An Unmarried Woman

3.14.10

Being a good guest is imperative unless you don’t wish to be asked back.

Among most of my friends the custom of showing up with a host or hostess gift is alive and well. Some may consider it quaint. Perhaps it is old-world, as I cannot say where it started, the practice of giving a token of appreciation for an invitation to a dinner party, cocktail party or holiday gathering. Can you?

I may run late scrambling to find a gift bag or a bit of ribbon, but showing up empty handed when someone has invited you to their house? Unacceptable. I did it once last year. Still pains me to think of it.

Oregon is known for Marionberries, a blackberry named for the county in which it was developed. Safe to say Salem, Oregon is the home of the Marionberry; 90% of the world’s production is grown near Oregon’s capital city. Read more at http://www.oregon-berries.com/

Failing to stop by Little Green Grocer in my neighborhood rushing to leave town, I stopped instead at the PDX airport gift shop after clearing security check points, loaded my briefcase with a deluxe hostess gift pack of Marionberry jam and boarded my flight to Kansas City. In the town where supposedly “everything is up-to-date,” the airport layout is a bit odd. It’s not uncommon in Kansas City to deplane, leave your arrival gate, walk to your next gate down the concourse and have to go through security, again. Check points are at every few gates instead of the entrance to main concourses.

Can you guess what happened?

“Madame, did you realize you are carrying more than 4 ounces of this product? We cannot let you board the plane with it,” said the security officer with, I swear, a trace of thought-you’d-get-this-past-us” attitude.

I was too dumbfounded to protest. The jam was confiscated! I only hoped Kim Smith, my Tulsa hostess and Kansas City native, would find the story plausible and humorous. Her hostess gift joined many other jars of jam in the plastic tub at the security officer’s post. “Someone should warn shoppers in PDX,” I thought to myself, that day and every day since that I’ve passed the airport gift shop.

In addition to gourmet delicacies, a bottle of wine or flowers are welcome gifts. It’s good advice to take into account the host’s variety preferences and house color scheme. My friend Steve Domreis bought me white tulips before a dinner party – something I never would have bought myself but an exquisite addition to our décor of rich golds and reds.

Mary Hinckley arrived at brunch one Sunday with a bag of gourmet granola. I enjoyed it many times with pear yogurt at breakfast for nearly a month and thought of her each and every time.

During my last visit to Tulsa artist Matt Moffett presented, our lunch hostess Jennifer Palmer with a delightful homemade music CD. He had one for me, too. Today, in shorts and tennies with the stereo cranked up, I did the “swim” to a magical mix of Petula Clark oldies. In doing so I remembered the many laughs we’d had over a yummy lunch on a sunny Friday afternoon.  And this is the reason I shop at Trader’s Joe for canned tuna for Sarah Graves, another hostess with the mostess.

I think it is a joy and privilege to acknowledge each invitation with a thoughtful  gift. What are some you’ve especially enjoyed giving or receiving?  Yours, Trix

3.13.10

The term “housewife” has always struck me as a ridiculous word, notion…until now. As a single woman, I have become a housewife. We separated; I got the house! This sunny spring Portland day I feel anything but footloose. I am responsible for a house in Tulsa, 10 plus tons of household items filling my two-bedroom Portland flat and two five-year old Whippets napping on the office sofa.

Downsizing is common at my age. I belong to the first wave of empty nesters trimming our sails. I have gone from 3700 square feet to less than 1700. It wasn’t difficult. Growing up as an Exxon brat, moving every two to three years, I wasn’t allowed to accumulate a lot of stuff. Typically each assignment overseas meant a new home and new furnishings.

As a 20-something year old I began accumulating things, feathering my nest and inviting friends over every chance I got. I guess you could say I was a homemaker, before and after I was married.

I set a personal record many times over by living 10 years in a midtown Tulsa house on Cincinnati Avenue but the die appeared to have been cast; Tulsans pegged me as a frequent mover. The title is warranted. In 17 months I have lived in one house and four flats. I don’t count the half dozen places I’ve stayed during monthly visits to Tulsa.

While living in Tulsa, moving around town allowed us to experience the different lifestyles related to the locale of the house. South Tulsa is different than downtown, midtown or uptown. It also gave us floor plans suited to our stage in life. Most houses really aren’t flexible enough to ideally accommodate a family’s changes over many years. Too many houses are thematic and have rooms assigned for very specific functions. Houses are often designed to suit the “new family,” “the empty-nester,” and such. The formal living room that was a product of the Regan era was eclipsed completely by the “great room,” “the family room,”… sprouting from the more casual era of the Clinton administration. A young child’s room near the master bedroom is great; a teenager’s room over the garage is far more ideal a few years later.

So where is home? More often people ask me which city I like best – Portland or Tulsa. That’s an easy question. Where is home? “I don’t know,” I said to Steve Canada when he asked this week.

Webster says home can be a domicile, a social unit, congenial environment, a place of origin or where the heart is. My mum, Pat Medaris, calls Australia home. She left Sydney in 1947 to travel the world with my father. It was on one of their trips to the states in late 1958 that I was born. I’ve never thought of the Missouri town between Fayetteville, Arkansas and New York City as home. I left it at six weeks of age, headed to Venezuela.

Pat has also many times said, “Home is where you hang your hat.” Does anyone still wear a hat?

As always, Trix

March 12th, 2010

Reentry was a bit bumpy. It was Friday night. The restaurant was Lucy’s Table.

“Six, six thirty is the roughest time the first year,” a Portland friend told me. She was remembering back to her separation 20 plus years earlier. “It’s the time when you are accustomed to transitioning from work to family time and you find yourself alone.”

“Yes, a reservation for one at 7 o’clock tomorrow,” I told the maitre d’ at Lucy’s. I was walking by the restaurant Thursday night. I popped in on an impulse fueled by determination to tackle twilight funk head on.

Double-checking the address before setting out Friday night, I cringed. “Voted Most Romantic Restaurant” boasted the restaurant’s website, of course. Midday I’d happily spent at a ladies’ holiday tea at the racquet club, trying to convince myself the 40 or so impeccably dressed women in attendance couldn’t all be happily married. I was destined to make a day and night of experiencing my new status.

I am no stranger to dining solo. Traveling in my twenties for business and on holiday, I wouldn’t be caught dead ordering room service. Even if the nearest Zagat-rated restaurant was in the next state (and sometimes it was because MAPCO assignments often sent me to coal mines in dry counties) I made an evening of dining out. My apartment kitchen at Center Plaza in Tulsa was decorated with framed menus autographed by chefs. I was a food and kitchen tour junkie. And because I didn’t bury my head in a book, I was also approachable. In Memphis I had my first Oysters Rockefeller at the insistence of restaurant owner Frank Gristanti. He took it upon himself to orchestrate my first dining experience in his place when it was in an industrial district not far from Delta Refinery. While chatting I learned the fellow well publicized for paying $50,000 for a bottle of wine began his training at roughly the same age I was at the time – early twenties. In Florence I was shown the city’s night scene by a Roman I met sitting at a trattoria community table.

Sure there are some downsides to dining without a companion. You don’t get a “taste” of dishes other than those you order for yourself. On the other hand, your entrée selection will never be second best to your husband’s choice. And I do find it sometimes necessary to tell the waiter when I head to the powder room, least one panic and think I’m skipping out on the bill. There are also still some servers who mistakenly think woman diner = bad tipper. Convert them by being charming, solicitous and confident rather than demanding or defensive. If they don’t rise to the occasion, don’t – do not reward them for bad behavior.

When evening falls, follow the advise on the paper cocktail napkin. Make your favorite thing for dinner: a reservation. Do it especially if you’ve recently occupied every waking minute with work. Work can get your through some tough daylight hours but all work… well you know. Spiff up a bit and whatever you do, leave the book at home, turn off the cell phone. Then sashay to your table. Put the napkin in your lap (hopefully it’s black and won’t cover you with annoying lint), take a deep breath and look around. Take in the setting (art, light fixtures, flowers…) and if you make eye contact with someone, smile. Chances are very good you’ll spot a couple painfully dining in silence. Be thankful you aren’t them. Then stay engaged. Ask your waiter what the best dish really is, what wine pairs perfectly with it and call him or her by name. Get the history of  the restaurant, the chef…Have fun! My waiter at Lucy’s Table sent me home with nearly a whole loaf of delicious fresh bread. Tonight’s special is Seared Ahi Tuna with White Bean and Ginger Succotash and Avocado Mouse.

In Portland treat yourself to Lucy’s Table, 1001, Paragon, WildWood, Gracie’s, Blue Hour, Isabell’s, Nel Centro. In Tulsa ~Wild Fork, Keo’s, Palace Cafe, Bodean’s, Lucky’s and Stonehorse won’t disappoint.

Bon appetite! As always, Trix

February 21st, 2010 Late PM

Sometimes our greatest display of strength can be in asking for help.

I stepped  on the lift tonight. I didn’t know my fellow passenger but I hesitated for only a second. “Could I impose?”

The tall, young blondish fellow with big hands in seconds did what I couldn’t – he secured on my wrist my pearl bracelet with the tiny circle spring clasp that required either two hands or the patience of a saint (which I am not). We were giggling as we spilled out of the elevator into the lobby.

“Usually people ask me to reach something high up for them,” he confided, blushing.

“Now you have a new story to tell,” I said, pausing to make eye contact again before I raced to my cab.

In late 1987 when I returned to work for a few weeks after Clay’s birth, I similarly called on Linda, a MAPCO executive administrative assistant. I had these damn Laurie Ashley white blouses with buttons up the back, ruffles on the front.. particularly hellish for a nursing mother trying to quickly express milk during meeting breaks. I wouldn’t have made it without Linda’s help.

Becoming single again doesn’t mean going it alone. Nor does it mean trading out all your clothes and jewelry. Look around.  There is often someone other than a husband to zip your dress, check for pepper in your front teeth… Ask!  Break the ice. Be human. Allow yourself to be vulnerable. That includes training your best friends (male and female) to ask, when you are weepy or snippy, “have you changed your estrogen patch lately?”

xo, Trix

February 21, 2010

“Why did you give me all the decent knives?’

“Because you are the one who cooks?” I responded.

Joel moved out in January to a studio four blocks away, allowing us to share cab rides on the few occasions we cannot walk to a destination, like tonight when we attend a dinner for Portland Opera. Of the six plus tons of things in my flat, he chose only to take his computer, printer, some clothes (Portland is very casual. Suits, ties, shirts and dress shoes remain in our closet), a French press and “his” frying pan.

When I was first single I baked soufflés in my Center Plaza studio in Tulsa. My kitchen had two, divided, feet of counter space, no dishwasher and doubled as the entry hall. Those were the days when I rewarded myself for finishing a CPA exam review module with a purchase from William-Sonoma and a dance around the place to Marley’s “Jammin’.”

When did I stop cooking? Mid-90’s. Why? A writing gig with long-distance, evening interviews. Joel’s not the type to complain or sit moping, waiting for someone to cook for him. He discovered new talents; as I earned the family extra money tap, tap, tapping away on the computer, writing advertorials, pitching editorial. It was during the days when those of us with a home office enjoyed the benefits and challenges but had to pretend to be in a “real office.” Many such efforts were foiled when Clay and his friends forgot to close the bathroom door, regularly bungee jumped off the grand piano, slammed the back door and never paused to think a professional colleague wouldn’t bellow “MOM!” from the next cubical. I think I still have a note Clay slide under my office door that read, “Sorry for swearing so loudly! I love you. Clay.”  I know some of you have lived through this experience.

Ten years later it would be Clay who would walk into my office to say, “I have a friend over. Please knock and wait for me to answer my bedroom door.” Cool.  Back to cooking.

My Valentine’s gift from Joel arrived yesterday. This morning I bounded out of bed, eager to take its marvelously sculptured metal body with stainless accents for a test drive in the kitchen. Serious business that the perfect fry pan is, I even read some of the owner’s manual before firing up the stove.

To say it performed like greased lighting is misleading. Beauty of it is, no grease, butter, olive oil, high-flash point grape seed oil…none of that, is required for my flying pan to produce perfect eggs that slip onto the plate. My Danish Scanpan* Ceramic Titanium 8” Professional Poele (Fry Pan) is inspired and cleans up in a snap (best “done while the pan is still warm”). Every kitchen should have one. Shop today at http://www.scanpancookware.com/

On my next visit to the kitchen I am going to edit the spice collection to Martha Stewart guidelines. Past a year spices & pantry items lose their desired flavors.  I’ll also make time today to buy frozen shrimp, a staple suggested for a quick meal by Chef Ellie Krieger and my Tulsa roommate, New Orleans native Judith. I figure by Mother’s Day I’ll be dropping hints about wanting a microplane grater. For now, I am taking myself to lunch at Lovejoy Bakery. Best I keep cooking a bit of a novelty, don’t you agree?  In the meantime, please write and tell me what other kitchen “essentials” I should stock.

Enjoy your Sunday! Trix

*Chefscatalog.com writes, “On the forefront of cookware technology, this Danish company uses a patented ceramic titanium nonstick process to craft pots and pans that not only offer foolproof release, but also sear, brown, deglaze and make sauces. The incredibly smooth nonstick surface stands up to years of everyday service. Made with extra-thick pressure cast aluminum for excellent heat distribution, Scanpan classic cookware provides outstanding heat retention without hot spots. Tempered glass lids let you monitor the cooking process. Stainless-steel rims surround the glass lids and phenolic stay-cool handles, adding to the durability. PFOA-free.

February 18th, 2010

For improved mental alertness and a bit of spice to life, it’s a good idea to vary your daily routine. With this in mind (no pun intended!),  the Whippets and I took a different flight of stairs to the lobby and walked a different route to the dog park.   Never did  I suspect such a minor variation would bring so much into focus.

Quite unexpectedly I stumbled upon a wealth of knowledge about goal setting, health, creativity, love, travel, children…even some good points on orgasm.

ALL this on one shopping bag hanging on a coat rack in the window of a salon on Marshall Avenue.  Who’d have thunk?!  Answers can be in unexpected places.

Some gems include:

• Choose a positive thought. The brain can only hold one thought at a time.
• Just like you did not know what an orgasm was until you had one, nature does not let you know how wonderful children are until you have them.
• Life is full of setbacks. Success is determined by how you handle setbacks.
• Dance, sing, floss & travel.

Almost time for another walk.  I’ll let you know what we find!  Trix 

Things come about for many reasons. When is anything truly black and white?

Did I do it after being worn down by eight years of desire? Was I evolving into a stereotypical empty nester? Did I have a soft spot for expressive brown eyes and a gentle nature?

Yes, yes and yes. I didn’t want to stop with just him. In a high-energy, fast moving crowd we repeatedly connected – undeniably drawn to each other. All my reservations melted away. I was putty. I wanted to take every one of the darlings in the crowd home but he was the one.

To the breeder watching me and Joel overwhelmed by Gracie’s litter scurrying around our driveway, “four spot,” as he had been dubbed, was “it,” my Whippet, the one I had agreed Joel could have, the puppy whose mere presence triggered in me a physical reaction (coughing) for months following his arrival. Nonetheless he was the four-legged “new baby” in my life. He sat on my desk, in my lap. We were almost inseparable. Three years later I would get to keep Leo’s sister, Bliss. She had been a frequent visitor on long holiday weekends. 

In Portland, “Dog Capital of the World,” I fit right in – I am a woman with two dogs. We have so many pets in our building, Wyatt Manager Billie LaBelle decided to conduct a pet audit to ferret out those breaking the two-per-apartment rule. I’ve not noticed a decrease; we still have plenty of dogs! I think her bark is worse than her bite?

The Whippets play many roles in my life now. Stay tuned for more chapters to this love story.
Trix

2.10.10

Frugal is in. Shame it took a rotten economy to make it so.
But a silver lining is just that.

Purchasing is less frequent, based more on need than consumption.
Things are a wee bit less “disposable.” We gather more selectively.

My discovery of consignment shopping, though, wasn’t fueled by the economy as much as curiosity!

My adventure began, naturally enough in Portland, a pretty green city known for recycling just about everything. A sign that read, “What’s Upstairs?” hung next to a vintage sundress beckoned me during a stroll down 23rd Street, a charming shopping and restaurant Mecca with a dizzying array of charming store windows. My curiosity was rewarded! An evening dress, faux fur-trimmed sweater, suede skirt, wool jacket, knit shirt, $24 beaded top and pearl bracelet for the price, of well, a jacket I bought new a few doors south. What’s Upstairs shares the second floor with a coffee house. Step outside the curtained changing area and you’ve got a gang of new friends just the other side of a double glass paned doors, sipping lattes and willing to give you the thumbs up, or down on each outfit. Barely before dark I was skipping home humming “Secondhand Rose” from “Funny Girl” – eager to share my “finds” and experience. Somewhere in Portland I now knew there was a lady named “Trish” with my taste, breaking in my future wardrobe! I am not completely without some snobbery; I shun shopping malls. Consignment shopping is more like antiquing.

Reporting on my solo exploration brought me an invitation from artist Sherrie Wolf to join her for a trip to the Gilded Closet, another nearby consignment shop. The thrill of the hunt now came with female companionship and one with a 10% off coupon, at that!

Remember when “garage sales” became “estate sales” sometime during the late 80’s? Seems “thrift shop,” the term I was using, describes venues such the Goodwill store (Portland’s downtown store is a national model of successful thrift store retail). “Thrift” is upgraded to “consignment” when a $30,000 Bill Blass couture gown is offered for $2000. These are the type things brought from the back of the shop for inquiring customers at Gilded Closet. The day Sherri and I were visiting we watched this practice performed for two fundraising co-chairs shopping for ball gowns.

The experience of shopping consignment stores also comes with memorable conversation and dialogue with sales clerks and fellow shoppers. Intimate settings encourage comments, as do the “goods,” the affordable but one-of-a-kind items – no longer available in size 6,8 & 10. Collections can be as eclectic as the fashion sense of the buyers. Engage the staff so you get a call when new items arrive and visit enough to get a feel for when items are marked down.

“Never fear being vulgar, just boring.” Diana Vreeland.

In every city there are clothing shops for the whole family, as well as stores stocked with household items and furniture bargains. Pick a store or two and tell me what treasures you find! Here are two links to get you plotting your next shopping adventure.

In Portland: http://www.insiderpages.com/s/OR/Portland/ConsignmentShops?order=best&radius=10

In Tulsa: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1011676/top_five_consignment_and_thrift_stores.html?cat=46

“Second Hand Rose” was written for the Ziegfield Follies of 1921 and is attributed to Fanny Brice. Barbara Streisand sang the song in the 1960s biographical musical play and movie “Funny Girl.” Listen at http://new.music.yahoo.com/barbra-streisand/tracks/second-hand-rose–2016179

As always, Trix

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.”

Two weeks ago the facebook page “Falling asleep while cuddling” had 1,936,898 fans when I somehow stumbled upon it. The site isn’t the type thing I’d know to look or search for on the Net. Since I “friended” it, 42,802 more have joined it. I am a student of social network marketing and an incurable romantic. Watching this number tick upward warms my heart.