefore, perhaps myself. But saying I was mad sounded a lot better than saying I was pathetic. I was almost relieved when we canceled this week’s meeting just because I hadn’t quite gotten over it. But the news that Agnes was hospitalized left me in disbelief. Agnes couldn’t die. She’s the token pot stirrer. She’s the standard mirror image character of our group – the devil’s advocate. The character who said all the wrong things, made a thousand bad judgment calls, smoked, drank and cursed and was still going to live to be 100 just to prove a point. Without her, the balance would be off. Haven’t the fates seen the Breakfast Club?

I was in the car when I called Lizzie. She answered, “You coming down here?”

“Yes,” I said. “How is she?”

“She’s in a coma – induced I think but they really aren’t saying much to us. It doesn’t sound great.” A number beeped in the middle of our conversation – one I didn’t recognize. I kept talking. “James said she was making herself a drink and the next thing you know she was vomiting and sweating and getting sick. And then she fell to the floor. “ So the infamous Mr. Coburn was with her.

“Is he there now?”

“Yeah. He’s in the room with her.” The voicemail indicator beeped to tell me I had a message.

“Okay, well. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Hurry. Bye.” I hung up and inspected the number again. Unfamiliar. I checked the voicemail and was surprised to hear the sound of Peter Stone’s voice.

“Hi Chloe. This is Peter Stone. You’re probably out doing something for Valentine’s Day . I hope it’s not too late to call. Anyway, I just wanted to see if you’d like to …uh…grab dinner sometime. Or drinks. Or whatever. I…uh…I’ll wear a rain coat to protect my clothes and maybe we can have some wine.” He’d sounded nervous until he made the joke, during which his confidence surged. “So, yeah, just give me a call and we’ll set up a date. Talk to you soon.” He left his number and signed off. Should I call back? I debated this internally and decided to wait. After all, when someone texted you, you never text right back. There was that appropriate amount of lag time necessary to prove you are busy and not at all desperately waiting beside the phone. The same goes for phone calls. It was nice though, to have someone think ahead. I found myself smiling about Peter Stone.

The hospital rose before me like the twin towers. For me, they carried an almost equal sense of foreboding. I found Lizzie and Tucker in the waiting room. Tucker flipped through a magazine. Lizzie stood by the vending machines, cup of hospital coffee in hand. She turned to me and waved gently when she saw me. I approached her cautiously, the tension in the air suggested we might all explode if we let ourselves show one ounce too much emotion.

“Any news?” I asked quietly.

“Not really. She’s hooked up to a bunch of machines and sleeping. She looks awful.” She pointed down a long hallway. “She’s down there. Third door on the right. James is with her.” I made my way down the corridor, the blue-ish gray tile inflicting me with psychosomatic symptoms: I felt sick myself, like we were all in a mortuary. I stopped before I reached the door to Agnes’s room and peered inside the glass. I could see her lying prone, her face placid but for the angry looking tubes protruding from her mouth. The man I assumed to be James Coburn was sitting in a chair next to her bed. He was holding her hand. Staring at her. Something about the way he concentrated on her made me feel like I was interrupting. I turned to walk back to Lizzie and Tucker but his eye caught mine. He smiled and held my gaze, like an invitation I felt I had to accept. I entered the room and whispered, “Hi. I’m Chloe. A friend of Agnes.”

He stood to shake my hand. “James. The same.” He looked down at her and then back up at me. “She was fine one minute and sick the next. It was the weirdest thing.” He towered over me. He was tall and broad and had big fluffy gray hair. His look was disheveled but his eyes were simple. Easy to read: expressive. He sat down again and took her hand. “So you’re the ring leader,” he said.

“The ring leader?”

“Agnes calls you the ring leader cause of that DLA thing.”

I smiled. “Maybe I am.”

“She says you two fought over me.” He chuckled and used one hand to massage his chin, like a cowboy in a western right before he says something profound and sticks up one eyebrow. “I’m hardly used to one woman fighting over me, let alone two.” Okay, not that profound. But still I stayed quiet. “It’s okay. She wasn’t really mad, you know.”

“It wasn’t really about you,” I said. “It was more about us. You were just the topic that ignited the fight.”

“You don’t think I should marry her, huh?” I wanted to say put me on the spot there buddy. It was one thing to tell Agnes that. It was another to tell James to his face. I was aware that I was moving my mouth but no sound came out. “It’s okay. Given her track record I’m sure it would be stupid.” He stole the words right from my mouth. “But I’m thinking of doing it anyway.” He said this with such tenderness I felt something in my heart shift. “It’s crazy but sometimes crazy is good. I mean look at her. You don’t know what’s going to happen. Alive one minute. Dead the next. You can plan all you want but ….man proposes, God disposes. Life’s going to happen: with you or around you. Shouldn’t we choose what makes us happy? Let the rest iron itself out.”

“Sounds like a proposal to me,” I said. He smiled.

“I guess maybe it is. Agnes, will you marry me?” He stroked her hair. Her machine beeped back at him in response.

“I might ask again tomorrow, “ I said. “If you’d like her to remember.”

“I’ll ask her again. When she’s ready.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. He looked exhausted and suddenly I felt that my presence was crowding him.

“You know, I think I’m going to grab a coffee. Can I get you something?”

“Nah,” was all he said. I watched him looking at her for a beat longer and backed out of the room.

In the waiting room Lizzie & Ticker asked how Agnes was. “Same,” I said.

“I can’t believe it,” Tucker said. “She won’t be in here long. It’s Agnes. She wouldn’t give the doctors the satisfaction.”

Lizzie said, “At least we know if she goes…she’s going happy.” We were silent, our expressions questioning. “Well I mean, she made it pretty clear that she was content with her life. I think she’d be satisfied.”

We sat in the waiting room for another hour before I thought about calling Peter Stone back. When I reached from the phone I came up empty handed. “I think I left my phone in the car,” I said out loud to no one in particular.

“Actually, I was thinking of heading out, “Lizzie said. “They’ll keep us posted and we’re not doing any good here.”

“I’ll go tell James,” Tucker volunteered. As he walked away I noticed he was wearing a new pair of jeans and a certain satisfaction came over me. The DLA hadn’t provided all the answers but it had helped. Six months ago Tucker was ages from a new pair of jeans. Then I reprimanded myself for thinking about denim when one of our friends was laid out in the hospital.

I thought through what James had said walking back to the car. Life is short and you could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Shouldn’t we be happy? But if we were all hedonists, thinking only of ourselves and our pleasure first, the world would be a cruel place; immediate gratification alone doesn’t result in peace of mind. The truth was that despite flying solo on Valentine’s Day – I was contented too. We had our first performance for the orchestra that Thursday and I was finally playing the violin out loud. I was living securely and pleasantly in my own apartment. I had achieved the goals set on my list and despite what Agnes said about the Discount Life having ulterior love seeking motives, I had to submit that whatever truth existed in that statement didn’t diminish the validity that it was also about learning yourself. I was there. Six months and counting and I was living life without discounts. All the Way. I thanked Agnes silently for giving me that perspective and grieved as I opened the car door, sliding behind the wheel, that I might not have the chance to tell her. To clean the air between us.

I reached for my phone, the decision to call Peter Stone a done deal in my mind. But the call never happened. When I picked up the phone I had a text message. From Christian: Maudlin…was all it said. Despite myself – I broke into a huge smile and drove home feeling that after all my dissemination, James was right.

Further investigation of “Maudlin” led to the following definition: Foolishly sentimental. At this, my heart swooned. Should it have? I didn’t know. And I certainly didn’t care. All perspective was lost. All red flags were down. But when I texted him “thinking about you too” – I got no response. Red flag ONE. I chose to ignore it.

I waited two days before I did anything. 48 hours of time to reminisce and replay every last interaction we’d shared. By Tuesday afternoon, Christian was perfect again. He was smart, charming, inquisitive – that faint smell of vanilla I’d noticed? Just his everyday scent. I closed Get Some Manners and put its long term peace of mind pedantics out of my view. Then I texted him: coffee?

He responded, an hour later, with: can’t tonight. Tonight? Did that mean another night? I dissected this comment, studying it for all its implications and then decided to get up and get moving before I drove myself crazy. Something in my gut told me I shouldn’t respond to him. Looking back, I suppose it was the Red flags that, despite my best attempt at denial, were struggling hard to raise themselves.

So I busied myself. I busied myself practicing the violin for the performance on Thursday. I played through my part two, three times before it became clear that I was not focusing. I needed to focus. I needed to run.

And like the months before where I ran and ran to clarity, I ran and ran until I found it. And maybe by design or maybe by sub conscious, I ended up by the coffee shop where Christian and I had our first real moment. I was feeling quite maudlin myself, all those red flags submitting defeat, until I rounded the corner and saw him through the glass window, sitting at a table with a woman. I stopped involuntarily. I was across the street from the shop, he would have to look purposely to see me, which he hadn’t done.

My first thought was maybe they were friends. Then: of course he’s dating – I could hardly expect him to be home alone. Mourning. But something I couldn’t put my finger on hurt more than that, like a slap to the face. And then I realized I had seen that woman before. In the picture frames in a box in his closet, unbeknownst to him. The woman, with her dark locks and toothy smile was Sophia. The ex. There were so many pictures of them in the box: them at a picnic, at the beach, in a field, at a birthday party, on the couch. So many pictures it was as if they were trying to document their happiness. To remind themselves later of what they had shared. As if the memories in the snapshots would ground them and say See? We were happy. I have been there. I have done that. I recognize that habit. And the pictures, I told myself, were there because he was too indifferent to toss them. Half Truth. He wasn't indifferent, he was undecided.

Watching them felt like a betrayal – an unfair melodramatic response to be sure; Christian was of course free to date whomever he pleased. But we’d spent intimate hours in the dark reveling over her and why she wasn’t right for him. We’d spent hours dissecting our psyche’s – exposing our vulnerable selves to each other and all in this barren, honest way he claimed not to be able to do with her. I realized that all along I’d expected him to find someone. But I had not expected him to find her. Again. Somehow the choice made all the tenderness and vulnerability he’d shared – an insult. I was his confidant at my own expense. I thought I had set him free. How stupid. He had been free all along.

I blinked my eyes and quite suddenly emerged from my analytic daze. I was still standing, motionless, staring at the two of them. They hadn’t seen me and I chose to use that opportunity to pretend I’d never seen them. I ran home replying James’s words: Life is going to happen with you or around you. Be Happy. Get Some Manners, along the same plain, said: that you could choose to let pain and hurt guide your actions but that wasn’t really goal directive. If you wanted to be happy you had to choose the letting go of pain and hurt. Long term peace was developed, consciously, by people choosing healthy self talk and positive reacting. That was goal directive. You would be happy when you were living truth guided by truth. I could choose the hurt and be angry at Christian (and let’s get serious – of course I wanted to do that – I was a woman in pain – I wanted to kick his ass) but that wouldn’t ultimately help me achieve the long term peace of mind I’d been working so hard at achieving – alone. That was after all, the point in setting Christian free. Red flags and vanilla were there all along – I had been the one to ignore them. Observe and correct. Observe and correct. And be happy. But now I knew that part of me had expected this all along. The emotions, no less real despite our anticlimactic end, had run away with us. Too hot to touch for too long, my mother had said, and she was right. We were retreating to level ground. In my heart I knew that choosing Sophia was the wrong choice for him but he was not asking me for my opinion and my opinion was not going to salvage him. You cannot save people. They have to save themselves. So I ran home, dropping pieces of my hurt and anger with every pounding foot step, with every mile until I reached my front door – heart fully intact. Peaceful.

When I’d showered and changed, I picked up the phone and called Peter Stone. He answered, on the first ring, with “Hey Chloe, I’m glad you called”. No mixed signals. No red flags. No drama but happiness at the notion that I had called. Confirmation: eternal or temporary, I had made a step away from chaos and toward long term peace of mind. I chose goal directive over immediate gradification. It would turn out to be the wisest decision of my life.

Sometimes I'm A Writer

2010-05-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

You might’ve heard – sometimes I’m a writer. When I have the guts, I tell a story in the written word. When I have the strength: I tell the truth. I process differently. You might say the night was nice. I say it was pregnant with the smell of wood burning- the sounds of a happy throng gathered round an outdoor game- the sight of truth walking by, beer in hand, pausing to stop and touch you. You say it in one word. I say it in thirty- four; a blessing and a curse. But my soul mate said keep writing.

I love words. I spend an inordinate amount of time studying them. Its part of my job but it’s also my love. Words, like tone, are loaded. Their differences allow for impact. To glance is not the same as to look and to see is different than to view. You can call something beautiful or you can say it’s pulchritudinous. One is general and one is exact but both are a matter of opinion really, since beauty is a matter of perspective – which is not the same as, but similar to, to see - only broader. See?

They say language accounts for 70% of all human communication. Which means that 70% of your life can be found in a dictionary. I have a fondness for my dictionary, a fact, which up until recently has remained a secret. I shared it with someone once but as is often the case with shared secrets – you cannot get them back. And if they were never fully appreciated to begin with, you’ve lost a piece of something special. Secrets have a propensity to fester and rot. So I’m writing my secret out loud, so that that someone no longer carries the burden of being the sole being to share my dictionary secret. So here it is: I pick a word every night and make a note about it in my dictionary. If 70% of our life can be found in Webster’s I’ve gone ahead and turned this word catalog into a journal. Example: nefarious – one of my first big words, kismet – a song from the 40’s my grandfather used to sing, kith – I learned from a friend; a forever friend. If you could read my dictionary – I might be embarrassed. There’s so much hidden meaning in my words. But the point is: you know. So it’s not a secret anymore – this variorum is no longer so special. The burden is lifted.

And really, that’s the point of writing all together isn’t it: to get the secrets out. And we can write a piece of fiction and still write a piece of truth. And we can write ourselves in words until the black ink makes us feel complete. I did this when I was lost. I wrote every week until the black ink and the pages compiled a story and I felt found. Recently my soul mate gave me a present and reminded me to keep writing. Because where once I wrote to be found, now I can write for pleasure. You might appear in my fiction but I am no longer processing you. And that makes all the difference.

Feast of Love says: “Happy [people] are all alike, it’s the unhappy ones who write the stories.” Well you might have heard, sometimes I’m a writer and I will write you. I promise I will see you. I promise I will not dismiss you. But now, with my secrets out and my dictionary public – I no longer have to write. “I am no longer a story….Happiness has made me fade into real life……..” And you? Concupiscence, Impenitence. Recrudescence. Supervene. Maudlin. Adumbration. Vexation. Patience. Veracity. Kith. You journeyed with me here. Priceless – that, in a word, is unmatched.

Swim. Bike. Run.

2010-05-02T11:55:00.000-07:00

Don’t panic. Remember. In your heart, you know what to do. Pull with your arms, kick with your legs. This water will not consume you. You’re scared but not as scared as then. Remember then? When you almost flipped on your back and waved your hand as a signal to be rescued from your life? Remember when you almost drowned?

But something saved you then. You. You taught yourself to Swim. Bike. and Run. You taught yourself that there is no limit to a mind with strength and will and heart. And you learned then, what you know now: nothing will ever have the power to sink you again.

So don’t panic. Think it through. Don’t fight the wave, roll with it. Pull and glide, then breathe after. Stop, scope, are you headed in the right direction? Maybe you can’t throw a ball but you can do this.

When you bike, remember. Lance Armstrong would tell you it ‘Ain’t About the Bike’. This is just like life. When you think you’re done – dig deeper. When you think you can’t, remember: you’ve survived much worse. This is just a bike ride.

And by the run you’re tired. You won’t know it until mile 3.5 but you’re exhausted. And you’re not finished. The truth is you’re never finished. Life lesson number two: the run will end but the challenge will not. Every day there is something that will test you but you exhibit vicissitude undaunted. There are many triathlons left to concur. Loftier goals yet to hit. Tuck in, head up, eyes focused – and step by lead weight step – you’ll get there. And remember, there’s a group waiting for you at the end. Their arms outstretched. Their pride audible. Today is an Olympic Triathlon. Tomorrow – there’s no telling. Swim. Bike. Run. and you’ll find that strength makes possibilities limitless.

The Discount Life: Slit Worthy

2010-03-18T10:29:00.000-07:00

Of course the skirt was not hard to find. This is America. Evidence of the success of Baywatch demonstrates that we, as a nation, value ass and legs. There was a plethora of slitted skirt options on floors one, two and three of Bloomingdale’s. Level of taste was more the question. Did I want to look reality tv whorish or just you’re regular, run of the mill European sexy? I tried on both. But let’s get serious – you can’t sit down in realtiy tv whorish skirts. Britnety Spears tried it, and we all remember how that turned out. So after several minutes spent spinning my bum back and forth in front of the three way mirror, I satisfied goal number nine and bought an above the knee pencil skirt with a slit just high enough to say sexy librarian seeks professional with a brain, a heart and a personality – but I’m not coming home with you tonight.

“So have you worn it yet?” Mel asked. It was a Thursday night. A night in weeks past, I would have been spending with Christian but now spent at orchestra practice and then watching the Thursday night line up with a bowl of vanilla ice cream that started with just one scoop but inevitably ended up the carrier for a triple scoop special. This had to stop or the slitted skirt was going to be less a positive attraction and more freak show attraction.

“No. Not yet. I’m looking for a reason. I don’t have to have one every time but for the first time, the occasion has to be slit worthy.”

“Mmm, a slit worthy soiree. Maybe we should throw you one? A celebration of your new life…in a slitted skirt.”

“No. Not like that. I’ll find the right time. Besides, you’re the one we’ll be throwing things for in the next few months.” Mel and Jack were due to be married on June 12th. As the maid of honor, it was my job to through the string of parties that would soon be attached to their association: bridal shower, bachelorette party, pre-wedding gathering. I was finally looking forward to what, for so long, had seemed a constant reminder that someone else had and I had not. But this Chloe: the one with the running and the violin and the slitted skirt, felt enormous satisfaction in watching two of her favorite people plan their all the way life together.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said. In truth, I had already spoken to the other women in our group and set the parties for April and May respectively but I pretended to Mel as if nothing had been established.

“I’ll have to get on that,” I said. Mel didn’t respond but instead giggled nervously and changed the subject.

“So, how’s orchestra been going?”

“It’s great actually. We’re practicing some Verdi & Vivaldi. I’ve met quite a lot of new people.” I told her about the conductor, a man named Herbert who was white haired, petite and stood on his platform like a Yoda to his Jetti. And middle aged Maury, a cellist who’s wife recently left him for an older man who also happened to be their financial advisor and close friend; Maury, despite his loss, kept a happy disposition and laughed off his story, saying things like Can you blame her? He still has all his hair. “And then there’s Eloise,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“Eloise is the woman I hope to be someday.” Twice my age and height, it was impossible that I would ever be as tall and willowy as her, but Eloise radiated vivacity and serenity. She was married, with two children and had been playing the violin for nearly three decades. She’d played briefly for THE Philadelphia Orchestra in her twenties but when I asked her why she’d stopped she said, “that’s a long story but it’s just like that musical says When God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window. “The thing about Eloise is that she seems perfect but not like Judy. She’s not showy about it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. More real?”

“I guess they’re both real but I get the feeling that Eloise has worked through some things to achieve her life. I can’t explain it but I hope I can be like her.”

“Is she a runner?”

“Not that I know of but she’s enviably thin.”

“Of course. Anybody who is thin is enviably thin. That’s the sad part about being a woman…almost nothing is too thin, even when you know it should be. Maybe I should run a marathon before the wedding. If I don’t eat anything, I can be a waif by June.” There was humor in her tone but I could tell that, as is so often the case, there was a spot of truth in that triste hope. “I’m just kidding Chloe. Don’t get scared.”

“I know. I wasn’t really worried.”

“Speaking of running, when is your Marathon?” Too soon, I wanted to say. There was a slim chance in heaven that I’d really finish.

“End of April,” I said. “I’m terrified. And its only a week after the orchestra’s big spring performance. High stress week.”

“How far have you gone so far?”

“10 miles. That’s it. And its agonizing by the end of mile 9. I don’t know how I’ll get through 26 miles.”

“Well its only February. That’s almost three months away.” Three months to prove that some goals are better left to others perhaps. “Just don’t focus on it yet. Think of all the fun stuff first. My parties, Andrew’s Birthday weekend, Valentine’s…” and she stopped herself. Valentine’s Day: the 24 hour conundrum. For many couples, Stanley and I included, Valentine’s Day was a non-issue. A fabricated holiday made by greeting card companies for a reason to get you out and spending money at the risk of looking like a huge schmuck if you don’t. Despite the cynicism, Stanley always did come home with a card. It’s funny how easily something can be blown off when it’s a given: I don’t have to go out on a Friday night because at home there’s someone waiting. Even in not having a plan, the existence of said someone, by rights, means you have a plan. Valentine’s Day is much the same. When you know there will be a card, the holiday is easy to toss off. But when you don’t know there will be a card it is a 24 hour branding that reads: Don’t judge me, I’m single, and is simply something to get through.

“You can say Valentine’s Day Mel. I won’t fall apart.”

“Maybe you’ll have a hot date for it.”

“Maybe…”

“Well that’s days away anyway. First you have to come to my first dress fitting with me. It’s next week.” Mel had found the dress with myself, her mother and Jack’s sister a month after their engagement. It was beautiful, of course, but in the salon had been four sizes too big for Mel and had had to be pinned closed.

“Done. I’ll be there.”

“You should wear your slitted skirt. I think it’s a slit worthy occasion. And there will be champagne” she lifted her tone as if her voice alone could entice me.

“Done. Done and done. “

“And Chloe?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you’re a lot more like Eloise than you think.” At that I had to smile. Quietly I marveled at the strength that could be drawn from the support of true friendship.

“The pencil skirt must’ve been designed by the French, “ I said as we walked into the bridal salon.

“Sexy but not overt. I agree – tres French,” Mel said. The bridal salon was located in a shopping center designed to look like an Italian Piazza. The salon itself was draped in shades of pink, recalling to mind the infamous move line My colors are blush and bashful. I said it out loud with a deeply put on drawl.

“You’re colors are pink and pink,” Mel said back.

“Steel Magnolias!” the woman behind the counter exclaimed in that way that women do where their voices go up three octaves and they absolutely must put their palms together as if to clap but not. The overall message of the expletive is: I know that too. We’re one. United by Julia…again. “I love that movie.” She was southern, with a dripping lilt that lasted for seconds. Her name tag said Jaime-Lynn. “I’m from Louisiana you know.”

Mel glanced at me questioningly and with judgment written all over her face. “Well we’re from here and we’d like to try on my wedding dress,” she said with an extra ounce of enthusiasm. She may have been making fun of Jamie-Lynn but Mel’s excitement was palpable.

“Well that is far more important then my jibber jabber. Come on over to the fitting rooms. Let’s get you set up. Your name?” She walked away in a hurry, with a sachet that suggested she’d spent her life in high heels and a country club with Daddy. Her energy, like thinness, was enviable and she had Mel in her dress in no time.

The dress was as all wedding dresses were meant to be- a representation of the woman who wore it at her finest. It was an off the shoulder duchess satin that criss-crossed over the bust and rouched down the waistline. The skirt was fitted through the thigh and flared ever so slightly in sheets of organza and lace from the dropped waist. Watching Mel twirl in it made my heart ache. Not in sadness but in the knowledge that this was something special. A moment of pure joy: a rarity in life. I felt lucky to be its witness.

“Well, it still needs to be hemmed but was this slit worthy?”Mel asked. I laughed.

“Absolutely! But it would’ve been worthy no matter what I wore.” Mel smiled at me with such tenderness I thought I might cry. But the softness was broken by the sound of robust southern voice saying “Picture, Picture!”. Jaime-Lynn came brandishing a giant camera like a magic wand. Glinda the Good, here to make sure we found our way home to Kanasas. She herded Mel and I together and we stood, arm and arm, champagne flutes to the air and smiled our biggest smiles. But she didn’t take the picture. Frozen, I glanced at Mel with an expression that said, “What the….”

“Hold on," she said,"just waiting for it." Waiting for what? Unless a team of makeup and hair artists came through we weren’t getting any prettier. Seconds passed.

“Uh, Jamie-Lynn, we’re not getting any younger here…” Mel said.

“Just hush,” she peeked her head out from around the camera. “I’m waiting for it.”

“For what?” I said pointedly.

“The magic.” I lifted my eyebrows and turned to Mel. The expression on her face said What. In. the. World. She’s crazy and we both burst out laughing. I heard the camera snap in the middle of our outburst and we both looked at Jamie-Lynn. She snapped again.

We left the shop with two black and white photos: portraits of two friends laughing at the camera in a wedding dress and pencil skirt. It was beautiful the way the still frame captured our veracity, no words attached. Jamie-Lynn was right. She’d found magic.

“I feel kind of bad for making so much fun of her in my head,” Mel said. “She kind of knew what she was doing.” We were walking across the center’s courtyard , our coats draped over our arms in a rare pre-spring evening; the warmth sure to disappear in this weekend’s called for snow.

“She was a character though. You can’t blame us,” I said, my eye on the restaurant in front of us. I was starving.

“No, I know. Its just…” Mel was cut off.

“Chloe?” The voice was familiar. I was nervous before I even turned around but I did and there was Peter Stone.

“I thought that was you,” he said walking over to us from the restaurant’s front doors.

“Hi Peter,” I offered my hand and he took it. A firm hand shake, then the familiar gesture of running his hands up the back of his neck and tousling his hair. For a second I wished that he were Christian but the moment passed when he said, “I’ve been meaning to call you. But I’ve been kind of busy buying new shirts.” I smiled.

“You should’ve only needed one, “ I said. “Don’t try to make me feel too guilty.”

“Well you inspired me to get a new wardrobe.” I glanced at my pencil skirt and thought, if you only knew I was thinking the same thing. Mel shifted and cleared her throat just as Peter asked “So everything okay at the apartment?” he stopped nervously and turned to her. “I’m sorry. Peter Stone. Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand to her and she accepted saying “Mel. Chloe’s best friend who she doesn’t think needs to be introduced.” I shot her a look of embarrassment and annoyance.

“Sorry about that. Mel, Peter. Peter, Mel. And the apartment is fine. Thanks for asking. No robber’s yet.”

“Good. Good. Well I was on my way to something but uh….” he paused, “we’ll keep in touch.” Keeping in touch is man code for when and if I feel like it, I will but maybe not, so don’t get excited. I wanted to roll my eyes but Christian’s voice stopped me. You never know when someone is being sincere and a roll of the eyes is not a sign of strength but a shut down. I hated that his voice was a guide of reason for me.

“We’ll see,” I said. He turned to walk away and then stopped himself. A half turn back he said, “You look good,” directing his hand in an up and down motion that covered my body from head to toe. Then he smiled and walked away.

I wanted to call Andrew and thank him immediately for encouraging me to put’ buy a skirt with a slit in it’ on the goal’s list. Instead I turned to Mel and said, “Thanks for convincing me to wear my slitted skirt.”

She laughed. “No problem. And he’s cute. Now let’s eat!” We walked into the restaurant all bubbly and teenager like. It’s true what they say about living life to the fullest. As it turns out, you never know when a moment might just turn out to be slit worthy.

The Discount Life: Expectation

2010-02-25T10:32:00.000-08:00

It stands to reason that even after you’ve humbled yourself to public growth & enlightenment, you’ll still do something to show the world that despite all your learning and despite all your self-growth you still, unfortunately, share an IQ with Forrest Gump.

When I retold the story of Peter and the wine spilling to the DLA it didn’t sound nearly as mortifying as it had felt. Here’s how it happened: I lost my balance in gorgeous shoes, I spilled my wine down the front of his shirt, I cursed like a sailor and then repeatedly apologized for 1) cursing like a sailor and 2) spilling wine down the front of his white shirt.  He then replied, politely, with “It’s no big deal. Really”, and disappeared into the downstairs bathroom.

“Did he come back?” Mel asked, gripping her coffee with both hands. Mid-January had turned us all into icicles. She sat with her back to the coffee shop window, the world behind her covered in white snow.

“Eventually,” I said. “But it took him a while to get cleaned up. George gave him a shirt to wear. The rest of the night he was mismatched.” My company smirked and I pretended not to notice. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Agnes empty the contents of a silver flask into her coffee cup. I couldn’t help but smile at the irony of her discounting herself at a Discount Life meeting.

“Did he ask you out?” asked Lizzie, taking a bite out of her now customary DL bagel. She had cut her brown hair short and had started to wear contacts. I could see that she was beginning to transform herself, slowly, into a fashionable woman. She chewed her bagel like it was a symbol of her new found audacity.

“He said he would call to check up on me sometime.”

“And…”

I shook my head. No. “No call.”

“You terrified the man,” Tucker said, a giant grin spread across his cleanly shaven face. “You attacked him with red wine.” He was joking, it was obvious, but experience taught me his jokes were almost always a half truth. Still with a new job at the public library and a rather permanent place at the 17th Street shelter, Tucker seemed to be half truthing a lot less these days. He’d been officially sober since before Christmas.

“No matter, no matter. There’s always more where that came from,” said Agnes, reaching for her coffee cup. “I myself am thinking of adding husband number four to the litter. And if I can do it, so can a pretty thing like Chloe.” She drank from her cup like a swig and hit it on the table like a shot glass. “His names Coburn. James Coburn.”

We were all silent. It’s never fair to assume that someone is making a discount for themselves right off. If its true that truth is different for everyone, then perhaps Agnes was not discounting herself. But when you’re talking about a woman thriced divorced with a drinking problem and a propensity toward immediate gratification, its hard to ignore the gut instinct that tells you she is, most likely, discounting herself.

“Is he…is he really the one?” Mel asked, carefully, stirring her coffee with a spoon and avoiding Agnes’s eyes.

“Were any of them? No, probably not. But he’s a fine fella and its always nicer to share with someone than to be all alone.” Immediately, I pictured Christian. A piece of my heart sank at the thought of sitting on his couch, recounting the details of our day. His arm outstretched just enough for his hand to touch my leg. I missed him and then I reminded myself that I had did only what I had to do. Missing him was natural.

“That’s bullshit,” Tucker said. “I’m alone. I’m fine.”

“You look at girly magazines every chance you get,” Agnes retorted.

“Maybe but I’m not marrying every Jane that crosses my path so I don’t have to be alone. And there’s plenty of ‘em. Trust me.” Agnes rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying you’d have a better chance of not discounting yourself if you’d wait for the actual right guy.”

“You’re always assuming that I’m discounting myself. How many times have I to tell you, I’m happy with my vices?” she asked.

“Then what the hell are you here for?” Tucker said.

“To play the devil’s advocate,” she replied. “My best form is no position. Besides my life isn’t bad. I’m happy. I’m rich. I have a nice man. Look at this one,” she lifted her hand toward me, “She’s alone. She’s the one that started this whole thing and she’s completely alone. So is it working?” The room went quiet. I noticed that Agnes’s cup was almost empty. I tried to temper my hurt with the acceptance that she was drinking. Her inhibitions and etiquette down. No one said a word.

“I don’t have to be alone,” I said, breaking the awkward silence for everyone. Mel smiled at me: the proud smile of a person who walked side by side with you. My second set of footprints in the sand. “There was someone and he was amazing. But there’s just some stuff I still have to work out and I…”

“Did you run?” Agnes’s voice was short. Accusing. Harsh in a way I wasn’t used to from her.

“I mean…no. I just didn’t want to get too tangled up in him only to find out that I wasn’t ready.”

“So's you’re saying, you were afraid to have an expectation. What if he didn’t meet it and then you’d get hurt.”

“What?! No. What I’m saying is the Discount Life is not all about love and romance. It’s about finding yourself. Knowing yourself. Making sure that when you’re alone, you’re happy with who you are. Dysfunction attracts dysfunction. This whole thing is about observe and correct. Observe and correct until you’re functional and content and have your own worth regardless of others around you. Our goals lists?  They’re just small steps that help us get to greater happiness but if you’re always avoiding the work and filling yourself with immediate gratification you’ll never give yourself the chance to get to that place.”

“And does it say somewhere in that book of yours that you have to do it alone? Is everything that makes you happy immediate gratification?” Her lilting accent, normally cute and colloquial, was annoying me.

“No but…”

“And if you find something you like, really like, and then you pull away from it, isn’t that a discount in and of itself?”

“Depends on how “real” really is. I mean do you really love James Coburn or are you just afraid to be alone, cause that’s a major discount. I really care about this man and I don’t want to ruin things because I’m going through this searching…”

“What you mean is, it 'ed be too scary to expect something from him. To let him in all the way," she made quotation marks with her fingers as she said this,"...given the chance that he’ll get to know the real you and then decide to cut 'n run. What you mean is, you want to be the one in control. The one to cut it off before it has a chance to bite you in the ass," which of course came out sounding like arse.

“Whoa there girls. Calm down now. Let’s not get ugly,” Tucker said, reaching his arm across the table and putting his hand on Agnes’s hand as if to say… Back off of her. You’re getting too close.

“I don’t know where you’re getting this…” I said.   But I didn’t say it with any strength. The room was quiet. The DL meeting had turned into a fight between me and Agnes, our company reduced to fidgeting with their hands and examining the wall paper for safety.

“I might marry every Tom, Dick and Steve that comes my way but I’m unafraid of love. I can get hurt and move on without crumblin’. I don’t have to be in control of my emotions every minute of the day. You’re running from the right one and chasing the wrong one because at least you know what you can expect from the wrong ones. At least you know how they’ll react and what they’ll do and you’ll be able to protect your wee bit of heart from being hurt by someone that really matters. You’ll also never have the chance to love all the way if you’re always choosin’ to protect yourself with less than your equal.”

“Pot calling kettle black!” I said more forcefully than I intended. “ You do?....Tom, Dick and Steve..they show you all the way love? And further more why is this whole thing becoming about love. What about all those goals we set for ourselves. When was the last time you inventoried yourself and even thought to touch one of those goals. You’re no better off just because you’re comfortable with wearing your heart on your sleeve.”

“Well that all depends now doesn’t it lovey? I once heard the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. I rather liked that. If it’s true, then the Discount Life really does come down to love. All those goals are just a way to help you, find you so you can find it and be happy.” I sighed heavily. Agnes should have been a lawyer. I was about to retort with my own 'but you have to give long term gratification a chance too' argument when the doors to the coffee shop opened and Andrew walked in.

“Perfect timing,” Agnes said, turning her body away from the door and facing me. She whispered, with some indignation I might add,“ I know you won’t be runnin’ from that one. Don’t need to, now do ya?”

“Sorry I’m late,” Andrew said, walking over to me and offering a hug. “Better late than never though, huh?” He pulled up a chair and squeezed between myself and Lizzie.

“Ahh, no. We wouldn’t expect any less,” Agnes said, smiling knowingly at me as she finished the last of her poisoned coffee.

“Yeah well, I thought I’d actually show up since I’ve been saying I would be around more.” He looked at me and smiled, tenderly, as if he had something to say but the timing wasn’t right.

The old familiar comfort of Andrew warmed my body and I said, “Thanks for making good on that promise.” But even as I said it Agnes’s words haunted me. Her performance as the devil’s advocate raised the bar on the DL to a whole new level.

Later, I curled up in bed and checked my goal’s list. In five short months I had done quite a lot. I’d started training for my first marathon. I’d taken cooking classes and learned to make some new dishes. I’d landed a place in a community orchestra where I played violin on a regular basis and I called my Mom and Dad every week, as stated. That was making progress on four of the ten goals on my list. Not bad, if I did say so myself. And I liked to think that the goals list was more than just a way to find true love. But - if Agnes’s rant held any truth, and I was pretty sure despite myself it did, then the whole of love and philosophy was connected. The human condition ever present. Had I made a mistake with Christian? Did I run or was I being smart? How esoteric that the answer to that question lies entirely in my own truth. Maybe there was no answer to be had.

But there was the fact that aside from some friendly text messaging we’d barely spoken since before the holidays. There was the fact that his skin once smelled faintly of vanilla, a scent I never wore. There was the fact that he was confident, exuberant and almost never alone. That without me he still had plenty of resources. And all that meant that he had the potential to see me all the way and leave me standing in my own shadow just the same. There was the fact that I could be severely hurt in the end. The outcome was not in my control. It was in his. So I had removed myself entirely from the circumstance instead of allowing myself to explore real emotions. And though it pained me I had to admit: Agnes was right. She was my opposite - running into love instead of away from it but essentially for all the same reasons. To avoid hurt. To avoid loss of control. Maybe knowing and awknowledging all that - was the answer.

I scoured the list. I still had 'a trip to Scotland, a hike at Grandfather mountain [or sky diving], practicing new types of wellness and buying a skirt with a slit' to accomplish. The day had presented so much to think about. So much I could not resolve in one evening. But one look at that list reminded me there was something I could accomplish. A mini goal to redirect me toward goal oriented behavior: Buy a skirt with a slit.

I packed my purse, grabbed my keys and headed for the nearest shopping mall. Thankfully, more often than not, Bloomingdale’s - Did. Hold. Answers.

The Discount Life: Who's version of the Truth?

2010-02-16T09:08:00.000-08:00

Why do mother’s always have their own version of the truth? You tell them you scored during the game – they’ll tell their friends you won the game. You tell them you’re running two miles, they tell their friends you’re running a marathon. I told my mother I managed to secure a second chair position in the Philadelphia Community Orchestra and she told the world I was second chair in THE Philadelphia orchestra.

“Chloe’s a violinist for the orchestra, you know” she had snagged Uncle Sal at the family Christmas party.

“Really? Which one?”

“The Philadelphia one,” which, to my mother, was entirely true.

“No mom,” I corrected, “It’s not the Philadelphia Orchestra. That’s a top five. I’m second chair for the Philadelphia Community Orchestra. It’s a much smaller operation.” This is an embarrassing moment. It’s like when your friends were told you played Carnegie Hall only to find out that you played next door to Carnegie Hall. All the triumphant enthusiasm you were previously allowed to exude is now fundamentally diminished to nothing.

“But honey,” she said, alarmed, as if my next response would be entirely responsible for her credence, “ You are involved with the orchestra, right?”

“Yeah, Uncle Sal – I work for the Philadelphia Orchestra and I play for the Philadelphia Community Orchestra.”

“Got it honey. I know what you’re trying to say…” Uncle Sal was always good at cutting my mother off. I suppose it came from years of doing it. But he was right. I had clarified. I was representing the truth and that’s all that I could do.

I was forced to repeat this mantra regularly these days, as it was the infamous “Holiday Season”. A time of miracles and mirth. The time when anything is possible and everything is wonderful. Except when it’s not been, up until now, and you, the ravished Mary Magdalene of yuletide, must stand confidently with your glass of red wine and reassure the barrage of fair weather friends that , Yes, you’ve had a rough year and Yes, you are in fact fine. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.

And through it all, it wasn’t the family party at Aunt Betty’s that scared me. Or my office party. Or the two Christmas events that Mel and Jack dragged me too as their permanently well dressed third wheel ( a fact it seemed was no longer even of note; We had been so tied together of late it was as if we three were an item…We 3 Kings of orient are..baring gifts we traveled by car…). No, the party I dreaded with so much apprehension I felt like taking to the bed with a month long illness was Judy’s. The Party. The event of the season. The place to display your yearly list of accomplishments or stand in the back corner with your champagne like a loser at a high school reunion who’s life simply had not gotten any better. And despite that fact that my life was definitely beginning to feel better, it was not, to the untrained eye, beginning to look any better. Representative of this was that of all the events that holiday season, Judy’s was the only one I would be attending alone.

“It can’t be any worse than Andrew’s party,” Mel said during one of our nightly chats. We had resorted to phone conversations in lieu of climbing into bed next to each other and reeling off the happenings of the day before Jack came in to drag us back into adulthood. Not living together had its downside. I missed Mel. “That was awkward,” she said. She was referring to the semi-painful experience of watching Marie demonstrate her “wifely” potential. Running around Andrew’s apartment refilling food platters and wiping counter tops, all with a smile as big as the sun. I knew that smile. I had given that smile once upon a time. It was insecurity masked as Betty Crocker bliss. She was terrified: of us. Of him. And more than anything, of not pleasing him enough to keep him. For a moment I felt a kinship with Marie. That whole act is exhausting.

“That was a little hard to watch, “ I said. Half Truth. The horrible, complicated creature inside of me gleaned some piece of satisfaction from that party. Even the bad bits. By the end of the night, easy going, blank faced Marie flipped out on Andrew. From behind the closed doors of his bedroom she exploded at him with everything she had been trying to keep in: I’ve barely seen you all night. You’ve paid more attention to every girl here than me and all your friends too. And I’m doing all this work for you. You’re so drunk I feel like I have to watch you. And I’m the one you love. Andrew was flabbergasted and offended, the way he always was when someone inconveniently decided to call him on his latent trust issues; manifested, of course, in his poor treatment of the women trying to love him. His world was at its best when the women he’d trained to be laid back and accepting behaved en suit. He came apart at the seams when they decided to step outside the lines he drew and actually expect something from him. But his behaviors, however hard they were to watch, were reassuring. At least I knew him.

“But Judy’s party will be different, " I said. "I don’t really know her people. They’re not my friends so if its gets weird there’s no one to turn to". I stood in front of the mirror examining myself. I’d chosen a little black dress. Sexy but safe. It was made of satine and threw a garnet cast when I shifted in the light. I borrowed a pair of Mel’s famous Christian Louboutins (an ebay purchase we do not consider a discount – everyone wants a pair of Louboutins) and pulled my hair half up on one side like a 40’s pin up girl.

“Well, it’ll be a new experience,” Mel said. “You’re used to us. You’re used to Andrew and his women,” she finished with its time to get used to new people but I was too stuck on Andrew’s “women” to fully absorb her point. At the end of the evening Andrew and Marie had made up. We all returned to the kitchen when we could hear them cooing at each other. He pulled out his usual charm – the part of Andrew that erased his bad treatment and made you forget that he said he wouldn’t disappear and did. From a friendly point of view, it was something to be accepted. Loved even. From a relationship stand point , the seed had been planted. It was only a matter of time before Marie figured out she only had half his heart and made him choose. A little voice inside reminded me to be prepared for the day he finally did.

“You’re right," I said to Mel. “It’s time to get used to new people.”

George and Judy’s house was draped in icicle lights. Their giant Oaks boasted thick branches glowing in creamy white lights. She had urns filled with Christmas trees flanking the front door which held an elegant wreath of twisted bay leaves and ribbons. I hadn’t even made it inside and already I felt my Cinderella gown transform into rags.

George answered the door with his usual “Chloe!” and the too strong bear hug. “So glad you could make it. Judy’s in the kitchen and there’s food and drinks in the dining room. Can I take your coat?”

“Sure.” I handed him the coat and surveyed the land. I went straight for the wine – I didn’t think I could do this entirely sober. On my way I caught a glimpse of Judy. Her hair was swept up and she wore a form fitting shift. She was reaching over the stove, her back turned to me. When she turned around I couldn’t help but notice that she was a little pudgy from the front. Bad as it is that this was my first thought, I must admit I once again felt a twinge satisfaction that the women at whom I set all my standards had taken one of hers down a notch. Super model, perfect Judy - was just a little bit fat.

At the drinks table there was wine, beer, a pomegranate cocktail and the quintessential drunk man hanging around the punch bowl. At Andrew’s party, this man would have been Andrew and I would’ve cracked a joke. But at Judy’s party, I did not know this man and I felt tension in every trace of his eyes as looked me up and down.

“Beautiful,” he said. “The party can finally begin.” He was balding around his hairline but otherwise was fairly handsome in a suit coat and trousers. He was smiling but there was no comfort there. I tensed up, smiled awkwardly and laughed as if he had been rude.

“I’m sure your evening starts over again each time one of these women walks through the door.” I said it sarcastically. Christian would’ve bantered with me. Andrew would’ve slammed it with a joke. But this man looked confused. Defeated. He shrugged his shoulder’s and retreated into his glass. I was reminded of the night when Christian said I rolled my eyes to protect myself from being seen. Standing in the awkwardness beside the balding man, I told myself I would have to work on this. “Thank you, though,” I said. “I appreciate it.” He smiled again and I took the moment to break away, saving him the trouble of trying to regain our ground.

The first 10 minutes of any party that doesn’t include your best friends is like torture. A slow walk around the food. You take your time examining every inch of the delectables, as if cubes of cheese and deli meats are some of the most fascinating things you’ll see all evening. Several eyes meet yours, several half smiles are transferred: each person feeling each other out for strengths and weaknesses. Each of us trying to find the humans in the room with the same level of confidence and insecurity as to make them compatible for conversation around the platter of dip and a glass of gin and tonic. I found two such women , both single, both attractive but not any more so then me, both chatty and willing to take the bait when I cracked the first joke. Their names were Tina and Shannon and I was not the least bit intimidated by them. We stood in the safety of each other making dull chatter for at least an hour. It was clear that these women had been single for a long time. They were good at it. They could point out the single men, the married men, the single but taken men and the married men who wanted to be single again. They were unabashed in their flirtations with any male that so much as broached our direction. I was quieter than usual. I could feel myself locking up. My flirtations polite at best. As I observed them I realized how much of a game the whole thing was. The last time I stood in this house I had a place card attached to my name. I was grounded, secure. Now, with no place card, I felt like I was flying in a wind storm. Where will I land? No one can tell.

Oddly enough, it was Judy who came to save me. “Chloe, come meet my friend Jan….”. She whisked me away to introduce me to her entourage. I watched her move with ease from one group to another – firmly aware of her place. Happy. Even a little bit chubby, she had a beautiful home, a gorgeous husband who made lots of money at a job no one understood and a career to envy. Watching her made me long for the place where I felt that same permanence. At Andrew’s party, Marie was The Judy, but I had my place. Above her, if we’re honest. Marie was the temporary – I was the constant. It was Marie he charmed back into submission and me he turned to as his equal and said, “I’m proud of you for hitting those goals we set.”

I smiled, sheepishly tracing the rim of my wine glass. “I can’t exactly cross them off the list but I’m working on them.”

“And I’m really proud of you for it," he said," Happy for you too. Let’s plan that hike soon, okay? I promise I’ll be around more. I’m sorry.” I nodded and he hugged me. The secure, engulfing hug that squeezed a little too tightly around my ribs. The hug that redeemed our friendship over and over and over. The hug that said it all even when we never said a word.

I realized in observing Judy in her finest hour and reflecting on Andrew in his less then finest hour, that while I had so easily fallen for Christian because he truly saw me, that perhaps for these key players in my life, I was the one who truly saw them. Their safe haven to just – be. The thought both made me smile and pained me. It was a tough spot to be in – to know more about the person than they’re willing to acknowledge for themselves and still be understanding of them when they disappoint you can be a lonely place. But it was every bit the place I chose to be. I loved them. All of them.

“Chloe, how are you doing?” It was Judy. Bringing me back to the present. We were in the kitchen – her domain. She looked perfect in it.

“I’m really great. Thanks so much for asking.”

“I heard about you and Stanley. We don’t have to talk about it. But I wanted to say I’m here.” I so loved and hated Judy. She was that creature, that friend, that you only hated because she was so wonderful that you loved her. In the end, I always ended up hating myself for disliking her benign perfection.

“Thanks, “ I said. “I’m really doing alright. Things are coming together. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing it all on my sleeve but I’ve learned a lot. It’s not so bad, being un-perfect.” I laughed in my head at the pun on the Judy-ism I’d created.

“I know how you feel,” she said, pointing at her stomach. I made a confused face as if to say, I had no idea you were getting fat. Which is, as I’ve mentioned, a very big half truth.

“I’m pregnant,” she whispered with great enthusiasm. Of course. Judy would never have just eaten one too many Oreos. She was just a little bit fat because she was just a little bit pregnant.

“Oh my gosh! Congratulations!” I leaned in for a hug.

She said, “I know right now everyone just thinks I’m getting fat.” I looked away from her as I said, “No, no. You look great. How far along are you?”

“Three months,” she said. “We’re getting really excited now that we can tell people.”

“I bet. So what’s the plan? Do you think you’ll still work or stay home?” I had always pictured Judy at home, making giant gourmet meals for her naturally blonde family.

“Oh no,” she brushed her hand through the air and laughed a little, “George is going to stay home. I make all the money anyway so he said he’d love to. Can’t you see it? George at home with an apron on..” she glanced across the room at him, beaming.

“To be honest, not really, “ I said. “I always pictured George as a big business man at Capital One. I thought…” I stopped myself. I thought he brought home the bacon and paid for the granite counter tops.

“George works as the head of maintenance for Capital One. He was never the big business type. Doesn’t have the drive. “ My head was spinning. What! My whole conception of “the perfect” couple was floundering. I had developed my notions on the basis of the big strong man that cared for Judy so that she could go on and pursue all her passions and live a care free life. “Yeah, no, its my career that pays for all of this really, “ she said,” but I don’t mind it. He’s great at taking care of the house and stuff. He’ll be a great stay at home dad.” Usually when women say this I think it’s a giant crock to cover for the fact that they really want a provider but don’t have one and can’t say it out loud. But from Judy, I actually believed it.

“We’re very happy,” she said. And I did not, for one second, doubt her. I reeled over the misconceptions I’d had of George and Judy. The outcome was that Judy was even more perfect than the perfect she had been before. Now, she not only did everything but she also paid for everything. She was amazing – like this creature in the Amazon at which I had to stare but would never fully understand. But something in the way she talked about George and the baby instantly relaxed the inferiority complex she instilled in me and every other woman around her. Her perfection, as it turns out, was perfect for her. Despite appearances, her marriage and her life was not the fairy tale version of the truth. It was simply the George and Judy version of the truth.

Judy didn’t live a discount life because she wasn’t putting her own standards against anyone else’s. She was only living according to her own. It was a reminder for me, that its all about what you can take. What works for one might work beautifully and then not work for you. There is no right or wrong. Only your version of the truth.

As the party raged on and the guests got a little more drunk, I began, finally, to make conversations with people I didn’t know and feel like the best version of myself. My jokes were well timed but not meant to hide anything. My flirtations relaxed and I felt I might actually be getting the hang of this single thing. Mid way between discussions on politics with Mr. Future Senator and gardening techniques with Mr. Green Thumb, I excused myself to the drinks table to refill my wine glass. And just as I felt content and confident I heard a familiar voice say, “So…any strange noises in the night you need us to come check on?” I turned, too quickly in my borrowed Christian Louboutin’s, to see the smiling face of Peter Stone the realtor. I had just enough time to say, “Nope. I’m fine….” Before losing my balance and spilling my red Mary Magdalene wine all over his crisp white shirt…….

The Discount Life: cont'd

2010-02-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

The events of the weeks that passed flew by like a series of images. Images, so at once piercing and cloudy, it seemed plausible they might belong to someone else’s life. A movie reel of shots that flashed by in blinks and threw me into forward motion until at last it stopped at my next challenge and left me to heal. I sat outside the audition room door and grieved but for what I could not name. There were so many possibilities it was hard to nail it down to one element. More complicated still was that it seemed that sadness was not the culprit. It was the settling – the Unknown crawling from out of its distant hiding place and setting up camp, indefinitely, in my stomach. The ties were cut and I was climbing the list of goals Andrew and I had set for me on his porch that day in September. It was real. Not a movie reel. Real.

As I listened through the door to my competition my hands began to shake. Third chair violin was certainly not the most prestigious chair but it was, after all, a spot in an orchestra. My orchestra. I would still have to keep my job as a receptionist (my apartment, bars and all, would not pay for itself) but I would have reached a goal. And I was learning, through the DLA and our newest topic of self inventory, that mini-goals were just one greater step toward inner peace. Mini –goals accomplished, equated contentment for the curious.

At the last DLA meeting I told everyone about my new apartment. About packing boxes at Stanley’s. About the waiting for him on the bottom step of the stairs so I could make my last amends. The key, as we had determined before, was to own it. And I wanted to lock the door and leave so badly I almost caved and left with my illusions intact. But then everything I would have done from then on would be just that – illusions. Of a self I wanted to be but had not allowed myself to be because I’d run from the part where you have stand up and own it.

When he came in, I could see his face light up and immediately fall. He said nothing and stood stone still. I didn’t get up. Couldn’t move really. But I twisted my fingers and said, “I haven’t heard from you since Thanksgiving.” He said nothing and my heart dropped. I realized, that until this moment I had always wondered, maybe even allowed myself to hope, that he’d step in, step up and try and convince me that he really, truly, loved me. But even if actions speak louder words and words are only secondary, the absence of both is a sure sign. I took a deep breath and stood up.

“This can’t be a shock to you,” I said. “You’ve known we were troubled for a long time.” He looked down at his shoes. No response. “I tried to tell you. We talked about it. I put it out there that I wanted to work on it but …” and my voice broke a little “…you didn’t choose it.” Still he said nothing and I picked up my purse off the console table and moved around him toward the door. “You have so much in you Stanley. You're a good person. You’re smart. But you have to want something. It’s not enough for me to want it for you.” I kissed his cheek and opened the door, “I hope you find it. Whatever it is,” I said, and just as I was stepping out he said: “How could you do this to me?” I turned and looked at him. I wanted to be strong and tough like a character in a movie. I wanted to say something without regret, without emotion, as if the whole of our relationship was behind me. Instead, I felt tears stream down my face. I tasted the salt of one as I said, “I didn’t do this to you by myself. You let it happen too.”

“You left me remember?” His voice was angry. Mean. His face was red with emotion but it wasn’t sadness. It was rage. I wanted to argue. The words for a retaliation compiled in my brain, ready for battle. But I heard the voice of the DLA and the sense of Get Some Manners: Be truthful to yourself. Know that you don’t need someone else to agree with you in order to be right. Don’t try to convince someone that you are worthy, they may not be in a place in themselves to be able to see and accept it anyway. Don’t be angry. Understand that they can only give of what they are. And what they are is determined by where they are in their own self awareness. The truth is you can scream until you’re blue in the face but if they can’t see themselves, if they can own it, you won’t be able to convince them. The truth was we just weren’t on the same level anymore. And maybe we never were.

“I’m sorry for giving up on you Stanley. But I can’t be the only one who chooses to act in the relationship. You have to choose too or the whole thing goes under.” He said nothing and as I waited for him to respond my tears dried up. It was affirmation: I could be waiting my whole life. So I said, calmly and perhaps with my first ounce of contentment, “Goodbye Stanley. Good luck.” And I then I closed the door.

The finality of it all released me. I was free. And that, as it turns out, is where your two minute movie clip really begins. Julia Roberts running through the streets. Richard Gere packing up his boxes to move on. Free, not bound, to choose whatever they like. Of course, in the movies they choose each other, but no matter.

The DLA championed my self- thought. My actions, my words, they said, were a representation of all that I had struggled to learn, put into practice. As they talked amongst themselves about their own improvements I was running through simultaneous inner dialogues, the results of which were harsh. Andrew had not shown for our meeting. I’d texted him all week. Called him. But he did not respond. I wanted to continue saying this behavior was unusual for him but the truth was that it was becoming regular. I supposed he really was moving on. And the ache of that realization was harder then when I walked away from Stanley. And yet, it wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t responsible for my happiness. And that thought pushed Christian my mind. I knew then what I would have to do and, sighing at the revelation, dismissed myself early from the meeting citing indigestion as the cause.

It was almost Christmas and we had two cooking classes left . I was still looking forward to each one as much as I had in the beginning. Christian was like a mirror. A beautiful mirror and under his reflection I saw the person I wanted to be. But before I could know if I loved him for him or him for how he made me feel, I had to find out if the reflection I saw of myself in his mirror could be conjured in my own mirror: alone. Otherwise, I was making all the same mistakes. Only this time, I might be ruining someone for whom I was really meant. Get Some Manners said: it isn’t about not making mistakes. It’s about observing and correcting behaviors until you achieve a consistent balance of truth and action that propel you toward your desired goals. If I didn’t let Christian go, I would never know how to maintain that consistency for myself.

In class on Thursday, we made Sundried Tomato Quiche, roasted artichokes and ricotta parfait. I watched him. Every image I collected was more powerful than the last. This was the hardest part. The moment just before you separate yourself from the thing you want the most, knowing full well, that you are choosing to let it go for the sake of their own good, is heartbreaking. I absorbed every movement he made. Breathed in the scent of him knowing I might never get the chance to stand here in his want again. When class was over he reached for me and said, “You’re far away. What’s going on?” I surprised myself when I didn’t cry. Every emotion inside of me was larger than tears. We went for coffee, the same place where we’d had our first real conversation, and I explained to him everything in detail. What amazed me, endlessly, about Christian was that he never needed me to dump it down for him. He never asked me to stop thinking so philisophically and just get on with it. He never asked me to be what he needed but instead, always encouraged me to be me.

“I just don’t think this is healthy yet,” I said. “I want you. I do. But I have so much to go through still. You know? And you’re a distraction. An amazing distraction but a distraction all the same.” I rubbed the bones under my eyebrows to release the tension that swelled in my brain at the expression of my thoughts. I hated this. I hated this. On impulse, I wanted to take back everything I said and run off into the sunset with him. But it wasn’t right. He knew it and I knew it.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, reaching across our little table and taking my hands away from my face. “I understand." He smiled and it wasn’t mischevious or devilish like it normally was. It was the Christian I met that first night – present and understanding.

“I feel like I’m just giving up. On everyone,” I said. I felt sick with myself for saying it out loud.

“No,” he said. “You’re just choosing not to give up on you”. There was a long pause and we stared at each other, silently. Everything we hadn’t said held visibly in our gaze. “And besides I’ll be around,” he massaged my hand gently, “you and I are going to be friends for a long time.”

After that, I went home and cried. I ran and played the violin. I talked out every detail with Mel and cried some more. I skipped our last cooking class. He messaged me that he did too. I went running instead.

And it turns out, the turmoil of it all culminated to this moment. Sitting outside the audition door.

A woman with dark brown hair and a red suit opened the door and called my name. I entered the audition room and introduced myself at their behest. It happened quickly, without much fanfare. I played my piece, I stood and thanked for their time. And when I left I couldn’t help but feel that I had finally done something on my list. Whether or not I actually made the chair, I had worked toward a goal and done everything possible to make it happen. It was the first time I felt that perhaps, even for just a short while, I had stopped living the Discount Life, and started living a real life.

The Discount Life ( back from hiatus)

2010-01-26T11:14:00.000-08:00

The apartments I viewed brought forth a slew of words that started with horror and ended with abomination. There was mold growing on bathroom ceilings and kitchens the size of cubicles. And if I were honest with myself, which I was not going to do, I might have seen a mouse or two scurrying across the floor of more than one.

“Isn’t there anything more uptown you can show me?” I’d asked the realtor, lifting a piece of crumbling linoleum from the kitchen floor of apartment number five.

“Not in your price range,” he said, “Unless you want to consider the suburbs.” Nausea overcame me at the mere thought. I could no more live in the suburbs with perky perfect Dick and Jane than I could live at home again. I would have to settle for what I could afford. Which begged the question? If I were settling, and trust me, opting for a place with yellowing linoleum and bars on the windows is definitely a settle for me, did it mean I was discounting myself? But this is all I could afford on my own and living in the city. Is it a discount if you have no other choice? Either way, it was what it was. I was moving in to the almost ghetto but I was doing it on my own terms. I hoped that was good. Maybe this would be a good topic to bring up at the DLA.

I stood up from my crouched position of floor inspection and hit my head on the kitchen cabinet I’d left open.

“Shit”, I said raising a hand to the point of impact on my scalp.

“That looked like it hurt.” He moved closer, too close, to survey the damage for himself and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” Pause.

His name was Peter Stone. He was a rather successful realtor in Philadelphia, especially given the economic slow down, and always had a pen in the lapel of his suit coat. He was almost tall, with thick blondish hair and a knowing smile that both encouraged and embarrassed me. I might have liked him if he wasn’t seeing me in such a state of degradation. As it stood, I wanted to be away from him as fast as possible.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Really, just a bump.” I stepped away from him and shut the cabinet door. He took two steps back and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, as if our exchange had made keeping his hands by his sides impossible. “I guess I’ll take this one,” I said. “It’s the best of the five.”

“The landlord is very nice. Accommodating,” he said. I wondered if someone had to describe me in such few words what they would say. She’s accommodating. She’s complex. She’s a wreck – have you seen her life lately? In shambles. The women at Judy’s next party would enjoy this very much.

“Well, that will come in handy,” I said, moving toward the windows. “If bars on the windows is an indication of what I’ve gotten myself into, I might be calling him in the middle of the night – hi can you come check this noise? I’m scared,” I laughed a quiet laugh and he responded in turn.

“The neighborhood is not that bad. I promise. I wouldn’t have brought you to a place that I thought would endanger you. But you’ll be okay. And if you ever needed anything, you could always call me,” he stopped and followed up quickly with, “or any of the realtors at my office. We like to maintain our relationships with clients. We’d be happy to help.” He was rubbing the back of his neck again.

“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I saw a young girl come out of the apartment two doors down. She looked like she could break in half in a wind storm. If she can handle it so I can I.” We both smiled and he looked down. I thought I might have seen pity wash over his face. I moved toward the front door. “Besides,” I sighed, perhaps a bit too audibly for our comfort, “this is only temporary. It won’t always be like this.” He followed up behind me and opened the door.

“Look at it this way,” he said standing back to let me through first, “you can sign a six month lease and see where you are when the gray days have passed.” He smiled sympathetically as I walked through the door. He must see this a lot. The broken wanderers searching for a new cave to cocoon in. The hope of emerging anew when the time was right. I had to wonder apprehensively, how many of us never did? Well, anyway. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.

“Well it can’t take long,” I said. “What is it they say? It’s always sunny in Philadelphia?”

He laughed and said,” You know? You’re gonna be alright.” Together we walked back to the car.

At Mel’s I departed the good news. She poured me her notoriously large cup of tea and we cozied up on the couch, folding our legs under us like school girls about to discuss our new crushes. I wished it were that simple.

“Are you feeling good about it?”

“As good as can be. I have to find a place and this is the best of the lot. It’ll take some getting used to but I’ll learn to enjoy it.”

“When can you move?”

“Anytime. Tomorrow if I want to.” Mel looked sad at this. It touched me to know that she would miss having me here.

“You’re going to leave me and make me live with a boy. Forever!”

“Are you nervous about forever?” She paused and looked up at the ceiling as if the words she was looking for would be written there.

“I’m not nervous about forever but I am nervous about the unknown. Who we are today may not be who we are six years from now,” she motioned at me with an open faced palm when she said this. The implication, however benign and well intentioned, stung just a little. “But I don’t question our love.” She smiled. “We have something amazing.” She did. They did. My heart ached for it in equal amounts as it celebrated for Mel.

“Speaking of, any wedding plans yet?” I asked.

“As a matter of fact. Yes. I’ve scheduled some places to go look at next week. Want to come with me?”

“Of course. If I can. I’ll be moving and stuff but I’d love to.”

“Right. I guess you’ll have to get your stuff from Stanley’s?” I nodded yes. I hadn’t been back to the townhouse since I’d left in early November. “Are you nervous?” I nodded yes again. “Well just go when he’s not there,” she said. I nodded a third time but in my heart I knew I couldn’t do that to him. I’d made a life with him. Even if it hadn’t worked out, he deserved better than to have me whisk away as if nothing had ever been. To do that would be like negating six years of my life too. And if living the DL had taught me anything it was that you are who you are because of the life you’ve lived; you have to own it if you ever want to be truthful with yourself. I would have to see Stanley at some point and own it. For the both of us. “I could go with you?” she offered.

I shrugged. “We’ll see, “ I said, and as I finished Jack walked through the front door. He was clammy and dirty from the gym. He greeted us both, then leaned down over the couch and kissed Mel. They talked briefly and watching their exchange sent a pang through my chest. It was beautiful the way they loved each other with such simplicity. They did have something special and I was infringing on it. Not for too much longer, I reminded myself. Learn to accept help when the hand is offered. Then get back on your own two feet.

“I’m gonna go for a run,” I announced, jumping up from the couch and breaking their spell.

“Chloe, its like 34 degrees out there,” Jack said. “December has definitely arrived.” He looked at Mel and smiled.

“I’ll bundle up, “ I said and headed for my room.

It felt warmer than 34 degrees but then again I was running. The cold air initially pierced my lungs but now it simply felt like a cool breeze on my warm face. I wound through the city streets and already I was feeling better. Relief. Contentment. Wholeness.

This is what running had become. Not something to keep me skinny. Not something to brag about to couch potatoes. Something like therapy. A source from which to draw strength. A challenge that tortured me into action until meeting a goal wasn’t torture anymore but merely a given. Until the pain felt like a manageable emotion and the problems had worked themselves out in my head. I can run three miles. And if I can do three than I can do five. And if I can do five then eventually I can do 26. It’s a given. And in the mean time I would keep my sanity.

I ran and ran and ran and before I knew it I was standing at the door of Christian’s complex. I hadn’t heard from him since our Thursday night sleep over and I stopped, out of breath, and thought about whether or not to turn around and go home. I weighed it out – this could go well or badly. But things had already gone pretty badly for me. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary or something I couldn’t deal with. On the other hand, if it went well, I would be elated. So I rang the buzzer. He answered, “Yeah”. Confident to a fault.

“It’s Chloe.” I said it almost like a question. Like I was looking to him for confirmation.

“Chloe?” He responded likewise with a question. I began to panic. This was a bad idea. “Who’s Chloe?” Now I could hear sarcasm. Play.

“She’s the girl who ran seven miles to see you. Longest distance yet, I might add.”

“Is she tired? Cause if she comes up it will require that she has some energy left for me.”

“For you? She can muster some.”

“Good.” He buzzed the door open and I went in and climbed the stairs to the second floor. I knocked and stood there jittery and excited. He opened the door in loose jeans and no shirt. His hair was wild as if he’d just gotten out of bed at 3:30 in the afternoon.

“I was thinking about you this morning. I’m glad you came by.” I almost said you should have called, but stopped myself and smiled. He reached for me and kissed my lips softly. Then all I could think was what I was feeling. This is almost perfect. Almost real. With him there was this perpetual feeling of almost that nagged at me. He stroked my back and asked, “You want some coffee first?”

“Please. And water. I’m thirsty.”

“I’ll get us some. I could use a burst of energy myself.” As he walked away he brushed his hands up the back of his neck – like Peter the realtor. Was he nervous? No, Christian was never nervous. But when the realtor made the gesture it seemed endearing: something to do in place of awkwardness. From Christian it felt – intentional. Like a cover. I let the thought pass when he came back with a blue mug of coffee and a glass of water for me. He said, “tell me about your run” and we settled onto his couch.

I told him about how good it felt. About how it released the anxiety over packing and moving and starting over. I thought about censoring images to make it shorting or more interesting but somehow, with Christian, it wasn’t necessary. I could tell him anything – boring or interesting and he was always ready to absorb it. In the moment. I told him about the little girls and their mother in the park and how they waved at me like I was someone they looked up to even though they’d never met me. About the giant hill I covered a mile before his apartment. I’d had to walk it toward the top. I could barely move after, it was so tough.

He set down his coffee cup and began to inch up on me. “Are you leg muscles tired?” He grinned. I set down my coffee cup too.

“A little.”

He kissed my calf and said, “Is this muscle tired?” It tickled and I laughed. “Is this muscle tired?” He kissed the sides of my knees. “How about this one?” My thigh.

“I don’t think any of them are that tired. I just had this great cup of coffee. “ And then he moved in for the kill. As he kissed me, I wondered, only briefly, about the atypically faint smell of vanilla coming off his skin, before letting my brain shut off to enjoy the moment.

The Discount Life: Step Five - Inventory Yourself

2009-12-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

The next time I saw Christian I spotted him first. We agreed, via text, to meet on Wednesday night for dinner since our Thursday night class would be preempted by Thanksgiving. He was standing at the bar, one forearm resting on the dark mahogany counter, his stance accentuated by the curve of his sloping back. He was chatting with the bar tender, a notably beautiful young girl who seemed to have swallowed his consciousness whole. He was laughing. She reached over, touching his arm as she spoke. He laughed some more. With Stanley, I might have thought he was flirting. Stanley so rarely made social exchanges with others it would have been a stand out for him to laugh with a girl behind the bar. With Christian, all I saw was a passionately beautiful man, who turned completely on his heels, open armed and eager when he saw me.

“Chloe!” His hug was engulfing but in contrast to Andrews, gentle. He chose me, I wanted to say to the girl behind the bar. But Christian’s actions made the statement unnecessary. He was unafraid to make himself clear. He kissed me like a man coming home from war – tender but intense, a ravenous hunger hidden just below his equanimity. “I can’t believe its been almost a week!” He smiled. Wide. Completely mischievous. “I’m tempted to skip dinner entirely, “ he said.

“I wouldn’t mind that, “ I said.

“But I don’t want to do that half way thing again,” he led me to a spot in the back corner of the restaurant. There was a roaring fire – candles lit at the center of the table. Was this guy magic or what? “I want to give you an all the way date.” He pulled back the chair for me and said, “We’ll talk, we’ll eat and then I’ll take you home.” He was so confident. His aura a cocoon of assuredness. You felt, in his presence, that for him anything was possible and so for you, by transference. It’s astounding what imagined invincibility can do for mood. We chattered as new couples often do – about nothing, about everything. The evening passed in a wine induced blink; not a lull to be had, not a thought left unspoken. Of course Mr. Handsome wasn’t bad to look at but the breadth of conversation he inspired was a mental stimuli that carried us from dinner , to check please, to home. His home. I, ashamedly, was still living at Mel’s apartment. An arrangement that would need to be addressed soon but one that seemed to suit us both so well we’d been ignoring it.

“I’m glad we get to do this right,” Christian said. He came from the kitchen carrying two glasses of wine. Handing one to me he said, “If we’d done it last time it wouldn’t have been spectacular.” So we didn’t have sex. Truth is power but in this case the truth brought on waves of panic. So this time it was going to happen for real. And I would be aware and responsible. I was choosing this. Choosing him. I. Was. Terrified.

But he turned on music, lover’s music and reached for me. He pulled me near with his free hand and danced, his hips pressed up against mine, moving in rhythm to the music. I relaxed instantly. It almost felt rehearsed. Like a standard set of motions he exercised in the presence of all the woman he seduced. A routine where the only change was the woman. Me. But when he said, “I have to tell you something” and followed with, “I haven’t danced this much since I took Trisha Blanton to prom,” all evidence triggering doubt vanished, leaving in its place a genuine delight. I threw my head back and laughed. “I’m serious,” he said. “I’m not really a dancing kind of guy.”

“I noticed,” I said. And he stopped, pulling me to him so close and so firmly I almost couldn’t breathe. Our lips were separated by the thinnest bit of space and he said, “I’m trying to impress you. Is it working?” I twisted my face as if to say well, let me think and then I kissed him.

“Yes,” I said.” And the rest, as they say, is history.

This time I would not wake up in want of memory. To this day I remember every detail – the way he moved. The way he felt. The way his eyes sought out mine just before he called my name and smiled. Memories like these are the reasons they say no regrets, live like you’re dying, carpe diem. They’re brief and intense, like a flash of light so enamor ant it blinds you. You don’t think, you don’t analyze, you can’t. You’re living. They’re the kind you analyze later – imploringly, deploringly or both. But when I woke that Thursday morning to a charmingly drooling Mr. Handsome and the feeling of déjà vu, I didn’t have to check under the covers for confirmation. In fact, if we’re frank, I knew exactly where I had thrown his boxers the night before.

I spent the better part of Thanksgiving morning grinning from ear to ear. It was the kind of exuberance you can’t hide from the people around you. Mel & Jack stared at me all morning with the knowing expression of a couple who’ve been together so long they can smell newness like hounds on a fox. Mel asked if it was worth it. I responded, “I think so.” She said good, and even though she smiled I couldn’t erase the motherly tone with which she’d said it; like a parent watching their words so as not to cross the line and push their child into further mischief.

Her tone replayed in my head all the way to my parent’s house and half way through the preparations for dinner. They all: the aunts and uncles, my parents, analyzed my every move between salutations. No one asked about Stanley. There was a quiet in the room that had so much energy it could have run a space shuttle the moon. When they thought I wasn’t paying attention, they tossed each other looks that held an entire conversation. I wasn’t fooled but I let it all pass. I was in too good a mood.

“You’re very giddy today,” my mother said, between placing the sweet potatoes and the mashed potatoes on the table. Her plump figure was tied tightly into a red apron. Her auburn hair a slightly frizzy pile on top of her head. Her statement was a question, even if she didn’t end it with upward intonation.

“I am,” I said. “I’ve had a good week.” I went around laying out the silverware, her gaze following me.

“Oh? “ she said. “Did you find an apartment?”

“No.”

“Did you learn a new song on the violin?”

“Uhhh,…no. Not really. I’ve been practicing the old songs.”

“Did you run your marathon?” Okay. I could see where she was going with this. No need to drag it out.

“Mom. Enough. I’m working on it.”

She came up and put her hands on my shoulders. “Are you?” She hugged me and unlike Christian and unlike Andrew and unlike any man who’d ever touched me, the feeling of her arms wrapped around my body catalyzed peace and absolution. She pulled back and stared up at my eyes. My mother, a whole five inches shorter than myself. “I want you to be happy. Okay? Just make sure what you’re doing is going to get you to those goals you’re always talking about. That’s all.”

“I am.” She raised her eyebrows at me then turned to work on separating some more silverware. Her back to me she said, “Great sex is wonderful honey. But it can cause a lot of confusion. Seems to me your whole Discount Life theory is about ridding yourself of confusion,” she turned around with a butter knife in her hand. Pointing it at me and she said, “You might want to think about that before you go getting too involved.”

“Mom!,” I whispered, indignantly. “ Who said I’m having great sex. You can’t jump from I had a good week to I had great sex…” she put her hand up to stop me. It’s amazing how even as a grown woman, that still works when it comes from your mother. I folded my arms across my chest.

“I was not born yesterday,” she said. “You’re glowing.” She put the last of the serving ware out on the table and called that dinner was just about ready. “And be careful there. That kind of love is fleeting.”

“So you think I should go back to steady but loveless?” She came up to me again. Close enough that she could have kissed my nose if she were tall enough.

“I think you’ve lost your balance kid. Loveless? No. I don’t want you there. But don’t go from one extreme to another. Find your balance.”

“I’m happy. He makes me feel…”

“Exactly. He makes you feel…and what do you feel when you’re not with him?” I didn’t respond. “There’s your discount.” She put her hands on both sides of my face and pulled my cheek down to her level. She kissed me there and said, “You want to be happy? Go run your marathon” just before releasing me and going to check on my father. I tried to rub off the dark pink lipstick marks she’d left on my cheek but they had discolored my skin like a stain. Her mark, undeniably, planted. Her wisdom, involuntarily laid.

Of course she was right, which is a thing no girl wants to admit of her mother. But I was happy. Christian made me feel alive. Tingling and vibrant – like the whole world had been set on fire. But that was her point – perhaps that made it too hot to touch for long. On a deeper level, the happiness I felt was not inherent to me but instead based solely on the feelings he gave me. Remove him and I still had not completed any of the things I’d set out to accomplish – for me. Chapter 5: Inventory Yourself. Do I place my value outside myself? According to Get Some Manners I had placed my value in the hands of Mr. Handsome. Let’s be clear, they are very skilled hands under which I would be thrilled to find myself again. But the truth is still the truth, isn’t it? I had placed my value in Stanley before him, and in him before me. Inventorying yourself, as it turns out, is not so excruciating as it is challenging. Once the awareness is there you can’t go back.

I watched my parents throughout dinner. I listened to mom say she was thankful we were a family. Thankful we could all be together. Thankful for me and my father. I was thankful that my first formal dinner without Stanley did not require a place card. That it was with my family – the one outside source from which it is healthy to derive value, though, even so, not entirely. I was thankful that even if I’d side stepped from being true to myself, I had the support of people around me to help put me back on track. I was thankful that Mel had not said a word about Christian. I began to understand, sitting there at the table –the football game in the background, Uncle Sal stealing glances around the door frame and screaming at the ref like they were old solider buddies in a fight, that the goals on my list were not just there to make me feel accomplished but also to help me find me – alone. That these people, my family, my very best friends, were the ones in whom I should be putting stock. For as much as they would deplete me, they would also take the time to refill me. And that with them, even in aloneness, I would not be alone.

Sitting around the table, chatting about the future, I knew, in the deepest recesses of my heart, that Christian was an in the moment kind of guy. That the bartender at the restaurant last night, though not a problem that evening, might become one in the future. If not her, someone else. I knew, like I knew that I couldn’t be with Stanley and I couldn’t live with Mel, that the chances of finding lasting contentment in him were slim. I was willing to accept that, even though I wasn't willing to stop seeing him yet. And as I stood to clear my plate and shake the thought from my head, mom said, “And Chloe’s going to have an exciting year next year. She’s going to run a marathon and….go skydiving is it?”

I glared at her with equal parts love and anger. “I think I’ve decided on hiking. Andrew and I are going to plan a trip to hike Grandfather Mountain.” Although, truth be told, we hadn't talked about it in months.

“Who’s Andrew?” whispered Aunt Betsy to Uncle Sal. “I don’t know” he whispered back. I let it go. No need to explain male/female friendships that were just that. Older people never understood that kind of relationship.

“Well either way, “ Mom said over the chatter,” I can’t wait to see what she’ll do.”

When I got to Mel’s that night I stayed up until 2 am on the computer. Just before I closed my eyes for sleep, I took the plunge, clicked the submit button and signed up for my first marathon.

The Discount LIfe: Step Four and Half

2009-12-15T11:29:00.000-08:00

“So,” I said clearing my throat,” does anyone have any stories about Step Four?”

“Luv, I think most’ve us here are brand new to the brilliant idea of the Discount Life. I myself am only on Step one,” said Agnes. “When I started to clear out my life I decided I really liked a lot of that shit. What do I do about that?” She took a swig of her Irish crème coffee and made a disgusted face.

Lizzie answered with, “The point is to sort through what you like and what you like that will help you achieve your goals. So you set a goal and then you ask yourself, is keeping this going to help me or keep me from reaching this goal. If not, chuck it.”

"I’ve been getting rid of stuff most of my life. I have no goals. Just living day by day. And getting to my next drink.” She smiled slyly.

“Well then it sounds like you need a goals list. Tucker, share yours, will you? That might help Agnes, “ I said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. As he worked to uncrease the folds I couldn’t help but see that his fingers were noticeably cleaner since the last time I saw him. Even clean fingers could be a milestone in a discount life.

“My first goal was to find a place to sleep. I did that. My second goal was to stop drinking and go to my AA meetings. I’m working on that. State of Process if you will," he smiled at me.

“Tucker’s gone to an AA meeting every week since he started the DLA,” Lizzie said.

“Yeah but I haven’t totally quit drinking. So I can’t cross that off.”

“No but you know you’re working on it. That’s half the battle,” I said.

“My next goal’s going to be to get a job. But I’m not pushing myself on that one. The 17th Street shelter is bad enough. All their rules. A job might just send me over the edge.”

Andrew piped up. “I have a list. It’s small but I have one,” he said, looking up at me. “To get promoted at work. To settle down – find someone,” he looked at Marie and I had to tell myself to keep breathing. “Maybe go to Scotland. That’s a place I’ve always wanted to go.” And then the reverse effect took place. Our shared goal restored my faith in him, however unfair the foundation of its lapse.

“I never knew you wanted to go to Scotland,” Mel said to Andrew, then glanced at me.

“Yep,” he said.

“I’ve been to Scotland,” Agnes said. “Right next door to England, course. So it wasn’t hard. It’s okay. Food’s terrible.”

“So if not Scotland, what would be on your list?” Mel asked.

“Look. I’ve traveled the world,” Agnes said. “I have more money than George Bush Senior and George W combined. I’ve had three husbands, and several careers and two children that I see pretty regularly. I’m definitely a drunkard but it hasn’t hurt me any- ‘cept for I’ve put on a stone or two, “ she raised her mug like a cheer, “getting older may come with wisdom but it makes you quite a bit fatter as well.”

“Amen to that,” Lizzie said. “I ate half a bagel last week and now I can barely button my pants!”

“I saw you eat a whole bagel last week,” Tucker said, mockingly.

“Alright, maybe it was more like three bagels last week but I’m just saying! I can’t eat what I used to.” They bantered this way for several minutes and though my eyes followed the conversation, dipping from face to face, my thoughts were on Lizzie’s unintentional half truth. When she thought her secret was safe she was content to let us, and thereby herself, believe she’d only eaten half a bagel, when in reality, she knew, she’d really had three. Why would a woman as in control and successful and content as Lizzie lie to herself about a bagel? The answer was uncomplicated and universal. An elementary philosophy whose emotion was simultaneously releasing and shaming, and it wielded power over all its students: admitting to anyone, least of yourself, the truth of any given situation made you vulnerable. And vulnerability is like weakness. Life has a way of training vulnerability out of us. We build walls, we make jokes, and we shackle the scary beast of the unknown to the floor by selling ourselves and our compatriots on half truths. Be it a bagel or a betrothed.

“Chloe – we’ve lost you,” Andrew was waiving his hand in front of my eyes.

“Sorry, I was thinking…”

“She has so much trouble with that, “ he said looking at the others and pointing a finger at me. They laughed. Marie buried her smile in her mug but I could see that she enjoyed their laughter more than politeness should allow.

“I was thinking,” I paused to make sure I had their attention, “about half truths. I really think they’re the worst kind. Like Lizzie and the bagels. Or me and, well, lots of things. Being honest with yourself is so hard.”

“That’s coz it hurts, “said Agnes. “Like hell. Most of us don’t want to upset ourselves with what’s really in the mirror.”

“I don’t look in mirrors,” Tucker said. “I think it’s better that way.”

“But maybe if you did –" Jack chimed in. Mel slapped him on the shoulder. “I’m just kidding. Just kidding..” Jack put up his hands in surrender.

“Hey, I’m working on it,” Tucker said.

“I think lying to yourself is for young people,” Agnes said. “They still feel like they’ve got something to lose.” She drank from her mug and made a face again. She could just stop drinking it. Really. “Take me for example. I’m old. I’ve survived my past. I am what I am. I don’t lie to myself coz I’ve got nothing left to lose really. It’s all happened already. But young people – everything’s a first. First love lost. First move, first friendship broken. The disappointments all seem so hard because it’s all new. It’s terrifying to think of losing what you have – Right now. Because most people haven’t the faintest how they’ll go on after that. But you learn.” She stopped and we were all quiet. Jack, whose arm was around Mel’s shoulders, pulled her closer to him. Andrew, whose arm was around Marie, withdrew his appendage and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

“I’ll tell you something else,” Agnes said. “Things is only hard once. After that you know what to expect, so the pains easier to manage. Lying to yourself – it just isn’t worth it.” Lizzie leaned over to the center of the table and sifted through the pastries on a plate there. She picked up a bagel and said, “I’m going to eat this. The whole thing and its going to make my pants tight and I don’t care.” Her interjection was timed perfectly and we all laughed.

“I need a drink,” Agnes said. “That’s enough serious talk for today.”

“No Agnes,” Tucker said. “You’ll only regret it.”

“I’d only regret it if I wanted to change,” she said, standing up and working her way out from her chair. “Nice to meet you all.” She gathered her coat and headed for the door. “See you next time,” she said cheerfully. We chattered on for a bit but Agnes’s words hung in the air like humidity just before a thunderstorm. Her departure disbanded our focus and we all began to make our goodbyes.

As we headed out, I placed myself in close proximity to Jack and Mel, as if they were my pack. Safety in numbers. Andrew left Marie by the door and came over to us.

“So thanks for inviting us,” he said. I wanted to say that his being my DL partner was important to me and that her presence somehow diminished the value of that partnership. Our partnership. But that wasn’t fair, nor was it completely true. So instead I said, “Yeah. Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

“So see you next week?”

“Two weeks,” I said.

“Two weeks.” He leaned over and gave me a hug. His hugs were completely engulfing. They swallowed you whole in their embrace. He always squeezed a little too tight, a charming after effect of his enthusiasm. “Bye,” he said.

“Bye,” Marie said, tossing the word out and waving from her stance by the doors. “Nice meeting you.”

“Bye, “ I responded. I watched them walk away briefly before deciding that I did not need to bare witness to their partnership and busied myself with checking my phone. No messages. Missed call: Mom.

I called her when we got home. She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving. She did most of the talking. Detailing the plans: dinner at her house, close friends and family. Then finally she said, “Honey, what’s wrong?” There were so many things she didn’t know about. Where would I even begin? “Chloe?”

“Mom. I’m not coming with Stanley this year,” I blurted it out like a surprise we should all be happy about. “We broke up.” Half truth. I left him but that was too hard to say out loud.

“Okay.” That was all she said. Okay. A simple word that ate up all the unanswered questions.

“Okay, “ I said. “So it will just be me.”

“That’s always okay with me and your father. You are plenty.” I smiled. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

“I just couldn’t live with myself anymore. Always pretending like what we had was all I ever wanted. It wasn’t real, mom. And it wasn’t enough.”

She was quiet for a moment and then she said, “Well, whatever anything is, it should start with being real. And you know….”was all I got before the line went dead.

“Mom? Hello?” Nothing. She must have hit the end button with her cheek again. She was always doing that. I hit the end button myself and set the phone down on the bed, waiting for her to call back. I massaged my temples and my eyebrows, the beginnings of a tension headache was creeping up into my sinus. The ringing of the phone, despite the fact that I was prepared for it, felt like a shrieking cat in my ears. I grabbed it and hit talk without looking. Please stop that racket.

“Mom, I didn’t hear the last thing you said..” I trailed off.

“It’s Stanley.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the screen, like I needed confirmation to believe it. Indeed. The phone read Stanley in big letters across the top of the screen.

“Hi,” I said lamely.

“Hi,” he said. “I haven’t heard from you in almost two weeks.”

“No you haven’t. I’m sorry about that. I….I didn’t know what to do. So I just left.”

“I don’t get it. Why? What’s wrong?” How do you explain to someone exactly what’s wrong? What’s wrong is you don’t see me? Don’t try to see me. You don’t get off the couch for me. You won’t go to a cooking class with me. You don’t want me. That’s the truth. “We didn’t even have a fight or anything,” he said.

“We never fight because you won’t fight with me.”

“Well, I don’t like to fight,” he said. “But we can talk about it.”

“We have talked about it. You just don’t seem to hear me. I say what I’m thinking and you listen but you don’t hear me. And then we don’t fight and then its over. And we just go about our days like nothing happened.”

“What are you talking about? Chloe. Come on. Come home. This is just…you just need to talk.”

“Let’s talk about it right now.”

He stammered. “Well okay, let’s talk. What do you want to say?” Ahhhh! I wanted to say, right there that’s what I’m talking about! Circles.

“I just said what I wanted to say,” I said. “I guess you missed it.” There was a harshness in my voice that I didn’t like. The hurt in me trying its best to turn vulnerability into anger.

“Chloe…”

I worked patience into my tone and said “Why didn’t you go to the cooking class with me?”

“Is that what this is about? I thought you were okay with my not going.”

“Could you answer the question please.”

“I didn’t go because …I don’t know. It just seemed like a lot.”

“You didn’t want to go. Just say that.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to go. I mean, I guess I didn’t want to go but I just thought you were okay with that.” I didn’t respond. “Apparently not.” Then he was silent too. We were both doing what we’d always done – letting nothing pass into complacency.

“You don’t kiss me either,” I said. “Not really. Not like I should be kissed. Why?”

“I kiss you all the time. Hello, good bye.”

“You kiss me because you have to. But you don’t look at me and kiss me like you just wanted to. It’s always like you’re… kissing me out of regular obligation. There’s no passion there though…it’s a peck here, a peck there…”

“I…I don’t understand. I kiss you.” Silence again. How do you say that the reason it isn’t working is because it was never two people working together but always one person running in circles to keep the ‘we’ afloat.

“I want a partner,” I said. “I don’t want to go to cooking classes alone when I have someone who supposedly loves me at home. And I want to go to Scotland…someday. And I don’t want the person who loves me most in the world to make me feel like I’m stupid for thinking I’ll get there …eventually.”

“Okay. We’ll go to Scotland. Come home and we’ll talk about it. Plan a trip.” And right then I lost all my steam. I didn’t have the energy to argue an argument in circles. I could not circle another minute.

“Stanley. I have to go. Thanks for calling.”

“Wait, did I say something wrong? If you want to go to Scotland. We’ll go. That’s what you want right?”

“Someday,” I said. “But not like this. Bye Stanley.” And I hung up. I don’t think I’d ever hung up on a living soul before. It crushed me to think of him sitting on the other end of the phone, staring at it in disbelief and not because of the idea of him in pain but because of the idea that his pain was caused by me. Because of what it said about me. That I was bad for making other people feel bad. But was it bad to take care of yourself? Are you bad if you are doing what you have to do to save yourself?

My phone received a text message. It was from Christian. Perfect timing. Of course. “Thinking about you” was all it said. Was it bad to be wanted? To want someone’s actions to demonstrate that they wanted you instead of you always having to instigate that want?

I curled up on the bed and rested my eyes. Oh lord. I was tired. The phone rang again. It was my mom. I couldn’t answer. I was down for the count. I spotted Get Some Manners on the nightstand and reached for it for the first time since Step Four. Chapter 5: Inventory Yourself. It’s important to take an honest evaluation of yourself. Where is your value? Have you been placing it outside yourself – in things, other people, your job? Oh bother…maybe I’d take a cue from Agnes and get a drink for this chapter. Taking inventory, a potentially excruciating endeavor, would be easier with a little something to take the edge off. I got up on went to the kitchen.

The Discount Life: Step Four: Cont'd

2009-12-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

I woke up disoriented with a splitting headache. I smelled men’s cologne before I opened my eyes and a flicker of lashes confirmed there was a tall, dark and handsome man laying next to me, completely asleep, mouth open, slight bit of drool chasing the pillow. He was adorable even when he slept like an old lady. So I’d done it. I’d slept with Mr. Handsome. I laid my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes and tried to recall the events of the previous evening. I remembered the bar, a cool urban loft like place with orange lighting and the smell of orchids everywhere. I remembered being handed more than my fair share of Manhattans. I remembered him opening the front door to his apartment, his arms around me, helping me in. I remember the feel of my face against his chest provoking the delightful feeling that I did not have to be in control. That I was engulfed by a big wide chest with muscles that poked through his tee shirt. I remembered I traced the outline of his pecks just before….come to think of it, I don’t remember anymore. How can I not remember the best night of my entire life?! I opened my eyes and checked to make sure Christian was real and not a hangover hallucination. He was definitely next to me. I just couldn't remember the getting into bed part, which was a crying shame considering he may be the sexiest man to ever lie beside me.

I needed confirmation. I rolled on my side and ever so deftly, lifted the sheet that hovered over his well muscled upper torso. Hmmm, boxers. No help. But I was delighted to see he had a little softness around his middle. He was toned but no washboard abs. He wasn’t perfect after all, which took some of the pressure off me. I took a glance at my own midsection. AHHH. I let him see that! I have to hit the gym.

I caught a glimpse of the clock – 6:30am. I was supposed to return to work today. Crap. And now I had to make it across town, dress at Mel’s and get to the office by 8:30. I had to hurry. I jumped out of bed and dressed quickly. As I slid on my high waisted pants, I smiled to myself. Guess they really were hot. Christian was oblivious to my noise and sleeping soundly with his arms and legs flailing out from the covers. I resisted the urge to wake him and instead left a scribbled note on his kitchen table:

Have to get to work. Had fun last night. Repeat soon? Chloe

Of course, I lamented my wording all the way through getting dressed and going to work. Repeat soon? What if he said no. What if he wanted to say no but felt obligated to say yes. What if…oh Chloe. Stop.

I made it to work at 8:33, no one seemed to notice my three minute liberty, but Joan, the office accountant noticed something. “I thought you were sick,” she said. “You don’t look sick. You look ….almost radiant.”

“Thanks? I wasn’t sick sick,” I said. “I just needed some personal time. That’s all. Better now. Thanks for asking.” I skirted by her as fast as I could and camped out at my desk for the morning. By 9:45 I started to worry that he hadn’t called. Insecurities burned a whole in my brain. Did I sleep with him? I must of. It must have been horrible. I was terribly drunk. I DEMAND a do over. I shuffled papers, I checked my email, I answered the phone but I caught myself frequently staring blankly at the wall, lost in thought. Was he not calling because I was that bad? No he was just a busy working guy. Was he not calling because now that it wasn’t forbidden, it wasn’t exciting? Yes. That was it. Working is just a ploy! Oh god. And I went on like this for hours, the good and evil scenarios weighing equally on my mind. For a moment I wished I was a man with the ability to turn off communication without a second thought. Andrew and Mel regularly neglected to return my phone calls. I didn’t stress out over them? But this was different.

And then, at 2:30, he called. “You ran out on me this morning.” Relief coursed through my veins.

“You were sound asleep. Didn’t want to wake you.”

“Wish you had. Mornings are my best hours, if you catch my drift.” I blushed. I had seen but I wasn’t going to mention it. I put my hand up to my cheek to hide my face and said, “Christian, I’m at work. I really can’t talk right now.”

“Okay. Just wanted to tell you, I had fun last night. Can’t wait to see you again.” I wanted to jump up and down and do a little touchdown dance. Instead, I stayed rooted in my uncomfortable office chair.

“Me too.”

“Talk to you soon.” He hung up and I had to go pour myself a cup of coffee that I had no intention of drinking just because I was too excited to sit still at the desk.

For the next two days Mel and I relived every detail I could recall from the events of Thursday and Friday. “Did he dance well?”

“No. But he danced.”

“Got to give him credit for that. How was his bathroom? Was it dirty? I hate a dirty bathroom.”

“Very clean bathroom. I was surprised actually. He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy. But his bathroom was clean.”

“Does he kiss well?” Ahh, the kiss. I remembered the first kiss. We’d left the bar. He hailed a cab to take us back to his apartment and just before we got in he turned me to him, put one hand at the small of my back and one hand on my cheek, pulled me to him and gave me a long, soft, parted lip kiss.

“I think I made gaga eyes at him, which is embarrassing. I don’t know why I can’t play these things cool.”

“And then what happened?”

“We got in the cab and went home. And I told you I don’t remember if we did it or not.”

“Has he called again?”

I sighed. “No. We ended with him saying “Talk to you soon.”

“Okay well don’t stress. When guys say soon they mean anywhere between tomorrow and three weeks from now. He’ll call. I can feel it.” I stopped myself from saying I hope so out loud.

Sunday morning came and I busied myself getting ready for the DLA meeting. I checked my phone. No messages. No bother. I’m completely busy and unable to chat anyway. I turned my extra energy into extra effort picking out my clothes and gathered our things for the meeting.

We’d moved the venue indoors at the same coffee shop that Christian and I sipped coffee on our first…well you couldn’t call it a date now could you? But on our more than just coffee get together. It was getting too cold for outdoor meetings. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, our fingers were going to freeze on the park bench. And today was the day we brought our DL partners. Andrew agreed to meet us there. I felt an anxiousness about his arrival that I couldn’t explain but did not share with anyone and brushed off.

Mel, Jack and I arrived on time. The coffee shop was nearly empty at this early hour and Mel and Jack went straight to the counter to order. I was stopped – assaulted, if you will, by Agnes, the joint DL partner of Lizzie and Tucker.

“You what they calls the ring leader ,eh?” she pronounced it lead-ah with a cockney sing song that almost made me laugh.

“I don’t know about ring leader,” I said, stressing the ‘r’ in leader. “But I did start the DLA.” She was dressed well in black slacks, a velvet throw. Her hair was immaculate and frozen in place. From appearances Agnes was a perfectly polished British transplant. It was the smell of scotch on her breath that gave her away.

“Wells' you might have guessed I’m an alcoholic. But it’s we low life’s that bring the most fun. What’s a gathering without a middle aged woman without a filter?” Her syllables were so crisp they had the effect of biting into an apple everytime she approached a ‘t’ or ‘d’.

“I suspect that’s why you’re here then, right?"

“Right ‘o. You’re going to fix the old bag up.” She slapped my shoulder and I laughed as she walked away to join Lizzie and Tucker.

We mingled while we ordered. Shot the breeze. Tucker said he’d been living at the 17th Street shelter, a place that he absolutely detested for its lack of lighting and the fact that it was “full of degenerates.” He neglected to include himself among them but who was I to judge. Everyone ran their marathon at their own pace. Lizzie regaled her youngest daughters performance in the Thanksgiving play at school while we stood at the pick up counter. “She was a cow. I had to find a cow costume. And, correct me if I’m wrong, but were there even cows at the first Thanksgiving?”

“I’ve never seen them but then again, Thanksgiving never really happened. So who’s to say?” said Jack. I listened to their gibber jabber for several minutes, scanning the door for Andrew. He wasn’t there. We took our seats and I was just about to pull out my notebook when he came strolling through the door, 12 minutes late and with baggage. A pixie like carry on, tiny as a toddler. “Hey Chloe,” he walked straight for me and leaned in for a hug. He searched my eyes for a minute and said, “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I stiffened under his touch. I was uncomfortable with discount girl watching. And who said he could bring her? He was my discount partner. Now, what, we were going to share him?

“Good. Good.” He turned and put out a hand to usher Discount Girl to me. Chloe be nice. “Chloe, this is Marie.”

I hate her. “Nice to meet you,” I said holding out my hand. She accepted with a, “Nice to meet you” in return. I managed a smile, with the equivalent sentiment of a shrug, and motioned for them to sit at the last two seats available – located, unfortunately directly across from me. They surveyed their chairs, undid their coats, and during their inattention I took a moment to size her up. The thing was she wasn’t 8 feet tall or a Victoria’s Secret model. She was short and rail thin in that impish sort of way. She had poorly highlighted hair and carried the facial expressions of a mannequin. This was the no discounts girl? The one he was going to settle down with and buy new furniture for? Chloe, I admonished myself – You. Are. Not. Attached. Be nice. He’s happy.

“Thanks so much for letting me come,” Marie said. “I’ve been excited to meet you.” I wanted to say, I didn’t invite you but smiled instead and said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.” Half truth. I imagined a lot about her but actually knew very little. My dislike was based purely on principle – she was sitting on my porch, which wasn’t mine at all, and drinking my sangria, which …also…wasn’t really mine at all. Why did I hate her again?

Agnes leaned over, studying my face. The smell of scotch on her breath nauseated me as she said, “That one’s a wee bit of an elf, isn’t she?”

I stifled a laugh and said, “Agnes, do you need a coffee?”

“I like myself better on a cup ‘o gin but I’ll settle for coffee and Kahlua if you’re buying.”

“How about just coffee?”

“Well if you’re going to take all the bloody fun out if it then just forget the whole bloody thing.” She turned away from me dramatically. I motioned for the waiter to come over and ordered her a coffee with a shot of Irish crème flavoring. That would have to suffice.

“So,“ I said. “Let’s begin the meeting.” I counted the number people around our tables. “Eight members.”

“Nine,” said Andrew. He jerked his head in Marie’s direction.

“I’m not officially joining yet,” she said. “Eight is fine. Maybe nine next time.”

Alright enough. I swallowed hard and forced myself to smile genuinely. “Either way, eight or nine members, the more the merrier right? Can’t put a limit on self truth,“ I said. “So last time we left off with Step Four: Allowing a State of Process…..” Marie smiled at me with gratitude. Oh fine, I’ll do it. Here we go – let the gradual amity begin. She looked up at Andrew with her mannequin expression. Blank but loving. He smiled at her broadly as if to compensate for her lack of animation and darted his eyes in my direction. I had to look down to keep from betraying myself…...

*Next Time on the DLA - the meeting's resolution, Thanksgiving Dinner and a confrontation with Stanley leave Chloe finally ready for Step Five....

The Moment Just Before....

2009-12-07T10:11:00.001-08:00

The moment just before – that’s the Holy Grail. A pocket of perfection; the only kind that exists. We learn, as we grow older, to temper our expectations. But human as we are, they sneak up on us anyway. In the moment just before, the world is simple. It’s the place where all the fairy tales exist. The minutes, the seconds, right before, when everything you dreamed is possible.

Take, for instance, the moment just before the party. The happy chatter heard from above before they know you’re there – listening. The reverberation of people’s joy in a moment you helped foster and all those expectations, those fairy tales, rise up inside you and make you smile at yourself in the mirror. This moment is pure joy, as of yet, untouched.

The moment right before is your heart’s truest. Reality is still what you hope, not yet what is. Uncomplicated. Like the seconds before the first kiss – too wet or too dry, makes no difference. It hasn’t happened yet and your kiss, still descending, can’t be anything short of miraculous.

Perhaps it’s the anticipation of the thing and not the thing itself that makes life so ephemeral. Like Christmas Day – a 35 day build up that’s over faster than you can say Kris Kringle. But it’s magic if you please. The gradual build up of cheer and love and joyous anticipation. The biggest moment just before of the year. When it’s over there’s always that twinge of sadness because the moment after breaks the fairy tale. The moment after makes you adult. The moment after is like a double edged sword – it might be just as magical or it might let you down. But in the moment just before it’s almost like living in a childhood Christmas tale. And the people you love, love you and they’re happy and fed and laughing. And the rooms fill with music, and the walls fill with scribbles and for a moment, just a moment – you’ve captured happiness in the palm of your hand.

I like to think there’s enough moments just before to carry us through another year, and another year - into a lifetime. We’ll make them, we’ll plan them and together, we’ll battle that all too familiar life call to “grow up” entirely. And it just so happens, I’m living a moment just before right now. With you. The moment just before I post this, I’ll be proud. Satisfied. Pleased. In my fairy tale this page is exactly everything I hoped. After, I’ll wonder if you read it. If you felt the same. If I made it too emotional or got carried away with my inner thesaurus. But for now, and theoretically, for always, this day, this party, this end of 2009 – is the moment just before the rest of our lives. It’s beautiful. The Holy Grail. Nothing short of miraculous. And it’s filled, by the grace of God, with all of you.

The Discount Life: State of Process - Pre-Inventory Yourself

2009-11-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

As it turned out, days turned into a week and I don’t remember much of the first 48 hours. I slept, I drank Mel’s tea, I called in to work, I slept some more. Mel and Jack went about their lives and left me in the comfort of the guest room, an initial sanctuary that quickly began to feel like a loony bin. What was I doing? And yet the answer to the question seemed very logical, very sound: you’re saving yourself. No more discounts.

Except that when I developed the concept I envisioned a world where clearing all your discounts, setting goals and following through led to a life of contentment and harmony. So far, I’d dismissed several good fashion items with the potential to come back in style, fatally exhausted my lungs only to be light years away from running a marathon, left my boyfriend of six years and my home and all the picture frames that went with it. No discounts was beginning to feel like a very convenient phrase for loser. How long was my two minute movie clip going to last? I mean really. Self-awareness should do you the favor of moving life a long at a pace that reassures you that Richard Gere is just around the corner and that all this change will pay off in the end. But my plea seemed to fall on deaf ears.

By Wednesday, I pulled myself out of bed long enough to shower and throw on some sweats. I pulled my hair back in a knot and examined my face. The remnants of puffy crying lids had been reduced to taupe circles under my eyes. My chin had birthed a couple of teenage era break outs, which could be related to stress or the fact that my comatose recluse act had kept me from washing my face for three days. And let’s not even talk about my hair. The roots were unspeakable. When had I just stopped caring about my appearance? And was that a wrinkle creasing around my left eye? If no discounts continued to wreak this much havoc on my face – I’d be a shriveled up mummy by next week.

I rested my arms on the bathroom counter, leaned over the sink and closed my eyes. I thought, momentarily, about crying again – it is indescribably hard to stop feeling sorry for yourself when you’ve given up near your entire life AND your reflection proffers a premature Betty White in the mirror; a tired one at that. But the smell of coffee hit my nostrils and something like a light bulb clicked on in my head. What time was it? I had no idea. Mel had neglected to put a clock in the guest room and my cell phone was in my purse, which was in the entryway where I had not been since Sunday when I collapsed, as fast as possible, into a Nyquil induced coma. There were black out blinds on the windows in the guest room which contributed to my days on end of sleeping but the slight etching of light coming from their corners suggested it was morning.

I cracked open the door and peered around the apartment. You could see pretty much the whole lay out from this spot. I heard no one, I saw no one and I rebuffed myself for feeling timid in Mel’s house. In times passed it was as if it was my own but now it felt foreign. Occupied – by a boy. I tip-toed toward the kitchen and relaxed as I turned the corner until a familiar voice said “good morning” from his birthday suit and his boxers. I jumped, turned and covered my eyes with my hands.

“Jack! I’m so sorry,” I tried to find the door and hit the wall instead, “ I didn’t know anyone was here,” I said, turning and hitting the kitchen chair, stubbing my toe with great force. “Damn it…”

“Chloe. It’s fine. I took a chance you weren’t joining the living yet. Miscalculation.”

“Oh. It’s okay. This is your house. My fault,” I said, standing still, my hands firmly over my eyes. There was an awkward silence enhanced by the clanging of the spoon he used to stir his coffee.

“Chloe. Stop. You’ve seen boxers before. And I’m leaving anyway. Gotta get dressed for work.” I could hear him moving. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Have some coffee. It’ll be good for you.” He made for the kitchen door and I let down my hands and walked toward the coffee pot. “I know that tea Mel’s been making you tastes like shit.” I laughed and secretly agreed with him. I poured myself a swimming pool sized mug of coffee, Mel liked all her mugs to be the size of soup terrains, and walked to the window. Look at that – the sun was shining. Huh.

I went to my purse and checked my phone. Two missed calls from Stanley. Eight missed calls from my parents house. One from work. And one from Judy. I put the phone down and climbed back into bed. Get Some Manners was back on the nightstand. I flipped it open to Chapter 5: Inventory Yourself. I glanced down at the coffee stain I’d had enough time to make since pouring the cup in the kitchen. Between my hair, my stain, my skin, my condition and my aloneness – inventorying myself sounded like a sure way to end up on a ledge. No thanks. Let’s skip that this morning. Instead I grabbed a magazine. 10 Ways to Show Your Mom You Can Dress Up Like a Lady, Beauty on a Budget, How to Inspire Him This Thanksgiving. I flipped through it long enough to feel my own inspiration. Retail therapy. A reason to get out of the house. A perfect reason to get out of the house.

I waited until I heard Jack say, “ By Chloe” and shut the door behind him. I took an inordinately long time getting dressed but when I checked the mirror I still felt garish. Oh Whatever.

I drove to the nearest mall and basked in the idea that inside those four walls would be the miracle drug that would get me through the next phase. I parked the car, located the directory and made a mental map of the A-listers: Anthropologie, Jcrew, Banana Republic, Urban Outfitters, Arden B – When I hit Anthropologie, instinct kicked in. I ignored the myriad full priced, very beautiful items, and went directly to the sale rack. I piled my arms high with swag of multiple colors. A rush of contentment washed over me. In the dressing room I began my personal fashion show with a ruffled top and a pair of high waisted, wide leg pants. I stood before the three way mirror and examined myself from every angle. Was it disturbing if I admitted that three days of depressive not eating had shaved off those couple of pounds that had resisted the advances of the elliptical before? My butt looked awesome! Immediately, as all women do, I began to come up with scenarios in which it would be plausible to wear this outfit. Each scenario inevitably led to meeting the love of my life and living happily ever after. I pictured Christian and before I could control the situation my brain had him ripping my pants off….Stop it Chloe. That’s ridiculous. But I bought the pants anyway.

My next foray was at Banana Republic, where I tried on a little blue dress at 40% off and stood back to admire myself. It was little too tight across the bum and a little too short if I was honest; when I moved it hiked dangerously close to my area of mystery. But the sales lady came up behind me and said “Wow, you look fantastic in that”. Half truth. I looked like an almost perfect version of a slightly slutty semi-intelligent secretary. “You know Cameron Diaz wore a dress just like that to the People’s Choice Awards and you look just like her in it. Better even”, which is the world’s worst sale’s line and could only be true if I grew a foot in ten minutes and found a male model to hang on my arm. But its having been said out loud in reference to me made me smile regardless. I bought the dress.

It was one of those times where you know you shouldn’t do it but it feels marvelous so you do anyway. Like the boy you shouldn’t have kissed but did or the box of Thin Mints you know you’ll regret but go so far as to consume an entire sleeve in one sitting and then berate yourself for the rest of the night. Purchase after purchase, I felt my anxieties calm. The cooling effect of a lifelong drug: immediate gratification. As I packed my purchases in the car, the little voice in my head said this was not the behavior of a woman in control of her new No Discounts life. And I was more than a little afraid to face Mel. As in most cases, the truth was already there: I had used one vice to compensate for a void instead of dealing with the void. Despite the fact that I was aware, I chose to briefly suspend that knowledge and indulge in what I knew would make me feel good right now. Get Some Manners said that a person who is always suspending their “truth” is doomed to repeat the very thing they wish to change – over and over. I knew this. I heard “Be true to yourself” like a record on repeat in my head. But I would wait to hear it from Mel to fully acknowledge it.

To make myself feel less guilty and more accomplished, I dialed Andrew on my way back to Mel’s. At least asking him to be my DL partner would prove I had made an attempt to adhere to the DLA. I got his voice mail and left a too lengthy message that in retrospect, truly said nothing at all but, in woman speak, gave him every detail of the last four days in babble. Mel would’ve known exactly what the whole charade meant. I ended with “call me. I’ve got a question for you” and hung up. He was probably with discount girl. Why did that bother me so much? Detach yourself from the situation. That’s what Get Some Manners said. I am detached from the discount girl. I am detached from the discount girl. I don't care. I don't care. I repeated it until I got back to the apartment. By the last go round I was actually starting to believe it.

Mel greeted me at the door, a déjà vu I was happy did not end the way it did four days ago. “Successful day?” she asked. I looked down at my loot and sighed, “I know. I know,” I said mournfully. “It’s a load of discount stuff.” She didn’t say anything but raised her brows and smiled. “ Awww…crap. I’m going to have to return it all aren’t I?”

“Well, maybe not all of it. Let’s see some first”. We went inside to dissect the purchases from the floor of her walk in closet. She examined the pants, the shirts. I tried on the misguided dress. “Why’d you do this Clo?” she asked.

“You know why.” She nodded. “I wanted to feel happy and content, which I know doesn’t come from buying clothes. It comes from my intrinsic value. I am valuable even if I’m only valuable to me,” I said sarcastically, repeating word for word the mantra Get Some Manners attempted to instill in its reader from page one to my current resting spot of Chapter 5. Which still remained: Inventory yourself, and which I was still unwilling to do.

“You are valuable Clo. And you don’t need a dress and pants and a belt to prove it.”

“I know. But they’re cute right?”

“Okay you might need the pants to prove it but that dress is slutty. Take it back.”

“I will.”

My phone rang. “It’s Andrew.” Mel made a face. I made one back and I answered, “Long time no talk stranger.”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Trying on slutty clothes and getting yelled at by Mel. I have to return them.”

“Don’t return it all. Guys like slutty clothes sometimes. ”

“I’m keeping the pants.”

“Good call.”

“You haven’t even seen them.”

“I have a picture in my mind. It’s very clear. You should keep the pants.” Our banter felt complete again, which really only meant I didn’t feel her this time. There was a difference in his voice when she wasn’t nearby. Relief washed over me like someone who just realized they aren’t going to fall afterall. “So, you have a question for me? Shoot.”

“Oh yeah. Will you be my DLA partner? We’re doing partners for the DLA meetings on Sundays and I just thought since you helped me with my list I’d ask you?”

“Oh. Yeah sure, I guess. What about Stanley?” I was silent. Mel looked up from the floor and smiled reassuringly when she registered the panic on my face. “No discounts,” I said quietly.

“What?”

“No discounts,” I repeated with more strength this time, my heart pounding in my chest. “I’m not with Stanley anymore. I’m staying with Mel for a while and I’m not asking him. I’m asking you.” This time he was the quiet one.

“Okay,” he said, after a long pause. “I’ll be there.” I didn’t try to fight the tears that clouded my vision but I did, unsuccessfully, battle the emotion that clouded my throat. “Thank you,” I croaked.

There was a long stretch of silence and he broke it, saying, “I’m here Chloe. Whatever you need. I’m here.” He said it so softly, I thought I could crawl inside it and sleep peacefully there for life. When we hung up I wiped the threatening liquid from my eyes and turned to Mel. “I think I’m gonna wear these to cooking class tomorrow”. I faked a smile and held the pants up to my body.

“I don’t think I’m going to go,” she said.

“Why?!”

“Because you don’t really want me to.”

“I do too. I asked you, remember?”

“Yeah but that was before….” I hadn’t told her about Christian but I knew what she was going to say, “who is he Chloe?” Damn Mel for reading me like an open book all the time. Other people only hear what you tell them. But the real people in your life know more than your words. She could read between my lines. She heard everything. She saw everything. She knew everything.

“His name is Christian. He’s – amazing.”

“Do you think you guys have a shot or is this a fun thing?”

“I don’t know.” I paused. “And Mel, I really don’t care.” She nodded.

“Then you should wear the pants. You look hot in them.” We stared intensely at each other for a moment, then burst into carols of laughter.

His back was turned to me when I walked into class. God he was tall. And have I mentioned how gorgeous he is? Mmm. He turned when I said, “Hi there” and gave my outfit a once over. He was mute and shook his head as if to clear his attention. I sensed approval.

“I was wondering if you were going to make it to class tonight,” he said. “You were cuttin’ it close.”

“Worried?”

“No. Just curious.”

“Well, I’m here now,” I said. He sidled up next to me. “And I’m allowed to sit as close to you as I want.” He cocked an eyebrow.

“No Stanley?” I shook my head, no. “Does that mean that I can take you out for drinks tonight?”

“I told you. I’m a light weight. You’ll be carrying me home.”

“I’m okay with that.” Electricity pulsed through my body. My pheromones were primed.

“Alright. I’ll go for a drink. One. Drink.”

“Sounds like that’s all I’m gonna need,” he said. He grinned from ear to ear as Alex walked in saying, “Tonight we’re going to make Hot Tamale Pie. I have to warn you about the chili peppers. They’re tricky. Get too much at one time and your body will explode with heat.” I glanced at Christian. He returned the eye contact and his expression said he hadn’t missed the irony either. He brushed his finger tips against my leg under the veil of the island and I had to disagree with Alex. If anything was going to make my body explode with heat tonight, it wasn’t going to be the chili peppers.

The Discount Life: Step Four - A State of Process

2009-11-17T09:56:00.000-08:00

Except I let the packed bag sit there for four days before I did anything. The courage I developed the night of coffee with Christian slowly ebbed until I’d pushed the bag under the bed and bid myself a moment of insanity. My thought process slowly strung together reasons why separating myself from Stanley were obtuse: Where will I go? Jack and Mel just got engaged tonight. You’re not going to show up tonight of all nights begging for a home. Who will stand beside me in the Christmas card photo this year? Who’s place card will be attached to my place card at Judy’s next party? It’s ludicrous to believe you won’t find struggles in other relationships. So I decided to stay and try harder. But Mel called on Sunday and broke the confused trance.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Happy DLA Day.”

“There’s no meeting today....”

“I know but its Sunday – its your day in my book.”

“My day and the Lord’s day. No pressure there.”

“So I’ve decided to ask Jack to be my DLA partner. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Sure.”

“Are you going to ask Stanley?” I stammered, I stuttered, “Uhh, no. I was thinking of asking Andrew. He’s already helped me so much with my goals list and Stanley hasn’t shown much interest.” And because I certainly wasn’t going to ask Christian, but I also wasn’t going to say that out loud.

“Oh.” There it was again, the one syllable word that meant surprised, not surprised and pity simultaneously. “Andrew’s been MIA lately, huh? New girlfriend and all.” Tug. Did she have to bring her up?

“Yeah I guess.” I paused. “ He’s busy too.”

“Have you met her?”

“No. Hope I don’t have to either.”

“Ohhh, territorial I see.”

“I meant, unless its serious. I hate having get to know these girls, like them and then they disappear. I just want to look at them and say – look, you won’t be around long so please excuse me for not putting forward a lot of effort.”

“Oh come on. You never like Andrew’s girlfriends.”

“That is not true. I was really nice to the last one.”

“Well sure. You’re not going to be mean to them but you don’t like them.”

“Stop saying that. I like them fine. I just wish he’d choose someone who’s up to his level. Someone up to par that I could enjoy too.”

“Half truth.” We were silent for a moment, the weight of her words hanging in the air over us. I supposed if I really thought back over it, I had felt awkward about every single one of his girlfriends. But I gave myself credit for always growing to like them. A gradual but eventual amity that ensured I had completed my duties as a friend. But something was different this time. I dreaded seeing this girl. This No Discounts girl. She was probably eight feet tall, a Victoria Secret’s model and a doctor. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to hate her.

“Anyway…,” deflection, “What are you doing today?”

“Just hanging out. Me and Jack. Nothing much. Want to get together? Do something?”

“Yeah. I’m going to run first. I’ll come over after that? Say 3ish?”

“K. See ya then!”

I hung up the phone and glanced at the bag under the bed. It was calling me and I was ignoring its song. I dressed myself for the chilly weather and headed out for a long run, which, by the grace of God, had extended itself from one mile to three.

“I’m headed for a run,” I said to Stanley, barreling down the stairs. I found him on his usual cushion of the couch.

“Okay. How far are you going this time?”

“Three miles? I hope. If I don’t fall over from exhaustion.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. I’m going to need it.” And I opened and closed the door behind me as quickly as I could.

The sound of my feet hitting the pavement made a rhythm in my head. One. Two. Three – one foot in front of the other. Baby steps. And, much like life, the run began to work itself out. The first mile incised a burning in my chest. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. But one foot in front of the other and I was. I rounded the city streets. Heard their chatter, spied on its citizens from the innocent vantage point of a nameless runner. It’s funny how life, though the same for most people, can look so different when you’re in one place watching someone else in theirs. I smiled and even laughed to myself at the snippets of people's days I was privy too when they thought I wasn’t looking. They were small movie clips I catalogued in my brain for those later moments of quiet when I needed something to reflect upon.

I ran into the city park and stopped at the small lagoon. I spied on a man and boy, playing with children’s fishing rods, the plastic bobs bouncing up and down as the little boy tugged the string from left to right. From up on a hill a woman called out “smile boys” and took their picture. And I started to cry. Small, insignificant tears. They flooded the corners of my eyes until they ran down my cheeks. I picked up my run and cried, small tears, all the way home.

Stanley wasn’t there when I opened the front door. There was no note telling me where he’d gone. No indication that I should worry. Just an empty townhouse, filled with still frames of a very happy life. I went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, retrieved a glass and poured tap water into it. But before I could take a drink, I leaned over the sink and burst into heaving sobs. Why was I still here? I heaved and heaved for several minutes, a final acknowledgment that my state of process had made me so aware of myself and my life that I could not put the blinders back on and go about the minutia. When the outburst passed, I took a slow drink of water with shaking hands. I wiped my eyes clear of the tearful epiphany and walked upstairs to grab my bag.

And this is how I left: I showered and changed as quickly as possible. I grabbed the pre-packed bag out from under the bed, picked up the copy of Get Some Manners from the nightstand and got in the car as fast as I could. I am not proud that I didn’t say goodbye to Stanley that day; in the weeks that passed I would make amends. But that day I got in the car and drove to Mel’s on auto pilot, making every turn, passing through every light without even really seeing them. In a daze I arrived on her porch. When she answered my tears welled up again.

“I can’t go home,” I said. She glanced down at my bag and didn’t say a word. Mel was good at that – knowing when you needed her to just be. “I’m unhappy there,” I said.

She stepped out onto the porch, opened her arms for a hug and said, “I know”. I buried my face in her shoulder and heaved my sobs. “It’s going to be fine,” she said. “You’ll see. It'll all work out.” And she led me inside and said, “I’ll make us some tea. You can take the guest room.”

I walked into my assigned room, threw my bag on the floor and curled up in the floral scented sheets on the bed. All the anxious energy I'd spent weeks wafting through left my body in an instant. The sheets comforted and cradled me, and fell asleep before Mel returned with the tea. I stayed, just like that, for days.

The Discount Life: Step Four - Awknowledge a State of Processing

2009-11-10T11:39:00.000-08:00

At the end of class I checked my phone. It had happened. Jack had proposed. A text message from Mel, followed by a lengthy voicemail detailing the goings on, confirmed that he had, indeed, done a perfect job on his proposal. She even used the phrase All The Way to describe his perfection. The ring she detailed, a one carat diamond off set by swirls of tiny sapphires and diamond baguettes, was set in platinum, old as Alabama and just the kind of piece she’d have picked herself, a fact of which I assured Jack would be true after having viewed the picture he sent to my camera phone. She was happy and as luck would have it, so was I.

“My best friend just got engaged,” I said to Christian as we left through the double doors to the building. There was a coffee shop across the street. I pointed to it and we headed there.

“Awesome,” he said. “Congrats to her.” Our legs fell into stride, the cold air shrinking us into ourselves.

“Actually its two of my friends. Jack told me he was proposing tonight. That’s why Mel didn’t come to class. We consulted about it and I’ve kind of been waiting to hear how he did it.”

“How did he do it?” he opened the door and put a hand to the small of my back, ushering me in to an engulfing smell of warm espresso and chocolate.

“Perfectly,” I said, “no discounts.” His response was non-verbal, a quizzical scrunch of the face.

“Hold that thought,’ he said, turning to the cashier. “I’ll have a drip coffee. Black, please. Chloe?”

“I’ll have a non-fat latte please, no whip.”

“Aww, you’re taking all the fun out of it,” Christian said.

“I’m saving my thighs is what I’m doing.”

“Your thighs look good to me.” I blushed and to cover for myself, rolled my eyes at him for the second time that evening. In truth, he was always making me blush, even when it didn’t show. Around him there was a constant heat. If I could’ve unbuttoned my shirt again I would have but to do so would mean risking indecent exposure. I hid my face into task and started digging in my purse for some money. He stopped me, his hand touching my elbow; a disarmament.

“My treat,” he said, “you buy next time. And by the way, I know what you’re doing.” He turned his body mid way between myself and the cashier and paid the man with cash.

“What?”

“You’re rolling your eyes so you don’t have to accept my compliment.” He smirked and it said that I needn’t bother explaining myself. He knew he was correct.

“False compliments shouldn’t be taken,” I said.

“I don’t speak in riddles. I mean what I say. And I wanted to compliment you, so you should let me.” Why was this guy single again? Where was the flaw? He made me feel naked, exposed. Like he’d gained access to the little leather couch inside my head where I frequently sent myself for council. Like any second he would pull back the curtain and I’d have no place to hide. “You have nice thighs,” he said.

I responded, apathetically, with, “I’m going to get my coffee,” and walked to the pickup counter.

The tables were cozy, a scene for couples and snuggling. They were tiny and so close together our legs touched just by sitting. I wanted to let my knee rest on his knee all night but prudence suggested I’d have no shot at retaining his respect if I did. I shifted myself as far to the side as possible and hoped he couldn’t tell I wanted him to touch me. Something told me, he knew anyway.

“So, no discounts? What’s that mean? How did your friend propose?” I was hesitant to tell him about the Discount Life. It hadn’t gone over so well with Stanley. Or should I say that it seemed to represent something so small to Stanley, that given its epic stature in my world, his reaction to it as trivial deflated me. I wasn’t sure I could handle deflation from Christian. His role, thus far, had only made me feel more self assured. But the open earnestness on his face alleviated my fears. Falsehood or no falsehood, I was lured by his honesty.

“No discounts is a thing Mel and I have been talking a lot about lately. We’re kind of working on this project…” and I continued until I had unraveled the whole of the DL theory, including the park bench and its meeting of quasi degenerates. When I finished, the uneasy feeling that I’d disclosed too much of myself left me feeling susceptible. I started to fidget. He leaned in over the table, his shoulders rounding toward me, a stance I registered as interest and said, “I think it’s a brilliant idea. I mean, we’ve all done that in some way or another. It’s very – human.”

I smiled. Human. That’s what I had called it. “Well, so Jack called me and was terrified that his proposal wasn’t going to cut it after all that discount life talk. I gave him some pointers and he did great.” He’d asked her to meet him at her favorite book store, a place in the east end where the books were always two dollars more than Barnes & Noble but one that Mel thought had character. He’d feigned urgency and she’d called to cancel class with me. When she arrived, a sales woman approached her with a letter that read “I think you’re favorite author is trying to tell you something. Check the fiction section – Jack”. When she found Oates, Joyce Carol, in the fiction section she was met with several Post-It notes sticking out from the pages of her books. The first said, I love that you love to read more than you love anything else. Even me. The second said, I love that you never leave the bathroom without folding the toilet paper into a triangle in case a guest comes over.

I love that you can’t have anything on your plate touch before you eat it.
I love that you think you love Jim Beam but really its Jack Daniels. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell you – you never remember.
I love that you have to hit the snooze button exactly three times before you’ll get up in the morning.
I love that when my mother was in the hospital, you drove up with me in the middle of the night and didn’t ask me to talk.
I love that you steal the covers at night – actually I hate that but its you
I love the expression on your face when you find a pair of shoes you have to have even though you have a million pairs
I love that because of that expression I have no room in our closet – when we buy a house I want my own walk in
I love that every day and every night for the past three years, I have come home to a woman that has every piece of my heart.
I would love if you would be that woman for as long as we both shall live….

“The last one said, ‘I think you should open this book’ and inside he’d carved out space for the ring, so when she opened it, it was waiting for her. And then he came around the corner and said will you marry me?”

“Wow. He really did do a good job. I’m impressed. You didn’t tell him to do all that?”

“Nope. I just told him to think hard about the little things and he listened,” I sipped my coffee. “Glad to hear someone did,” I laughed. “Guess we’ll have a wedding to plan now. That’s exciting.”

“Is it?” he asked. “Do you wish it was yours?” The question startled me. Poignant questions usually warranted months, if not years, of friendship before they reached that level of introspection. His forthright speculation unarmed the standard of my evasive charm.

“No,” I said too quickly. “I’m not ready to be married.” Half truth.

“You’re not ready to be married or not you’re not ready to be married to him?” How does he do that?

“Both, I guess. If I’m not ready to be married to him, there’s no one else waiting in line. So I guess I’m not ready to be married.”

He looked me directly in the eye for several seconds before saying, “Aww, I don’t think it will take long for guys to line up for the job.” Sweet talk – to which my initial reaction was elation, followed quickly by distrust. It’s rare to find a man in life whose sweet talk didn’t fall short the second it required action. Perhaps that explains my current situation. If you set the bar low enough, disappointment is easier to stave off. But, as my presence at the coffee shop proved, not entirely. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to look into his eyes and let myself melt. Instead I said, “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me,” deflection, “It’s about Mel and Jack…”

He cut me off, “Let’s make it about you,” redirection,”Do you want to get married? Have kids?”

“Yes,” I answered too quickly for comfort.

“So what’s keeping you?”

“I don’t know. It’s just…” my hesitation provoked waves of guilt. Incrimination by omission. Christian raised his eyebrows questioningly. Almost mockingly. “There’s something missing I guess.”

He shook his head in concurrence. “So you’re here with me instead?” I opened my mouth to defend myself but nothing came out. The pregnant lull that followed was brutal. He stroked the rim of his coffee mug and with the demeanor of a scared school boy asked, “We have something here, huh?”

My heart jumped. “What?” I said, hating the sound of my affectation. “We’re just having coffee. Friends have coffee.”

“You’re doing it again,” he said wagging a finger at me and smiling broadly. I attemtped my defense and he put up his palm as if to say stop. He was right. I was lying to myself. I cast my eyes down. “So you like to cook,” deflection, “what else do you do?”

“I’m an office administrator for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”

“I meant, in your spare time you like to….?”

“Well, lately, I run and I play the violin and...,” I paused,” I have a goals list and I’m trying to focus on them.”

“Trying?”

“Well okay, Doctor Christian, what about you? Its your turn.”

“Me? I’m a schmuck.” Perhaps but a perfect schmuck. “I’m in marketing – online marketing for colleges and universities.” He went quiet and sipped his coffee.

“You can’t think that’s enough after all the questioning you put me through.”

“What else do you want to know?” Everything. Where are from? Where have you traveled? What’s your favorite cereal? But what popped out absent mindedly was, “What happened with Sophia?”

“Sophia, Sophia. God she was beautiful.” Ugh. Spare me. “And smart and funny too.”

“So then?”

“She was ready to grow up and I wasn’t. I mean, I’m grown up but she wanted to grow old ….we were together maybe 8 months? I knew from about month four that I wasn’t going to marry her but I stayed anyway. She was awesome and gorgeous.” If I had to hear how gorgeous she was one more time I was going to vomit in his cup. “But you know, I’ve seen it fall apart enough. And you don’t really know how it happens. Its just one day it’s a fairytale and the next its a nightmare.” Half truth. If you’re being honest with yourself you see it coming but most of us aren’t, so…. “I just didn’t feel like she got me on that level.”

“What level?”

“That level of feeling so low you don’t want to move and looking at your partner’s face and feeling like you want to claw your way back because the sad look in her eyes is unbearable. I guess, I just knew that I wouldn’t fight for her and deep down, she knew it too.”

“But why? She was beautiful and smart and apparently loads of fun…” he smiled at my sarcasm and shrugged.

“Because some people make you feel happy and totally yourself. And some people just make you feel happy. It’s not..all the way if its not both. She just made me happy, you know?” I did know. We stared at our coffees in silence. Mine was almost emptied and I thought to myself, this coffee that was clearly just coffee is clearly not just coffee and I was clearly out of my mind. “I think I should go,” I said.

“Yeah, my coffee’s gone too.” We stood and put our coats on, my heart thumping so loudly I could hear its pulsing in my ears. We walked to the double doors in silence. “It was nice talking to you Chloe. You make me think. I like that.”

“Thanks”. He leaned in for a hug just as I offered my hand for a shake.

“Oh,” he said, and pulled back.

“Sorry I...”

“No, no,” he said and put out his hand. “See you next week?”

“See you next week.” He held on a second too long to make the handshake friendly. I squeezed his fingers before I let go.

“Bye Chloe.” They might have been the saddest two words I’d ever experienced.

When I opened the door, Stanley was watching his usual line up. He didn’t move from the couch but looked up smiling and asked, “How was class?”

“It was great,” I said. “We made Eggplant Veloute and Roasted pork.”

“Sounds good.” He turned back to the television while he spoke. I hung my coat on the rack and said, “I went for coffee with a friend afterwards.” He was nodding his head in affirmation but did not turn to actually look at me. “That’s good. Was it fun?”

“I guess so. It was awkward,“ I admitted.

“Well new people can be like that.”

“Yeah. But it was fun anyway. It was nice to have someone to talk to.” He glanced at me quickly and smiled his patient smile, before looking back at the flashing images on the screen. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he should ask me who my friend was, or furthermore, that I should offer that he was male. But his complete lack of concern felt vacant, like I could’ve been out with George Clooney and he wouldn’t have been bothered. Nothing seemed to bother Stanley.

“I’m going to make myself a bath,” I said. “I brought you the left overs from class. Do you want them now or should I put them in the fridge for later?”

“Now would be great, thanks.” He stood up to take them from me and opened the lid to check the contents. “Looks delicious.” I watched him go to the kitchen and pull out some silverware. It pained me slightly, to see him exert the energy of standing up for the leftovers but not my entrance. It was the most emotion I’d seen from him since I arrived. This time, I did not try to tell myself to let it go. I no longer had the energy to maintain that all important cheer. “I’m heading upstairs.”

“Enjoy your bath,” he said and he plopped down on the couch to eat.

When the warm water of the bath engulfed my skin and the whole of the world had been blocked out by the pounding of water on water, the only voice I couldn’t shake was Christian’s. Sometimes people make you feel happy and totally yourself and sometimes people just make you feel happy…And sometimes people stop doing both only they don’t care. What then? What of the years of memories and entangled life arrangements? Do you just throw those all away? Every photo album, every framed image – means nothing? I couldn’t accept that since those pictures represented my life. Me. But if I was honest with myself, that was a half truth. Those pictures were still frames that, combined, illustrated a very happy loving world. Divide and explain them, you’d find a very different illustration. You’d see me saying Come on, smile. It’s a picture, and him saying we already have a bunch of pictures in front of trees. You’d see me saying this would be a great photo for our Christmas card and him saying Alright but don’t send too many out. We hardly speak to most of those people anyway. In fact, if you sized up most of the photos in our two story town house what you’d see is the world I had so carefully and painstakingly created. Which is not the same as the world that is. Get Some Manners said to practice non resistance to what is which is a professional way of saying stop fooling yourself and accept reality - not fiction. But fooling yourself wasn’t usually a practice you realized you preached. It was like a cake, layered upon layered until it was so high you couldn’t just go back and pick one piece from the middle and say this layer..this piece here is why. It was all the layers combined that made the cake topple over. All the small things.

But sitting in the bath acknowledging what is, was still only half way. I realized, as I got out of the bath dripping in suds, wiping them away with the towel, that I could never fully live the demands of the DLA as long as I was still resisting what is. The Discount Life dictated that I process my new knowledge and follow through. So I walked into my room and started to pack a bag. As I gathered my clothing, I saw my baby puke yellow cashmere sweater lying on the floor of my closet. I picked it up and rubbed its softness against my face. “No more discounts,” I said out loud, and I put the sweater neatly at the bottom of the bag.

The Discount Life - Step Three and a Half: Be in The Moment

2009-11-03T11:00:00.000-08:00

I got the call at work the following Tuesday while I was illegally viewing clothingforless.com, a sight I had sworn off, given my Discount Life discovery, but could not help but take a peak at every now and then. There were some beautiful cashmere sweaters on there. Hold your judgment. The changing of habits is a process. One can’t be expected to become an angel overnight.

That hour, my boss was out of the office and our booking agent and marketing director were out to lunch. The quiet office was mine alone. The phone rang and a familiar number lit up the caller ID screen.

“Jack! Haven’t heard from you in a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey Chloe. Am I interrupting anything? I know you’re at work.” I turned my head from left to right, slowly assessing the answer to his question. No bosses, no work & Get Some Manners opened to page 25. “I have a minute. What’s going on?”

Jack always had an air of coolness about him. He was polished, well spoken and thoughtful in the sense that he appraised all outcomes before saying anything out loud. But today, the Jack I had come to admire for his consistent display of refinement & culture, let it all slip out like he had suddenly developed Turrets. “I want to ask Mel to marry me. But she came home from your meeting on Sunday and ruined the plans I had with some talk I don’t understand. I need your help.”

My response was absolute silence. I was in shock. Mel had indicated that she and Jack had discussed marriage as a possibility anon. But the idea that it was about to happen sent me into a state of both elation and distress. Of course I wanted Mel to marry Jack. Their matrimony might be the most authentic union ever to exist in my life. Happiness for them was the not the issue. My distress arose at the thought that up until last week, I had been in a position to share this joy with Mel and now, post-Christian and mid self help book, I was in no position to mutually enjoy the fulfillment genuine relationships bring.

“Chloe? You there?” You must respond.

“I’m here. Sorry, you caught me off guard. But congratulations Jack! I’m so happy for you two.”

“Well there won’t be an ‘us two’ if you don’t help me get this figured out. I don’t know what to do now.”

“Wait, back up. What are you talking about?”

“She went to your meeting on Sunday and came back talking about this ‘all the way’ stuff. Some philosophical bull about getting to the truth and not settling for less. Which was fine. But then she started talking about us in the future and how she wanted our love to be like that and that she wanted me to be her partner and she knew that I was going to be great at this….I mean, what is that? Come on.”

I smiled privately to myself. Were all men afraid of really giving it their all? Even the ones who’ve earned the position amongst women as the paragon of male partners? “It sounds like she was complimenting you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“My proposal sucks,” he said, desperately, the anguish in his voice comparable to a child who had forgotten to leave cookies out for Santa. My heart swooned. Jack wasn’t worried that he would lose Mel to the challenging ideals of the DLA. He was worrying himself over how he could join her. Restored. Jack was the man I’d given him credit for after all. “I want it straight from the horse’s mouth. How can I prove to Mel that I’m an All the Way kind of guy?”

“Jack, I think she already thinks of you as an All the Way kind of guy. ”

“You should have heard her. It scared me to think that her expectations have suddenly gotten so much bigger than before. And is it life in general or just the proposal that I should be worried about. They say the way a guy proposes says a lot about how much he loves her. I don’t want to fuck this up. What should I do? Fireworks, rent out a hotel, fly her to Paris. How big does it have to get, to be all the way?” His frantic monologue touched my heart. I wondered, briefly, if Stanley would spend this much time worrying about how he would propose to me. My intuition said no. He would pop a ring in a box and hand it over like a beer he’d gotten out of the fridge – here you go, thought you might like this.

“Jack, I think you’re misunderstanding what all the way means. It doesn’t mean it has to be over the top all the time. It means it has to be real. Genuine. That’s all.” He gruffed dissatisfaction at me. “Tell me how you were going to propose to her.”

“I was going to take her to a nice restaurant. Maybe a play or something first. Then dinner. Then I was going to have the waiter put the ring in a glass of champagne and when he brought it over I was going to get on my knee and tell her I loved her and propose.” I was processing the scene. My first thought was: common, although sweet. “What? You hate it, see. Tell me what to do Chloe.”

“It’s not bad Jack. Really. It’s very sweet and she would be perfectly happy with it.”

“But?”

“Buuuut…..,” I drew it out dramatically. “It’s a relatively common proposal. Lot’s of girls get it. And lots of girls get fireworks and lots of girls get Paris. And its not really what we want. I mean, don’t get me wrong – Paris is great- but it’s actually like using someone else’s idea. It only counts if you put some original thought in to it.”

“So, I’m off the hook with the fireworks?”

“Look, the secret is, all girls want to know that you have thought them through one hundred percent. That’s the biggest, best thing you could ever do for her. A proposal shouldn’t just be a display. She knows you love her. She wants to know that you understand her at a level no else does.”

“And Paris doesn’t say that?”

“It can. It depends on how you do it. In Mel’s case, Paris itself does not say I’ve thought about you. That’s what a proposal should focus on. The tiny little things that make her- her. Not the fireworks.” I heard a small sigh of relief on the other end and realized I forgot one important thing, “and the ring. The ring is important. What kind of ring did you get?”

“It’s antique. I bought it from this vintage store she took me in once. She wanted to buy this pin for a friend, some orange thing with woman’s face on it, and I looked over and saw this ring and I thought that would be good for when I ask her to marry me. I really hadn’t been thinking about proposing but then I saw this ring. And after that, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I bought it.” I hate to be a downer here – the story is endearing and in the beginning, its retelling will bring her hours of sentimental nostalgia. But practicality says, ten years from now when the kids are puking and he’s late coming home from work…again, the story is going to matter much less then the way it looks.

“What does it look like?” His description, in typical Jack fashion, used every six syllable adjective in the dictionary and still managed to reduce the visual image of the ring to a piece of crinkled tin with a diamond in it. “Why don’t you just send me a picture of it.”

“I will. But you still haven’t helped me plan the proposal. I need you on this Chloe.”

“Jack, I’m not going to plan your proposal for you for two reasons. One: An all the way guy shows his love by doing the work himself. A good consultant doesn’t hurt but you have to put in your own sweat. And two: You love Mel so much, I know if you think about this you’ll do it perfectly. You can’t get too cheesy. Go rent a Meg Ryan movie and force yourself to watch it until the end. Just remember, any guy with money can do the big things. It all comes down to the small things - how much you think and the small things,” I stopped. “And the ring.”

“Can I pass it by you if I feel like I need to?”

“Of course. And, by the way, when are you planning this small but perfect proposal?”

“I was going to do it Thursday night. Should I wait?” Thursday was Mel and Jack’s date night until my cooking class had forced them to be flexible and make date night Wednesdays. But, in all sincerity, another evening alone, with Mr. Handsome, sounded far superior to sharing him with Mel. “You should do it.”

“Alright. I’ll call you later.” When we hung up I was filled to the brim. Where earlier I had felt such degradation toward the idea of watching my friend be truly loved in a way that I was not, now I felt excited by the notion that I had helped a genuine love grow stronger.

I was surprised, as well, that our DLA meeting had had such an effect on Mel. It was nothing to speak of, no grand epiphanies. In fact, the first official meeting of the DLA took place on the park bench where I first met Tucker. There were four people in attendance: myself, Mel, Tucker and Tucker’s sponsor from AA, Lizzie. “He asked me to sponsor him in this new organization he was trying out,” she’d said. “I figured, why not, right? You can always learn something about yourself.” Our meeting was less official than the sheriff in the Ronald McDonald gang. It had been more of a chat. I had yet to come up with a Step Four, given that the Step Three process of working on goals was so perpetual it hardly left room for more discovery, and in lieu of official business we sat for an hour and talked about the goals we’d set.

“My first goal is to find a real place to sleep,” Tucker had said. And my first instinct was to jump in and say he could stay with me. But Get Some Manners made it clear that rescuing people kept them from taking control of their own lives; people have to save themselves. Attempted savings only prolong their true recovery and your own self-sacrifice. Assess what it is to save someone versus what it is to help someone. Heeding the advice of my page shrink I said, “Why don’t you look into a shelter? There’s one a couple of blocks from here.”

“He’d have to stop drinking,” Lizzie said, throwing Tucker an expression that said we’ve discussed this a hundred times.

“Well, that’s a goal too. Find a place to sleep and stop drinking,” he said.

“Both good,” Mel added.

“Both good if you’re going to go all the way with them,” I said. “If you’re not going discount yourself, then you’re going to have to give in all the way. Be like Nike, just do it.”

“You have no idea what that takes little lady,” he said.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I know that every time you choose not to follow through, you choose to discount yourself. And before you were just you…”

“And me and AA,” Lizzie chimed in.

“Okay but now you’re you plus the DLA and AA. I think you’re running out of room for excuses.” He laughed and slapped my knee with his dirty hand.

“Alright. I’ll look into the shelter. No promises though.”

“The promises you make aren’t to us,” Mel said. “They’re to yourself. That’s the point of all this.” She raised her eyes to me as if to ask right? I nodded to her and smiled to myself. The core of it was all the same and, much like I had told Jack about the proposal, it was the small things that made it different. “Just be truthful with yourself Tucker,” I said. “Keep working on it. That’s all you can do.”

“True. True. And how about you?” he asked, “Do we have a step four yet?”

“It’s coming,” I said. “But no. It’s like once you set your goals and challenge yourself to really working on them, what step do you have after that? It could take years to finish these goals. Where do we go now?”

“Maybe you should try just being in the moment,” Lizzie said. “You’re processing right now. That’s a step in and of itself.”

“Yeah and 12 steps is a lot,” Mel said. “You might not need all 12 slots.”

“Or you might,” Lizzie retorted. “But this whole thing is a practice. It’s not a given. It’s a process. You’re willing to allow Tucker that. Allow yourself that.” I wanted to say but Tucker is a homeless alcoholic. He needs a bit more processing room than your average short sticker. But instead I said, “I’ll think about that.”

In the end, the DLA was like a therapy session for the latently self-observant. Four people on the road to a better life and when the closing hour descended and we’d stood to make our good byes, Lizzie said, “here” and handed me a miniature AA handbook. “I want you to have this. You might find it applicable, if you take out the alcoholic stuff.” I accepted, thanked her and put it directly at the bottom of my purse. The last thing I needed was for people to think I was going crazy and that I was an alcoholic. But having Lizzie there had sparked an idea: What if, like AA sponsors, we chose DLA partners? We closed the meeting by agreeing to meet three weeks later on the same park bench, at the same time, only we’d each bring another person.

As the week drew on, I intended to make my focus finding a DL partner but I found my attention drifting constantly to my cooking partner instead. Tuesday turned into Wednesday and I ran and played the violin. Wednesday turned into Thursday and I sat, impatiently through work, until finally it was time. I would be alone with Mr. Handsome …again, and Mel would have a ring on her finger. The anticipation of a great evening was almost more than I could bare.

In class we were making Eggplant Velouté and Roast Pork Loin with Cinnamon Apple Glaze. The eggplant we were asked to do alone, an instruction to which my body had a physical reaction. I wanted everything in this class to involve Mr. Handsome when possible. The pork we were told to complete together, to which my body reacted much more positively.

The first hour of class was a relative drag, made mildly better by the mischievous facial expressions tossed at me from Christian when he turned around to check on my progress.

“Don’t fall behind,” he said, “I want to get to that pork as soon as possible.” I feigned indifference and rolled my eyes. “Oh, bad mood?” he said, making a deeply exaggerated frowning face.

“No,” I said firmly. “I just have a lot on my mind and I’d like to get my eggplant finished, thank you very much.” My intention was to be curt, but my scoff could not belie my emotions. I was apprehensive to encourage him too much. I would lose my dignity if he thought I was that into him. And what little I had left I intended to keep.

The clock ticked on and Alex announced we could take a quick break before beginning our pork. I debated whether or not I should go to the restroom; a moment missed with Christian was a moment I would lament. But he surprised me, leaned over my island and asked, “You want to get drinks with me after this? You seem like you’ve got some stuff to talk out.” How should I respond to this? Is it kindness? A man, interested in a woman’s thoughts because she seems bothered. Or is it mischief? A man ,interested in a woman, using her troubles as a vehicle for extra time together. My instinct said both and I felt my pheromones spike again. I unbuttoned the next button on my shirt to keep from overheating. Or so I told myself.

“Maybe coffee instead? I’m a bit of a light weight. You’d have to carry me home if we did drinks.” He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head as if to say I wouldn’t mind that, but responded with, “Coffee it is.”

I went to the bathroom, secure in the knowledge that I would have plenty more time with Mr. Handsome before the night was over. As I walked away from him I faught the sway of my hips and mentally acknowledged that I did not know what I was doing and that I had no exact plan but that I was, subsequently, in a state of processing. That small affirmation was a minor miracle and I said to myself, “Be in the moment” before I let my focus slowly drift into fantasy.

Step Four: Awknowledge Your State of Processing

At the end of class I checked my phone. It had happened. Jack had proposed. A text message from Mel, followed by a lengthy voicemail detailing the goings on, confirmed that he had, indeed, done a perfect job on his proposal.......(next week: a proposal, a date? and a higher power)

The Discount Life: Step Three Cont'd

2009-10-27T10:44:00.000-07:00

Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome, which in and of itself is not that uncommon in the greater metropolitan area of Philadelphia. But usually in the wake of a beautiful man at the supermarket, there is a beautiful woman, dashing all your hopes that he is secretly searching for you instead of a good zucchini. But this man was tall, dark, handsome and suspiciously alone. I watched the minute hand tick by on the giant clock at the front of the room. Tick after tick, he remained solo. He had a boyish look about him. Too put together to have picked his gray sweater and jeans off the top of the pile, too disheveled to have put more than five minutes into the overall appeal of the look. His hair was messy. His chin had a bit of scruff, which made up for the bit that receded. He had a very good watch on (I’m a sucker for anything shiny). In other words: he was perfect. He was so appealing I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a man that walked in to join him.

The minute hand finally hit 7pm and a sprite, tiny sprig of a woman walked in and closed the door behind her. You would hardly guess she ate at all, let alone cooked. She began to make her way to the front of the room where a giant island stood waiting as her podium. Her presence quieted my nerves- mystery man was still alone and he was smiling at me.

“Looks like we’re on our own.” His teeth were very white. I got nervous and squished my lips together into an awkward smile. Say something Chloe. Say something.

“Yeah.” Stupid.

“Good evening class. Welcome to Cooking to the Next Level. I’m Alex & I’ll be guiding you through eight classes of culinary fun.” She blathered on for a couple of minutes about what we could expect to learn in the coming classes. I focused my eyes on her but behind their trained gaze my brain was busy lamenting that my response to a gorgeous man’s one liner was “yeah”. And by the prolific commentary flowing from our teacher, it seemed it would be ages before I’d get the chance to redeem myself.

“We’re going to learn how to take your basic sautéing, stocks and sauces and turn them into practical but gourmet dishes….” He was facing forward and paying attention to Alex as she spoke. Was he actually, of his own accord, interested in this? I was impressed.

“We’re even this week, perfect,” Alex said. I glanced around. The number of people in the class, save my missing partner, was a perfect eight. “Let’s pair up.” She walked around the room and pointed at the people she was putting together. “You two together,” she said pointing to Mr. Handsome and me. Of course I loved Alex from the beginning. She was an excellent judge of pairing, which, I can only assume, is a skill that lends itself to cooking as well. And, just between you and me, I didn’t care if Mel never came to this class.

Mr. Handsome collected his things and came around to my island smiling. “Hi. I’m Christian.” He set his stuff down and offered a handshake. I took it. “Chloe.”

“Nice to meet you Chloe.” He surveyed the room. “I don’t come to these types of things often,” he said. “Well, not alone I mean. “ Damn. His supermarket wife is around here somewhere. I knew it.

“Me neither. I’m doing it with a friend but she couldn’t make it tonight.” He smiled and nodded his head amiably. Alex was explaining how the use of the room was going to work….we all have to be responsible for the condition of the room before we leave tonight… and much like the school of my younger years, I tuned out the minute she mentioned cleaning up. I leaned in to my partner and said quietly, “If you don’t really cook, why are you here?”

“I bought this as a gift for my girlfriend. We were gonna do it together but she bailed.”

“Aww. “ Lucky me. “She’ll come next week, I’m sure”, which I was positive of because my luck could only stretch so far.

“No. I mean we broke up.” And the bright shining light of happiness cast a spotlight on me once again. “But I figured I paid for the class, so I might as well come. You never know.”

“I’m so sorry.” Blatant lie. Of course his singleness elated me. “I’m impressed that you thought of this though. It was nice of you.”

“Don’t be. It was my hairdresser’s idea. She said it would show that I was creative and interested and putting in effort for together time. Sophia said it was a dollar short and a day too late.”

“Well, it might work out to be fun anyways.”

He smiled at me. “I think so.” I was vaguely aware of Alex, mid room, encouraging the class to open our recipes to the second page but I chose to let my focus detour on Christian’s pearly whites. His smile was not just beautiful because he was last year’s Jcrew model. It was beautiful because it was genuine. He was not just tolerating this discussion. He was enjoying it.

“I just want to warn you,” he whispered, leaning into me and looking intently at Alex, “ I’m knew to this. I may be a bad partner.” Stop. Here’s the thing: life has a way of giving you the answer long before you’re ready to acknowledge it. I read somewhere that your body can sense what is good and bad way before your brain actually reaches the same conclusion. You’re body heats up in response to that which it senses is going to result in a negative outcome. What a shame we don’t pay attention to our heat sensors. We could save ourselves a great deal of time. But heat can be read two ways: 1) foreshadowing and 2) lust. I chose the latter and said, “I’m a pretty good cook. I can carry some weight.”

“Not too much, I hope. I like to think I carry most of my own weight.” Even better.

“For those of you who’ve already made this dish, I think you’ll be surprised what a difference a little added spice and texture can do to the stuffing.” Alex was at her podium. We had talked right through her entire lecture and landed unpreparedly at “Let’s begin.”

“I think we’re on page two. That means we’re making stuffed peppers, asparagus with squash aioli and French endive salad,” I said.

“With added spices and texture,” he said.

“With added spices,” I concurred with a giggle.

“You want to take the asparagus, I’ll take the salad and we’ll do the peppers together?”

“Sounds good,” I said. He walked across the room to the communal refrigerator and retrieved the ingredients we would need. When he came back to the island he said, “I was worried about this class but it’s turning out to be really fun.”

“It is,” I confirmed. We shared a smirk. The kind that embodies more than our spare words had allowed; a knowingness. I broke contact and glanced around the room to check the progress of our classmates. “I see boiling water and chopped veggies going on. I’m pretty sure we’re on the right track,” I said.

“We better be. I’m trusting you to keep us on the straight and narrow. I wouldn’t want to head down a dangerous path on the first day of class. If the teacher hates me already it’ll be like high school all over again.”

“Were you a trouble maker in high school?”

“No but I was easily led.” He met my eyes before looking away and saying, “Beautiful women can do that to me.” I blushed immediately. Was he referring to me? Panic. What do I say? This was the part I was so bad at. Instead of letting a perfectly fun, sexy statement roll by like I deserved it, I inevitably retort with something cutting like don’t be juvenile or, “I don’t see any of those here.”

“Well I see two for sure.” I raised an eye to his face but refused to look entirely at him. “You,” he said matter of factly, then made a dramatic stretch to look around behind me and said, “And that red head over there.” My head swiveled, perhaps a beat too fast. She was akin to a ginger haired Gisele Bundchen. Her Amazonian display dwarfed my 5’5 frame and my freshly highlighted hair felt extra Sandy with a bit too much root next to her flowing red locks. Should I have put more make up on? Chloe, your insecurity is showing. Shut up. I slapped his shoulder. “She’s Oh-kay”.

“She’s hot.” He emphasized hot with such force you’d think he’d just picked up a pan at 400 degrees with no gloves on. In response, I chopped my onions with equal, if not more vehement, force. “She’s pretty,” I said flatly.

“Don’t feel threatened,” he grinned,” I said you were beautiful first.” Can the pleasure of successful flirtation even be described? The clashing banter of wit and sex resulting in high wave frequencies that take a regular evening from passive to frenzy, have not a name to aptly depict the hypnotic passion they inspire. Making matters more intense, he was gorgeous. I could practically heat this entire Philadelphia block with the spike in my pheromones. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Besides,” he said, “She came with someone. She’s taken. And you’re here with me.”

“Love the one your with? Gee thanks.”

“No. Love the one who’s beautiful AND single.” Single. Wait. I wasn’t single. No, I had Stanley. Shit. My pheromones had just been shot down with metaphoric Tommy guns made of dry humor and lead weight.

“I’m actually not single,” I said with less enthusiasm than any comment I’d made all night.

“Oh,” he said in that way men do where, unlike women, they can’t hide their disappointment behind buoyancy and with one word make clear their regret at the turning tide of events. “How come the lucky guy isn’t doing this too? You said you had a girlfriend coming to take the class with you.”

“His hairdresser didn’t tell him to,” I shot at him. My venom was well aimed. I regretted it the second I watched his head droop.

“Touché,” he said. I stopped my chopping and raised a hand to his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to sound so mean.”

“No no. It’s true. I’m here alone because I was a lousy boyfriend.” He ripped his freshly washed lettuce and placed it in the bowl Alex assigned for everyone’s endive salad. “So how long you been with him?”

“Six years.” I paused. “But it hasn’t been going well for a while.” In general, I consider myself expert at deflection. But when I said this I couldn’t remove my own despondence. Why? Why did I just put that information out into the world? I hadn’t said that out loud….ever.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He said it softly and I got the feeling he meant it much more than when I made the same reply to his break up. I shrugged and said nothing in response. “You going to do something about that?” I shrugged again. Speechless. I could not meet his eye. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be your cooking partner even with….what’s his name?”

“Stanley,” I said.

“Stanley,” he repeated, a half sigh accompanying the name. “I’ll be your cooking partner even though you have Stanley. We just can’t have sex now.” He laughed and right then, I knew. I didn’t want to have Stanley. I knew it like you know that someone is about to deliver bad news. I knew it like you know lightening is going to strike after an ear cracking slap of thunder. I didn’t love him. I was going to fall in love with the devilishly wonderful man before me and there was nothing I could do about it. Half truth. There was nothing I was going to do about it because he saw me – All the Way. And for the first time, in a long time, I felt the remembrance of the pieces of me I had so pragmatically instructed myself to view as superfluous and let go of.

When my two minute self-growth movie clip rolled by and my new Julia Robert’s self looked back at this moment, I would know that the core of relationship failure comes down to this: You cannot be in love with a person who doesn’t see you - doesn’t hear you even though they’re listening - doesn’t understand you even though you’ve explained yourself in detail. Toleration is a coping skill and, in excess, cannot happily be a replacement for love. Thus, my relationship was deteriorating long before the JCrew model chopped a pepper next to my abnormally heated body.

But I wouldn’t know all this until later, when a bittersweet parting that night sent me on a confused detour to the Barnes & Noble self-help section. “Get Some Manners”, a book I shyly plucked from the bookshelf and thrust under an InStyle magazine to discourage witnesses from believing I was the kind of woman who actually needed therapy, was the true beginning of the DLA. It cracked open the façade and gave me the strength to realize the life I wanted. All the Way is a small term for such a large definition. In the end, the petite phrase stands as a paradigm for truth, value and what’s real. But right then, all it really meant was my life was going to fall apart. You know that saying, it’ll get worse before it gets better? All The Way kind of works like that. A systematic destruction of a very strong Discount Life before the dawn of a solid rebuild. But when I left Christian that night, each of us turning the keys to our own cars, no infractions committed despite the yearning, all I was really thinking was that I was crazy. That I was alive and vibrant and tingling and absolutely, no holds bars – Crazy. And, that logic aside, next Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.

Mr. Mouse

2009-10-20T10:14:00.000-07:00

There’s a mouse in my house

He’s a terrible louse
A varmint, a vagrant
A foe in my stead
He nibbles the trash bags and winds up my thread

Mr. Mouse, as he’s called,
Does not want a cookie
He likes peanut butter on sticks and dog food made sticky

‘Twas the night before Tuesday and lo’ and behold
The whole house was sleeping and Mr. Mouse felt quite bold

He skittered, he scampered
He dove from nook to nook
He stole from the tea jar
A regular crook

To scare and confuse you, he comes from the cupboard
But the piano’s his home
His safe Mother Hubbard

When his belly is full, thick with sugar and sweets
He gather’s his scraps and heads back to the keys
He thinks I don’t notice the tiny marks he’s left
But the C and the E keys have paw prints like clefts

I beg you, BE GONE!, Mr. Mouse from my house
You’re frightening, you’re furry
You give cause for shouts!

You wake me at night from the pleasantest dreams
You lurk in the shadows and bite all my things

This cannot go on, we cannot be friends
If you stay, I declare, my sanity won’t mend
Please listen, please see, curl up somewhere else
The world is quite open, a big pot that melts

Mr. Mouse, leave my house
It’s my one solemn plea
Best wishes , bon voyage
And please, leave the key.

The Discount Life: Step Three (cont'd)

2009-10-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday night the weather was officially cool. The whole of the house carried a nip that sent me running for my coziest sweater. Outside, people burned fireplaces and the air smelled of pastimes and cinder. I left the kitchen window open, the chill grazing my skin, a reminder that my favorite season was here. In the spirit of the DLA I was planning a meal to rival my fondest memories: chilly fall evenings, opening the front door to a warm home, the smells of something delicious wafting up to greet your nose. I’d kill two birds with one stone: I’d be working on Step #3 and Stanley would be pleased to come home to something warm and wafting. After a half hour of carefully combing the myriad cookbooks that typically went unopened on my shelves (when you make the same dishes over and over there’s hardly a need for cookbooks) I settled on Chicken Pot Pie. I was even going to make the crusts. A real chef would; Judy would never rely on Pillsbury for her masterpiece. Besides, like tomatoes, vegetables and chocolate chip cookies, food was better when it was fresh and not stored, shipped and packaged for consumption thousands of miles away.

It was 5:30 when I spread my ingredients out on the counter, placing the glass and silver bowls next to their corresponding counterparts, and stood back to admire my pre-cooking display. Martha Stewart, move over. I applauded my own organized, artfully displayed cooking preparations. Judy herself probably couldn’t lay it out better. The recipe said the pie took 35 minutes to prepare but a half hour into the pie crust making – I had the feeling they lied. What they should have said was 35 minutes to prepare- post dough. I timed it all perfectly for 35 minutes: the chicken was boiling in the pot, the gravy and vegetables sautéed and simmering in the dutch oven. The pie dish was glazed, floured and ready for assembly. But the damned pie crust was crumbling under my fingers and the rolling pin kept smooshing it into the counter top. Southern Living said “spread a thin layer of flour on the area in which you plan to roll your dough”. A thin layer? What a crock. I had used a half a bag at least to roll two pies and my organized Martha Stewart kitchen, previously of magazine quality, was now covered in flour and gravy, the spoon handles dripping on everything beneath us as we danced from pot to pot. I tried not to care. I was having fun. So what if the chicken was drained, ready and getting cold and the gravy was solidifying into a pudding-y layer at the top? I had made pie crust, hadn’t I? It was messy but it was all the way.

It was 6:30 when Stanley opened the front door and said, “Mmmmm, what’s that smell?” He sounded pleased and I was surprised to feel my heart leap with a modicum joy in response to his preemptive praise. My dreams of greeting him at the door with a short glass of brandy, a pie in the oven and a spotlessly cleaned kitchen were dashed but June Cleaver put too much pressure on us anyway. I had still managed to make a delicious, home cooked meal and Stanley wouldn’t know the difference.

I was placing the pie dough in the plate when he came in to pour himself his brandy. “Smells great. What are you making?”

“The Ultimate Southern Chicken Pot Pie.” I smiled. “That’s what the recipe calls it. I think I’m going to call it my Discount Life pie.”

“What?” He kissed me, a graze across the cheek, closed lipped and fast, then took a drink of the brandy in his hand.

“My Discount Life pie.” He looked at me quizzically. “Remember the violin? The running? My theory?”

“I don’t think you fully explained a theory to me. You just said you wanted to play the violin.” Half truth. That was not the whole of our violin conversation but I chose not to harp on the issue. I hadn’t fully explained the theory, he was right.

“Well its all part of this theory I’ve developed. The Discount Life. Selling yourself short because its easier. Not having goals or not working on them because you’ve already accepted to less. So learning to cook is a goal too and I’m making a pot pie from scratch. A whole pie, not a half assed pie. Maybe that’s what I’ll call it – Not a Half Assed Chicken Pot Pie.”

He nodded his head and said, “Can’t wait.” He walked over to the stove and stirred the gravy pot. “This stuff’s been ready for a while, huh?” His toned was raised, it sounded light and not exceptionally accusatory but it didn’t seem to matter. My brain registered first, his disapproval, and second the tonality of his statement. I instructed myself to let it go and respond lightly.

“Yeah. I got the timing off. That’s part of my “Learn to Cook Better process: Get. Timing. Right.” I took the gravy spoon from his hand, picked up the pot and emptied it into the dutch oven, stirring until the innards of my glorious pot pie emerged.

“This better be good. You’ve ruined your sweater for it.” I looked down. He was right. My chocolate brown wrap around was covered in white flour.

“It will be,” I said, ladling the pot pie mixture into the pie plate and covering it with a second layer of pie dough. “All that matters is that it tastes good.”

“Of course it’ll taste good. You cook fine.”

“I want to get better though, you know? Not just fine. But really good. And try something new. I like the challenge.” He was quiet as he observed the counter from left to right. I calculated the cynicism on his face. If the mess I had made of this kitchen was indicative of the cooking challenges expected ahead, his face said he wasn’t certain it would last long. “I signed up for a cooking class at Philly Cooks. It’s downtown. I signed you up too. Thought we could do it together.” I put the pie in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.

“Downtown is kind of far from my work.” Isn’t it funny how a small statement, timed just right, can mean nothing at all or the difference between happiness and heartbreak?

“Well, it doesn’t start until 7. You’re off at 6. You could make it.”

“It’ll be tight.” He sipped his brandy.

“It’s only one night a week.” He sipped again.

“What kind of cooking class is it? Like a couples class?”

“No but I thought if we did it together it kind of would be.” Noose. Neck. Pull. Come on Stanley, get on board with this. "It’s called “Cooking to the Next Level: From Beginner to Intermediate.”

“I don’t know that I can even cook beginner.”

“But I can. I could help you.” He was pensive for a moment, his mouth pursing. The tiny leap I’d felt when he’d walked through the door earlier had evaporated, reflexively, to his indirect aversion to my idea. The homeless man was right. Stanley didn’t want to cook. That was my thing. I was pushing him and that wasn’t fair. “I mean, you don’t have to do it. It was just an idea. I could easily go by myself and we could do something else.” I put the pot and utensils in the sink to soak and began wiping the counters and stove. Stanley stood on the opposite side of the kitchen table, arms folded across his chest save his brandy hand. He was stoically processing my offer. I waited. He took a little longer than necessary.

“Really, its not a big deal to cancel your registration. I should have talked to you about it before I made the plans anyway. I can go myself.”

“I just don’t really care about cooking like you.” I nodded, holding my gaze steady. Clearly, wiping flour from every surface in my kitchen required an intense, unbroken stare. I wanted to say but I care and you should care that I care. But I didn’t want to have to explain how love works, so I scrubbed the counter and said, “I understand.”

“We could do something else. I’ll look into something,” he said. His smile was so big his optimism almost masked his guilt.

“Okay, ” I said, tossing the rag in the sink. The kitchen was clean, the pots were soaking and the pie was rising beautifully.

“Okay. Perfect.” Perfect, I thought silently, but if you’d heard it out loud you’d have thought I intended to maim him. He walked over and patted my shoulder again, pecked my cheek and said, “I can’t wait to taste this Discount Life pot pie.” He emphasized the Discount Life as if it were funny. “When’s it going to be ready?”

“Dinner will be ready in 20 minutes,” I said, backing away from him. “I’m going to go change my clothes. You’re right – I made a mess of my sweater.”

“We’ll have to get you an apron.” I winked my eye and pointed a finger at him. “We’ll have to do that. Smart thinking.” He smiled, pleased with himself, and I went upstairs to change.

“So did it taste good?” asked Mel. I called her immediately following dinner. It was never actually said that I needed chat therapy but her careful inquisitiveness suggested she understood it inherently.

“Yeah. It did. But you know? Pillsbury dough tastes good too and it’s a lot less work.”

“But you did it. That’s all that matters.”

“True. I did it. And I’m proud of myself. I just might choose to make my discount life pie with Pillsbury next time.” She laughed. “And that’s not Discount Life behavior because now that I’ve done the real thing I know, in this case, I’m satisfied with less.”

She laughed again. “Did it inspire Stanley? Is he excited about your cooking class?”

“Uh – No. No, he decided he would rather do something else together.”

She said, “Oh”, in that way that women do where the one word expresses all of surprise, judgment and pity simultaneously. “What did he suggest?”

“Nothing yet. He said he’d look into something.”

“Has he looked into Ireland yet?”

“No but its only been a couple of months and Ireland is different. It’s a big deal and we don’t really have the money. This will be easier.” I wanted to add, I hope but didn’t.

“Of course. Yeah. Hey, maybe he’ll make a big night of it – go all out. Take you to the symphony, a gourmet dinner…the works.”

“That would be fantastic. You should tell him,” I giggled. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

“Jack did that for me last week...”. I listened to her story about how Jack took her to a lecture of her favorite author, Joyce Carol Oates. Mel was a literary enthusiast and Jack, quite the opposite. But he saw a poster advertising the author’s coming on his bulletin board at work. Afterward he took her for a quiet dinner, not the most expensive of restaurants but one that someone told him had the best Lemon Meringue Pie. Mel’s favorite dessert. I felt a pang that might have been considered jealousy if it wasn’t being applied to my best friend. I could never be ugly envious of Mel but I could admit to wanting what she had in her relationship. “It was simple, I know but I really had a good time.”

“I’m so glad. That was thoughtful of Jack.”

“He wins a few points every now and then,” she said wryly. It was meant as a joke but if you listened carefully you could hear satisfaction in her voice. No underlying statements masked by clever words or put on exuberance. She was content.

“So hey, not to change the subject, but I’m going to. I told Stanley I could get the registration for his portion of the cooking class back but I can’t. I just didn’t want to make him feel bad. So I have this extra spot. You wouldn’t want to do it, would you?”

“What night is it?”

“Thursday nights at 7. It’s downtown.”

“Yeah, that would be great. I’d love to. Jack will be so happy I’m learning to cook something else besides spaghetti.”

“Are you sure? Don’t feel obligated. I know its kind of far away from your house.” I myself, felt obligated to say this since Stanley had made the very point an issue earlier.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t mind driving to do something fun. It’ll be great. When does it start?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oooo, no can do tomorrow. I have plans I can’t get out of. Next week though?”

“Sure. And I’m meeting that homeless guy on Sunday, if he shows up. My first Discount Life Anonymous meeting.”

“Can I come? I want to meet the homeless man. “

“His name is Tucker and absolutely. I don’t know what we’ll talk about but you can come, certainly.”

“You could talk about your pie dough lesson,” she said brightly. “ How you discovered that discount life is different for different people. Pillsbury’s fine for you but not Judy…” she trailed off.

“We’ll see,” I said. “See you Sunday.” We finished the conversation with the usual goodbyes. When I hung up the phone Stanley called up the stairs, "Who's that?"

"It was Mel," I answered. "She's going to take the cooking class with me."

"Perfect," he said. Perfect, I thought again.

Oh My God. This just in: he’s gorgeous. There is a man sitting at the island in front of me and he’s tall, dark and handsome...(* stay tuned for the next enstallment: Chloe meets Mr. Handsome & Tucker brings a friend...)

The Discount Life: Step Three Cont'd

2009-10-13T11:16:00.000-07:00

Two days later I got out the running shoes. You know, the ones meant for that marathon I saved them for, and decided to take a run. Given that my previous running experience was limited to that Lowman’s sale to beat an ugly woman trying to steal my Cindy Crawford heels…I told you about those…amazing, I decided to start out small. Three miles. Nothing I couldn’t handle. The girl on the cover of Runner’s World does three miles in her sleep. If nothing else, I have made a job out of doing everything girls in magazines do. This would be easy.

Six blocks later. Running was not easy. I stopped, bent over, heaving like I’d just run an hour for my life. I checked my watch. You have got to be kidding me. It had only been five minutes. Five. Was the Runner’s World girl on crack? I had to do better than that. Otherwise owning the shoes was a complete disgrace. I jogged for 10 more minutes (I may have stopped for a breather once or twice but the same people weren’t around so it didn’t matter) and then copped a squat on a bench in front of the courthouse steps. Rocky had climbed those steps in victory. I was passively inclined to sit and stare at them.

“You thinking about Rocky?” asked a scruffy looking man at the opposite end of the bench.

“Doesn’t everyone who sits here?”

“Most folks try to run them. So they can say they done it.” His coat was reminiscent of army green but appeared brown from caked dirt. His beard was long and grey. His eyes were rimmed and heavy.

“I’ll never be Rocky. So no need to run the steps. And that would be cheesy.”

“A little bit of cheesy is sometimes good, right? Reminds you to have fun.” He smiled. He was missing a tooth on the bottom left of his mouth. He scooted down toward me and held out his hand, “Tucker Whitfield. Nice to meet you.” He had on those gloves without finger tips even though the weather was just starting to cool. “Chloe. Nice to meet you too.” I couldn’t help but flinch a little when I accepted his grasp.

“You run often?”

“First day. See how I’m sitting on this bench? I’m dying out there.”

“You’ll get better. Just keep on it. You’ll be running one of those marathons before you know it.”

I smiled. “It’s a goal.” A someday goal by the looks of it.

“Goals are good. I had goals once,” he ran his hand up and down the outline of his body like Vanna White gestures to the lit up letters on Wheel of Fortune,” its pretty easy to put them aside. Don’t do it.” He was homeless, I guessed. I had never really talked with a homeless person short of do you have change and my saying only a dollar, which is a complete lie but, I suppose, a dollar was all they were worth to me.

“What happened to your goals?” I asked.

“I’m an alcoholic.” I chuckled. A completely inappropriate response brought on my truth and nerves. He laughed back and said, “You laughing because it’s funny or because its true?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. It’s just that you always hear that homeless people aren’t necessarily homeless because they have a drinking problem. That they… fell on hard times and all that. And here you are saying your homeless because you’re an alcoholic. I just find it comical.”

“I never said I was homeless.” My heart stopped in my chest. Oh God. He was right. He never had.

“I, I…uh…well,”. It would be great if the cement in front of me would morph into a black abyss and come to swallow me whole, saving me from my entitled, assuming blunder. God if life could be that easy.

“I’m just putting you on the spot. Of course I’m homeless. Look at me.” He laughed again and I smiled cautiously. “I’m a drunk and it ruined my life and now I’m homeless. That’s all.”

“What did you do before you were …homeless?” I made being homeless sound like an occupation. Like a choice rather than an unfortunate. The whole of the conversation so far felt like a B movie where every line out of my mouth drove me farther and farther into disgrace.

“Nothing great. I worked in music stores. Sold pianos, drums, guitars. Played some myself. A few night bars. Then the drinking got the better of me.” He paused. “How about you? What do you do?”

“I’m a violinist.” The white lie danced on my tongue like the after taste of sugar. It was saccharine and delicious. I was a violinist but that was a half truth. I couldn’t leave it like that. The Discount Life wouldn’t permit it. “I’m a violinist but right now I work as a receptionist for the Philadelphia Orchestra.”

“Sticking around music. That’s good.”

“I’ve got this theory that says it’s not all that good.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s called the Discount Life,” I stopped. Why would I subject a man with obvious extensive troubles to my minor under achieving life gripes? “It’s not that great, I don’t know why I brought it up.”

“Just tell me and let me decide if it’s great or not.” I hesitated and then I told him. “My friend sees it like a twelve step program. He calls it the Discount Life Anonymous. Says I should start an organization.”

“I’d join. Sounds like it could be a real experience. Might be fun.” He smiled and the vacancy from his missing tooth glared at me. The old Chloe would never have shaken hands with a man as dirty as this but the new Chloe found something endearing in him. He was listening to me.

“Well so far I’ve given up ten very good pairs of shoes, played a very sloppy violin and almost died on my first day’s run. The fun hasn’t exactly started yet. But it’s an interesting challenge.”

“I think it’s good of you for thinking outside your box. What step are you on?”

“Step three: Work on Goals.”

“What’s step four?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of making them up as I go along.”

“Want some company?” It was odd but I felt a strange kinship to this man. It wasn’t just that we occupied the same bench but that somehow, despite our separate worldly paths, life had derailed us, sending us here, at this moment, to the very same place, on the common ground of giving ourselves the short end of the stick. Two souls united by a bench and the ubiquitous Discount life.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d love some.”

“Okay. So what’s step one?”

“Clear out your life.”

“Done,” he laughed. “I’ve got nothing.”

“You don’t have a cart somewhere?” I slapped his shoulder playfully and hoped he’d take it as a joke.

“No cart. I have a box over on 10th street but I’m perfectly happy to give that up. It’s got nothing but rags and dirty magazines in it.” I glanced at him with raised eyebrows. “Awww come on. Homeless men have needs too!” He threw his hands up in the air. “What’s the second step?”

“Create goals. And the third is, of course, get to work on goals.”

“Ok. So what did you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Step One, step two. What happened?”

“I cleared out my life. Twice. The first time I wasn’t being very honest with myself, which is classic Discount Life behavior. The second time I cleared out my closet and got rid of all the stuff I’d felt attached too that wasn’t really helping me be who I want to be. Stanley says it doesn’t look any different but I see a difference.”

“Who’s Stanley?”

“My partner. We’ve been together for six years. We live together.”

“Well girls do tend to have too much stuff.”

“I did. I did. But I got honest and got rid of a lot. And then I wrote down my goals. Well, Andrew helped me write them actually and now I’m working on them,” I said cheerily. “I played the violin, I took a run, I signed us up for a cooking class –“

“Who’s us?” he cut me off.

“Me and Stanley.”

“Oh. I wasn’t sure if you meant you and Stanley or you and Andrew.”

“No. No. Me and Stanley. His idea of cooking is to open a box of Hamburger Helper. The cooking class should be good for both of us.”

“But learning to cook sounds like your goal.”

“Right…” I said it like a question, drawn out so as to express so what?

“I’m just saying….”he trailed off. “But I’m sure you know him well enough to know.”

His insight struck me like a fist. I knew my goals but what were Stanley’s? I shook it off. “Guess I’ll have to ask him for his goals.”

“And me for mine. I’ve got some thinking to do. When should we meet again?” He really wanted to do this with me. I was touched and, if I let myself think it, amazed by the power of humanity. The sameness that we all carried within our differences.

“How about next Sunday morning?” I said. A week from today if he decided to show.

“Done deal.”

“Alright then. It’s a DL date.” I stood up, preparing myself for departure and proffered a hand shake.

“Looking forward to it.” He shook my hand and pointed to the stairs. “You gonna run ‘em?”

“Not today. We’ll make it a someday goal.” I smirked at my own Judy-ism.

He laughed. “Okay. See you Sunday.” I jogged off in perfect formation until I rounded the corner of 1st street and knew I was out of his sightline. Baby steps, right? I walked the rest of the way home.

The Discount Life: Step Two & Three

2009-10-06T11:14:00.000-07:00

Step Two: Establish Goals

1) Run a marathon
2) Go to Scotland
3) Become a chef, I liked to cook, why not?
4) Become a violinist again
5) Actually, pick up the violin, its been so long the case has dust on it
6) Cut Dairy Out of My Diet (it makes my skin so itchy and my stomach, well, we won’t go there)
7) Learn to knit a scarf
8) Call Mom and Dad once a week, they are, after all, good parents
9) Find Italian Boyfriend with Villa and move to Lake Como
10) Host a dinner with place cards
11) Sky Dive
12) Actually Read War & Peace
13) Try Veganism
14) Try Buddhism
15) Become Crafty (ie- Martha Stewart)
16) Save Money, it seems to make the world go round
17) Become Poly-lingual (Russian, Mandarin, etc, etc.)
18) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it
19) Get a new job
20) Get a new life

Turns out, when you sit down to write your goals there’s a lot more of them then you think. My list wasn’t what I expected. I needed to talk this out. I needed my friends. But Mel was spending the weekend in Connecticut with her parents and Jack was, of course, with Mel. I wasn’t quite ready to subject Stanley to my hair brained scheme. I was afraid he wouldn’t understand. Might make another joke of it again. So I decided to call Andrew, my long time always there when you need him, tell him everything and feel good about it friend.

We met for lunch at his place on a gorgeous September Saturday. He ordered take out and we sat out on his porch with our legs stretched out on the ratty wicker furniture his mother had given him when he graduated from college. Six years later, we were still eating Mexican take out from our laps and laughing through glasses of sangria that rocked alarmingly when they were set down on the unsteady wicker end tables.

“I should get rid of these,” he said. “There not impressing the ladies anymore.”

“Did they ever impress the ladies?”

“Well, the young ones. But not the real ones.”

“That’s slanderous. Young ones can be real. I was always very mature.”

“Yeah, well, don’t brag. Not everyone is amazing. But yeah. I probably should up the ante on my pad. I’m growing up now, I guess. Getting old.”

“You sound dismayed.”

“Naw. I don’t think words like dismayed. I’m just ready. For the next phase. Maybe find someone. Settle down a bit.” I felt a strange tug at my heart when he talked like this. Unidentifiable but remarkable all the same. I had known Andrew since we were in college. He was the life of the party. The glue from years past. He deserved this someone, whoever she may be. But in the deepest recesses of my subconscious heart, I didn’t like her already. She would sit here on a Saturday afternoon and eat my take out and drink my sangria, take my friend away from me and leave me on my porch, alone. She would take my place and I would have to let her so that my friend could move on to his next phase. Something like sadness swept over me.

Andrew said, “What?”

I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” I smiled wider this time. One must maintain cheer. “I’ve never heard you be so quiet. Must be thinking something big…”

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“Yes. Which is why, I presume, we’re sitting down to sangria and cheese. Go ahead. Spill it.” I told him about my theory and how it applied to me. About how I’d settled for so much and there was nobody to blame for it but me. That everyone did, all the time, but I was taking steps to stop myself from continuing the pattern of complacency.

“Sounds like you’re ready for the next phase too,” he said. The unidentifiable pang tugged at my heart again. I did not like this next phase stuff. Next phase implied leaving what we had. I liked what we had. I had always been uncomfortable with change but this change in particular implied I could no longer have Andrew as I had always had him. It was disheartening.

“I wouldn’t say next phase. I just want to be a better me and to be, complete, I guess.”

“Yeah. Next phase. Moving on, moving up. I get it.” He munched on his taco. His bites made loud crunching sounds. He chewed a bit with his mouth open and said,” I like it. You’re right. We do discount ourselves sometimes. I do it with women all the time. Never quite pick the ones I want ‘cause there’s another bird in my path.” I wanted to say Seriously. Stop with the girl talk. This discussion is not about your love life. Instead, I said, “I think we’ve all done something like that.”

“I want something real next time. Like you and Stanley.” Tug. Tug. Me and Stanley. Real. I suppose, for many people that was very true. Stanley and I were a numerical fact. One, instead of two. Quantifiable. Living together. My calculated thoughts went unspoken and we were quiet for a minute. “So what’s the next step?” He asked.

“I’m trying to write down my goals but they’re getting crazy. I need some help filtering.”

“I am up for the challenge. Hit me.” I bounced the list off of him and we laughed through a short hour of my insanities.

“You can’t actually become a chef and a violinist. Not as careers. So how about you write learn to cook. That’s better. And since when do you want to Sky Dive? You hate heights.”

“Face your fears?”

“Yeah but be reasonable. You don’t have to go crazy just because you want to have goals.”

“People sky dive Andrew.”

“You are not the same as all people. Be honest with yourself Chloe. You hate heights. But if you want to face that fear how about a hike or something? Like Grandfather Mountain. That’s reasonable.”

“Where’s Grandfather Mountain?”

“North Carolina. I’ve done it a couple of times. And there’s this awesome town at the top. Blowing Rock. We could make a trip of it, if you wanted to."

“Maybe,” I said, “Unless I decide to sky dive.” We continued like this until we wrote a list that sounded effective and plausible. We settled on the following:

1) Practice the violin and take steps toward making it a career
2) Run a marathon (or a half – remember to be reasonable)
3) Learn to Cook
4) Try different types of wellness (dietary, spiritual or otherwise)
5) Call Mom and Dad weekly
6) Travel (preferably to Scotland)
7) Explore new interests (reading, languages, crafts, etc. – Andrew says to remember that I don’t have to become professional at all of them)
8) Save Money
9) Buy a skirt with a slit in it and wear it ( also applauded by said friend)
10) Hike Grandfather Mountain (or go Sky diving)

“Well, you’re on your way. Now what?”

“I guess I get to work on some of the goals.”

“This is like a twelve step program. The Discount Life Anonymous.” It was, I supposed. A twelve step program to finding yourself. The concept was interesting.

“Kind of,” I said, if it works. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” At the top of the list I wrote “The Discount Life Anonymous”. At the end of the list I added a number 11: start my organization.

Step Three: Get to Work on a Goal

When I picked up the violin, the case was covered in dust so thick it had a saturated stick to it. My fingers left deep marks where their grip had broken the greasy seal. I waited until I was completely alone. Even the neighbors had gone out. It was a Sunday and I was ready to cross one of my goals off the list. I chose Bach for his beautiful melodic lines. Soft, sweet, sad, incumbent. The first note was scratchy. The second, sloppy. The third, fourth and fifth became more and more fluid, until the whole of the piece came flooding out of me like a love confession. All this time, I’d been waiting for just the right moment and when I finally allowed myself that the perfect moment to sit down and great and old friend didn’t exist, the mounting emotion surged out of me like I’d been waiting years to express it. I had. Six to be exact.

I played the tune like a record on repeat, until I had the first two pages memorized. I was so excited I called Mel. When I got her message machine I left her something breathy, childish.

“Mel it’s me. I just finished playing the violin. Can you believe it?! Bach….It was amazing. I mean, we knew I liked playing the violin but…this was just, it was like. It’s been so long. It was…oh I can’t explain it. Call me. I’m so excited! Bye.”

I tried my mom and dad but got their message machine as well. Fancy that, I finally call them and they’re busy. They call me so much you’d think they never left their house – like hermit crabs that only scamper out of their shells when it’s convenient to make a point.

I looked at the phone and thought about calling Stanley. He might enjoy knowing I’d done this. I stared at the handle briefly and ignored the rising tension in my body. Why was I nervous? I picked up the receiver and called him. He had gone golfing with two guys from his work early that morning. The phone rang several times. He didn’t answer and something like relief washed over me. My DL secret was still mine.

I reached for the phone and at last decided to call Andrew. I hesitated. Why was I so remiss to keep this to myself? Was it any less valuable if only I knew that I’d memorized the first movement of the famous Bach piece. Yet somehow I needed to declare it. Like I couldn’t cross it off the list until I’d screamed from a metaphorical mountain top: I DID IT. So I dialed the number and was pleasantly surprise when I heard, “Hey there, what’s up?”

“I played the violin.” I said it flatly and in a rush. Coolness was never one of my attributes.

“Awesome. You can cross it off the list now right?”

“Right.”

“Perfect.”

“What are you doing?”

“I…uh…I’m with someone. “ Tug, Tug. It was a woman. I could tell by the way he didn’t just say it matter of factly. A typical male, he always said everything with an absolute air of perfunctory. When it came to women, he drew out his sentences.

“With someone? Someone like a woman?”

“Yeah. I decided to take your advice. Stop discounting myself and…” he trailed off.

“And?” I sounded impatient. I heard it in my own voice and the tone alarmed me. Curb your emotion. It’s just a girl. He’s had plenty. But something felt different this time. He sounded different.

“And she’s standing right here so I can’t talk about her right now…” he laughed nervously and I heard her laughter in the back ground too. Flirting. Flattering. They were sharing this moment. He didn’t say anything else and he didn’t hang up either. We were all just present, our thoughts hanging like from a string in mid air. Whose will the wind break first? Mine.

“Oh okay well, I’ll let you go then. I just had a minute. Wanted to share my violin thing.”

“That’s really great Clo. I’m excited for you. Let me know when you cross another one off, ok?”

“Okay”, deafening pause, “Bye.”

“Bye.” He hung up quickly and my shoulders slumped as I put the phone down. Already, she was in my wicker chair drinking my sangria. Tug. But I wanted Andrew to be happy. This was the price of change I guessed. No more Discounts meant that people would find themselves following new paths. Unreasonably I thought, He was mine. Was. Tug. The truth of that was hard to bare. I pushed Andrew and discount girl away from my mind and turned back to the violin. I played Tchaikovsky. Sad, slow. It felt good to play him. I messed up the notes left and right but I didn’t care. It felt right.

Stanley came home in the middle of page three. “Wow, you’re playing?” I haven’t heard you play in forever.” I stopped to study his expression. “What brought this on?”

I didn’t answer immediately but instead cocked my head to the side and scrunched up my face. A playful expression that said I’m thinking. I should really tell Stanley a little bit about The Discount Life. He deserved that. So I said, “Remember when I cleared out my closet?”

“Did you find the violin in there?”

“No. But it started something in me. It wasn’t just cleaning out the closet.”

“Ohh-kay. What else was it then?”

“It was kind of metaphorical, you know? Of my life. I wanted to whittle down the junk so I could find what I treasured. The closet was just a start really.”

“What you treasure. So the violin?” He wanted a point by point discussion.

“The violin is one of the things I want. I used to play really seriously. I guess…I guess I stopped right around the time we got together.”

“You played some. I’ve heard you play.” There was something defensive in his tone.

“Yeah. I did for a while.”

“So are we moving to New York to turn you into Ishtak Perlman?” He was the only violinist people knew.

“No,” I laughed,” Baby steps. Maybe I’ll join a lower level orchestra.”

“You work for an orchestra you know.”

“I know but they’re done auditioning for violinist’s this year and they’re Philadelphia’s best. Maybe in the spring I’ll audition for them.”

“Sounds good,” he reached out and patted my shoulder, like football buddies who smack each other around to express affection. “ Good luck,” he said, pinning a closed lip kiss on my dry chapped lips. He turned, walked into the bathroom and closed the door. I felt a tear begin to well up in the corner of my eye. I focused on the ceiling and pushed it back in. One. Must. Maintain. Cheer.

The Women

2009-10-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

For Kylie, Natalie, Sadie & all the little girls yet to come:

Little girl, know this: when the sky comes falling down, when your heart is in a million pieces and your sanity drained, when you’re body rips open in birth, it’s the women who hold your hand and bring you back to life.

Little girl heed this: the perfect mate does not exist. Know that now and save yourself the trouble of trying to breathe him into existence. Breathe, instead, life into yourself. The men will come and there will be many. Some will be great. Some will be boys. All of them will teach you something. They will all say they will be there for you. But it’s your women that will truly keep that promise. They will hear your heart weeping silently and answer your call at midnight. They won’t just take your strength: they’ll give it.

Little girl see this: my women are amazing. My women grow new life, making plans all along they know they will have to carry through themselves. They care for their girls like they are holding their own hearts in the palms of their hands: lovingly, absolutely, resolutely. My women beat cancer and ward off financial strife. My women wear football stripes under their eyes so their friend doesn’t have to wear bandages alone. They come to a strange apartment and eat spaghetti with wine so their friend can find peace over a giant pot of marinara. My women clean like mad. My women never let a week go by without telling each other how much they are loved. They come every Wednesday and share the gab of the week. My women make delicious quesadillas and eat pints of pistachio ice cream and make a bed with fresh cotton scented sheets for their friend’s rest. They spend the day curled up and crying just because it was needed of them. My women love often and well and they always tell the truth.

Little girl practice this: truth is at the heart of it all. You can be whoever you want to be as long as you are truthful. You will hear this over and over. You will ignore it because you want to meet everyone’s expectations. Because disappointment is easier than confrontation. Because you’re not sure you can. You will feel that your mistakes have cost you so much time. But you are always where you are for a reason. The world is still turning. Be truthful to yourself.

Little girl hear this: Steel Magnolias are not born – They’re made. That which does not kill us only makes us stronger and you will need every ounce of your spirit to find that strength. Life is one big test of will & optimism but you will not face it alone. Because we are your women. We will offer a hand when you fall and help you learn to stand back up. We will hold your hand in ours when you’re scared. We’ll rub your back when he said he would and didn’t, when he’s found someone new and the pain is too great. We’ll stand and cheer from the sidelines when you cross each new threshold. We will love you Little Girl, no strings attached, because you were born to us. We are yours from here until eternity; try to remember us as you grow.

Little girl, know this: when the sky is its brightest blue, when your heart is bursting in joy and happiness, when you’re body is healed and healthy, it’s the women who hold your hand and walk with you through life. We are your human footprints in the sand. We are never without each other and you are never without us. Walk with us Little Girl, we love you.

The Discount Life: Getting to Step Two

2009-09-22T11:51:00.000-07:00

The night we dropped the boxes off at the goodwill donations center we were on our way to dinner at our friend’s house. We dropped them off and drove on without talking, NPR in the background. I stared out at the street lamps, dimly light and passing by, wondering what I should do now. Step one had been to clear out my life of DL junk. And that was done, right? What was step two? Make a list? Quit my job? Empty my savings account and travel the world? Marry a man from Paris with Italian hand made shoes and vacation villa at Lake Como and….I’d gotten off track. Focus.

Our hosts were George and Judy. They are the world’s most beautiful people. Married four years with a magazine worthy house, complete with the granite covered island and pot rack in the kitchen. They were happy and smiley and threw an immaculate pre-holiday party every year.

“Chloe!” Judy opened the door and flung her arms up as she called me. “So glad you could make it.” She grabbed me with the force like an old boyfriend’s father who used to pick me up every time he proffered a hug. “Stanley.” She moved in for the bear hug. I stepped aside and surveyed the décor. The dining room was directly to my left. I think Martha Stewart had been there. There were place cards. I couldn’t remember the last dinner I’d gone to with place cards. The centerpiece was fall: colored leaves, gourds, rust and orange colored mums. “Come in. You’re the last to arrive.” She seemed to want to follow up with, as always, but Judy would never insult a guest; Emily Post would have a fit. The others were standing around the table with wine in their hands. Two other couples and a single woman named Charlotte. Judy said, ”Let’s all sit down and have some hor d'oeuvres”. We followed suit.

Charlotte was seated across from me and to my right. I wondered about her story. I theorized divorce or a long term relationship gone bad. Despite my best efforts the gates of pity opened and the frothy waters of sympathy came pouring out on her behalf. Poor Charlotte. She had to answer Judy’s “seeing anyone lately” question with “a couple of takers but nobody worthy yet.” What courage to sit with all her coupled off friends and be single. I glanced at Stanley and felt a wash of warmth run over me. I was lucky to have a good man attached to my place card. Without him, I would be like Charlotte – a glaring sub-entity squeezed between we thought you had it all, what happened? and don’t feel bad darling, you can sit next to me. But I didn’t have to worry. My relationship entrenched me squarely outside the realm of fret.

“So Chloe, what’ve you been up to?” Judy asked, offering up a plate of miniature delicacies.

“She’s been cleaning out her closet,” Stanley answered for me. “It’s a very intensive project for her.” Judy and Charlotte giggled. The men laughed out loud. I reached immediately for the food and laughed off Stanley’s witty slight. His personality always improved in the company of others. Go figure.

“It has been very intensive,” I said, with a note of repartee. “I had a lot of junk. I wanted to get rid of some of it and start anew. But you know how it is, old habits die hard.” I munched down on a bread like hor d'oeuvre with artichoke paste on it and avoided talking again for a bit. The conversation continued about closets and clothes until it slid organically over to clothes for work and landed permanently on work.

Charlotte was a lawyer. She worked for a small law firm four days a week doing boring car insurance cases but her real passion was working with a non-profit organization that helped the poverty stricken with their legal issues. She worked with them twice a week and it “inspired” her.

“Someday I’d like to be able to work solely for the organization but you don’t make much money there. So for now, I work for both.”

Judy said, “We all have our somedays. I would love to own my own restaurant, instead of working for someone else’s. But that’s not in the cards yet.” We all sighed in near unison. The kind of sigh that all women make when they are racking their brain’s for another common ground topic but need a moment to ricochet glances off the corner’s of the room to pick one.

“Chloe, how about you? What’s your someday?” My someday. The thought rose immediately to meet her question: to be a violinist for the symphony. But under the intense glare of their smiling eyes, I had trouble transferring the thought into words. Did Judy even know I played the violin? She would think it was crazy for a woman she had not known to play any musical instrument at all, to suddenly dream of becoming Itzhak Perlman. Which, let’s be honest, I would never become in a million years but he still comes to mind as the only famous violinist people remember. I didn’t need to be that famous. I just wanted to play for my symphony. The one I kept running day after day but one in which I never had the chance to participate. My internal thoughts remained mute and my response, finally, was “Oh, there’s so many things I can’t begin to list them.” I laughed to make us all more comfortable, so they laughed too.

“But really, if you had to pick one? Is there something you’re passionate about?” Charlotte said.

My words escaped before I had the chance to filter their repercussions through my head, “I was thinking of starting this organization….” I stopped. Did I really just say that out loud? I dreaded what was the immediate and inevitable next question:

“Really! What kind of organization?” The Discount Life. But how to explain that to these women. Judy couldn’t understand, could she? She was a chef at a highly successful restaurant downtown. She was frequently featured in regional magazines as the best thing since sliced bread, literally. Her name had stars attached to it. George worked for Capitol One, doing what, no one really knew. But he got dressed up every day and came home to a beautiful house so you could safely assume it was something good. They were planning a trip to Ireland, she said. “It’ll be absolutely freezing but we’re going anyway.” I had always wanted to go to Ireland. Scotland actually but Ireland would do. And then there was Charlotte, who despite being single, had a house in Westwood; the chic urban neighborhood of Philadelphia, a thriving career and was taking the train down to Washington next month to play part in some lobbyist group that was fighting for better funding for education. Against them, my Discount Life theory seemed feeble. Not only did they not suffer from discount life predicaments, they were all the way life kind of girls. So I said, “I have a couple of kinks to work out before I feel comfortable saying.” They nodded politely and smiled without parting their lips, a mannerism that indicates diminishing interest. They were done with me. My inner most self had escaped discovery yet again.

On the ride home I said, “Why don’t we plan a trip to Ireland?” Stanley raised his eyes and said, “We could. I don’t know that we have the money right now though.” His response ignited a small irritable flame under my skin. He was right, of course. His pragmatics usually were. I was just hoping that he’d join me in a daydream and be excited about the possibility. I worked simultaneously to respond lightly and squash the tiny devil flame that burned within and saying, “Well that’s what planning’s for. We could plan a date in advance, save up and then take a trip.”

“We could.” He focused on his driving, gave me a spare glance before returning his eyes to the road. Squash the flame Chloe. Squash it.

“You don’t really want to go, do you?” I spoke calmly with no venom. Patient.

“I do. I would love to see Ireland. It’s not that. Its just that it seems a little big for our budget right now, that’s all.” Squash, squash.

“But if we made a plan it could be a goal for us. Even if we don’t get there right away. At least it would be in the works. Something to strive for.”

“You’re right,” he said amicably. “I would love to see it. We’ll look into it.” It was here that my flame should’ve gone out like a light. He’d said what I wanted to hear. But the flame simply turned to kindle at his commonsensical response. He had not gone willingly into the night. He’d followed me after I noosed his neck and pulled with all my might. In short, I’d dragged it out of him.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ll look into it.” The rest of the drive was docile. I battled inner dialogue, a fight between the emotional, unreasonable woman and the sane woman in me and managed to put the flame out thoroughly. By the time we got home I had forgotten the emotion surrounding the discussion entirely and had gone straight on with thinking about goals and how I had so many I had barely touched. It was classic discount life that I didn’t try. Why?

I thought about Judy. Her career. Her home. Her life. She was running a marathon at Christmas. I had always wanted to run a marathon, had always wanted to be one of those people. I asked her at dinner how she had the time to train with how busy her life was. She said, “When its what you want, you make time for it.” I’d argued that training for a marathon took tons of time. She replied, “Well its not like it happens over night.” Marathons were just that, she’d said, a day by day thing you worked at until one day you had the strength to run the race completely. “You make the time and you work at it a little bit by little bit. Baby steps.” Make time. That’s what I needed to do, set goals and make time for them. Maybe I’d start with a marathon. Maybe I’d start with my own trip to Ireland. “No,” I said out loud. “Scotland.”

Step Two: Establish Goals

1) Run a marathon
2) Go to Scotland
3) Become a chef (I liked to cook, why not?)
4) Become a violinist again
5) Actually pick up the violin, its been so long the case has dust on it
6) Cut Dairy Out of My Diet (it makes my skin so itchy and my stomach, well, we won’t go there)
7) Learn to knit a scarf
8) ………(to be cont’d)

The Discount Life (Cont'd)

2009-09-15T11:01:00.000-07:00

Step One: Clear out Your Life

Cleaning out a woman’s closet is like following Indy into an abandoned cave: You know somewhere in the back there’s treasure but you’re certain to be attacked, maimed and terrorized before you get to it. It’s a daunting task for any explorer. I recommend calling in the troops to bulldoze & stand back up.

I did not, however, heed my own advice in round one. I promised myself I’d be reasonable and extricate half of the afore mentioned ‘discount life’ items from my over grown closet. The shoes cramping the floor seemed a likely place to start; can’t even close the damn door there are so many. So I kneeled before the vast mountain of footwear and began my cleanse.

The gold sandals have to stay. I started a ‘stay’ pile to my left. The red stilettos – Staying. They’re vital to a woman’s sexual security. The black boots are a staple. The other black boots are for going out and feeling powerful. The suede black boots are, well, suede. Valuable. They have to stay. The old tennis shoes can be used for mowing the lawn. The new ones for walking. The running shoes are, of course, for that marathon I’ve planning to run sometime between last Christmas and the day I die. The Birkenstocks. The Birkenstocks are from college and I really didn’t wear them anymore. I suppose I could give them up. I took them gingerly in my hand, inspected them woefully and put them to the right in a goodwill pile. I turned my attention back to the closet and the emerald green flats I’d nearly worn a whole in. Staying. [I looked back at the Birkenstocks] Pause. Turned back to the leopard print flats that always gave my pinky toes blisters. Staying. [Glanced at the Birkenstocks. They really are comfortable.] Pause. Turned back to the Tahari patent leather heeled sandal. – amazing shoes that transform an ordinary Jane into Cindy Crawford. Staying. [ Checked on the Birkenstocks. They look so lonely being the sole item in the goodwill pile.] Pause. Looked back at the closet. [Oh for goodness sake’s I have to keep them.] And just like that the Birkenstocks rejoined their mates in the stay pile.

I checked my watch. It was almost time to meet Mel for dinner. I’d wasted 3 hours on this project and in the end managed to convince myself that every pair of shoes I owned were necessary to my value and my happiness. They say it all starts with changing the thought process. I was half way but I can see now I had given in to habit. DL. I did, however, reorganize all the shoes and put them back neatly into rows in the closet. Organization is progress. I left my cave feeling that Indy would be proud.

At dinner, I bounced my theory off Mel. She agreed that I was, perhaps, onto something. Mel has never had a lot of money and therefore, has always had much more sense then I. She does not own too much. She knows the value of all she has in her life. She’s my got it together friend. And even she could support my theory with her own example of DL behavior.

“Just last week, I told Jack I wanted to go eat at that new Bistro on Kent street. But he said the wait was too long and you didn’t get much food. He said we could get more and faster if we went to Jimmy’s instead. So we did. I got a lot of food for less and it was fast but the whole time I just thought ‘this isn’t very good. I wonder what I would be eating at the Bistro’?”

“Discount Life!” I said. “Agreeing for less then you want because it’s easier than holding out for the real thing.”

“Jack didn’t see it that way though,” Mel said. “He was really happy with tons of mediocre food.”

“Some people are I suppose. It’s just like trash and treasure. What’s discount for you may not be for me. It’s personal.”

“Yeah but mediocre is still mediocre.”

“To you.”

“So how do you decide what’s acceptably discount and what’s not?”

“I don’t know,” I said between a sip of wine and a bite of bruschetta, “I haven’t gotten that far yet. But I did start by clearing my closet of the discount life items.” Which is a misleading statement implying that I actually eliminated some discount life items.

“Did you start with that sweater?”

“No. I started with my shoes.” Half truth- I got no where with my shoes and I know it. But I’m going to let Mel believe that I did so I can make myself feel better. If someone else believes I am the kind of person who is in control of my life, then I’m much more likely to become that person, right? “I did bring one of them to return though. I kept the baby puke yellow one to remind me of my new mission to live an all the way life. A real life. No discounts. ”

“Awesome,” Mel said. “This could be interesting Chloe. You may really be on to something.” She took a bite of bruschetta. “But then you always were the one with all the ideas.”

Right. All the ideas and no follow through. I smiled and wondered what she would think if she knew that I really hadn’t thrown away a single piece of DL loot. I wanted to scream “I’m lying!” but I didn’t. I said, “It’s a work in progress. We’ll see where it takes me” and promised myself that the next time I cleared out my closet I would actually clear out my closet.

Step One Again: Clear Out Your Life AND Be truthful with yourself.

Okay. Here we go again. I sat before my shoes and winced while I created a goodwill pile. Shoes with holes or near holes, shoes that I hadn’t worn in one year (two but who knew that but me), shoes that were impractical, cheap or out of fashion – all had to go. When I had finished I had ten pairs of shoes in the goodwill pile, which out of thirty pairs, isn’t bad for me. The Birkenstocks were among them. I packed them in a box and put it by the front door. Stanley was there to greet me.

“What’s that?” he asked. Stanley. Good old reliable Stanley. Stanley that worked as an accountant, only expended energy enough to be sufficient for the task at hand and never had a superfluous thought out loud.

“It’s a goodwill box. I’m clearing out my closet.” He nodded his head and bent down to kiss my cheek.

“Good for you.” He put his brief case down on the bench in the tiny foyer of our townhouse, hung his trench coat on the hook above it and walked into the kitchen unbuttoning the buttons on his dress shirt.

“I thought it was time to get rid of the stuff I don’t wear. Find some clarity. You know, obliterate the madness.” I stood in the foyer and watched him pour himself his after work drink. This was Stanley.

“Sounds good.” Stanley with the personality of a cardboard box. Stanley that would never leave me, never hurt me and always came home at night and poured himself a glass of brandy in the short glass that wasn’t meant for brandy. Stanley whom I was no longer in love with but had built a life with anyway.

“Did you have a good day?” I asked, teetering in to the kitchen with cheer. One must maintain cheer.

“Yep. It was good.” He smiled a pleasant short smile and passed by me on his way to the couch for some SportsNation. He sat down and said “You?”

“Uh…yeah. It was interesting. I’ve been clearing out my stuff all day. You know how involved that can get for me.” I laughed a little at myself. He nodded and smiled his pleasant smile again. I could have told him about my Discount Life theory then. Could have explained my inner most workings to the man I was living with. Perhaps shared a brandy with him. Maybe had a laugh or two at my own expense. But the feeling washed over me that although he would tolerate that discussion and smile his pleasant smile, he wouldn’t really get it anyway. Things were always kind of black and white for ole’ Stanley. I saved myself the breath and said, “I’m going to go work on the closet some more. You might actually have some space in there when I’m done.” I headed up the stairs and heard him say, “That would be great. Good luck.” This is Stanley.

I let the boxes sit there for three more days. Don’t judge me. I needed time to mourn the loss of my shallow outward security blankets. Stanley patiently walked around the boxes and said little about them. His comments were exactly, ” it doesn’t even look like you cleaned out in here” and “so, is there room for some of my stuff yet?” Which were straight forward and fair comments. He was right. The closet barely looked cleared, which is a strong indication that it was too packed to begin with. And he hadn’t had room in my closet since he moved in. So…never. Poor Stanley.

(cont'd next time- stay tuned for the discovery the DL Anonymous)

Nakedness

2009-09-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

There’s a brilliance in nakedness, wouldn’t you agree? A peacefulness in being fully exposed. No pretenses here. What you see is what you get.

We’re taught to cover up like we’re afraid of our own shadow. Like God didn’t make us this way in the first place. In my younger years, if I’m even old enough to have a younger years, I was a rabbit – quick to undress, rapid to redress, moving as fast as possible so as not to be seen. Not by you, not by him, not by me. Those curves are an embarrassment, that recusant swell a statement that sways and speaks for me. What does it say? That I am a woman? No worse, that I am wanton. If you put on unshapely pants it goes away. If you wear flats instead of heels, you barely sway.

Nakedness is less a bother these days. Every sway, every swing, is not a rebellious thrust toward something disgusting. There can be an elegance to it – the languid softness of a Rembrandt lady, lounging for her lover on a red velvet duvet. There’s a peace in having the folds of your body absorbed. Rembrandt never painted perfection, after all. He painted beauty. Better to embrace your humanity then to shred yourself in front of a mirror. A mirror is a terrible companion for nakedness. Sensuality is a state of being; the physical reflection in a plate of glass a mere morsel of what exists in the mind.

Nakedness has a ubiquitous fullness about it. In your birthday suit there’s no impressing by putting on. Your hips alone are your gift, the round fecundity God gave you your natural accessory. The Renaissance has nay a collared woman for a reason: true beauty lies underneath the surface. You’re beautiful. You’re squishy bits have been painted for centuries. Consider them are art.

This nascent nakedness is a rebirth – Venus emerges from the shell a woman. A secret just for you and the ones you choose. Not for the world like a painting in a museum, but you can smile knowingly at the next one you see. You know that look. Try nakedness if you dare. Put away your mirror and put on some silk. You are a Rembrandt after all. The languid lady lounging for her lover. Even if its just for you.

-inspired by the paintings ‘The Birth of Venus’, ‘Young Naked Ladies Sleeping’, and the Umstead Spa where Christopher the masseuse makes you feel beautiful

The Discount Life (a truthful excerpt of fiction)

2009-09-01T11:23:00.000-07:00

Hi. My name is Chloe and I am a Discount Life addict. I’ve been “real” for about one year now. The DLA is much akin to AA, except instead of downing alcohol we swallow sales, half truths and second bests. It’s like when you want the Lapis blue cashmere sweater but you buy the baby puke yellow and construction zone orange instead because they were on sale and you could get two for the price of one. Sounds great on the surface. Two sweaters! But let’s be serious. You’ll never wear baby puke yellow and construction zone orange because they don’t really look good on anybody. Which is why they were on sale in the first place. But in the moment you are able to convince yourself that perhaps neon orange is your color and you take them home and fold them up neatly and put them next to the countless other sweaters you’ve purchased at half price. Then you close the closet door, crawl into bed and dream about the Lapis blue sweater you didn’t end up getting. That, in a nut shell, is classic Discount Life behavior.

It happens all the time. You know what you want but its hard or expensive or just a little too long term to seem achievable. So instead, you choose the path of least resistance and happily, or blissfully in denial, take what has simply arrived in your path. Like the would be doctor who ends up a nurse. Or the would be violinist, who ends up a receptionist at the symphony under the guise, of course, that she is just doing it to work herself through to her big dream. Which is a half truth. Because while the latter is a familiar declaration, she hasn’t really worked on achieving that goal in six years. Six. At this point, being a receptionist is less a means of getting by and quickly becoming a career. And in six years she’s hardly let herself notice. Discount Life.

Until recently, I was addicted to and unaware of the Discount Life. I shopped at discount stores. I lived in a discount house. I had a discount job and I had a series of discount mates. When you add it all up, the truth is that living the discount life means only being half of what you could be if you’d really given yourself the chance to go all the way. No wonder we all feel so empty. We’re only half full.

But instead of letting this get the better of me, I chose to see my half full cup as an opportunity. What if we stopped living like we only deserved half of what we were worth? What if we scrapped expectations, preconceived notions and the versions of our lives that were handed to us and lived the all the way kind of life? So I started The Discount Life Anonymous and found out that tons of people felt the same way I did and now we’re all living fabulously. Okay well, maybe not entirely fabulously. Jack and Mel are still a bit wobbly on their feet and that lady from Little Rock probably should be in AA before she can get anywhere with the DLA program. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start from step one: inspiration.

There I sat, in front of my closet, holding my baby puke yellow cashmere sweater from the Barney’s Outlet, thinking how sad it was that I had purchased this sweater on impulse instead of waiting until next week when I had the money to buy the Lapis blue sweater I really wanted. I bought the baby puke yellow one, on sale, from an outlet which, by definition, is the always on sale division of my favorite store. How lame. I gazed up at the hangers jutting from the tiny metal pole that spanned my closet. They were jammed packed with items just like this one. And it hit me. I had practically purchased my whole wardrobe at a discount. That sounds impressive until you take into account that 50% of my 50% off items were unwanted, un-wearable fragments I had purchased simply because I couldn’t stand the wait for something better. Under the allusive veil of security and the pleasure of the phrase “On Sale”, I immediately gratified myself with booty I truly didn’t need or feel good about but purchased anyway because it was there and seemed better than going without. And now I had a closet overflowing with ripped designer labels I’d sewn together by hand and oddly colored vetements that made my closet resemble a squashed bag of Skittles someone opened and left dangling from a hanger.

The Discount Life discovery left me with more questions than answers. I started adding up the cost of the last five items I purchased ‘on sale’ and quickly deduced I had paid $50 more for the five items I had yet to wear than if I’d just bought the Lapis sweater at full price. In a perfect world, the Lapis sweater would be on sale and I would buy it alone. Nothing wrong with that – because that’s what I really wanted. But that’s not what I did.

I needed to whittle down the meaningless swag and find clarity. I had an image of myself clearing out my closet. It played out like the part in a movie where the actress finds herself and Carly Simon plays in the background. Small clips with great music that spanned about a year’s worth of growth in two minutes and when it was over I would look like Julia Roberts and have Richard Gear by my side. My whole life would be happy and meaningful. And the simple first step was to clear out the closet. I’m going to chance an aside here and tell you, what’s important to remember about those two minute movie segments is that even they took months and months to make. And that’s where my story begins.

Step One: Clear out Your Life...

(wanna read more...check it out next week for the continuation)

CB

Update - The Couch

2009-09-01T11:15:00.001-07:00

Ps: The couch has changed. It is leather. And it sticks to your legs if you don't put a blanket down first. It's still a great couch though.
CBI

The Couch

2009-08-31T15:31:00.000-07:00

The couch that sheltered me was originally plaid. Green and burgundy and navy blue. It was there for the first Halloween when I wore a silk toga. It was there on Mondays when we gorged on Doritos and Jack Bauer. It supported my best friend the night she passed out on the stairs and kept me alive when my lungs gave out. I came back to that couch when I played my first hooker; my only hooker to be exact. They came back after softball games, lock –ins, missions. I learned to make the family sized macaroni and cheese on that couch – if you make the regular size those boys eat it all and you don’t get any. Our band came back to that couch. Our friends grew babies in their bellies on that couch. Gorged on Cheetos, spent Super Bowls on that couch. I watched The Torpedoes rise to fame from that couch. It was a safe place for us all and then the couch moved.

Still plaid and still safe, it took up residence in a new room. I saw it less but loved it more. It flooded us with old memories, helped create new ones. It made me smile. My first night in Richmond, I feel asleep on that couch; too many $13 Martini’s found in a Richmond magazine. We laughed when the cat curled up in the foot rest. It was her shelter too, I suppose. We laughed ‘til we cried over “lean pockets” and comics on that couch. I listened to the noise of the cars going down the great avenue and knew: in this place, at this time, on this couch, I was home.

The couch moved again. Several times in fact. It saw us through loves found, loves lost, puppies adopted. Moves to new places, new jobs, horrible jobs, weddings, vacations – life. People came and people went and it eventually settled on Strawberry. It supported us when we discovered Guitar Hero. We sang “Carry on my wayward child, they’ll be peace when you are done..” The couch loved everyone. It wore thin and stretched out, got smelly and still, new roommates, the cats, the dogs, the Olive Garden troops and their bands came to sit on it. To love. To rest there.

It moved again and, as so often happens, everything began to change. The couch was reaching its end in the dark country room. We gathered, instead, on cold bar chairs round tables of beer. We married, we moved, we drove and we flew. We graduated and left. We tried and came back. The couch as it was could no longer be found. But the shelter it gives is always around, spirited to another. It’s morphed and it’s changed and its knowledge has grown. Its cushions are still worn but its heart twice as big – our circle is larger. The couch that shelters me now is beige. When my eyes fill with tears, it cradles me with soft blankets and lets me rest. It gives us strength. It offers respite. When we’ve played too many Quarters and had too much to drink. When the pizza is gone, we’ve laughed ourselves tired and emptied into each other; the couch stands resolute, open arms, a soft place to land.

The couch will change again. That’s one thing I know for certain. Maybe it will be leather, maybe it will be white. It will grow old, filled with love. It will hold children someday; hopefully some will be mine. It will shelter aging bodies, receding-grey hair, new pets and a stock pile of memories. Dreams. I dream that it will always be there. The plaid couch of our beginnings. And I, for one, will always run to it. Our safe place. Our shelter. My home.

The Chronicles of a Blonde Italian

2009-08-30T10:59:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been interviewed? Nerve racking. Isn’t it true that you’re knowledgeable on a subject until someone interviews you? Then suddenly your once bursting brain is vacuous, your palms are sweating & you’re reduced to a bubbling child with the makings of a stutter you never knew you had. In preparation, you come up with all these great wisdoms & funny one liners you’re going to immortalize. They sound great in your head but the second they pass your lips you regret it. Case in point: senior year book quote– “writing music is engraved on my heart”. If I could take that back, I would a thousand times over. It’s too esoteric. It’s something a an important composer like Irving Berlin would say. Not an 18 year old from Virginia tinkling the keys in a practice room filled with sound proofing cotton & an out of tune piano. Nonetheless, I said it. No biggie. It’s just another inconvenient stain on my dignity.

There is, however, an interview on record that I remember fondly & without too many foul ups. It happened in college when our SAI pledges were made to interview us. Of the hundred questions asked me that semester, two stick out in my mind: Where do you see yourself in 10 years? And if there was a movie made about you what would it be called? As it stands, the vision of myself in 10 years remains the same, only I’d like to tack on three years, seeing as how it seems I’m about to start over. But I remember distinctly the answer to the latter question. My movie would be called: The Chronicles of a Blonde Italian.

A blog may not be a movie but when I decided to put pen to paper [fingers to keyboard] & write my diary out loud, I could not think of a better blog name. Chronicles is a word I aspire too. It implies adventure, mass experience. Your basic bullet point list of everything you do made slightly more interesting by its elevated nature in vocabulary. Blonde – if you’ve seen me, you know. Let’s not talk about what happens when I have kids & my roots get too dark to color “naturally”. Italian – One word. Awesome. You get to eat, drink, be merry, jolly & loud & still genuflect on Sunday mornings with the good Catholics of the world & be forgiven.*

So I am beginning. I have no idea what will come. Most likely a plethora of blather with a dash of substance thrown in. So if you’re bored with a computer & nothing to read, you can visit my blog. I may or may not be able to entertain you. Good luck with that.

Ciao,

CBI

*To my Family: I’m just kidding about the genuflecting thing. Poetic license, if you will. You guys are all really inspirational Christians & probably have very little that needs to be forgiven. I, on the other hand, am still working on that. Bare with me? Te Amo.