An Unmarried Woman

Get out of town.
2.10.10

Let’s talk about a super diversion when the blues come calling: a spa trip!  Actually, depression is optional. I cannot think of anyone who wouldn’t benefit (fellows, that includes you) from a visit to a resort focused on exercise and pampering. I’ve just returned from my first experience with such a destination. Another first was being on holiday with a girlfriend. Of the 10 women in our group I think I was the only virgin on both counts. No surprise; always been a late bloomer.

First, let me clarify… I was not pampered head to toe (as my envious mum imagined), though I might have been. Instead I logged well over 20,000 steps daily, danced, stretched, swam, rode and listened… to lectures, travel companions, music and that voice inside me that said, “do this more often.”

I admit it. Since starting this blog with the intention of grabbing life, I had fallen head first into “situational depression,” I just didn’t have a two-word tag for it until Judith (my Tulsa roommate) mentioned it recently in conversation. Jud is one of my inspirations, a woman ahead of me on the journey of becoming single after a long marriage.

I Googled the term, AKA “adjustment disorder.” Didn’t need a doctor to confirm it is what has ailed me recently. Check it out: http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/mental-health-adjustment-disorder Good news is it tends to run its course in six months. Summer 2010 is now in my sights and I feel better already.

Back to Red Mountain Spa in St George, Utah. If you can reach Las Vegas, it’s a scenic shuttle ride ($25 each way on the St George Shuttle 800.933.8320) well worth the stretch on Interstate 15 built in the 1970’s at a cost of $1 billion per mile.

We arrived well after dark so the resort – unfamiliar and cloaked in darkness under a cloudy, starless sky – seemed massive. The light of day revealed a charming, intimate collection of buildings the color of the surrounding, stunning sandstone and gardens exquisitely landscaped.

I was slow to change gears. The first day I was quite content to hike in Snow Canyon, show up for meals, spend time struggling with a WiFi connection in the business center (determined to be productive on the work front), participate in a Chi ball class and attend a lecture about the seven chakras. The word “chakra” is Sanskrit for “wheel.” The chakra system was developed in India in the middle ages. I drifted off to sleep that night resolved to tackle my yellow or Solar Plexus Chakra imbalance (Jud – my roomie – tells me I talked “a mile a minute” in my sleep that night).

Toward that end, the next day I hiked further into Snow Canyon, took my first yoga class in nine years, sweated and giggled through a Zumba class (shaking your body to Latin music that leaves you completely drenched and very happy) and managed not to drown in, yes, my first water aerobics class by a fancier name before returning to the outdoor whirlpool to emerge myself up to my ear lodes in warm, bubbling water.

The third day brought yet another experience – riding to the south end of the canyon on horseback. I was hoping my love of animals would give me a leg up; I last remember being introduced to riding at age 8 on holiday in Hawaii. All I really needed was our guide’s introductions: “Tits in the air, upper back arched, lower back relaxed and moving with the same motion as making love.”

2.2.10

The inside of an icebox tells a lot about a person.

Think about it. The bookcase may say, “Great cook, poetry reader.” The appliance contents may instead say, “I live on TV dinners and am not sensitive to mold.”

When a friend traveling in Arkansas over the holidays sent me a photo of the inside of the cabin’s icebox, I didn’t ask “why?” Instead I solicited friends to send similar photos for an album of “Icebox Art.” One sent me a saucy photo of all the hot sauce bottles arranged together in her icebox.  Others willingly participated but offered excuses for the state of their icebox.

What is in your icebox? What does it say about your life?

I have enough OCD to ensure a tidy icebox. Countless times I asked Joel, “Do you really need 5 jars of pickles?” Now my icebox answers, “the pickle, olive, canned tuna fish, celery loving fellow no longer resides here.”

2.1.10
I went searching tonight.
Searching for comfort.
Searching for rhythm.
Looking for the brighter side to life.

For several days I have had a craving for fried chicken and mashed potatoes; buttery corn on the cob would have been the piece de resistance. Even more than a flavorful, fatty meal (I had a show-stopper lamb dish Sunday night at Wild Wood), I desperately needed new music – a powerful mood setter.

The brilliantly performed old torch songs, high-energy soundtracks (yeah, I’ve defied gravity with the witches of Wicked) and free-spirited Reggae classics in my iTunes library were worn out and not fitting the bill in terms of boosting my mood. And the Safeway Deli fried chicken had the aroma and taste of cardboard. All was not lost. I did discover a wonderful 1974 recording by Irene Kral titled “Where is Love.”

Irene Kral died at 46. She was a ballad singer inspired by Carmen McRae ( big chapter in my music library) and made more famous posthumously when Clint Eastwood used her recordings in his 1995 movie, The Bridges of Madison County. Her recording is intimate, passionate and will speak to your heart.

As recently as this summer I told my friend Elizabeth, “Anyone going through a breakup should eliminate love songs and listen only to instrumentals.” But maybe there is some comfort in being reminded we are all vulnerable creatures seeking love.

1.30.10

A mere whiff and I was transported.

I was walking to the dog park in Portland’s Pearl district today with the Whippets. I intersected paths with two skinny teenage fellows dressed in tattered jeans and hooded jackets as I turned north at 13th and Northrup. They had a few step lead on the three of us. That’s when it happened.

The taller one was smoking. I usually give these types space but before I could rein in Leo and Bliss, a wisp of clove cigarette smoke met my nose.

I was instantly transported to a flurry of images. I was nine years old and hanging out in the alley behind our house in Sungei Gerong with the live-in staff. The air was dripping with humidity. The sun had set beyond the Musi River precisely at six o’clock. The clove cigarettes were hand rolled by Konta and not very tightly rolled. One puff and a mouthful of loose tobacco filled my mouth.

I was in my early twenties, disembarking from a Qantas flight in Jakarta, returning to Indonesia for the first time in over ten years. I was on an audit assignment for MAPCO.

It was 2000 and I was in Bali with our son Clay, overwhelmed less by the scale of the resort than by many familiar scents, visual, sounds that hadn’t been part of my life for over 20 years but were almost painfully familiar and carved.

Close your eyes and inhale. And don’t just do it as you read this but inhale at different venues throughout your day. What comes to mind? What emotions surface?

Ask me about my mother and I will tell you, as I once told Tulsa World Reporter Laurie Winslow, childhood memories of my mother are of a woman hosting cocktail parties overseas for Exxon ex-pats. Dressed in black after-five ensembles, she often took time to tuck me into bed. I took comfort in the party sounds beyond my bedroom door, much as I did hearing a TV tuned to Perry Mason other nights. The scent that rounded out the party nights was a delicate combination of Shalimar, bourbon and cigarettes.

Two years ago I was very fortunate to be in New York during the opening week of August: Osage Country. The play, by Oklahoma playwright Tracy Letts, went on to win the Tony for Best Play and the Pulitzer Prize.

Sitting with nine friends (as well as Tom Hanks and his family at the end of our row) I was dressed in a black evening dress and wearing, for the first time, Shalimar. I had purchased a bottle earlier during the day at Saks Fifth Avenue from an elegant sales clerk who had herself worn the scent a time or two.

It was a memorable evening.

• A Portland Prince.
• Stuck Women.
• Roommates.
• Habits.
• Casual Relationships.
• Two Dogs.
• A Good Read.
• Exploring Thrift Shops.
• Seeing A Therapist.
• Having An Affair.
• Single Vs It’s Complicated.
• Spa Trip.
• Pole Dancing.

I vacuumed. I even gave each stem of yellow tulips in the living room a fresh cut AND fresh water. And I set the table with candles, made the bed, even moved the dog dish bowls from the kitchen to the laundry room. Tonight wasn’t my first dinner with Joel since our separation nearly a week ago; it was instead our fifth meal. It seems our separation, like just about everything we’ve gone through in the past 25 years, it another thing we are going to do together.

During the last several years my contribution to dinner was generally some input on the menu and showing up – taking a break from work in my home office. Unless deadlines were truly nipping at my heels, I did the dishes most of the time. In my limited experience, many male chefs A. don’t clean up as they go along B. do use every available pot, pan, utensil and plate possible.  Cleaning up was a descent contribution but I still got the better end of the deal for the past 13 years.

Joel became the family cook when long-distance interviews for a People Magazine/ Toyota advertorial assignment (that every writer in Tulsa was at one time or another part of) kept me from the kitchen in the early evening. I got the heavy hitters, the multiple franchise/ location dealers in time zones across the country who never had five minutes to spare until late at night.

Survival instincts kicked in with Joel. He’d rattle around the kitchen pantry and create something when hunger set in. He even began to enjoy it and “it” became the content of many a weekly food column I wrote for the Oklahoma Eagle.

One of my fondest memories is still very vivid. In our house on Cincinnati Ave in midtown Tulsa, I was upstairs in the spare bedroom (my office) writing when I was called to dinner. I walked into the kitchen to find Joel and our son Clay dancing around the island to Della Reese singing, “It is so nice to have a man around the house.”

Somewhere along the line I stopped setting the table every night. At some point, we still sat on the floor at the coffee table but the TV had migrated to the living room and conversation was mostly during TV commercials.

Now Joel is a guest in my home and I’m doing some of the things I thought I was doing all along: making a meal shared with a friend a celebration.

As always, Trix

Sunday Brunch
1.17.2010

I don’t recall going to church past fourth or fifth grade. We lived in Indonesia. Mass was performed by a Dutch priest in a church without air conditioning. It didn’t seem to take long for my mother, Pat Medaris, to make excuses for not attending – sin that it was to miss mass.

“I don’t get anything out of it when it isn’t offered in Latin.”
“Nan didn’t go to church. She felt closer to God outdoors.”

But outdoors wasn’t air-conditioned either, or so I thought.

Sunday champagne brunch, however, was a family ritual not to be missed during my college years. For my father Bob Medaris (AKA JR, Poppie, Scrooge Sweetie) unlimited champagne, or “champers,” as my Aussie cousins call a bit of bubbly, was a must if the restaurant was to earn his business. Every time I wanted to talk Poppie into something, I picked Sunday and eased the topic into the conversation toward the middle of the meal.

As a newly wed I brought the tradition home. It became a wonderful way to cap a weekend with friends while still saving the last bit of Sunday to unwind and prepare for Monday.

Today being my first Sunday in this new phase of life, I hosted a brunch! I dug out the old recipe for “breakfast casserole,” tweaked it, tossed a salad, and broke bread with eight Portland friends. We finished with a King Cake, courtesy of my dear New Orleans friend Lisa.

The “breakfast casserole” was upgraded by Elizabeth to “Strata”. By either name it is generally layers of egg-soaked bread, meat and cheese to which something magical happens during the 12 hours it marinates in the icebox overnight. I was relieved it was edible! For the past 13 years I have been the dishwasher, Joel the cook. Among our merry band of nine cheering me on was Joel, in a new role as guest.

As for the recipe…mine, circa 1980, is simple. I substituted Maille Dijon for the dry mustard, used 1 Asiago cheese bagel and five slices of Western Hazelnut Bread in place of plain bread and, as a shortcut, bought precooked turkey sausage links to cut up. The result is a wonderful combination, in one mouthful, of all that is good about weekend breakfasts (and I am a big breakfast eater): eggs, milk, bread and cheese.

Strata ingredients are endless. Please send your favorite recipe!  You may also want to visit http://allrecipes.com/Recipes/Breakfast-and-Brunch/Egg-Dishes/Strata/Top.aspx

As always, Trix