An Unmarried Woman

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.

Well I’m pissed. I sign on to AOL early this morning and there it is…a video of Martha Stewart pole dancing. When I announced my plan to take a 90-minute discounted pole dancing lesson at Diva Den in Portland, courtesy of Groupon.com, it earned a “WOW!” text from Oregon Ballet Theatre Artistic Director Christopher Stowell, a raised eyebrow from a few friends, an offer from another to, not join me as a student, but “come throw money at me.” It also opened up many dialogues with colleagues and friends that surprised me. I have never been to a Chippendale show but now can say I know retired dancers from that circuit AND they live in Tulsa, Oklahoma, buckle on the Bible Belt.

Don’t you find it often hard to do something even remotely unique? Well-meaning (and I appreciate each gesture) friends supporting my journey are bringing me many books written by women undergoing the dissolution of long-term marriages. As I read the dust covers I think, “So much for this blog …been done.” But has it? My story – my unique story shared honestly with others and spiced with finds, discoveries relating to enjoying life?

A friend in Tulsa told me over lunch at the Wild Fork, “You’ll blog about becoming unmarried. Then you will write the greatest of love stories, the story of Joel’s feelings for you.” She is right; Joel is a gem, one-of-a-kind, and adored by many, if not all, of my friends. A few in the throws of long-term relationships being redefined or ending have suggested I have it much easier because Joel and I are best friends dealing with this change in life in a very civilized, loving manner. I don’t buy it. I have fallen in love with just two men in my 51 years and I am day-to-day engaged with both relationships as I chart my future course. Easy? No. Worthwhile? Absolutely.

As always, Trix

• 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.

1.9.2010

This is a story about coming of age at 51. The heroine in this madcap adventure is me.  Someone, by recent disappointments, made smarter, wiser and better able to appreciate what comes my way than I was at say 21. The setting: my two cities, Portland, Oregon and Tulsa, Oklahoma. The story is of surviving and hopefully flourishing by embracing not just another man, but LIFE.  Think of what that means. Auntie Mame described life as a banquet. I don’t intend to be one of those fools who starve when so much is within reach. I am hungry.

As I see it, this is the time to live loudly in order to find my true center. By loudly I mean boldly, uninhibited by who might be watching or judging even when faltering frequently is a certainty, as in ending a 25-year marriage to one’s first boyfriend.  Don’t we usually applaud and cheer on the brave soul who willingly risks making mistakes, dusts herself off and jumps back in the game?  I do!  Gotta love someone with spunk and passion, even if guided by a compass absent a true north. What better, more endearing role model is there?

This blog will be a dialogue (between you and me) about artful, thoughtful exploration and living. I will share the good and the bad of all manner of discoveries (food, shops, activities, books, art…) and reflect periodically on the nuances of changing status from “married” to “unmarried,” including what I recall of the events leading up to this outcome.

Stats reveal in 2005 “unmarried head of household” became the USA majority. Hoping my writing might strike a chord with an occasional visitor is the powerful motivation fueling this endeavor.  Scribbling in a journal might be ideal therapy during a parting of ways, but as it is for many women, doing something solely for myself frequently kills its chances from the start.  I am a giver, a person defined by her relationships. I make a home, feathering my nest, intending it to be a place for others to visit often.

January is an ideal time to slip between the covers with a good book.  Shall we start with a few suggestions for winter reading or ask the question, “Why not stay married to your best friend when the spark is gone?”

“It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.” Alan Cohen

As always, Trix